Getting Closer to Fine by Mary Caroline

Rating: R
Genres: Romance, Mystery
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 08/04/2004
Last Updated: 23/09/2008
Status: In Progress

After Hogwarts, Harry deals with life, love, and loss - with a little help from the rest of the
trio. [R rating for language.]




1. One
------

Disclaimer: Not mine, JKR's.

A/N: I've been writing this story for a long time. It was begun in that canon-space between
*Goblet of Fire* and *Order of the Phoenix*, and that shows in lots of ways. The
characters I use, for one. Post-ootp, I revised the story to comply with canon, but didn't make
any major changes to plot, theme, or characters. It goes cheerfully AU with *Half-Blood
Prince*, not because of the shipping, but because there's just no room for the revelations
of that book in the plot of this story.

I think there will be eighteen chapters, in the end. And I promise I'll finish it one of
these days.

**One**

*

Harry leaned his head against the train window and watched raindrops splatter against the glass.
It was a grey, dreary September afternoon, and it suited his mood nicely. As did the train; it was
the perfect place for him at the moment. A place where no-one knew him, where he could be still and
quiet before he had to reintroduce himself to Aunt Petunia for the hundredth time.

The Little Whinging station drew nearer, and Harry made his way to the exit, swaying in time
with the train. The platform was nearly empty on this commuter-free Saturday. It smelled like wet
concrete, old cigarette butts, and something only identifiable as stink. Harry hurried out of the
station, putting up his old black umbrella as he made it out into the fresh, albeit wet, air.

It was a damp quarter of an hour's walk to the residential home. The lobby was overly warm,
as always, and Harry half-expected steam to rise from his wet clothes. He suppressed a shudder at
the desperately cheerful pink carpet, pastel walls, and floral couches, and forced a smile instead
for the benefit of the room's white-haired occupants.

He had to wait only a moment at reception. "Harry Potter to see Petunia Dursley,
please."

"Right this way," the young nurse said, bustling out from behind the desk. "Your
aunt's having quite a good day. We're always so pleased to see her showing signs of
improvement."

"Yes," Harry said, swallowing. "Yes, that's always good news."

They found Aunt Petunia in a small sitting room at the end of the corridor. There were only two
or three people sitting quietly inside, and Harry was grateful for that. His conversations with
Aunt Petunia often turned rather testy, and the fewer witnesses, the better. Harry walked over to
his aunt, who was hunched down in an armchair and peering beadily at the other residents.

"Hello, Aunt Petunia."

She focused on him, and after a beat, asked, "Well? Who are you?"

So much for improvement. Not that he'd thought it possible, anyhow, not unless there had
been some sort of unprecedented magical miracle.

Harry sighed and settled down in a nearby chair, resigned to half an hour or so of giving the
same old answers to the same old questions: *I'm your nephew, my mum was your sister, no, she
can't come visit you. . . .*

He thought that one day he'd be able to do this on autopilot, simply turn off his brain and
let the words flow. But that wasn't today, and he wished they were in her tiny bedroom with the
telly as a distraction. He would much prefer trying to explain what the talking heads were on about
than have this conversation again.

"I'm your nephew. Could we talk in your room?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You? In my room? Do I look *mad*?" Aunt Petunia stood
and, brushing Harry aside, walked away. At the door, she turned and offered a parting shot:
"And if you really are my nephew, you could at least do something with that hair!"

One good day, ruined single-handedly in under a minute. Harry made his own way out of the room,
voices rising in his wake. He wondered if he was being judged as a horrible boy for upsetting his
poor sad aunt, or if these people who had to live with her day in and day out were perhaps cheering
him on.

It would be nice if just one of these visits would go well. It seemed that Aunt Petunia had been
able to cling to just enough memory to feel loss when she thought of her sister, and bitterness
when faced with her nephew. Harry supposed he should be pleased that his aunt had been able to hold
onto something.

Ron and Hermione always offered to make the trip down to Surrey with him, and Harry always
refused. This was his problem. His aunt. His responsibility.

*

Ron wandered about aimlessly, moving a paper here, opening a cupboard there. The London flat he
and Harry shared was small, and his legs were long; there just wasn't enough room for a good
spot of pacing. His only company was Hedwig, and her head was tucked firmly under a downy wing. Ron
briefly considered waking her just to hear some disgruntled hooting. All in all, the quiet was
driving him mad. It wasn't his fault; Weasleys didn't do solitude well. They weren't
made for it.

A long Saturday evening stretched out ahead of him, dreary and unexciting. Ron heaved a sigh.
Experience suggested that even when Harry returned, the quiet would remain.

There *was* one solution to the problem, and he reached for it, in the form of the
fellytone-thing on the kitchen counter.

It rang for a long time. Ron had just decided that Hermione wasn't home or he'd done the
dialing thing all wrong when, finally, she answered.

"Hello?"

"Hermione! You're home!"

"Good one, Ron," she said. "Your observational powers astound me."

"Very funny. Would you like to come over for dinner?" Once upon a time, such words
from him would have held a whole different meaning, would have been part of their on-again
off-again courtship dance. But years had passed since then, and Ron had no ulterior motives. He
valued his sanity too much to start any of that again, and didn't need to be skilled at
Legilimency to know Hermione felt the same way.

Hermione sighed. "Ron, term just *began.* I have a thousand things to do before
Monday. I have reading for three classes, two response papers to write, plus I want to do a bit of
extra background research. . . ."

Some men might have been daunted, but Ron was both determined and experienced at dealing with
book-mad witches. "Hermione, you have to eat. Your brain needs, erm, nutritional input to keep
working at optimal studying levels. All your old famous Muggle thinkers ate a lot. I've seen
the pictures."

Another sigh. "Why don't you get Harry to eat with you?"

"Because he's in Surrey. And you know what he's like when he gets back from
there."

"Yes," Hermione said. "I do." She was quiet for a moment. "All right.
I'll be there in a minute."

Ron hung up the felly-tone and pumped his fist into the air. He was going to have company,
someone to laugh with and tease with, and hopefully cheer Harry up with. And he had convinced
Hermione to do something she didn't want to do - *always* a bonus.

He dropped his arm. He was going to have company. Girl company. The type that would complain if
there wasn't a space on the couch large enough to sit down. And the type that would probably
demand a clear spot on the floor for her feet. Ron sighed, unpocketed his wand, and set to
work.

She was as good as her word. Ron had only managed to unearth a section of the couch and coffee
table before she popped into the flat. Hermione, on the other hand, had apparently had time to pack
half the contents of her bookshelf into the bag she carried over her shoulder. "You brought
work?"

"Of course," Hermione said, settling on the couch. "I *told* you I was
busy."

Groaning, Ron slumped into the armchair beside her and picked up a Quidditch magazine he'd
read twice already. He watched Hermione over the top of the pages as she wrote in one of the
thickest school planners he'd ever seen. Ron had always suspected that Hermione was off her
nut, but this Muggle university thing made it official. He and Harry had been thrilled to walk away
from classes and note-taking in all forms a year ago. Only Hermione could have found a way to study
even *more.*

The *scritch scritch* of Hermione's quill was a soothing sort of sound, and as the
afternoon wore on and the light grew dim, Ron's magazine travelled from his lap to over his
eyes, where it acquired a tent-like shape. Things were all quite cosy and comfortable - until the
poking started.

Ron twitched. "Wha - what?"

"Didn't you promise me food?" Hermione asked, withdrawing her hand.

"Oh. Right." Ron stood, stretching. "Don't you want to help?" he asked
hopefully.

"Not really," Hermione said. She meant it, too: she was already writing again.

"But I might get it all wrong. I need supervision."

"I certainly can't argue with *that*," she said, "but luckily, I can see
you just fine from here."

That was quite true, given the size of their home. Flats in London didn't come cheap, and as
Ron insisted on paying exactly half of the monthly rent, they weren't swanning around on
Harry's inheritance. The tiny kitchen was separated from the lounge only by a stretch of
countertop, currently buried under dirty plates, cups, and a tin of Owl Treats. Ron shoved enough
aside to create a workspace, then pulled out enough noodles and canned sauce to make spaghetti for
three.

There were leftovers that night.

*

An owl landed on Harry's shoulder before he made it out of the residence home's carpark.
Brown and large, with fierce eyes and scraggly feathers, the bird could only belong to one person:
his boss.

Harry had joined the Aurors shortly after his eighteenth birthday. He'd spent most of the
summer after Voldemort's defeat in St. Mungo's; on the morning of his discharge, he'd
been met in the hospital lobby by a representative of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It
seemed experience in the field carried more weight than N.E.W.T. results, and the Aurors were very
interested indeed in having Harry Potter embark on a crash training course. Since then, he'd
learned that the job wasn't nearly as glamorous as he and Ron had once imagined. The hours were
long and unpredictable; the paperwork staggering; and his immediate supervisor was an odd old man
with a strange eye who stood for very few excuses.

Harry removed the message from the owl's leg, read it, checked his surroundings - good, no
Muggles in sight – and set it on fire with his wand. He took out the handkerchief-sized square of
cloth that was his Invisibility Cloak after a good shrinking charm. In a moment, he was ready to
Apparate to the prescribed coordinates - in another moment, he arrived at the rear of a shop in
Knockturn Alley. He knew that his partner, Dean Thomas, was watching the front of the same
establishment, or would be very shortly.

A Saturday night behind the dustbins - and not his first, either. Nope, no glamour here.

When he'd signed his name in blood that warm summer morning, Harry had expected to spend a
lot of time tracking down Death Eaters who had wiggled off the hook. Expected it, and looked
forward to it. But while that was an important part of his job, much of Harry's work involved
enterprising groups of wizards whose activities had little to do with pureblood supremacy or
avenging Voldemort and everything to do with breaking the law. Harry wasn't certain which
category tonight's assignment fell in, but from Moody's insistence that he and Dean were to
observe only, not get involved an any way, he suspected that whatever was going on inside this shop
was serious indeed.

He wished it weren't still raining.

Footsteps on cobblestones. Harry strained his eyes in the early evening gloom to see a figure in
a head-to-toe cloak walking his way. At the shop's door, the person knocked in an offbeat
rhythm. The door swung open, and Harry was left alone. He considered entering the building, but
decided against it. He hadn't had time to check the building for warning spells - who knew what
kind of magical alarms would go off if he made it inside? Instead, Harry cast amplifying and
recording charms, strained his ears, and listened.

With the spell, the voices weren't hard to hear, but the words were indecipherable. That
meant a distortion charm - standard practice for all conversations of a suspicious and secretive
nature. Harry swore under his breath, positioning himself for a better view of the shop's door;
the best he could hope for today was a glimpse of the visitor's face.

The door opened and the figure (it was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman or even
human under all that dark, heavy cloth) began walking away. Harry kept his eyes peeled. He needed
to catch some idiosyncratic detail, something, *anything* that could lead to an
identification.

No luck. He swore again, then went round to the front of the shop to collect Dean and Apparate
back to headquarters.

*

The Ministry's artificially airy underground home was destroyed during the war. Stone and
metal and spelled illusions all cracked and crumbled, leaving behind a hole in the earth filled
with rubble and strange little pockets where the sun shone or thunderstorms raged. Now sections of
the Ministry were scattered across wizarding London. Most were in old houses and shops, although
the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had found for itself a large, solid stone building.

Harry and Dean climbed the stairs, their boots echoing on the flagstones. "I don't need
to go in there, do I?" Dean asked. "I don't have anything to say. Everything was
quiet on my end. You could tell him that as easily as I could."

"I suppose," Harry said. "But a right-thinking person would come anyway to show
his solidarity."

"A right-thinking person would realise that West Ham is on the telly tonight, and cover for
his partner."

Harry rolled his eyes, although he knew that if the sport in question were Quidditch, he would
be much the same. "Go on, then." Dean grinned, turned, and took off down the stairs two
at a time.

Moody's office door was open, and Harry entered to find the old Auror peering into one of
the newest, strongest Foe Glasses on the market. Harry fidgeted politely in front of the desk until
his boss looked up.

"Do you have one of these, sonny?" Moody asked, tapping the glass with a yellowed
fingernail.

"No. No, I don't."

"You need two, at the very least. One for the wall beside your front door, and one beside
your fireplace - ah, but you don't have a fireplace, do you? Smart lad, the less entrances to
guard the better." He curled his lips into a crooked smile. "Put that second one over
your bed then, so you can check it when you first wake up. Comes in handy when you're not so
clear on what you brought home the night before, eh?"

Harry responded with a smile, although he wasn't certain Moody was entirely joking.
"Ready for my report, sir?"

Moody nodded, hmmed, and made notes as Harry spoke and the recording played over and over.
Finally, he asked, "Do you recognise the voice?"

Harry had been turning that over in his mind for an hour now. "It does seem a bit familiar.
Like I've met him, heard him talk before." He shrugged. "But I can't put a name
to it."

"Try." Moody waved a hand towards the door. "Go home, and try. Let me know
something tomorrow."

"Yes, sir."

*

The lights were on, there were plates on the table and books scattered across the couch, but the
flat Harry came home to was empty. He shrugged off his cloak, wondering where Ron (and Hermione, he
assumed by the books) had gone, and why they'd been in a hurry. En route to a cold drink, Harry
found a clue, in the form of a note on the refrigerator door.

*Don't worry, mate. We're taking care of it.*

Oh, that was helpful.

Harry removed the magnet, hoping there was more written on the back, but the parchment
didn't budge. Someone hadn't trusted the yellow smiley face to do its job, apparently, and
had added a sticking charm for good measure.

Before too many curse words could be uttered, Harry spotted the blinking light on the
answerphone. The message played twice, and then, with a *pop*, Harry was gone.

It was disorienting, Apparating so fast, and Harry rushed through the nursing home´s front door
with his head spinning. Catching his breath, he walked over to the reception desk, where Hermione
was speaking to a nurse.

"I'm sorry miss, we need a blood relative's permission to transport her to
hospital."

"That may not be necessary," Harry said, stepping up beside Hermione. "Could I
see her alone for a second, first? I'm her nephew."

The nurse frowned. "We really shouldn't waste any more time--"

"We won't," Harry promised, already walking away. This was one thing he was better
qualified to handle than any Muggle doctor. They called it a seizure, and shook their heads because
no medicine they knew worked quite as it should. He called it a side-effect of being too long under
the Cruciatus Curse, and had been taught a charm that took care of things almost instantly.

Harry had become an expert in getting from Aunt Petunia's side to the corridor outside her
room during the span of that 'almost´.

He returned to the lobby a few minutes later, leaving behind a pleased, if slightly confused
nurse. Hermione was sitting alone on one of the couches; Ron was across the room, busily chatting
up a girl about their age.

"Trust Ron to find the only female under fifty in this place," Harry said, joining
Hermione on the sofa.

"I don't think he realizes how much trouble he's going to get into! How does he
think he's going to pass for a Muggle?"

"That's the trouble," Harry nodded wisely, "the *thinking* part."
He gave Hermione a sidelong glance. She didn't seem as amused as he was, and Harry wondered if
she was truly worried about the implications for wizard-Muggle relations, or if there was something
more to it altogether.

"Hmph. Hope you've been practicing your memory charms."

Harry couldn't help flinching.

"Sorry," Hermione said quickly, "sorry, I wasn't thinking--"

"It's okay," Harry said.

"Harry?" Hermione began hesitantly, "do you think. . .well, what happened today.
. . ."

"I'm not putting her back in St. Mungo's," Harry interrupted. "What I
mean is," he added, amending his tone, "she's happier here. She always cared so much
about things being normal." He traced his fingers over a flower on the couch cushion. He
didn't add that merely walking through the doors of any wizarding medical facility made him
feel ill. The smell was something unique, something horrible, a mixture of antiseptic charms and
cauldrons bubbling with medicinal potions that conjured up too many memories of time spent as
patient, and even worse, as visitor.

Hermione placed her hand on Harry's, stilling his fingers. "You're right," she
said quietly, "and we're always glad to help out, you know that."

Harry squeezed her hand, a quick, grateful gesture. "Think I should go check on
Ron?"

"You'd better," Hermione said. "Tell him to get her phone number
already."

He stood, smiling. "I might have to remind him what one is, first."

*

By the time they returned home, ate, and teased Ron appropriately, Harry was in no mood to do
anything that resembled work. The next morning found him awake early, sitting at the table in the
flat's little dining nook, coffee in one hand and wand in the other. Harry played the recording
repeatedly, quietly, careful not to attract the attention of a still-sleeping Ron.

He was very still as he listened. Harry thought of every Death Eater and suspected Death Eater
he possibly could - even people who were by all accounts dead. He tried to focus only on voices, to
filter out words that had been said or atrocities that had been committed when he'd seen each
person. Harry tried to organise little columns in his mind, like Hermione would, full of
'yes's and 'no's and 'maybe's. It would have worked, too, if the
'yes' one hadn't stubbornly remained empty.

*Bang. Bangbangbang.* Harry didn't pause to think, canceling the charm and pointing his
wand toward the sound in a heartbeat. When he realised it was just an over-enthusiastic guest, he
rose, checked the peephole, and let Dean in. "Couldn't wait to see me this
morning?"

Dean brushed past him, heading straight for the table. "Got any more of that?" he
asked, gesturing towards the abandoned coffee cup.

"In the pot," Harry said. He walked into the kitchen and fetched Dean a beaker.
"Seamus make a cock-up of the shopping again?"

"Bastard," Dean said, trailing behind him. "How hard is it? I ask you, *how
hard is it?* You go to the grocer's, you pick up a tin of coffee *with caffeine.* A
child could do it. *Ron* could do it, for God's sake."

"He does, sometimes," Harry remarked. "And sometimes he goes to the grocer's
and comes home with strange powdered things I wouldn't quite classify as food. He gets excited
by all the insta-stuff in little packets."

Dean was too involved with his coffee to continue the conversation. Harry smiled, watching him.
He was lucky to have a partner that he'd known for so long, that he felt at ease with. Not only
that, but they complemented each other well, too. Dean had rivaled Ron for tallest Gryffindor in
their year back at Hogwarts, and he'd grown, at nineteen, into someone imposing. His mere
physical presence had been known to make suspects nervous, and the fact that his first instincts
were often towards physical rather than magical methods of attack only added to the effect.

Harry didn't think of himself as scrawny anymore, although sometimes he felt that way beside
Dean. He'd never exactly learned how to put on weight, but training in hand-to-hand combat had
given him muscles he was rather proud of. But while Dean was about physical strength, Harry was
about quick reflexes, quick thinking, and sheer magical power. All in all, they worked well
together.

Dean finally lowered his mug. "How'd it go with the old man yesterday?"

"Well, I made a recording of the bloke's voice. I need to be able to identify him for
Moody in precisely," he checked his watch, "forty-eight minutes."

"You don't have any idea?"

He shrugged. "Not really. The more I think about it, the more I get people's voices
mixed up in my head."

"Go on," Dean said, "give us a listen."

Harry played the recording up to the moment he heard Ron begin thumping around in his room.
"So what do you think?" he asked Dean quietly.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. I do think that if it was someone important, we'd be
able to recognise them, though."

Harry thought that Dean had a good point. But as he dropped his cup in the sink and buttoned up
his cloak against the morning chill, he also thought that Moody would expect a more useful
answer.

*

A/N: Many thanks to lightgetsin and hiddenhibiscus for beta.



2. Two
------

**Two**

*And if I stay lucky then my tongue will stay tied, and I won't betray the things that I
hide.* --Seven Mary Three

*

Harry put down his well-worn copy of *Quidditch Through the Ages* with a sigh. "Hurry
up, Ron!" he yelled in the direction of the loo. "We were supposed to be at the
restaurant fifteen minutes ago!"

The loo did not respond. Harry sighed again, stretching his legs out on the couch. Disaster was
looming, he was sure of it - Ron had arranged a date with the girl he'd met at the nursing home
and had enlisted Harry and Hermione to come along and keep him out of trouble. Hopefully.

Ron finally emerged from the toilet, circling like a dog chasing its tail. "Did I get them
all?"

"Er - all what?"

"All Pig's bloody feathers! I've *one* clean jumper that's not maroon, and
Pig just *had* to go roost in it."

"Well, stand still and let me check." Harry summoned the feathers off Ron's back -
there really weren't that many - and sent them flying through the air toward the bin. "You
could have done that yourself, you know."

"Shut it," Ron said. "I'm practising thinking like a Muggle. Been doing it
all day."

"Oh," Harry said, trying to keep a straight face. "And - has it been going this
well all day?"

"Shut it," Ron repeated, "I reckon we'd better go."

In a blink and a *pop!*, the pair arrived in the alley behind the restaurant. Harry
silently thanked the unknown genius of a wizard who'd developed the first Apparition spell. It
was a wonder he and Ron had ever gotten to class on time without it.

Harry began walking, but Ron pulled him to a halt.

"Wait - what is it I want to order again?"

"Crispy duck. Ron, you've had Chinese food before--"

"Not while pretending to be Muggle!"

Clearly, it was time for a pep talk. "Look," Harry said, "you've already made
it through one conversation with her, right?"

Ron nodded.

"You did just fine then, obviously, or she wouldn't be going out with you. *And*
with your friends that she's barely laid eyes on."

"True."

"*And* you've had a crash course in Muggle life since then. *And* you have
me, *and* Hermione, right?"

Ron was still, apparently gathering his courage one final time. "Okay," he said
finally. "Let's go."

When they rounded the corner of the building, Harry spotted Hermione at once. She and Ron's
date, Sarah, were smiling and talking companionably - a good sign. Perhaps he and Ron wouldn't
pay *too* dearly for their lateness. On the other hand, both girls had wrapped their jackets
tightly around them to keep out the early October chill - not so good.

"Hullo, boys," Hermione said. "Sarah and I have had *lots* of time to talk
about you."

Oh Merlin, was that an evil grin?

Ron must have noticed it too, because he jumped in with, "Sorry we're late -
Harry's bloody slow, sometimes."

"Me? *You -*"

"I spoke to the hostess already," Hermione said, cutting him off, "so we should
have a table soon."

Ron gallantly held the door for everyone, and Harry made certain to step on his friend's fat
foot on the way inside.

*

Ron fiddled with his napkin.

Harry snuck glances at Sarah - she looked familiar, somehow. Maybe she had a brother or sister
at Hogwarts? That would certainly make things easier. . . .

Ron fiddled with his chopsticks.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Sarah, you're at university, right?"

"Yeah. Just one more year before I can get out there and become the next Bill Gates."
She grinned. "Or, more accurately, one of his minions."

Harry knew enough to smile in response; Ron looked ready to make a run for it; and Hermione
actually beamed.

"You know computers! I think they're fascinating. Imagine, two clicks can do an
hour's worth of searching indexes and library shelves. It's amazing."

"Wha - *What?*" The look on Ron's face was priceless; he was obviously
computing the amount of time that could have been spent laying about or practising Quidditch if
only there'd been a puter-thing at Hogwarts.

Both girls frowned; Hermione in warning, Sarah in confusion.

Luckily, Hermione rescued them again. "Sarah, do you think I could get your email address?
My mum gave me her old computer, and I mostly know how to work it, but sometimes...."

"Sure," Sarah replied, and waited while Hermione dug a piece of paper out of her
handbag. "It's Polkiss, that's p-o-l-k-i-s-s, at. . . ."

But Harry didn't hear the rest of her sentence. He didn't need to. *Sarah Polkiss.*
Piers' older sister. He didn't really remember her, just vague impressions: Long brown hair
and a smile on the doorstep of Number Four, taking her little brother home for tea. Arms just long
enough and strong enough to pull Piers off him in the schoolyard, Harry's spectacles a second
from being broken for the hundredth time. *Sarah Polkiss.*

Harry flattened his hair over his scar with an unsteady hand. How long until she recognized him?
What had Piers told her about him? Should he just leave?

"Harry!" Hermione whispered. "Are you ill? You've gone all white."

"Er," he said, "er, no?"

"We'll be right back," Hermione announced. She grabbed Harry's arm and
half-dragged him out of the booth. Harry briefly registered the look of pure terror on Ron's
face before being escorted across the restaurant to the alcove by the toilets.

"Sit," Hermione said, pointing at a chair by the payphone. When he didn't move,
she reached up to feel his forehead for a temperature.

Harry grabbed her hand. "I'm not sick. It's just. . .that's Sarah
Polkiss."

"Yes, I caught the name," Hermione said slowly.

He looked away. "Sarah Polkiss. Sister of Piers Polkiss, Dudley's best mate."

"Oh! But - when did you see her last? Before Hogwarts? She's not likely to remember
you. And if she does, what's the harm?"

"*What's the harm?*" Harry asked. "Who knows what Piers told her about
me? He was there when I set that boa constrictor free from the zoo, you know. And when I Apparated
onto the school roof to escape a fight. *And* when I Transfigured our teacher's wig
blue--"

He glared at Hermione, who was trying rather unsuccessfully not to laugh. "It's not
funny, Hermione! Because even if she doesn't know about all that--" Harry stopped as a man
passed by them to enter the toilet. "Even if she doesn't know about that stuff," he
continued quietly, "she will have certainly heard about what happened to the Dursleys. And I
don't want to talk about it."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione whispered. Harry stared off over her head at a fascinating
poster of China. "Harry, look at me," she said more firmly.

*The wizards who built that Great Wall certainly were bold,* he thought. Harry wondered if
he would like China. The food was tasty, and he'd always had a bit of a thing for Asian women.
It would only take a couple of quick Apparitions for him to find out. . . .

"*Harry,*" Hermione said, putting her hand on his neck and forcing his head
downward until he looked in her eyes, "she's on a first date tonight. Only someone with
less tact than Ron would bring any of that up on a first date. Now, *if* she and Ron get
serious, he's going to have to talk with her about some things, and *you* may have to talk
with her about some things. But there's no sense in getting all wound up now. All
right?"

It really was remarkable how often Hermione was right. Not that Harry had any intention of
letting her know that, of course. "All right," he said. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Hermione smiled up at him, but didn't move - she seemed
not to realise that her hand was still very much cupping his neck.

"Erm," Harry said, suddenly feeling a little funny after all, "we'd better go
take care of Ron."

"Right." Turning away, she led him back up the corridor and across the restaurant.

*

Ron seemed to be doing all right without them. The food had arrived, and Sarah was leaning close
to Ron, guiding his hands with hers as he battled with a set of chopsticks. Ron's ears were, of
course, red.

"Sorry about that," Hermione said as they settled back into the booth. "Just
remembered we needed to ring someone."

"No problem," Sarah said.

Harry examined the utensil options before him. While he liked the set of wizard's chopsticks
Hermione had given him for his birthday - she'd charmed them to pick all the water chestnuts
out of any dish they encountered- he wasn't sure he was up to trying the Muggle
ones.Particularly with the luck Ron was having.

"Hermione," Sarah said, "Ron tells me you're at university as well?"

"Yes, I'm studying law -"

Finally deciding on a fork, Harry focused on his food and let the rest of Hermione's words
flow over him. He'd heard more times than he could count about Hermione's plan to become an
expert in Muggle law, particularly the rights of minority groups, and use her knowledge to
influence the wizarding legal system. And, being Hermione she was already on her way to achieving
them - along with her classes, she had a mini-pupilage with an extremely ancient wizard barrister.
Hopefully, hopefully, Hermione wouldn't get carried away and start going on about oppressed
house-elves or werewolves in front of Sarah.

Worrying about himself might have been a better idea, but he couldn't be expected to see the
future, now could he?

"And what about you, Harry? What do you do?"

"Er," Harry said intelligently. "Erm, well. . ." Every good Auror had a
cover story, but it was of course a *wizarding* cover story.

"He's in security," Hermione put in.

Harry smiled, full of gratitude. Crisis averted.

"If he told you, he'd have to kill you," Ron added helpfully, looking quite proud
of his Mugglism.

Crisis back on.

*

Two hours later, Harry and Ron were stretched out in their flat, Ron comfortably on the couch,
Harry less so on the floor nearby. They had Butterbeer, and there was a post-match show playing on
WWN, but Harry wasn't content. He knew he needed to tell Ron about recognising Sarah; he'd
noticed her eyeing him a time or two and thought it was only a matter of time before she made the
connection. But *knowing* and *wanting* were two completely different things.

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"You remember when I walked Sarah up to her flat, and left you and Hermione out on the
pavement?"

"Yes, I remember," Harry said. "It was an entire half-hour ago, after
all."

"Oh, sod off," Ron mumbled half-heartedly. "Listen, she mentioned wanting to see
a play that's opening next weekend. And. . . I said that we'd all love to go Saturday
night."

Harry sat up immediately. "Ron! I'm no expert, but if she wanted Hermione and me to go,
wouldn't she have mentioned the play in front of us?"

"Well, she did look a bit disappointed. But I said. . . I said that you were too shy to ask
Hermione out on your own, and me being such a good mate and all, I wanted to help out as much as I
could. . . . "

Harry flopped back down, groaning. "I love how you keep assigning your problems to me. But
it's no good - I'm supposed to be working out of town." He took a deep breath.
"Actually, that's probably a good thing."

"Why's that?"

"Because Sarah's brother was Dudley's best friend, and when she recognises me I
doubt you'll be able to dodge the wizard issue any longer."

"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed, causing hooting and wing-rustling from Hedwig and Pig.
"You could have mentioned this earlier!"

"No, I bloody well couldn't, because I didn't know until I heard her full name
tonight!" It felt good to shout, even though Harry didn't really want to be angry with
Ron. He understood that attraction was rather uncontrollable, but life certainly would have been
easier for both of them if Ron had decided to stick to witches.

"Look, Ron," Harry began more gently, "it's not like you can keep this up
much longer anyway. I'm sure she already thinks we're sort of odd. How are you planning to
tell her?"

"Speak for yourself, mate," Ron said automatically, then began shaking his head
gloomily. "I don't know. Transfigure something? Apparate? I'm just not ready yet. I
want her to get to know me before I scare her to pieces."

"You'll think of something," Harry said, settling back down on his cushion.
"And if you don't, Hermione will."

*

Working out of town meant a change of scenery, of a sort. It was an anonymous tip that led Harry
and Dean to Edinburgh, and lurking behind Scottish dustbins in the Scottish rain. Still working the
same case, but with a different plan - when the suspect appeared, they'd stun, bind, and search
him (or *her* or *it*) for contraband items. Then they'd all Apparate back to London,
to headquarters.

Harry pictured Hermione's reaction to this. *"People should be innocent until proven
guilty, Harry,"* she'd surely say, her brow all creased. "Even if you think this
is the same man, you can't arrest him for a crime he hasn't committed yet!"

And while Harry of course agreed in principle, he didn't want to wait around for goods to
actually exchange hands today. He wanted to get his hands on whatever their suspect was selling; to
see it, hold it, and *feel* for himself if it was indeed something that had once belonged to
Voldemort. The last thing Harry wanted was for the artifact to get damaged in the scuffle, or
hidden amongst other items in the shop.

God, Scottish rain really wasn't any drier than the English sort.

"Oi," Dean whispered.

"Oi what?"

"It was good of you to set Seamus up with Hermione," Dean said. "Boy's been
in dire need of feminine company, lately."

"It's not supposed to be a *date*," Harry whispered, aware that this really
wasn't the time for chit-chat, but going along anyway. "He's just doing Ron a
favour."

"More like the other way around," Dean said. "And, hell, I bet you could've
got several Galleons off him for the privilege of seeing Ronald Weasley, Smarmy Muggle."

"Think I still - look!"

They had company at last, cloaked and hooded and every bit suspicious. Pointing their wands,
Harry and Dean chorused, "*Stupefy!*"

*Thunk.* Harry aimed a binding spell, while Dean quickly dragged the inert figure to their
hiding place between the dustbins and the alley wall. Dean knelt near the suspect's feet, as
Harry stationed himself at the head; each now had a view of the supine figure and a different
portion of the alley.

Harry pulled back the hood and sucked in a breath.

"Do you know him?" Dean whispered.

"I think so," Harry said. "I think - yes, yes it *did* sound like him, now
that I think about it - I think it's Avery." He looked up. "Am I remembering right?
Didn't Avery talk his way out of Azkaban?"

Dean was searching the man's robes for magically concealed pockets. He shrugged, and kept on
searching. "There!" He pulled out a small jade figurine, shaped like a snake. "Think
this is what we're after?"

Harry took the little snake and turned it over in his hands. Suddenly, a tongue flicked out,
tasting the air, and Harry said, "Yes."

From Dean's expression, he knew he had not spoken English.

The little statue appeared to know it too. The tongue flicked again, and with a hiss that echoed
like stone, it said, "The enemy shall not outlive the master. The master remains. He shall
always remain."

Harry repeated the snake's words for Dean; his partner swore.

"I'll second that. We should take this bloke in--"

"Do you think that thing is sentient?"

Harry blinked. "I don't know. Maybe. Or it could've been charmed just to say
that."

"Well, ask it something else, while it's in the mood to talk," Dean said.
"I've got things under control here." He gestured towards their captive, and the
alley.

"Right," Harry said. He focused again on the figurine, and on turning his mind into
something not quite human. "Who is the master?"

If there was a response, he missed it. Instead his ears were filled with Dean's
*expelliarmus!*, and immediately Harry trained his wand on their prisoner - who was still out
cold. Realising he'd misjudged the threat, Harry stood and spun to face the attacker head-on,
but before he could do anything else found himself physically lifted and thrown face-first into the
brick wall behind.

Harry heard a few sickening cracks and felt something warm and sticky on his face; then the
blackness took over and he lost contact with his surroundings altogether.

*

A/N: Many thanks to Hiddenhibiscus and Cynthia Black for beta, and to everyone who was kind
enough to review.



3. Three
--------

**Three**

*'Cause there's a monster living under my bed, whispering in my ear.* --Santana

*

He was being shaken, and it hurt. Hurt a lot and Harry wanted it to stop, wanted to be left
alone in the nice comfortable darkness where his head didn't ache and his nose didn't feel
five times too large for his face. "Sod off," he mumbled, or tried to.

The shaking didn't stop; if anything, it intensified. And now someone was whispering.
"Come on, Harry, we need to go!"

Go? He didn't want to go *anywhere.* His wand was still in his hand, cool and strong,
so Harry lifted his arm -

"Oh, no you don't." His wand slid out from between his fingers.

Damn. Now he *had* to open his eyes.

Harry blinked a few times; okay, so Dean was the ruthless wand-stealing people-shaking bastard,
and as Harry took in the surroundings he realised it was for good reason. Now Dean was kneeling
over him, holding - was that a sock? Dear Merlin, please let it not be a *sock* - to his
nose.

"Finally," Dean breathed. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Harry muttered, struggling to sit up. "What happened?"

"Bloke came out of the shop. I disarmed him, but he didn't seem to care - just kept
coming. You dropped that snake when he threw you into the wall -"

"Shit."

"- he grabbed it, and Disapparated." Dean turned toward the building, frowning.
"Question is, was he the shopkeeper? Or somebody else?"

Harry wiped his mouth on the back of his hand; he was tasting blood. "Pretty stupid of him,
if he owns the shop. We could have his name in no time."

"I'll go check the place out." Dean hesitated. "Do the sensor spell for me?
It'll be stronger if you do it."

Harry held out a hand for his wand. They didn't deal in false modesties, he and Dean; when
it came down to doing the job and staying alive, there simply wasn't room for them.

He said the words and closed his eyes, following the magic, letting it pull him in. It was a
sound-spell with a twist or two; his head buzzed with the rush of noise and data and still-sharp
pain -

"There's one person in there," Harry said, opening his eyes. "One person, two
mice, and a lot of bugs. And the person - his heart, his breathing is slow. I'd say he's
been stunned."

"Okay. Be right back."

Harry watched Avery - it was easiest to think of their prisoner as Avery, whether he actually
was or not - the alley, the rain, and the patch of red spreading on what was, in fact, his sock.
Then Dean was back.

"There was a little old man in there - like you said, somebody'd stunned him, although
he didn't know it. He thought he'd just fallen. Kept begging me not to tell his
granddaughter about it, said she'd make him give up the shop, poor old thing."

Harry nodded. "Lot of Dark stuff for sale in there, could you tell?"

"Eh. I saw a couple of Morth-wyrthan orbs that aren't entirely legal, but he's no
Borgin."

"So somebody's using these shops, these shopkeepers, to get want they want." Harry
pulled himself to his feet. "Right. So now, we take this bloke in and get ourselves chewed out
for losing that statue."

"I'll get chewed out. You're going to the hospital wing."

Harry started to shake his head, then stopped. *Ouch.* "No. All I really need is a
staunching spell -"

"- already done one -"

"- *another* staunching spell, and something for pain. We'll report
together."

Dean looked enticed by the thought of company, but not quite convinced. He just needed a little
push. . . "Hermione can take care of the rest. She's patched up worse before. I'll go
to her flat straight afterwards."

Dean hesitated. "All right."

After Dean's quick go at healing, Harry revived their bound prisoner. Then Dean pulled the
man upright and pushed him against the wall. "It's called forced Apparition," Dean
said. "We hold onto your arms. We already have your wand. You Apparate with us to Auror
headquarters in London, or find yourself splinched into a hundred little tied-up pieces. Got
it?"

A silent nod; Harry and Dean took their positions, and the group Disapparated.

*

Their prisoner was in a cell, awaiting interrogation. Harry and Dean were themselves done with
being interrogated for the night - although actually, it hadn't been too bad. Moody had been
pleased with their arrest, and recognised the man at once; it *was* Avery, he said, or
possibly some other wizard got up to look like Avery. Only time, and the wearing off of possible
charms and potions, would tell.

And, happily, Moody had been fairly calm about the loss of the carved snake. Harry suspected his
battered face had something to do with that; he was sure Moody had a odd sort of respect for blood
and disfigurement.

"You really should go to the hospital wing, Harry."

"Sorry. Hey, I held up my end of the deal. And Moody didn't make it an order, now did
he?"

Dean snorted. "But you know what he's like - hell, just *look* at him. Probably
never let a nurse near him." They walked the corridor in silence for a moment. "Look,
I'm going to Hermione's with you. Can't risk you going home and doing numbing charms on
yourself all night."

*Bugger.* Dean was right not to trust him to go on his own. A worried Hermione, that was
nearly as bad as hospital, her concerned face asking *what happened*? and then saying
*seriously, Harry, perhaps a different job*. . . . No, Harry didn't want to go to
Hermione's, even though it was only five o'clock, even though she wouldn't be out for
the evening yet, even though she could heal him in less than two minutes.

Dean grabbed his arm, and Harry jumped. "It's called forced Apparition,
Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yes, I've heard of it." He sighed, resigned to facing an
upset Hermione. "Okay. Let's go."

*

And Hermione *was* upset. She didn't let them in at first, but joined Harry and Dean in
the corridor, closing the door behind them. She stared at Harry for a long moment, then turned to
Dean.

"Going to explain?" she asked, jerking her head towards Harry.

"Can't."

"What I thought."

Hermione held Dean's eyes, and Harry got the feeling they were still talking, silently
treading a conversational path they'd been down many times before. Harry frowned. If they were
going to talk about him, it should at least be out loud where he could get a word in edgewise.

"Well," Hermione said, shrugging slightly, "come on, then. But you two better
take off those robes before you come in. I've got company."

Harry spoke for the first time. "You don't mean -"

Hermione nodded. "Yes. Everyone met here to decide about dinner before we go to the
play."

"Right, well," Harry said. "I'll see you -"

"If you Disapparate, I will follow you and hex you into next week."

Harry couldn't help backing up a step at her tone. No question, he believed her.

"I'm ready," Dean said casually, as if he'd been so busy altering his own
appearance he hadn't taken in Harry and Hermione's little standoff. Harry didn't
believe *that* for a minute.

"Fine," Harry sighed. He removed his robes more slowly than Dean, discovering a twinge
in his left shoulder that he hadn't even noticed before. When his shrunken robes were stored
away in his a pocket, he said, "Okay."

Hermione latched onto Harry's arm as the door swung open. Her flat was a masterpiece in
Disillusionment Charms: there were no quills, no spellbooks, and all the wizard photographs were
perfectly still. Harry exchanged hellos with Ron, Sarah, and Seamus with his face averted as
Hermione pulled him off to her bedroom.

The door closed behind them with a click. Harry tried a joke. "Why Miss Granger, whatever
will people think?"

"That I'm some sort of scarlet woman, I expect," Hermione said. They both grinned
at the reminder of Ron's old-fashioned quirks of vocabulary. "And it's always your
fault, isn't it?" she added, pulling out her wand. "Now get on the bed, and hold
still."

Harry burst out laughing - whether she'd meant to channel a dominatrix or not, she'd
done a fabulous job - then put a hand to his face. "Ow."

*"Sit,"* Hermione said, then removed his glasses and cupped his chin in her hand.
"Now close your eyes."

Harry did as he'd been told. His skin tingled, hot and cold and hot again, as Hermione
murmured charms to close his cuts and heal his bruises.

"You're lucky you didn't break this, you know," she said finally, running a
finger over his back-to-normal nose.

"I know," Harry said, or at least thought, before her finger moved on to tracing the
curve of his lip and his brain threatened to blank out altogether.

They'd spent eight *years* touching, whether it be passing quills or sharing books or
huddling under the invisibility cloak. Hermione had even given him his very first hug - at least,
the first one that counted, the first he could remember, once upon a time.

But this was different. This was intimate, this was *deliberate* and Harry wondered if some
kind of time-magic was making her touch him like this, over and over again, it couldn't
possibly be on purpose -

"Better?" she whispered.

"Yea -" he cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Oi!"

Spell broken, Harry opened his eyes and Hermione jerked away. There was an insistent pounding on
the door; Hermione wrenched it open.

"Are we eating tonight or what?" Ron asked, leaning against the doorframe.
"Harry, mate, you don't look at all well. You're all -"

"Yes, Ron, we're eating," Hermione cut in. She turned to Harry. "Do you want
to come?"

"Erm, no. Bit knackered, really." True enough, but not the whole story; he had no
desire to spend another evening on edge, waiting for Sarah to realise who he was. And now there was
this strange Hermione-*thing*. . . no, he was just fine where he was. "Is Dean
going?"

"He's going to dinner with us. We don't have an extra ticket for the play,
though." Ron paused. "I think he's rather disappointed."

"I bet he is," Harry said. Dean and Seamus were going to have so much fun with this. .
. Harry felt sorry for Ron. He snuck a glance at Hermione. Well, almost.

They left him then, Hermione insisting that he sleep in her bed, Ron promising to bring home
something tasty from the restaurant. Harry kicked off his shoes, tucked his wand under his pillow,
and removed his glasses. He *was* tired. . . .

Unfortunately, his dreams gave him no rest.

*

"Harry!"

He was curled around himself, shaking and sweaty; Hermione's hand was on his shoulder and
although he couldn't see her face, he could imagine her expression.

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, still not looking at her. "Sorry." He straightened
out slowly, rubbing his forehead more out of long habit than any need, and began fumbling around
for his glasses.

"Harry, stop." Hermione grabbed his arm and pulled on him gently until he was flat on
his back, looking up at her. "Please, tell me about it."

"It was nothing," he said, blinking up at her blurry face. "Nothing new,
anyway."

An almost-truth. It had been Voldemort, it had been green light and ear-splitting screams and
blinding pain, it had been the oldest of dreams; but it had also been words he'd just heard
that day, ominous words said with a hiss.

"I should go, I'm in your bed." He sat up, and resumed his fumbling. *Where the
bloody hell -?*

"You're not going anywhere," Hermione said, sounding very pleased with herself.
"I've got your glasses *and* your wand."

Harry reached under the pillow and realised at once that she was telling the truth. He opened
his mouth to say something cutting, something that would make her leave him be - perhaps that he
was nineteen, and didn't need a mother, and could take care of himself, thank you very much. .
. .

A picture flashed into his mind: the two of them, several hours before, in this room. Hmm. There
was a *teeny* possibility that being taken care of wasn't always a bad thing.

"Well," Harry said, flopping onto his back in mock defeat, "I reckon I'm
stuck, then."

Hermione laughed, relief in her voice, and stretched out beside him, propping up on her
elbow.

"Harry . . . does your scar hurt? You were holding it. . . ."

"No," he said reassuringly, "I was dreaming that it hurt, if that makes
sense."

"Yes, it does." She paused. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Let's talk about something else," he said, rolling onto his side and mirroring
her posture. "Tell me about your night. How did Ron do? Did he blow his cover?"

"Not quite," Hermione answered, beginning a play-by-play account of the evening that
ended with Harry falling into a contented, and dreamless, sleep.

*

Lying on her side, Hermione watched him in the dim light. She had left one candle burning so
that she could see Harry properly, so that she would know immediately if the nightmares came
back.

She inched her hand along the pillow, slow, stealthy, stopping as soon as she felt a bit of his
black hair brushing against her fingers.

She loved him.

Hermione couldn't say when that had begun, what moment it had started; but she did remember,
very clearly, the instant she'd realised. It was seventh year and one of those tricks of fate -
of Voldemort - had left her alone, and safe, with both her boys in danger. And during those
agonizing hours it had hit her, full-on, in a tidal wave kind of way - so hard and so strong she
was amazed she hadn't seen it before.

She would grieve if Ron didn't return. She would cry, and she would mourn. But if Harry
didn't come back. . . if Harry was gone, she would never be able mourn, because she would never
accept the loss.

She loved him, and she couldn't tell him.

Hermione was a lot of things. Clever, kind, a walking encyclopaedia - and *practical.* She
didn't think in metaphor and would never have thought of the perfect one on her own. Ginny had
done that, after the younger girl and Harry had had a month or two of holding hands and sharing
kisses and nothing else.

"He's a caterpillar, Hermione," Ginny had said, sitting with her legs crossed on
Hermione's Hogwarts bed, the curtains pulled around them for privacy. "He's completely
wrapped himself up in a cocoon. He doesn't *want* to feel. He's all. .
.walls."

And Hermione had nodded and patted Ginny's hand and made sympathetic noises. And,
practically, explained why she thought Harry needed his walls, after all he had lost, and all he
still stood to lose. And felt terribly sorry for Ginny while agreeing completely that it was
useless to carry on a relationship with someone in a cocoon.

She had no idea, then, that time would see their positions reverse.

*And now,* Hermione thought, *he's still in there. Although I think he's getting
closer to breaking out every day. . . . But I'm not going to rush him, I'm not going to try
until he's ready. Because when I try, I plan to succeed.*

Hermione looked at Harry for another long moment; he seemed completely at peace. She carefully
moved her free arm, the one not distracted by the feel of soft black hair, until it was hovering
over his side. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing, doing her best imitation of sleep.
And with the same boldness that had overtaken her earlier that night she lowered her arm, gently,
gently, until she was holding Harry against her, warm and solid and real.

*Nothing wrong with a little nudge. . . .*

*

Harry blinked his eyes against the sunlight streaming in the room. His body responded before his
mind did to the fact that there was an arm around him and a distinctly feminine presence in the bed
beside him. As his mind caught up, he realised that it was Hermione's arm wrapped around him,
and Hermione who was snuggled up against his back. Hermione, one of his best friends. And for some
reason, he had an urge to roll over and put his arms around her, an urge he couldn't quite
explain. . . .

But the more his brain woke up, the more he knew that was a bad idea, a very bad idea. Last
night's strange little slip aside, he and Hermione were *friends.*
We-might-as-well-be-siblings sort of friends. And they couldn't, shouldn't, be any more
than that. He was in no way what she needed, or deserved, or probably even wanted in the first
place.

Harry suddenly felt the need to get out of her bed before he found himself doing something he
shouldn't. He sat up and began squinting, trying to figure out what Hermione had done with his
glasses.

"Mmph?"

"Go back to sleep," he said softly.

"Where are you going?"

*Out of this room before I make a decidedly un-friend-like move?* No, bad answer. He peered
at her alarm clock. "It's nearly ten o'clock. I have to go in soon, we've a
suspect to question." That was true, actually. And hopefully he could get back to his flat
before Ron woke up and discovered his absence. He wasn't in the mood for any winks or
nudges.

"Oh." Hermione sat up, smoothing out a few wrinkles in the dress she was still wearing
from the previous evening. Was she disappointed?

"You want to have dinner tonight?" he blurted. *Crap.* That wasn't what
he'd meant to say.

"I'd like that." Her face was still a blur, but Harry thought she might be
smiling.

"Well. . .I'll ring you after work, then. Can I have my wand and glasses back
now?"

"Of course. Now close your eyes," she said. "My secret hiding places are
*my* secret."

Harry complied, his mind full of secrets of his own.

*

A/N: Morth-wyrtha is an Old English word meaning worshipper of the dead. Many thanks to Calliope
and Cynthia Black for beta, and to everyone who was kind enough to review.



4. Four
-------

**Four**

*

The day passed very slowly. Moody questioned Avery on and off for hours, with Harry and Dean
sitting in, but the suspect refused to speak. Didn't answer any questions, didn't ask for
legal counsel, didn't even ask to go to the loo. Harry had rather hoped Avery would fall all
over himself in a hurry to confess - he remembered the man throwing himself on Voldemort's
mercy, years and years before - but had ended up sorely disappointed.

The only progress they'd made had been in identification. Tests proved Avery wasn't
under any concealment or disguise spell, and there'd been more than enough time for any
Polyjuice to wear off. Progress, yes; exciting, no.

On his way out, Harry dropped off a request for Veritaserum with the Potions specialist.
He'd spent nearly an hour filling out the parchment, feet and feet of it, and triple-checked
for mistakes. Because of the cost, it was tough to get Veritaserum, but that was only one reason
the Aurors didn't like to use it. While suspects on the drug spoke the truth, it was a truth
only as complete as the interrogator's questions. A desperate confession was much more useful,
not to mention more satisfying.

Well, Harry thought optimistically as he Disapparated, maybe they'd get one of those
tomorrow.

Harry was trained to notice things, and the very first thing he noticed in the dark flat was
that it *wasn't* dark, not entirely. Something was glowing on the dining table where
glowing things did not belong. He tiptoed forward, wand at the ready, focusing on a shadowy form
behind the mystery light -

*Is that. . .* Harry pushed his glasses up on his nose. *Oh sweet Merlin it is. . .
.*

"Ron! You're using a computer!"

Ron lurched in his chair like one of Fred and George's Extra-High Jumping Beans.
"Bloody hell, could you make noise when you come in, like a normal person? Or at least say
'I'm home' or something?"

"You're lucky I didn't keel over from shock," Harry said. "Where'd
that come from?"

"It's Hermione's. She called it a loptop, or something. She did things," Ron
waved his hand vaguely at the computer, "and told me to use it, that it would help me
understand what Sarah does at university."

Moving behind Ron, Harry gained his first clear view of the screen - and exactly what was
happening on it. "Somehow, I don't think this is what Sarah does at university."

It was amazing how many shades of red Ron could turn, and how visible they were even in a dark
room. "Well. I wondered. Not that I would - well."

"Okay," Harry said, holding up a hand, "no details, please. But you'd better
clean that up before you give it back to Hermione. You know it keeps a list of everything you look
at on the Internet, right?"

Ron gaped, and began scrambling for his wand. "What do you reckon? Vanishing
spell?"

"Nah," Harry said. "I'll fix it." He took the mouse and began clicking,
Ron looking on anxiously. "There. All done."

"Thanks, mate," Ron said fervently. "I'm glad you - oi! How'd you know
what to do, anyway?" Ron's narrowed eyes seemed to be accusing Harry of all manner of
unspeakable evils, like having one of these porn machines and keeping it all to himself.

"Let's just say - Dudley enjoyed technology. And I preferred cleaning up after him to
getting blamed when Aunt Petunia found something she didn't like."

"Well," Ron said, still looking a tad suspicious, "all right, then." Then,
more gently, "Are you going to Surrey tonight?"

"No, tomorrow." Harry frowned. He needed to ring Hermione, he had promised her dinner;
but Ron would probably want to come along, and Harry didn't know how to stop him without making
it into a big deal. . . .

"Good. I told Hermione that I wanted to take you two out to eat tonight, you know, to thank
you for helping with Sarah and everything."

Harry was still a moment. "What, er, what did she say?"

"Yes, of course, although I sort of had to talk her into it. Probably planning to study all
night, you know how she is."

"Yeah." Harry couldn't decide how he felt. Relieved? Disappointed? Content, he
decided. Because really, when spending time with *friends*, the more the merrier. "Ready
in a minute," he added, and headed down the corridor towards his room.

*

Harry picked olives off his pizza and tried to ignore the bickering. He would've thought it
impossible to have an impassioned debate about Malaclaws, for God's sake, but apparently he had
underestimated Ron and Hermione.

"Honestly, Ron! First of all, there is no such thing as bad luck; secondly, even if there
was, it would be medically impossible to get it from being bitten by a crustacean!"

"It doesn't have to be medically possible! It's a magical *fact*, and
that's what bloody well counts!"

Harry sighed and returned to his picking. The problem wasn't so much tuning Ron and Hermione
out - he'd had half a lifetime's worth of practice at doing that - but that left to its own
devices, his mind only seemed to want to wander to uncomfortable places.

There was Voldemort. Bloody Voldemort. No, *fucking* Voldemort.

Harry wasn't much for betting, but he would have put money - lots of it - and yes, even his
Firebolt on the fact that Voldemort was dead. Completely, totally, not coming back as a ghost or a
snake or an *anything* dead. He'd been there, after all, and it had looked pretty bloody
final from where he'd been standing.

But yesterday his confidence had been shaken, and last night he'd dreamed, and while it was
all probably nothing, his imagination was running away with the idea that it meant
*something.*

But then - Harry sighed again - at least he knew how he *felt* about Voldemort.

He looked over at Hermione; her face was all red, and she was waving her fork at Ron while
making what was surely an inarguably logical point. She didn't seem to mind that the dinner he
had offered had become a group outing. Not at all. In fact, she was probably enjoying herself more
than she would have done with just him.

Harry turned back to his plate, and his little olive mountain. He'd thought for some time
that Hermione and Ron must really like their disputes; otherwise, the two would have declared a
truce or stopped associating with each other altogether. He didn't understand it himself, but
had come to the conclusion it was just their way.

Not that he cared if Hermione had more fun with Ron. Not at all.

Harry heaved a final sigh, took a bite of his rather mangled pizza slice, and turned his
attention back to the Malaclaw debate.

*

Since leaving home, Sarah had found that keeping touch with relatives was best done on a regular
schedule.

Holidays. Birthdays. When she wanted something.

Leaning back in her chair, she contemplated an email she'd just typed:

*Hi Piers,*

*Did a boy called Harry go to secondary school with you? Black hair, glasses, kind of on the
short side? There's this bloke I know and when I saw him with a bloody nose for some reason it
reminded me of you. . . .*

It fell a little too obviously into the third category - she should work on that - but if she
made it too long, Sarah knew Piers wouldn't be arsed to read it. It was probably a wasted
effort anyway, but curiosity was getting the better of her. Sarah found it very odd that she had
met so many of Ron's school friends but learned next to nothing about their school days.

Very odd indeed.

*

It appeared that nothing - not Moody's questions, not the whirring of his magical eye, not
the power of Harry's positive thinking - was going to induce Avery to talk on Monday. Moody led
the examination, always pacing, the *thump* of his wooden leg blending seamlessly with his
voice as the hours crept by. By the end of the day, Dean was muttering about thumbscrews, Harry was
going quietly insane, and Moody was making arrangements for days of solitary confinement for their
prisoner.

Solitary was a common procedure in this sort of situation: leave a suspect alone for days, out
of the loop, wondering what had been found out or whether he'd been forgotten entirely. It was
proven to be good at loosening lips; plus, it allowed the Aurors to get on with other cases needed
their attention.

This time around, it also turned out to be quite good at making Harry broody, testy, and an
all-around pain in the arse to live with.

Those were Ron's exact words at dinner Wednesday night. They took Harry completely by
surprise, busy as he was with moving food around his plate and saying 'hm' or 'you
don't say?' whenever it seemed appropriate.

Swallowing his immediate, less-than-polite response at being told off, Harry stared at his
friend. Ron's eyes were all glittery, and he was holding his fork like not stabbing Harry with
it was taking every bit of effort he could muster.

Harry suspected he had just seriously misjudged 'appropriate.'

"Well. . . you might be right."

"*Might*?" Ron asked.

"It's a possibility, yeah." Harry grinned and, to his relief, Ron did as well. Now
that he was tuned in to the world around him, Harry noticed that Ron's plate too was largely
untouched. He doubted his own bad attitude was enough to put Ron off his food - if so, it was
surely a first. "Er. . . everything else all right?"

"Could be better." Ron shifted in his chair, obviously debating whether to say more.
"Can I ask you something? About Muggles?"

"Oh?" Harry couldn't help teasing a little. "Any Muggle in
particular?"

"Yeah, you, you prat," Ron said. "What did you think when Hagrid told you about.
. . everything? Did you believe him at once, or did you think he was mental?"

Harry frowned. "I'm probably not the best one to ask. I was rather desperate to believe
him, actually."

"Fair enough." Ron paused. "But if you weren't you, and someone told you
about wizards. . .?"

"Look, Ron, if you like Sarah, just *tell* her. You can prove it pretty easily - do
enough spells and she'll have to believe you. And if she's open-minded," *and
nothing like her brother*, "it'll be no problem."

Ron sighed and poked at his food. "Easy for you to say. But she's worth it, I reckon.
Smart and pretty and funny and. . . ."

"No flaws, then? You *have* got it bad."

He earned a glare for that one. "Well," Ron said, "if I ever knew what she was
thinking, that'd be nice."

"I think that's a girl thing," Harry muttered.

"And I swear, Harry, I think she notices everything. I bet she's got a little list
running with every odd thing I've done, and one of these days she's going to ambush me with
it."

"So - do what Gryffindors do."

"Ambush her first?"

"That's one way to put it, yeah."

Ron sighed, so loudly and so expressively that Harry couldn't help but wonder why his friend
hadn't ended up on stage. "Maybe later." He leaned his head to the side. "Now
your turn."

"What?"

"Your turn. What's got you all worked up?"

Harry looked away. He could just say work, and be done with it, but he felt like he owed Ron
more than that for putting up with him the past several days. He supposed it was lucky he had
something else he could say. "It's Aunt Petunia."

"She's worse, then?"

"*They* think she is. See, this ninety-year-old bloke tried to chat her up. She
didn't like him, apparently, because she took off her shoe and hit him over the head with it.
And yes, I'm aware that it's funny."

Swallowing his laughter, Ron asked, "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, but if she keeps this up, they'll want to move her to a wing where they can
watch her all the time. They say it's a sign that she's no longer able to cognitively
process social interactions."

Ron scratched his head. "Is there anything you can do to, you know, get her cogitatinating
or whatever? I bet Hermione could find a charm. . . ."

"She's processing interactions just fine. In fact, she's probably doing a little
better." Harry grimaced, remembering all the times he'd ducked something swung at him by
his aunt. "This is classic Aunt Petunia behaviour, actually."

"So that's good, then."

Aunt Petunia deserved her mind back. Deserved her memories, all of them, even the ones that
would leave her screaming, crying, and doing who knew what to Harry. He knew that.

"Yeah. It's great."

*

Ron looked out the window. Just over there - well, if *there* was five streets and a world
away - was the pub where he and Sarah were having dinner directly after work.

Alone. Dinner alone. No Harry, no Hermione, no-one to help him out if - make that *when* -
he got in over his head.

The last time he'd been this nervous, he'd literally thought he was going to die.

"Weasley! File. Now."

Ron shook himself and hurried across the room to his boss, who was impatiently clicking long
fingernails on the desk. He didn't make any excuses, didn't apologise - his goblin
employers didn't care a whole lot for human chatter. Sometimes Ron felt like he would burst
from keeping all his words in; Harry usually got his ears talked off, those evenings.

Not that there weren't plenty of opportunities for on-the-job conversation. That was why the
goblins had hired Ron in the first place - when witches and wizards were considering investing
hard-earned Galleons through Gringotts bank, they liked to talk to a friendly face, not one with
rows and rows of scary teeth.

Ron waited helpfully nearby as Gulan skimmed the parchment, making a variety of goblin-noises.
Suddenly, he found himself on the receiving end of a very beady, you're-invading-my-space
glare.

He backed up a step.

The goblins usually gave the impression of barely tolerating his presence, which, according to
Bill, meant they thought rather well of him. Ron hoped that was true. He loved his job, despite all
the time he spent mentally cursing the goblins and their ways. He loved it and was still surprised
sometimes to remember that he *had* it - he'd wake up in the morning, have a shower, pick
up his good black robes and think, *Bloody hell. Me. A banker.*

It had been Bill's idea - his brother had seen the household budget Ron had drawn up for him
and Harry, complete with savings plans - and Bill's connections that had carried Ron to the
first interview. But no further, Ron knew; it would take more magic than Merlin himself possessed
to get the goblins to hire someone they didn't want.

Gulan turned to face Ron again; this time, his expression plainly said, "Well? What did
*your* feeble mind come up with?"

"I thought we should advise the client to place some capital into diamonds. Since that new
area in South Africa was just made Unplottable."

Wrong answer. There was hissing and swearing and a tiny part of Ron's brain stored the words
away for future use. These days, when Hermione said "Language, Ron!" he could switch into
Gobbledegook and continue swearing. It was really quite fun, especially when he followed it up
with, "But Hermione, I thought you wanted me to *embrace* other cultures!"

"Pyramids?"

Oh, hell. That was right, one had just been opened in Abusir, and Egyptian artifacts were
looking very good these days. "That too," Ron added hastily.

The last client of the week arrived then, just in time, in Ron's view. But the older
gentleman turned out to be quite talkative, and once he learned Ron had once been to Egypt, far too
full of questions for Ron's taste. Minutes passed and Ron fidgeted in his chair and more
minutes passed and then finally, finally, the client signed the papers and left.

Ron burst out of the front door of Gringott's five minutes later, patting his hair down and
adjusting his completely ordinary shirt and tie. Things would be fine. He was late, but not too
late, and if he moved a little bit faster, Sarah wouldn't think he'd stood her up. . .

Things would be fine.

*

A/N: Many thanks to Cynthia Black and Paracelsus for beta, and to everyone who was kind enough
to review. Also, death was first described as "pretty bloody final" by Basil Fawlty.
:)



5. Five
-------

**Five**

*You performed your story: Noiselessly across the floor, dancing at the funeral party.* -
The Cure

*

Ron was drowning. That had to be it. He couldn't catch his breath; there were white spots
dancing behind his eyelids; something - one of the giant squid's tentacles, perhaps? - was
increasing pressure on his neck with every gasp for air he made.

He opened his eyes, resolved to face death head-on - and blinked.

Okay, maybe not drowning.

But definitely in deep. Very, very deep.

His current companion was not the giant squid, but instead a rather short, thin girl, with long
brown hair and brown eyes that were usually quite beautiful. Right now, though, the eyes were
assessing. Cataloguing. And waiting for an answer.

"Er. . .what was the question again?"

"What. Kind. Of. Coin. Is. This?" Sarah held a Knut between two fingers.

"It's. . .foreign." Ron dug in, removed the entire contents of his pockets, and
added them to the few coins he had already laid out on the table. Lint. Wizarding coins of every
denomination. A few suspicious-looking Every Flavour Beans that he planned to have Harry
taste-test. And that was all. Nothing suitable for paying his pub bill.

"What country? That looks like Latin writing on it," Sarah said.

Ron inserted a finger between his neck and the collar of his shirt and tugged. "Er. I
don't really know. One of my brothers gave it to me. I meant to change it before I left
work." *Really, really, really meant to.* Ron took a deep breath before making a final,
painful admission. "And it's all I've got on me."

Sarah was still staring at the Knut, her brow furrowed. "You know, I took Latin a few years
ago. I bet I can translate this. . . . "

Ron opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Which was a good thing, because his internal
monologue was something along the lines of *Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh I'm so fucked. . . .*

"Okay," Ron said, when he finally regained use of his voice, "okay, look,
I'll tell you all about it, please can we go back to my flat first?"

"All right," Sarah said slowly. "Shall I pay, then?"

"Yes, please," Ron said distractedly. He was eyeing the solid wooden table, wondering
if he could possibly slam his head into it hard enough to knock himself out. If only he were Harry,
he would know exactly what part of the head to aim for, to do the most damage.

*

Sarah stood alone in the corridor outside Ron's flat. He'd asked for a minute to tidy
before she entered, and knowing how disgusting twenty-something males could be when living on their
own, she'd gladly granted it. But there were very strange bangs and thuds coming from the other
side of the door, and she was getting twitchier by the second.

Curiosity was going to be her undoing, one day - and today might just be that day. Being here
was a bad idea for too many reasons, like how weird Ron had acted in the pub, those mysterious
noises, and the fact that none of her friends knew this address in case she turned up missing.

And then, too, there was the wrinkled bit of paper in her handbag. She didn't need to pull
it out to remember what it said:

*Sarah,*

*STAY AWAY FROM HARRY POTTER.*

*Point 1: He is a freak.
Things I have seen him do with my own eyes:
Talk to a **snake**!!
Make this huge pane of glass disappear, letting a gigantic snake loose on me and his cousin.
Turn a teacher's wig blue (from across the room).
Many, many, more.*

*Point 2: He is dangerous.
You want to know where he went to school? St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal
Boys.
I have more to say about #2. But, Malcolm just brought in the beer.*

*Piers*

*PS RING ME*

*PPS Would ring you. But, do not have money for long distance. Give us a hand?*

Sarah shook her head. *It's just his way of getting you on the phone so he can beg for
cash. It's just his -*

The door swung open. "Sorry it took so long," Ron said, ushering her inside.

*This* was presentable? The room she stepped into was a sea of take-away cartons and
boy-clothes, with furniture that had definitely seen better days. Not so different, then, from half
the dormitory rooms she'd ever been in - although where was the really big telly, the
Playstation, and the computer?

"Erm - why don't you sit?"

Sarah did, rearranging a few couch cushions and a jumper in the process. "Huh," she
said, pointing at a pile of small brown feathers she'd unearthed. "I didn't take you
for the bird type."

"Well -" Ron was pacing, now. "Okay, here goes. The thing is. . . . " And,
apparently giving up on verbal communication, he walked over to the wall and began banging his head
against it.

"Ron!" Sarah lost most of her nervousness at the complete misery on his face. She got
up, grabbed Ron's hand, and dragged him over to the couch. "Just. . .tell me. It'll be
fine, whatever it is."

"You say that now," Ron muttered. He took a deep breath. "Right. I reckon you
think that some of the things I've done are. . .odd."

"Oh - well -" Sarah was torn between honesty, and trying to make Ron look less
wretched. "Maybe a few things."

"Like the money?"

"Yeah."

Ron looked away. "Bloody hell, this is hard."

Sarah wondered if grabbing Ron by the shoulders and shaking very hard would make the words fall
out. She decided to try a verbal earthquake instead. "It looks pretty simple from where
I'm sitting," she said. "Either you're a thief, a counterfeiter, or
both."

"*What*? Where did *that* come from?"

"Well - you work at a bank and probably run into all different sorts of currency, all the
time, but you're being very strange about this money, like you're not supposed to have
it." A happy thought struck her then, and she smiled. "But if you *are* a criminal,
you're really kind of crap at the sneaking and lying, aren't you?"

"I promise," Ron said, hand over his heart, "I'm not a criminal. At least, I
haven't broken any laws that weren't stupid."

"Fair enough," Sarah said. "So. . .hypothetically, if someone were to say that
you and Harry went to a school for criminal boys, that someone would be lying?"

"Huh - oh. I forgot that was the story."

That had to be one of the least reassuring sentences Sarah had ever heard.

Ron pulled a few coins out of his pockets and handed them over. "What do you think they
say?"

Sarah tilted her hand so the coins caught the light. It was easier to see the tiny lettering
here than it had been in the pub. "Well, Knut, Sickle, and Galleon seem English enough. Are
those are the different denominations? Now magus, that's got to mean magic, I'm sure, and
aes signatum - is that money?"

Ron's voice was tight. "Go back to magus. That's the important one."

"Magic?" Sarah asked, and Piers' words raced through her mind - snake - wig - blue
- *snake* -

"Er, yeah." Ron's eyes were serious, and she clenched the coins, heavy in her
hand. "Me and Harry - and Hermione, Dean, and Seamus - we're all wizards. Well,
Hermione's a witch, obviously."

"Ah," Sarah said faintly, "obviously." She took a deep breath. "Okay,
then. You're a wizard. Let's see some magic."

Ron disappeared.

Sarah spun in her seat, looking right, left, and over her shoulder. Then she bent down to look
under the couch.

No Ron.

"Oi! Can I come back in?"

Ah. He was out in the corridor. Because he had done magic. Of course.

Sarah walked to the door, which, she noted, was still latched on the inside by a security chain.
"Is that you, Ron?"

"Of course it's me!" She spun round again, because this time the voice didn't
come from the corridor - it came from the couch.

"Bloody hell!"

"Sorry," Ron said, looking anything but. "That's called Apparition. Very
difficult, that is."

Sarah sank down onto the floor, not trusting her legs anymore. "So it's true,
then."

"Yup." Ron crossed the room to sit on the floor beside her. He pulled a polished stick
out of his pocket. "Want to see me do something else?"

Sarah closed her eyes. "Not just yet." She opened one eye and looked at Ron carefully.
"What is that? A magic wand?"

"Yup."

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, pinched herself, and opened them again. Ron and his wand were
still there. "So. Where *do* wizards go to school?"

*

Harry's Friday night didn't involve a date or a pint or even a meal, just a confiscated
dragon egg or two. Back at headquarters, eggs safe in the care of the resident magical creatures
specialist, he filled out post-arrest paperwork and tried not to fall asleep in his chair.

He'd just scrawled *Harry J. Potter* on the last dotted line when Dean stepped into the
office, looking none too pleased.

"Something up?"

"Moody's going make Avery talk," Dean said.

"He is, huh? What's going to be different this time, from all the other times we
tried?"

Dean shrugged. "Reckon we'll find out when we get there."

Harry was already standing. "Let's go - where are we going?"

"Room four."

That was the first difference. Room four reminded Harry of an interrogation chamber from a
television police drama, with an illusion charm and some complicated sound spells in place of the
one-way glass. It meant one-on-one, no witnesses, at least from Avery's point of view, and
while Harry didn't doubt Moody could appear pretty threatening in that sort of situation, he
wasn't so sure it was going to be enough to do the trick.

Moody and Avery were already present when Harry and Dean slipped into the room, on the other
side of the illusion. Both men were seated, Moody comfortably, Avery secured at the wrists and
ankles by a chain that hummed quietly with magic. Harry gave a short nod after readying the
dictation quill; Moody, watching with his magical eye, returned it, then turned his full attention
to the matter at hand.

"Tell me about Edinburgh."

No response.

"You're going to, you know," Moody said, rising from his chair. "You see, I
have this." He held up a small vial that Harry knew must contain Veritaserum. "And
I'm going to find out, one way or another. And if I have to *use* this," Moody bent
down so that his face was inches from Avery's, "I'm not going to be very happy."
Moody leaned even closer, and Harry could only imagine exactly how the Auror was elaborating on
that threat.

If that eye was whirring and spinning that close to *his* face, Harry reckoned he'd
give up almost anything.

"*Okay*," Avery said, "I'll tell you what I know. But you have to keep
me safe. They'll hurt me for telling, I know they will."

"We'll see about that," Moody said, straightening, "after you talk."

Harry's quill was soon furiously scratching, making a list of all the things Avery
*didn't* know. He didn't know if the items were Voldemort's. He didn't know
what they could be used for. Yes, okay, he knew where he'd got them - from the elder Vincent
Crabbe, who'd also supplied dates, times, and plans for the transactions. Oh, no, he'd
didn't know where Crabbe lived, or how to get in touch. Crabbe had simply appeared at his home
one morning with a proposition.

Ten minutes, and it was all over. Well - a week, and ten minutes.

After feeding him a few drops of Veritaserum and re-confirming his story, Moody led Avery out of
the room. Harry and Dean joined them in the corridor, and helped escort Avery to a group cell
where, as Moody pointed out cheerfully, he would be quite safe from his ex-partners in crime.

Back in the office, Moody read through the transcript while Dean swallowed his yawns and Harry
tried not to check his watch. "Well, then," Moody said, looking up, "what do your
young minds make of this?"

It was Dean who replied, finally. "It's a bit like a Python sketch, isn't it? Two
bumbling evil henchmen, one scared, one stupid, wandering around selling their evil wares in broad
daylight."

That was a refreshing point of view, Harry thought. "It *is* a little absurd," he
said.

"Absurd," Moody echoed. "Yes. Perhaps. But never forget, the weak will always be
puppets for the strong. And if you are still, and quiet, and keep your eyes open long enough, you
may just make out the shadow of the man pulling the strings."

*

Every October morning was a little wetter, every night a little darker. Harry hated being at
work, doing tedious surveillance and studying reports on Crabbe's movements, and he hated being
at home, where his flatmate was coming perilously close to driving him mad. Things had gone well
with Sarah; Harry could tell by the humming, the singing, and the hours Ron spent attached to the
telephone.

Mr. Weasley would, Harry thought, be proud of his son's new proficiency with Muggle
technology. Hermione would say pleased things about cross-cultural understandings and, possibly,
add metaphors involving crumbling walls. But all Harry could think was that he wanted to know
exactly what Ron had said to Sarah about the Dursleys, without having to ask - or preferably,
without even being part of the conversation. And, oh yes, that the singing needed to
*stop.*

The dreary march of days went on until one morning, one particular morning, Harry left the flat
at the regular work-time but went somewhere else entirely.

He stood on a cliff above the sea, breathing in cool, salty air. There was no nostalgia in it
for him, no bucket-and-spade memories, but he liked it, liked the freshness of it all. There was
something, too, about the sheer vastness of the sea that appealed to Harry, as it stretched out to
meet the horizon, something that made him feel tiny, unimportant.

His eyes lingered on the magical line where sea and sky met, grey on grey, until he found
himself picturing a completely different place, a completely different time. Sunshine, amusement
rides, ice lollies, and Hermione, her sticky fingers entwined with his.

Not a real time, not a real place. Harry gave his head a firm shake, and turned away.

Behind him lay the reason for this trip. The cemetery was small, but open, with no trees to
break the wind whipping through the gravestones. Harry trod quietly and carefully, not wishing to
rouse any lurking ghosts. He came at last to a simple stone, its two names and single date a
permanent reminder of his parents' lives, and of the hand he'd been dealt, the one he'd
been playing for the last eighteen years.

Harry knelt there, pushing wayward hair out of his face. He hadn't brought anything. Flowers
would seem wrong, somehow, splashes of cheerful happy colour that didn't belong in these bleak
surroundings, or suit his mood. Placing flowers here would mean that this was fine, that he was
fine, and it wasn't, he wasn't, and couldn't be.

No matter what people seemed to expect. It was there in the smiles of strangers and the
throwaway remarks of friends, the assumption that watching Voldemort die had somehow made up for
the losses, balanced the columns.

People, Harry thought, were clueless. Clueless, and damn lucky to be that way.

Sitting back on the coarse grass, he closed his eyes and let the sound and smell of the sea
surround him. London, Little Whinging, work - it was all a world away.Here it was just him, and his
family.

*

Hermione opened the door quickly upon hearing the knock. "Hi, Harry - oh, what
*happened*?"

"Rain happened," he said, wiping his muddy feet on the mat.

"Apparently! Shoo, go drip in the kitchen while I get a towel."

Hermione bustled off down the hall as Harry squelched his way onto the lino floor. "I'm
sorry to just pop in," he called. "But I Apparated into an Olympic-caliber snogging
session at our flat. . . ."

"No problem," she said, returning with a fluffy yellow towel. "I'm glad you
came." She hesitated a moment, then decided to go for broke. "Now, take off your
glasses."

Harry blinked, and Hermione held her breath. If he so much as mumbled the words "drying
charm," she would make a joke about her so-called Muggle instincts, and let it go. . . . But
he was removing the glasses, now, and closing his eyes, ready to submit himself to the hands-on
approach.

Hermione rubbed Harry's face gently with the towel, willing it to say things she wasn't
sure he was ready to hear. . .*Or maybe he is,* she thought with a thrill, as he leaned his
face into her hand.

She looped the towel behind his head, and used both hands to rub his hair carefully, creating
black spikes that pointed in all directions. His eyes were still closed, his face leaning towards
hers. . .it was a perfect moment, and in a romance novel, their lips would have met in the best of
first kisses.

Instead, Harry turned his head and sneezed.

"Bless you," Hermione said, keeping all cursing to herself.

"Thanks," he said, peering at her myopically. "I should probably get out of this
wet jumper before I catch cold, huh?"

"Colds are caused by germs, not by weather," she began automatically, stepping back
and lowering the towel. She watched as Harry flailed his arms about, sodden jumper stuck around his
neck, damp T-shirt plastered to his chest, then reached up and to help him remove the jumper
completely.

"Thanks," Harry said, putting his glasses back on. "Er - do you want to go get
something to eat, maybe?"

"Sounds good."

Harry gestured towards the loo. "May I?"

"Of course," Hermione sighed, watching as Harry retreated down the corridor, already
unpocketing his wand to no doubt finish the job with a little magic.

*

Harry sipped his pre-dinner drink and listened while Hermione talked about anything and
everything. He was grateful to her for that. He had a strong feeling that she somehow knew exactly
where he'd been all day, maybe even had been waiting for him to get back, but she hadn't
mentioned it and he didn't think that she would. Somewhere along the way Hermione had got
amazingly good at reading his moods, at knowing when a little prodding would make him talk and when
it would make him clam up altogether. Maybe it came with the territory of knowing someone for eight
years.

They were digging into their chips when a voice from over Harry's shoulder said, "So
this is what you stood us up for, Hermione."

Hermione turned a little red as someone Harry vaguely recognized came into view. "Roger!
Er. Well, sort of, I suppose. I mean -"

Roger Whoever-he-was grinned and cut her off. "Oh, I'm just winding you up. Don't
know whose idea it was to have a meeting on Halloween anyway. . . ." He waved a goodbye and
headed towards the back of the pub.

Harry felt uncomfortable, for a variety of reasons. He chose to focus on the guilt.
"I'm sorry, Hermione. I shouldn't have just shown up like that."

"Oh, stop. That meeting was long over by the time you came by. I chose to miss it all by
myself. Okay?"

"Okay. If you say so." Harry poked at a chip. "Who was that, anyway?"

"Roger Davies. You remember - a few years ahead of us at school, Ravenclaw Quidditch
Captain."

Harry nodded. "Right. What kind of meeting was it?"

Hermione leaned forward on her elbows. "Well. You've heard of the Muggle Human Rights
Act, of course?"

"Er. . .no."

She rolled her eyes. "You really should keep up with Muggle life more. Parliament passed it
a couple of years ago. It covers the most basic rights, like the right to life, freedom from
torture or slavery, freedom of expression, fair trial procedures. . . ."

"I get it," Harry said hastily. "So you and Roger want a wizard version of
this?"

"Not just me and Roger. There's a whole group of us working on it. And ideally, our act
would protect beings and many beasts as well as wizards."

Harry scratched his head. "So what are you all doing, exactly? I thought laws were written
by Ministry officials. Like Ron's dad and his Muggle Protection Act."

"Too true," Hermione said, waving a chip about dangerously, "and that's a
whole other problem. We have no say in our government, in who our leaders even *are*, or what
laws they write."

"It's terrible," Harry agreed, scooting back in his chair to avoid death by
potato. "But - I still don't understand what you lot are actually doing."

"At first, it was a lot of reading." She grinned. "Yep, I know you're
shocked. Government histories, magical and Muggle political developments - the Australian wizarding
community is doing some *fascinating* things - and then we started writing. Coming up with a
dream law, so to speak."

She took a breath. "But now, we're working on public relations strategies. We're
scheduled to be published in a small magazine. It's not the *Daily Prophet,* yet, but
it's a start. If we can get everyday witches and wizards behind us, some Ministry official will
jump at the chance to author the law. It would be a huge career boost."

Harry stared at her. "Wow." His head was spinning, although he wasn't sure why he
was so surprised. It was Hermione, after all, and when she wanted something, she went for it. Maybe
it was just that he didn't know anything about this, something so important to her, something
she'd been working on for a long time. He felt hurt, and unreasonably angry with Roger Davies
for knowing when he didn't.

"Hermione? Why didn't you ever tell me and Ron about this?"

She sniffed. "You two haven't exactly been supportive of my political endeavours in the
past, now have you? And I know this is a pretty ambitious thing, and the odds are pretty high
we're going to fail. I didn't need you two telling me that I was wasting my time, that it
couldn't be done." Hermione's chin was held high, and Harry was strongly reminded of
the thirteen-year-old with the Time Turner.

She was right. That was exactly what would have happened. He was a horrible friend.

But he was still annoyed with Roger Davies. No question about it.

*

Notes: Many thanks to Cynthia Black and Paracelsus for betaing, and to Stacy for betaing the
original version, once upon a time. Thanks also to everyone who was nice enough to review - now
that I've learned of the 'reply' feature, I promise to use it! :) The Human Rights Act was passed in the UK in
1998.



6. Six
------

**Six**

*I was a superman, the looks are deceiving.* -- Stone Temple Pilots

*

"*Please* tell me those are the last ones."

Harry created a minor dust storm by thumping a box filled with intelligence reports down onto
the table. "Nearly," he said with a sneeze.

Dean groaned and reached for a rolled parchment labelled *Crabbe, Vincent, Sr* in spidery
handwriting. Following suit, Harry pushed his glasses up on his nose and began to wade through the
minute details of Crabbe's life. Reading had never, ever, been one of his favorite pastimes,
and today's work was certainly doing nothing to alter that outlook.

He wished, not for the first time, that Magical Law Enforcement could employ an army of
Hermiones to read and research and organise everything important into a nice neat package for him.
But it was never going to happen. Besides the department's general lack of funds, letting more
people into their investigation - even (or maybe especially) Ministry people - would break about a
dozen of Moody's cardinal rules.

Harry was so busy feeling sorry for himself that he didn't hear footsteps approaching. His
mind registered the presence behind him about a second before his reading material was lifted from
his hands.

"Are you two making progress?"

Harry jumped. He knew that voice - it belonged to Moody's boss, otherwise known as the
department's Deputy Head, otherwise known as the wizard only slightly less terrifyingly
important than Madam Bones.

"Yes, sir." Harry wriggled in his chair, trying to find a dignified way to turn and
look Mr. Cavel in the eye. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be one; he did manage to get an
up-close view of the man's not-so-small stomach by looking over his shoulder. "We've
gone through nearly all the reports on Crabbe we can find, checking for interactions with other
hot-listed persons."

Silence. Harry glanced at Dean to see if he might be about to chime in helpfully, but his
partner was focusing intently on his fingernails.

"And," Harry went on, "we've some surveillance planned for tonight that
should be productive." *We hope.*

"Ah, excellent. Carry on, then."

The parchment was returned to his hands; Harry coughed, sputtered, and sneezed as dust rose once
more.

"Is he gone?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

"What do you think *that* was about?"

Harry shrugged.

"I could count on one hand the number of times I've ever even *seen* that
man," Dean continued. "And now he's coming to see us. . . ." He eyed Harry
speculatively.

Harry looked away. He felt lucky, most of the time, to have the partner he did: someone
who'd lived with him for seven years, who came closer to knowing him than anyone else in the
department. Chances were good he'd be miserable working so closely with any other Auror. Some
thought he was all fame and no substance, others believed every single heroic tale about him
they'd ever heard and expected him to be, well, Superwizard. And Dean, Dean should know better,
but just now it seemed like maybe he didn't.

Harry was supposed to know and understand, because he was Harry Potter. But he didn't know,
could only guess, and anything he might guess would sound too ridiculous or too real here in the
daylight.

A rustling broke the silence, indicating that Dean had gone back to his parchment. Harry sighed
and returned to his own.

*

Harry and Dean moved through the crowded street off of Knockturn Alley casually, trying to look
as if they belonged. They had each had a little Polyjuice before leaving headquarters - there was
always some bubbling away in the Potions Department, made from the hairs of witches and wizards
with unmemorable appearances. Currently, Harry was tall, freckled, and sandy-haired, while Dean was
short, for once, and blond.

Harry was trying to look as if he was enjoying the throngs of people, the creepy shop window
displays, and the pervasive prickly feeling of dark magic in the night air. Knockturn Alley on a
Friday night was certainly. . .educational. But he and Dean had to look perfectly at home, as if
they had grown up strolling these streets, window-shopping for shrunken heads and human bones. They
couldn't appear at all disturbed by the gaunt, green faces of the banshees that glided by in
the crowd, or the noisy groups of hags scoffing down raw meat from takeaway cartons tinged pink by
bloody juices. Successful surveillance was all about attitude. A brilliant disguise meant nothing
if you blew it in the delivery - something Harry and Ron had learned when they were twelve.

Harry did find himself enjoying something: the unusual sensation of being able to see over
people's heads. It was somewhat disconcerting to look *down* on people, to see above the
crowd rather than through it.

With his new height and quick eyes, Harry spotted their quarry first, and gave Dean an
inconspicuous poke. Crabbe was standing not five metres away from them on the pavement, his lumpy
profile clearly visible at the edge of a small group of wizards. Luckily, they were all distracted,
clustered around a hag whose fierce teeth flashed as she enthusiastically made what appeared to be
a sales pitch. Harry suspected he didn't really want to know what the old dark wizards were in
the market for.

Dean tilted his head in acknowledgment, then casually walked toward the men. Harry feigned
interest in a shop window that, with a little help from his wand, provided a good reflection of the
scene. He couldn't see exactly what Dean was doing - his partner was too well-trained for that
- but Harry knew that when Dean was finished a pair of earplugs would record and transmit
everything the men said.

At length, Dean returned to Harry's side, and they contemplated the shop window together.
"Any trouble?" Dean asked lightly, pressing a plug into Harry's hand.

"Nah. Not that I could see."

"Good." Dean slid a plug into his ear on the pretence of scratching his head, and
Harry followed suit. "Want to know what they're buying?"

"No. But I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You know how a torture rack works, right? Well, this is a miniature version - fits like a
very tight glove, pulls the hand in one direction and the fingernails in another. The old hag says
they're efficient, portable, and effective. Brilliant for those times when an Unforgivable just
isn't the right touch."

"Lovely advert," Harry muttered. He leaned back against the wall, careful to stay in
the shadows, and Dean followed suit. Just two blokes out people-watching - or, more accurately,
witch-watching - no different from anyone else.

They were silent now, listening intently. Harry wasn't surprised in the slightest to see the
elder Goyle in the group, although he didn't recognize the faces or voices of the other three
wizards in tow. That cheered him, a bit. Harry was pretty sure that he had personally met the best
and brightest of Voldemort's followers in the not-so-distant past. Then again. . . a Death
Eater big shot could be standing there, right now, Polyjuiced just like he and Dean were. They
needed to watch like hawks for over half an hour, at the very least - anyone who took a drink of
*anything* during that time would immediately gain a prominent place on the suspect list.

"Oi!" one of the men called out. "Want to take a ride on my broomstick?"

"Oh, that's original," Harry said, rubbing his now-ringing ear.

Dean nodded towards the passing witch, who hadn't even turned her head. "You've got
to agree with the old bastard's sentiment, at least."

"If you go for the type," Harry replied, taking in the tight, slinky robes and the
flirtatious walk.

"Oh? And what would you go for, then? The innocent, modest, bookwormy type?"

"Not - not necessarily."

"Oh, well, if you insist," Dean said cheerfully.

"Don't you think it's easier to listen if we're *quiet*?"

Dean mouthed something rude in reply. Harry ignored him, and they fell silent again. The hag had
moved on, and one of the wizards Harry didn't recognize was showing off his brand-new implement
of torture.

Harry and Dean slouched and listened and heard nothing important for a good quarter of an hour.
There was something to be said for spying on old fogies, Harry decided - they didn't move
around much.

"It's time, isn't it?" Dean asked finally.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, checking his watch. "You're right, it is. I'll go
first." He palmed a miniscule vial out of his pocket and downed the Polyjuice in a
nose-scratching manoeuvre.

"Oh, *really* attractive."

"Sod off. Let's see you do better."

"Right." Dean launched into a hacking cough, covering his mouth with his hand. Harry
rolled his eyes.

"I've got just the thing for that cough, dearie." An elderly witch with a large
tray of drinks materialised at Dean's side.

Harry stepped back. "No, no, he's fine."

"Only four Sickles," the woman said. She brandished a goblet containing a fiercely
bubbling red liquid at Dean. "Bloody Medusa. My speciality."

"Okay," Dean said, rummaging in his pocket for change. "We'll take
two."

Her face creased into a toothless smile as she accepted the payment and handed over the goblets.
Harry waited until she was gone before turning to Dean. "Going to tell me why?"

"Look around." Dean waved his arm. "It seems to be a popular drink."

Harry scanned the crowd and took Dean's point. Everyone else *was* buying, so they
needed to do so as well. But that didn't mean he was going to drink it. It could be poisoned in
any number of ways, or it could contain enough alcohol to knock them for six. Besides, its
seriously unpleasant odour was doing his already-jittery stomach no good at all, and he was deeply
afraid the colour had nothing whatsoever to do with tomato juice.

Crabbe and his friends began to drift down the pavement, pushing their way through other
pedestrians. After waiting a beat, Harry and Dean followed, feigning sips from their goblets every
now and then. The old wizards' talk began to take a more interesting turn, and Harry gave it
his full attention.

"Well, *I* helped feed his snake."

A deep laugh came echoing through Harry's earpiece. "Nearly got fed to it, more like.
*I* helped with that map, the one that displayed the exact location of all the Mudbloods in
southern England."

"Oh?" another voice sneered. "And what happened to that rat you worked with, eh?
I imagine the Dark Lord had little use for you after *that* escapade."

The deep voice spoke again. "Well, compared to *these* two -"

"I was the most loyal, dedicated - " Crabbe began.

"I've given my entire life to the Dark Arts -" added Goyle.

"I've had enough of this." With those words, one of the men peeled away from the
group. The others slowed their steps and, after a moment, the entire party disbanded.

"Damn," Dean said, as their targets faded into the crowd. "Do you think we should
follow anyone?"

Harry shrugged. "Which one would you pick? No single one seemed more suspicious than the
rest, and I didn't hear anything close to a lead." He paused, considering. "I think
we should just go back to headquarters."

Dean nodded. "All right. But I want to go to the toilet first."

"What? Here?"

"Not here, I'm not a bloody exhibitionist! No, a proper loo." There was a pub a
few doors down, and Dean strode towards it.

"What are you, five? Can't you *wait*?"

Dean gave a long-suffering sigh. "We've been over this before. Apparating on a full
bladder can make it burst, or bring on a nasty accident at the very least."

"You pay too much attention to Seamus," Harry said, following Dean into the pub. He
took both goblets and went on a search for a bin, while his partner headed for the toilet.

Harry soon discovered that finding a bin was no easy task. The pub, like the street outside, was
extremely busy. The clientele was nearly all male, and nearly all unpleasant. There were wizards
playing cards, wizards drinking themselves under the table, and wizards huddled in corners with
hunched shoulders and furtive looks that practically screamed, "shady dealing!" Harry
finally decided just to leave the glasses on the edge of the bar, and made his way back through the
crowd to meet Dean at the door.

"Ready?"

"Yeah. Brought you something."

Harry accepted the folded bit of paper cautiously. He opened it to read "*For a good
time, owl. . . .*"

"Messalina? Myrrha? Alcina? No, th - " Harry stopped abruptly.

"What is it?" Dean asked, not turning his head.

"One of Crabbe's mates," Harry replied, barely moving his lips. "Having a
drink at the bar. I don't think he's seen us."

"Anyone with him?"

"Doesn't look that way," Harry said, casually stuffing the paper in his
pocket.

"Then I say we stick with Plan A," Dean said, "and leave. Last thing we want to
do is make him suspicious for no reason."

Harry nodded, and without another word they walked into the street and Disapparated.

*

When Harry arrived home half an hour later, he found Ron and Sarah standing in the sitting room.
Ron was wearing a clean, featherless jumper, and every red hair had been carefully smoothed into
place. Harry wondered how long it would take before on-his-best-dating-behaviour-Ron disappeared
and regular, everyday Ron took his place.

Harry tried to exchange pleasantries and beat a hasty retreat back to his room, but Sarah
stopped him. "Have you eaten?"

"Er, no."

"Well, we were just going out. Why don't you ring Hermione? The two of you could come
with us." Sarah smiled a pleased, matchmaker's smile.

Harry glanced at Ron, and found himself on the receiving end of a *look*. "Oh, I'd
slow you down, I'd need a shower and everything. Maybe next time."

"Oh, go on. We can wait." Sarah stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. "And
I'm sure she'll say yes."

"Okay," Harry said. When Ron turned an interesting shade of purple, Harry shot
*him* a look that said, *Well, it was your idea for me to be wet and pathetic, now
wasn't it*?

Harry was smiling as he dialed Hermione's number a moment later. He was going out with his
best friends and a girl he didn't have to feel uncomfortable around anymore. Nothing too
terribly sinister had happened at work, and he had a free weekend ahead.

His good spirits began to take a downturn, though, as Harry realised he'd been listening to
Hermione's phone ring for quite a while.

Ring. . . .

*Where is she*?

Ring. . . .

*The library's surely closed by now.*

Ring. . . .

*Roger Davies is a tall fuckwit.*

"Hullo?"

"Where were you?"

"Harry?"

"Yeah."

"Well, hello, Harry. I was in the bath, you icon of politeness, you."

Harry swallowed. "Ron and Sarah are going out to eat, and invited us to go. Do you want
to?"

"Sure. Can you give me half an hour?"

"Yeah, I reckon."

Harry rang off, filled Ron and Sarah in, and headed to his room. A scrap of paper fluttered out
of his pocket when he removed his robes - Dean's list. Harry rolled his eyes and promptly
banished it to the bin.

He hummed a little as he moved about the room, gathering up a change of clothes. The sound of
the wireless came through the wall; Ron had apparently decided to show his discontent with the
change in plans by subjecting Sarah to a Quidditch broadcast. Shaking his head, Harry stepped into
the corridor - and froze, struck by a thought. Doubling back to his room, he stood over the bin and
disposed of all its contents with a quick, quiet *Incendio*.

*

This attempt at a group night out was, so far, going much better than the last. Ron seemed to
have forgiven Harry and Hermione for their presence; Sarah had made no mention of Little Whinging;
and Hermione had found no reason be disturbed by anything Ron said. The evening was definitely
looking up, Harry thought, and if his mind persisted in putting a label on the proceedings - an
alliterative label beginning with the letters D.D. - he could still ignore it.

Ron and Sarah were definitely cozier this time around; with the meal finished, they sat very
close together in the booth, Ron's arm slung about Sarah's shoulders.

"He's going to take me to see the gnomes next week," Sarah said, eyes alight.

"Goblins," Ron said, punctuating the correction with a poke to her side.

"There's a difference?"

Ron banged his head onto the table in theatrical disbelief, leading Sarah to contribute a poke
of her own.

A mini-wrestling match broke out on the opposite side of the table, and Harry looked down at his
plate, uncomfortable. It wasn't the public affection that bothered him; seven years at boarding
school had left him with immunity to that sort of thing. The standard response to such a display
had always been an eye roll and a muttered, "Get a cupboard," shared with whichever best
friend was closest at hand. But tonight, Harry was finding it strangely impossible to play his
part. His face was too hot and his brain was too busy estimating the amount of personal space
present on his and Hermione's side of the booth.

"Er, Harry? We can get you another menu, if you want."

Apparently he'd been contemplating his empty plate for too long; three pairs of eyes were
now staring at him.

"No, no." Noticing that Ron was shrugging on his coat, Harry added, "I'm
ready to go."

As they stepped out onto the pavement, Ron drew him aside. "Look, er, I don't know what
you and Hermione were thinking of doing now. . . ."

"But we're not welcome at the flat," Harry finished for him.

"Right. Nothing personal, of course."

Harry had to grin at Ron's expression, an interesting mix of relief and excitement. "So
how long am I homeless for, then? All night?"

"No, we're not there, yet." Ron looked rather wistful. "Couple of hours,
say."

"Okay." Harry made his way over to the girls, and pulled Hermione away for a
conference.

"Let me guess," she said at once. "You're not allowed home."

"That's about the size of it."

"We can go back to my flat, if you want."

There was no reason that offer should make a little tingle go up his spine, no reason at all.
There were no parallels here between Ron and Sarah and himself and Hermione, and it was time for
his body to start remembering that. "I - I'm not - wouldn't you like to go to one of
those all-night bookshops instead? You like those, right?"

Hermione looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Yes, I do," she said slowly. "I
didn't think you did, though."

Harry nodded to show how very much he liked large shops filled with books and earnest
book-loving people.

"Okay, then. I'll tell Ron."

And as the two couples turned to go their separate ways, Harry thought - but couldn't quite
be sure - that Sarah winked at him.

*

Harry held the door open for Hermione, then followed her into the bustling bookshop off
Kensington High Street. This place was so far removed from Knockturn Alley, he was finding it hard
to remember that they existed in the same city. This shop was all bright fluorescent light and
clean, carefully arranged stock; its windows weren't lined with vicious screaming books, and
its display stands did not include dingy encyclopaedias of poisons. The air was thick with a
wonderful aroma of coffee mingled with chocolate. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, just to take
it all in, to let it wipe away all traces of malodorous herbs and bloody alcohol.

"Come *on*," Hermione said, tugging at his coat, "you're blocking the
door."

He trailed behind, smiling, as she made a beeline for the political section. Maybe this
wasn't exactly his natural habitat, but Harry was content with his surroundings tonight. He was
in no danger, here; there was no chance of making a mistake, of moving out onto a limb that
Hermione could cut out from under him with a single word or glance.

He watched with amusement as she pulled book after book from a shelf, muttering at indexes and
tables of contents, replacing volumes with a sigh or adding them to a teetering pile on the floor.
One thing was certainly true about Hermione; when she was interested in something, she was
*involved*. She put so much of herself into everything she did. . . .

"Harry!" He blinked. "You're. . .hovering."

"Oh, sorry." He took two steps to the right.

Hermione sighed. "Why don't you find something to read? Or a table for us? Or
both?"

"Okay." He stood for a moment, considering. This shop was every bit as far from Diagon
Alley as Knockturn Alley; he couldn't catch up on current events that mattered to him here, nor
was there any chance of flipping open a book and discovering a useful new spell. So Harry shoved
his hands in his pockets and wandered off in search of manly things, like sports magazines and
football books and sports sections in newspapers. Football wasn't Quidditch, and never would
be, but it would have to do.

He didn't have a whole lot of luck at first. Every aisle he walked down seemed to contain
books on feminist studies, scary Muggle diseases, or cookery. When he finally spotted a group of
men about his age at the magazine stand, Harry hurried over - then turned away quickly when he
recognised the subject matter that held their attention. Not that he was opposed to such
literature, of course; it just didn't seem like the best place to be found by Hermione.

He finally settled down at a table with two football magazines and a *Times*. He turned to
an article about West Ham, deciding to try and match some faces to the names Dean went on about on
a regular basis. He was just memorizing their win-loss record when Hermione appeared, toting a
stack of books that reached up to her chin.

"Ugh," she said, dumping them onto the table. "Changing sports?"

Harry grinned and pulled his magazine closer, away from the sliding pile of books. "Nah.
But it's required reading for anyone spending time with Dean."

"Like Ron and that *Flying with the Cannons* book?"

"Exactly."

Hermione pulled a pen and paper out of her bag, opened a book, and began to read. Harry watched
over the top of his magazine as she fluctuated between distressed clucking, furious scribbling, and
heavy silences punctuated only by the flick of turning pages. It was hard to read upside down, but
he could make out words like *petitions* and *rallies* and *right-wing
backlash*.

Finally, Harry couldn't watch anymore. "Hermione, why don't you take a
break?"

She looked up, but didn't stop writing. "In a little while."

What Harry considered to be a little while came and went, with Hermione still working.
"Will you stop now?" he asked, in his best pouty voice.

"Okay," Hermione said, with a sigh. She put down her pen. "What do you want to
talk about?"

"Erm, I don't know." Harry cast about for something to say, now that he had her
attention. Unfortunately, all he could come up with was, "You work too hard."

As soon as Hermione began sputtering, Harry realised his mistake. "You - Harry - you! What
do I say to you *all the time*?"

"Er. . . ."

"And what do you say to me? *I'm fine, Hermione. Don't worry about me, Hermione.
I don't want to talk about it, Hermione*."

Harry began to slink down in his chair, trying to shield as much of his body as possible from
her glare. Then he remembered something, and straightened back up. "I'm breaking
now," he pointed out reasonably.

Hermione opened her mouth, closed it, and let out a slow breath.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes." She stood up and headed for the magazine stand, returning a few minutes later
with a decorating magazine that Aunt Petunia had once studied religiously.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know you read that."

"Not usually, no. But I do enjoy the Christmas issues." She sighed. "My mum has
always done such an amazing job on our house. My flat just seemed so depressing in comparison, last
year."

Harry nodded understandingly, but most of his mind was preoccupied with the word
*Christmas*. He spread his fingers out under the table, and began to count.

He had five weeks. Plenty of time to find an appropriate best friend-ish present for Hermione. .
.which suddenly seemed like a much bigger challenge than it ever had before.

*

Notes: Many many thanks to Cynthia Black and Paracelsus for beta, and to Stacy and E.E. Beck for
help with the original version. And thanks to everyone who's taken the time to review!



7. Seven
--------

**Seven**

*We're only making plans for Nigel; we only want what's best for him.* -- XTC

*

Aunt Petunia was being difficult.

It was fitting that his aunt was shaping up to be the one blot on his free weekend. Harry
suspected handling Aunt Petunia was rather like handling a small child - managing mood swings,
distractions, petty squabbles, and the all-important feeding times. And he'd fallen down on the
job today. Slept too late, hung out with Ron too long, and forgotten all about that focal point of
life in a nursing home - the evening meal.

His aunt was glaring at him now, standing in the corridor outside her room, wearing an
expression he'd seen countless times before. Contempt and displeasure twisted up features that
could have been pleasant, that *were* pleasant when their owner was asleep or unconscious.

The fact that he and his only blood relative got on best when she was in some way incapacitated
was one of those things Harry tried not to think about.

Convincing his aunt to postpone her supper was clearly impossible, so Harry reached for the
doorknob. "I'll just wait here until you get back, okay?"

The slap that his hand received answered that question fairly conclusively.

"I'm not sure who you think you are," she said icily, "but you will
*not* be permitted in my room unattended. You can come with me or you can go back to wherever
you came from."

Deep breaths. They were essential. Deep breaths while he reminded himself that the woman in
front of him was, in a word, pitiful. Because of what she'd become, a helpless shadow that
never would have existed if she hadn't been the aunt of Harry Potter. Pitiful because of what
she'd always been, a person who'd let jealousy run her life.

Sharp fingernails dug into either side of his earlobe, wiping all charitable thoughts out of
Harry's mind. "Did you *hear* me? Or are you deaf as well as stupid?"

Surprise, anger, and training took over, and Harry acted on his instincts, grabbing his
aunt's wrist with an exact pressure meant to numb her fingers. "You do not touch me,"
he said, his voice dangerously low. "You are not *allowed* to touch me. I will go with
you, you will have dinner, and you *will not touch me*."

Aunt Petunia nodded, eyes wide. Harry dropped her wrist and marched up the corridor, keeping his
eyes up, over the heads of any shocked little old ladies he passed. He knew his aunt was following
him; her footsteps were easy to isolate, much sharper and quicker any of the others in the
hallway.

As he reached the dining hall, Harry slowed and let his aunt overtake him. He had wanted to stay
in her room for a very particular reason - if there was someone here that Sarah came to visit,
there was every chance Piers would someday turn up as well. And *that* was definitely a
reunion Harry could do without.

He scanned the tables carefully, looking for brown hair and a rat face amongst the sea of white
and wrinkles. Satisfied that the dining hall was safe, he then followed Aunt Petunia to a table
along the wall. Not surprisingly, they had a very good view of all the comings and goings in the
room. It made Harry wonder, not for the first time, just how things worked in his aunt's mind;
she might not be able to remember names or faces or the days of the week, but she still felt quite
strongly about him - and about keeping an eye on everyone around her.

They sat in stiff silence while Aunt Petunia took what looked vaguely like shepherd's pie
from a cafeteria worker, and Harry accepted a glass of water. He took a few sips, wishing that he
had some aspirin or something to go with it - there was a headache building over his eye, thanks to
his aunt.

"I saw you looking at my plate," she said sharply. "If you want something to eat,
you'll have to get your own." She pulled her plate and glass as far away from him as
possible.

"I wasn't -" Harry sighed. "Never mind."

*

Ron sat on the couch, stabbing a fork into the pot of noodles in his lap. Not that he was cross,
because he wasn't, he absolutely wasn't. Harry had just come back from Surrey, and anyone
who had been in that place visiting that woman had a bloody right to be antisocial. So the fact
that they had barely exchanged two words before Harry had slipped off to his room didn't bother
Ron in the least. Nor did the fact that Sarah was off somewhere doing whatever it was groups of
Muggle females did.

He was going to spend some quality time with himself, that's what he was going to do.
Because he could be thinky and deep, he had interests and pastimes, he didn't need people
around to keep him occupied -

And he wasn't walking to the phone right now, he absolutely wasn't.

*Ring. . . ring. . . .*

"Hello?"

"Hullo, Hermione? You busy?"

"Oh, yes. I'm working on. . . ."

Ron watched the tap drip while he let her talk for what seemed to be an appropriate amount of
time. "Okay, so, do you want to come over?"

"Did I give the *impression* that I have time to come over? Because I certainly
didn't mean to. And I didn't even mention the two hundred pages I need to read, or
-"

Ron sighed, quietly. Maybe he should've tried Sarah instead - maybe she was back early. . .
.

No. Bad idea. Because even if he was being a recluse, Harry was home, and while Sarah was taking
the magic thing well, there were still things she didn't know. Things about Harry, things about
Voldemort, things about the Dursleys. . . .

He had been thinking of her, of course, when he'd pared down his story. Hadn't wanted to
overwhelm her with so much information, all at once. Considerate, that's what he was.

Full of crap, yes, that too.

Part of him simply didn't feel like talking about things that he preferred not to think
about. And then part of him, that part he tried to pretend didn't exist anymore, was enjoying
the fact that to Sarah, Harry was nobody special. He wasn't famous, wasn't rich, wasn't
a hero. . . hell, she hadn't even looked at his scar twice.

". . . so I'll do that, and see you in a few minutes," Hermione said, cutting into
Ron's contemplation.

There was a click, and Ron hung up the receiver in disbelief. If he'd just heard correctly,
Hermione had given in, agreed to do what *he* wanted rather than what she wanted, and he'd
completely missed out on how that had happened. He hadn't even begun his counter-attack
yet.

Still, a victory was a victory, and he hummed as he went back to his noodles.

*

Hermione wrinkled up her nose automatically upon arriving in the boys' flat. The lounge was,
as always, awash in clothes and books and cups and all matter of indeterminate *stuff*.

It was Ron's fault, Hermione felt certain. Harry had always been careful with his things.
Every time she'd visited the boys' dorm, she'd been struck by the sight of his bed,
trunk, and cabinet. Except for when he was in an undiagnosed state of clinical depression (i.e,
most of their fifth year), his corner of the dorm had been a little island of neatness and order in
the midst of chaos, and the same was true today of his little bedroom in the flat. Harry always
offered to help with the chores at her house and the Burrow, and if he spilled something, or broke
something, he dealt with it quietly, carefully, immediately. It had been years before she'd
understood why - and it was probably a good thing that Harry kept her far away from his aunt.

Ron waved cheerily at her from the couch, where he was slurping something out of a pot. She
smiled back and headed for the wooden table shoved against the room's far wall. On the way she
couldn't help but notice that the light was off in Harry's room. Huh. And he'd had the
audacity to tell *her* that she worked too hard.

"Want some?" Ron stood up and walked over to her, pot outstretched.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "Thank you, but you finish it. Really."

She pushed a Quidditch magazine aside and set her bookbag down on the table. She'd agreed to
a change of scenery, yes, but not to abandoning her work. Hermione fished around in her bag a
little, then sat down with a stack of parchment and a quill.

The slurping sounds began advancing. Hermione rolled her eyes. Either Ron was completely daft at
reading body language, or completely determined to get his own way. Doing her best to ignore him,
Hermione turned to the article she had promised to edit for Sally-Ann Perks, an exposé of the
paltry legal status the wizarding world offered to most beings and beasts.

She was able to work in near-silence for an entire two minutes before Ron plopped down beside
her and waved his fork into her field of vision. "What's all this, then?"

"I told you over the phone," Hermione said, trying and failing to control her temper.
"Do I speak a different language? Have you been hexed to only comprehend speech that is about
*you*?"

Ron opened his mouth, then, amazingly, closed it without saying anything rude. "Tell me
again?"

"Well. . ." Hermione launched into somewhat shortened version of what she'd
explained to Harry the previous week. To give Ron credit, he seemed to be listening; at least, his
eyes were open and he nodded in most of the right places.

Most of them.

"You want to give beasts the same rights as wizards? Are you mad? Colonies of Acromantula
storming the Ministry and proclaiming their right to eat young, tasty, good-looking humans for
dinner?"

"Honestly, Ron. You could exaggerate for a living, you know that? We're not talking
about *all* beasts. And don't think I missed that little reference to yourself, there.
Once again, it's all about *you*."

"It's not about me! It's about you being out of your bloody mind! Once
*again*!"

"Just shove off, Ron. Just shove *off*!"

Hermione flung her chair back and marched out of the room and down the hallway. The world had
that fuzziness around the edges it always got when she was too busy arguing to breathe or focus her
eyes properly; so maybe it wasn't surprising that the door she burst through led her into
Harry's room, instead of the loo as she'd intended.

"Well, this proves Dean wrong," said a muffled voice.

"What? Harry?"

"There's a woman in my bedroom on a Saturday night. And it didn't cost a single
Knut."

She made her way over to the bed and plopped down beside the supine figure with a pillow over
its face. "Did you hear. . .all that?"

"I think they heard you in Scotland."

"You don't. . . " Hermione bit her lip. "You don't agree with him, do
you?"

"No. I think it's bloody brilliant, really."

Hermione flushed, pleased, and tried to ignore the little voice popping up in the back of her
mind, telling her how very much Harry's words - *I think it's brilliant* - might mean
to many witches and wizards. *This is your best friend*, she told herself firmly. *He hates
being famous. And it would be a betrayal to ask him to cash in on it for you.*

"Why am I talking to a pillow, anyway?" she asked, twitching it aside. Harry winced,
his eyes closed.

Hermione's antennae went up at once. "What's wrong? What did you do to yourself
this time?" She scanned him as critically as the light spilling in from the corridor would
allow, looking for gashes and swellings and extra limbs.

"Nothing. Nothing, just a headache."

"Uh-huh." She knew what Harry's *nothings* usually meant. Concussion,
probably, in this case. She reached into her pocket stealthily and drew out her wand.

"Put it away," Harry said, through closed eyelids.

She cursed inwardly at that intuitive - and sometimes eerie - sense of movement that was such a
part of Harry. It had kept him alive and in one piece for years, won numerous Quidditch matches for
Gryffindor, and got on her nerves on more than one occasion. "If you'll just let
me-"

"No, Hermione." His hand circled her wrist, making proper wand-flicking impossible.
"It's just a headache, courtesy of Aunt Petunia. Perfectly normal."

She bit her lip. "Can I get you painkilling potion, then? I've some in my bag. . . .
"

He shook his head, gingerly. "No, thanks. I've had aspirin, and I don't want to put
any magic on top of that."

Hermione nodded. He was right about that - magic that affected the bloodstream was rather
tricky, and using it on one that had been altered in any way was even more so.

He was also still holding her wrist, although the way a few fingers had crept up towards her
palm, it could *almost* be called holding her hand.

She leaned back against the headboard, settling in. Ron didn't deserve her company
anyway.

*

Monday morning found Harry and Dean standing respectfully in Moody's office, hands idle at
their sides, while their boss thumped around the room and made thoughtful noises. Dean's eyes
kept sliding closed, and Harry helpfully elbowed him at intervals. Moody dealt with inattention
quickly, magically, and thoroughly.

Harry had learned that the hard way, because his attention often wandered in this office, even
when he was properly awake. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves, and on them were a
great many objects that attracted the eye by whirring and buzzing and blinking multi-coloured
lights. Crouch Jr.'s Hogwarts office had been well-stocked with Dark Detectors, but in
comparison, his quarters had been those of a man just a twinge concerned with issues of safety and
secrecy.

Moody's office was filled Sneakoscopes and Secrecy Sensors of various sizes, tucked in and
amongst gauges marked with all sorts of unusual symbols, a giant barometer, and something that bore
a close resemblance to the weathervane at Number 4 Privet Drive. Any space on the shelves not taken
up by magical items contained books on topics so dark and disturbing - *know thy enemy* -
Harry doubted Madam Pince would even place them in the Restricted Section.

Moody was muttering now. "They give us one with no balls and one with no brain. They shove
them in our faces. If they think I'm going to chase those ignorant gits around the sandbox,
they've forgotten who they're dealing with."

Harry nodded. He was sure, too, that whatever was going on was being organised by someone else,
someone both evil *and* intelligent. Crabbe and his friends weren't known for their minds,
and they definitely hadn't given off criminal mastermind vibes the other night in Knockturn
Alley.

Moody sat down heavily at his desk. "Here's the plan, boys. We will not apprehend
Crabbe, at least, not yet. I'm going to continue to have the copies of the Apparition records
for Crabbe and his buddies sent straight to me. We'll know where he goes, when he goes, and if
he meets up with anyone else while he's there. If anything interesting does happen, you two
must be ready at a moment's notice."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir."

"Here-" Moody thrust a stack of records in their direction. "Get busy. Try to
determine a pattern of his activities."

Harry and Dean nodded and settled down at the table in a corner window and began to work
silently, while Moody rustled parchment at his desk and grunted intermittently. Apparition records
certainly saved the Aurors a lot of legwork, for which Harry was grateful, but they also made him
nervous. He didn't like the fact that someone sitting in an office could track his comings and
goings, could watch dates, times, and places inscribe themselves on the ever-lengthening parchment
of his Apparition license.

Because it was all in the license, a bit of fine print that most seventeen-year-olds were
entirely unaware of. The license wasn't just a legal permit, and the test wasn't just an
assessment of a wizard's ability to Apparate; the Ministry captured a wizard's magical
signature during that exam, a perfect copy of him doing the spell. Harry wasn't sure what that
looked like, because his world was completely black during each split-second of Apparition. But in
his imagination, it was very much like one of Priori Incantatem's ghostly echoes - shadow-Harry
embedded in the license parchment along with temporal and locator spells. And *that* was
enough to put a queasy, unsettled feeling in his stomach every time he really thought about the
whole process.

A sharp elbow jabbed into his side, and Harry jerked his head up, blinking, to meet Dean's
eyes. "All right?" his partner mouthed.

Harry nodded and turned back to his work, determined to focus this time. *Really, Dean and
Hermione are starting to have a lot in common,* he thought somewhat petulantly. *Maybe they
should get together sometime. . . .*

Or maybe not. Harry smiled to himself, remembering how nice it had felt on Saturday night, to
have her sit with him and talk quietly with him, and distract him from the fact that his head
threatened to throb right off his neck. He'd fallen asleep with her sitting beside him, propped
up against the headboard, and woken vaguely lonely and disappointed in a sunny, empty room.

Of course - Harry turned a sheet of parchment more vigorously than was strictly necessary -
he'd just been a last resort, a haven from bickering and conflict.

And being alone was underrated anyway.

*

Harry poured a bit of Mrs. Skower's Magical Mess Remover onto a cloth, tucked his head and
shoulders into the grimy interior of his oven, and tried to forget about work. For the past week,
he and Dean had been in a holding pattern of waiting, watching, and working on other cases that
seemed small in comparison to the schemes of Death Eaters and the threats uttered by carved
snakes.

Harry attacked the splatters and splotches of burnt-on food, remnants of one of Ron's
experiments at combining magic and Muggle appliances. It felt good to be *doing* something, to
be straining his muscles, wiping sweat off his forehead, and, above all, making a problem
disappear.

He worked contentedly for some time, ignoring the stains multiplying on his shirt and the fumes
filling the flat. He was just aiming his wand at a particularly nasty spot when he heard a telltale
popping sound behind him. "Hullo!" he called over his shoulder, before muttering a
blasting charm.

The resulting explosion made the cooker rock forward on its base, and Harry dove out and across
the kitchen floor, landing in a heap at his guest's feet.

"Hey," he said, blinking up at Hermione. He re-settled his glasses, paying no
attention to her knee-length skirt, or the black stockings that disappeared into it.

"Hullo," she replied. "Is there evil lurking in the cooker? Did it attack
you?"

Harry grinned. "Nah. Although you can never be too careful, you know. First rule of
vanquishing evil." He wiped a hand off on his shirt. "Give us a hand?"

"Sure." Hermione pulled him up and held onto his arm as he wobbled, his head suddenly
fuzzy.

"You all right?"

"Yeah." Harry rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, just the fumes, I reckon. What's in
that stuff, anyway?" He gestured towards the bottle beside the oven.

Hermione looked shocked. "Harry! That was first year! Twelve uses of dragon's blood,
remember?"

"Oh, right. But they were never very specific, you know. A cleaner, an incendiary, a
preservative. . . ."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You mean you and Ron only memorised the bare bones of what you
needed for the exam."

"Something like that." Harry leaned on the counter, hoping that he looked casual. His
head was pounding, and a sick feeling was growing in his stomach.

"Harry?"

*Damn. Didn't work.*

"Be right back." He headed for the loo, stumbling a bit as he moved rather more
quickly than his head would have liked. When the door closed behind him, he sank to the floor,
putting his head down between his knees in an attempt to stop the swirling and the dots before his
eyes, a position he'd learned in years when sudden head pains had been more common and
inherently more worrying.

When his world stopped turning and his stomach settled, Harry stood and faced himself in the
mirror. He was pale, and he was dirty. Not a fit sort of company for Hermione - assuming she had
come over to visit him in the first place.

A little soap, water, and wand work later, Harry left the loo to find Hermione hovering in the
corridor. "I'm fine, really."

"Good," she said, looking skeptical.

"What brings you over, anyway? I think Ron's still at work." He looked away as
soon as the words came out of his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that, he hadn't meant to be
whiny, there was nothing whatsoever for him to be whiny about. . . .

"I came over to see you, actually," she replied, sounding a bit hurt. "I wanted
to show you something. But I think we should get you out of here."

"Okay. How about a walk?"

*

Ron was examining his teeth in the mirror when he heard the knock at the door. Unless the old
bat next door had grown even *more* unreasonable about appropriate volume levels for his
wireless, it had to be Sarah. With one final check at his reflection, Ron went to the door to meet
his date.

"What *is* that awful smell?" Sarah asked, standing on tiptoes to give him a peck
on the cheek.

"Harry was cleaning, I reckon." Ron made a face to demonstrate how very much a waste
of time he considered such an activity to be.

"More power to him. Are you ready to go?"

"Nearly. Just need to grab a coat."

Sarah followed Ron back to back to his room, petting Pig while he sorted through a heap of
clothes at the foot of his bed. "Shouldn't you let your owl out? The air in here can't
be good for his little brain."

Ron snorted at the accuracy of her description. "He can get out if he wants." He
pointed towards the top corner of his window, where the glass had been replaced with a small flap.
"He's just nuts."

He tugged his Muggle coat out of the pile and slid it on, stuffing his hands in the pockets.
"Oh, thank Merlin," he muttered, pulling out three tenners.

Sarah laughed. "Hey, when do I get to go to your bank, anyway? I'm not going to believe
in these goblins until I see them, you know."

"Well. . .see, I'm working nearly every minute that they're open. And you
wouldn't be able to get there - or back, probably - without me. And I don't think the
goblins would like it if you stayed with me all day. They can be nasty buggers."

Her face creased up in disappointment. "But Harry or Hermione could bring you by," he
added hastily. "Harry'd be best, probably."

"Why Harry?"

*Because he's the saviour of the known world, and even the bloody goblins respect
that.* "He's a really good customer. Has a big account."

"Oh." She linked her arm through his, seemingly unfazed by the concept of a well-off
Harry. "That'd be brilliant. Are you ready now?"

"Yeah." *It's a start.*

*

Harry and Hermione were walking side-by-side towards the Long Water in Kensington Gardens. The
night was cold, but nothing compared to November in Scotland; Harry amused himself by making clouds
with his breath until he caught sight of Hermione's how-old-are-you-again? expression. It was
still early, just gone six o'clock, so there were still a good number of people strolling the
lamp-lit walkway. It didn't seem the right sort of setting for muggers, or worse, but Harry
scanned each passer-by carefully just in case.

They reached a well-lit bench near the lake, and Hermione sat and tugged Harry down beside her.
She rustled in her bag a moment, then handed over a copy of *Witch Weekly*. "There. Page
fourteen."

Harry grinned as he took in the title of the article: *Burdened Beasts*. "That's
fantastic, Hermione. Right near the beginning of the magazine and everything." He studied the
page a bit more. "And - should I know Sally-Ann Perks? Her name sounds familiar."

"She was in our year - Hufflepuff, I think. She's a brilliant writer. I was flattered
when she asked me to help with this."

"Well, why *wouldn't* she ask the cleverest witch in our year? Makes sense to
me."

Hermione punched his arm lightly. "I just - you don't have to read the whole thing. I
just wanted you to see it."

"I want to read it. All of it. But - not in the dark."

"Well, of course not."

They sat quietly for a moment. Harry watched the artificial light and the moonlight reflect off
the water; there were twinkling Christmas lights up in the trees already, and the dancing bright
spots made the scene truly charming. Still, there was something sad, or maybe just mundane, about
watching a lake with no giant squid to reach out and tickle you with its tentacles. . . .

"Harry."

He turned his head to look at Hermione. She had scooted up quite close to him, cold, probably,
and he dropped an arm around her shoulders without thinking. "Yeah?"

"Is everything. . . .okay, lately? It's just. . . ." She gestured helplessly, and
Harry turned away slightly, suddenly resenting her proximity, and her adeptness at reading his
face.

"Things are fine."

"Are you sure? Work, and your aunt, and. . . everything?"

"Yes."

It wasn't a lie if she didn't ask for a precise definition of *fine*.

*

Notes: Many many thanks to Cynthia Black and Paracelsus for beta, and to Stacy for help with the
original version. And thanks to everyone who's taken the time to review!



8. Eight
--------

**Eight**

*There's a progress we have found, a way to talk around the problem.* --R.E.M.

*

On Saturday morning, Harry woke up and immediately tried to burrow back under his blankets. His
head *hurt*. There was pain on the inside, a lot of it, all concentrated right over his eye.
There was also pain on the outside, all sharp and pointy, which didn't make any sense at all.
Either someone had thoughtfully added nails to his bed linens, or. . . .

. . .Or he had an owl that thought it perfectly appropriate to sharpen her claws on his
scalp.

"Okay, okay, Hedwig," Harry grumbled, struggling to sit and take the post from her. It
took a full minute before he realised why it was so terribly blurry. After popping on his glasses,
Harry made another attempt, and found it to be a note from Hermione. He began groaning before he
even reached second line. "Ron!"

A faint voice drifted in from the bedroom across the hall. "Wha-?"

"We're supposed to go to your parents' today. For lunch, remember? Hermione's
going to be here in an hour."

Harry heard muffled swearing. "Tell her it's off."

"*Ron*." Harry put every ounce of finality he could into the word.

"Fine." Ron changed tack immediately. "Don't you want to shower first?"
he called plaintively. "The chance to enjoy a loo completely free of ginger hair?"

"Yeah, fine." Harry slid to his feet and rubbed his forehead. *That* pain
didn't make a lot of sense, either. True, he and Ron had stayed up fairly late the previous
night, after he'd got home from his walk and dinner with Hermione, and Ron had returned from
his date. There'd been Quidditch on the wireless, and Butterbeer - at least, Harry
*thought* there'd only been Butterbeer. Perhaps Ron had made a few enhancements. In slow
motion so as not to make things worse, he fished a fresh pair of pants out of his dresser and
headed for the shower.

When Hermione popped into the living room exactly one hour later, Harry was clean, dressed, and
stretched out on the couch. She grinned at him. "Am I to deduce by the splashing sounds that
Mr. Weasley is not yet ready to leave?"

"Got it in one." Harry smiled back. It was good to see Hermione taking a day off; she
looked casual and happy in jeans and a dark red pullover, a heavy coat tossed over her arm. He
suddenly felt eager to join in her good mood. "Although," Harry added, "his inspired
rendition of *Some Witches Are Bigger Than Others* should've also been a clue."

She laughed. "What you call inspired, I call wailing." Harry shifted his feet, and
Hermione settled in on the end of the couch. She patted her lap. "Go on, put your feet back
up. Your socks look clean."

Harry grinned to himself as he swung his feet onto her lap. That was Hermione all right - kind,
yet infinitely practical. She leaned forward to peer into his face, and he instinctively moved
away, back into the cushions. He knew there were shadows under his eyes, he'd seen them in the
bathroom mirror. "How late did you two stay up last night?" she asked. "You look
knackered."

Harry shrugged. "Don't remember. We were listening to the Cannons."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There are plenty of other programmes you could listen to, if you
refuse to sleep at night like a sensible person," she said, poking his foot for emphasis.
"Programmes that enlighten and educate, that examine the issues of modern wizarding society. .
. ."

"Oh, bloody hell." Ron appeared in the doorway, wearing jeans and rubbing his hair
with a towel. "It's not even noon, and she's already started! It's indecent,
that's what it is!"

"I was talking to *Harry*," Hermione said icily. "If someone addresses you,
do feel free to contribute an opinion. Until then, shut it!"

Harry groaned and inched a cushion over his face in an attempt to become one with the couch.
Last week's row was evidently still fresh in both his friends' minds, and he knew what was
coming next: a tug-of-war match, with his support as top prize. And even though Harry knew where he
stood, it wasn't something he felt like being dragged into at the moment.

It was rather nice under the pillow, he thought. Dark and quiet. Actually. . . it seemed rather
quiet outside his little nest as well. The only noise he heard sounded like retreating
footsteps.

Harry peeked out from under the cushion. "Is it safe to come out?"

"For now," Hermione said ominously. Her eyes flashed one last time toward the spot Ron
had vacated, then softened into concern as they focused on him. Harry sighed quietly. One way or
another, it looked like it was going to be a long day.

*

Twenty minutes later, Harry shrugged off his coat inside the front door of the Burrow. It was
still his very favourite house in the wizarding world, even after so many years. The Weasleys had
done so much to make him feel wanted, loved, part of a family; being friendly and social when he
didn't quite feel like it was a very small thing to do in return. And there was a silver lining
- the buzz of activity definitely promised to overshadow Ron and Hermione's continuing glares
and frosty politeness. For that, he was grateful.

It was less than a minute before their presence was noted, and they were descended upon by a
variety of happy Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley rushed forward and hugged them all about the neck
relentlessly; when she was done, Percy stepped forward and shook their hands in his patented
pompous way. Fred and George jumped into the fray at once, trading fake punches and manly slappy
hugs with Ron. Harry backed away slightly, so as not to be injured by wayward arms.

Mrs. Weasley tutted at her sons, then reached for Hermione's hand. "Will you come into
the kitchen, dear? Ginny and I could use your help." Hermione smiled and nodded politely, but
gave a properly put-out feminist scowl the moment Mrs. Weasley's back was turned. Harry
snickered as she left the room.

Unfortunately, his amusement did not go unnoticed. Fred elbowed George, and the twins shared
meaningful looks.

"Is he laughing at us? *Us*?"

"It certainly appears that way-"

"No, no, I wasn't, really," Harry said hastily, backing away from the dual gleams
in their eyes.

"You know what that means-"

In a flurry of red hair and grins, Harry was bear-hugged and mock-punched; his sides were
tickled and his hair was ruffled by not two, but three Weasleys at once.

"Ron," Harry sputtered, "remember who cleans! And lets you borrow his
clothes!"

Ron shrugged, then put him in a headlock.

When they all finally let go, Harry found himself wondering if he'd ever get completely used
to the Weasleys' uninhibited, hands-on approach towards him and each other. He rather hoped so.
Although today it wasn't necessarily the best day for it. Instead of following Ron and the
twins into the kitchen to forage for snacks, Harry sneaked off upstairs, in search of the loo and a
pain-killing potion for his headache.

Harry paused at the foot of the stairs a few minutes later, unsure where to go. There was a
great deal of noise emanating from the kitchen; from the feminine squeaking, he reckoned that Fred
and George's raid might have been successful. Harry turned and went into the living room
instead, which was quiet, and proved to be occupied by only Mr. Weasley.

"Hullo, Harry." Mr. Weasley was seated in a chair before the fireplace, carefully
sorting little bits of wire into an old tackle box. "Just the person I wanted to
see."

"Hullo, sir."

"Do me a favour, boy, will you? Squirt a bit more of that on the fire." He gestured
towards a dingy bottle on the hearth. Harry picked up the bottle; its cap reminded him of a
creature's head, although it was impossible to say what kind, due to a thick coat of grease and
grime. He squeezed, and a stream of liquid shot out through what looked like teeth and onto the
flames.

"Thank you, Harry. We need a really roaring blaze. It's so cold today." Mr.
Weasley closed his box with a loud, metallic clang. "Now, sit down, sit down. I wanted to ask
you about something."

Harry sat down on the floor in front of him, his back to the hearth. "Yes, sir?"

Mr. Weasley looked left, then right. "I heard a rumour," he whispered, leaning
forward. "Is it true? Ron's got himself a Muggle girlfriend?"

"Er. . .Where did you hear that?"

"Colleen Finnegan - your friend Seamus's mother - was in the office the other day.
Slight problem with her Muggle in-laws and an enchanted ice-pick."

Harry blinked, opened his mouth, and closed it quickly. It was probably best not to ask for
details.

"Now, is it true?"

Harry nodded. "But. . . I'm not sure Ron's quite ready to tell everyone, just
yet."

Mr. Weasley nodded knowingly. "Oh, don't worry about me, boy. I can keep a secret as
good as any of you - spies, is it?"

Harry grinned. "Right."

Mr. Weasley turned back to his work, measuring wires against each other with painstaking care
before placing in them in appropriate slots of his tackle box. Harry closed his eyes and leaned
back, basking in the glow of the fire. Maybe, if he was lucky, no-one would come looking for him
until it was time to eat. Maybe he could get a good solid kip in, and wake up rejuvenated and
refreshed and ready to join in the Weasley family fun. Maybe....

"Ah, there you are, Harry!"

. . .Maybe Trelawney had been right all along. Maybe he *was* the most ill-fated being on
two legs.

Harry cracked open his eyes. "Oh, hallo, Percy."

Percy looked a bit miffed that Harry didn't hop up and embark on a second round of
handshaking, but recovered quickly enough. "How are things in the Department of Magical Law
Enforcement these days?"

"Fine, fine." Percy continued to hover in front of him, and Harry resigned himself to
observing the social niceties. "And you? How are things in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts
Office?"

Percy rubbed his hands eagerly. "Absolutely smashing," he began. "In a time when
both our societies are expanding, it is imperative that we wizards respect the culture of our
fellow humans; that we. . . ."

It was funny, Harry noted, how very less effective someone's pontificating was when you were
in a position to look up their nose. Harry reckoned by the deliberate way Percy was projecting his
words that he would very much like for Harry to stand - it would, of course, be entirely too
undignified for Percy to join him on the floor. But Harry had no intention of standing at all. His
headache had begun shifting; it was becoming less a throbbing and more an unpleasant, worrisome
fuzziness. His stomach wasn't too happy either, and instinct told him that standing would be a
very bad idea.

"Without a doubt," Percy was saying when Harry tuned back in, "going to work with
Father was truly one of the most inspired decisions I've ever made."

Harry gave something between a snort and a cough. The way he'd understood it, Percy
hadn't had a great deal of choice in the matter. There wasn't exactly a booming job market
for those who'd once defended the Ministry's old guard and supported men like Barty Crouch,
Sr. and Cornelius Fudge. Percy owed his second chance at a career to his father, and as Harry
understood it, his second chance with the family as well. It had been Mr. Weasley who had made
certain, in his quiet way, that when the time came and Percy was ready to come home, there was a
welcome waiting.

Harry shot a glance towards Mr. Weasley, humming happily over his box of wires. He had to wonder
just how well those two personalities meshed day after day in that little office.

"Well, Harry, it's been perfectly splendid speaking with you," Percy said.
"But if you'll excuse me, I must go see if Hermione is free. She made a most interesting
comment about her current legal activities earlier. I should like to discuss it with her
further."

Harry waved a vague goodbye to Percy and let his eyes slide closed again. Maybe, just maybe,
he'd be able to get in some sleep. . .and maybe the potion would work its magic on his fuzzy
head and increasingly unsettled stomach before lunch made it to the table.

*

Harry's luck, or lack of it, held up through the meal. Like all good Weasley gatherings, it
was a bright, happy, boisterous affair, with more food than Harry could bear to look at, much less
smell, heaped upon his plate. The moment it seemed polite for him to do so, Harry excused himself
from the table and slipped out the kitchen door. It was a typical English winter day, the air cold,
the sky dark and heavy with the threat of cold rain. Harry sank down onto the Burrow's back
stoop, drew his knees up to his chest and made a bony pillow out of his arms. He buried his head in
it gratefully and concentrated on taking long, slow breaths.

Harry wasn't sure how long he sat like that, enjoying the cold, clean air, blessedly free of
any sort of food-related smell. The sound of his breathing and the wind in the trees was finally
broken by a voice saying, "You're ill."

He lifted his head enough to see Hermione, shivering and rocking on her heels, arms crossed over
her chest. Harry opened his mouth to say, "Am not," realised it would lead them quickly
into school playground territory ("Am not!" "Are too!"), and thought the better
of it. "Maybe a little."

Hermione sat down beside him. "Same as last night?"

Harry bit his lip, considering. "Yeah, I reckon. Just - more so."

Hermione's eyes searched his face; Harry could practically hear her brain proposing and
rejecting one diagnosis after another. "It's nothing to worry about, Hermione," he
said. "Look." He clasped her hand and pressed the back of it to his forehead, pushing his
hair out of the way. "See? No fever."

She furrowed her brow doubtfully. Harry was actually a bit doubtful as well; it was wonderfully
cool everywhere her skin met his. That probably wasn't normal. He began to drop his hand, and
she did too; somehow, they stayed connected, lying on the frigid cement between them.

"You were doing shrinking charms on your roast, weren't you?"

"Bugger," Harry said. "Did anyone else notice?"

She shook her head. "No. Not as far as I could tell. How were you doing it, anyway? I never
saw your wand."

"You won't tell?"

"Promise."

"You sure? This is a top-level Auror secret, this is."

"I'm sure."

He leaned close to her. "Wand up my sleeve," he whispered.

Hermione smiled, and it lit up her face. She nudged his shoulder with hers. "Now why
don't I believe you?"

Harry blinked innocently. "I'm sure I don't know." He moved to nudge her back,
but suddenly, didn't feel as if he could. He plunged his head down between his knees
instead.

"Harry?"

Hermione's voice seemed to come from a long way away, like he was deep underwater and she
was calling down to him from the surface. Harry wanted to tell her that he was fine, not to worry,
but he didn't trust himself to open his mouth right then. He closed his eyes and concentrated
on not passing out, or throwing up, or both.

When he felt able, Harry lifted his head slightly and looked at Hermione out of the corner of
his eye. She was biting her lip, and shivering, and he gave himself a mental slap for not
registering her lack of a coat before. He'd come out here so he wouldn't worry anyone, and
here he was, worrying Hermione. And turning her into an icicle at the same time. "You should
go in. I'm fine."

She shook her head stubbornly. "I'm not going to leave you out here by
yourself."

"Hermione-" Harry closed his eyes and tried to will the nausea away. "Hermione,
if I do lose my lunch here, I really don't want you to see it."

"Harry-"

"Just *go. Please.*"

He was prepared for her to get up and leave, in one quick, silent motion; he was prepared for
her to take her fingers away when she did. He *wasn't* prepared to miss them, to feel
oddly incomplete.

Harry sighed. He didn't know what to do next. He wanted to Apparate straight home to bed,
but he couldn't do that without at least telling someone first. But that would mean going
inside, something he didn't feel like doing at all.

At that moment, Ron appeared on the stoop behind him with a biscuit in each hand, in the manner
of an overgrown, continually snacking guardian angel. "Well, you look horrid," he said
conversationally. "What's wrong? Did Fred show you what he's growing in the
garage?"

Harry shuddered. "No. No, just feeling a bit off, is all."

Ron plopped down beside him and took a bite. "Sorry about that, mate," he said around
a mouthful of cookie. "Hey, what'd you do to Hermione? Her eyes were all red, when she
came in. I thought if anybody'd make her cry today, it'd be me."

Harry groaned. "Never mind. . . Look, do something for me, will you? Tell her I'm
sorry, and that I had to go home. And tell her I want to talk to her later, if she'll talk to
me. Okay?"

Ron, clearly dying of curiosity, stopped the biscuit en route to his mouth. "Okay. You
going to tell me why?"

"Nope. And - tell your mum thanks for everything, all right?"

Ron nodded. "All right, I'll deliver your messages. But," he drew himself up to
his full height, "I should just like to point out that I have neither feathers, nor a beak,
nor claws. And I cannot be mollified with those foul owl treats."

"Duly noted. Thanks, mate." Harry closed his eyes, concentrated, and was gone a second
later.

*

"Well!" Ron popped into the flat a few hours later, with Hermione close on his heels.
"Somebody must be feeling better!"

Harry nodded vaguely, most of his attention fixed upon Hermione. Her face was set in a cold
mask, one he had seen before - usually when Ron had pushed her too far in one direction or another.
Harry wasn't used to being the cause himself, though, and he felt a slight panic coming on.
This was going to be harder than he'd thought.

Harry put the sandwich he'd been devouring down and shifted his attention to Ron.
"Yeah, I am," he said. "It just went away, an hour ago. Just like that."

"Hmpfh," Ron grumbled. "Sounds like a right convenient illness to me. Sounds like
your Inner Eye told you that mum was going to ask us boys to do all the dishes."

Hermione sighed loudly. Harry knew it was just her knee-jerk reaction to the mere mention of
Inner Eyes and other assorted Divination nonsense; still, it was discouraging.

"Ron?" Harry asked quietly. "Can you give us a minute?"

"Huh? Oh." Ron took off his coat and dropped it on a chair. "Right, going to feed
Pig now," he proclaimed loudly, then swiftly exited the room.

Harry turned to Hermione at once. "Hermione? Will you sit down?" He patted the couch
beside him. She did so, but stiffly, and made no move to take off her coat. Harry chewed on his lip
thoughtfully. He needed something to say, something that would get them back to the easy
camaraderie they'd shared this morning, right on this very spot. An abject apology seemed the
way to go.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For. . . being so rude?"

"No need to be sorry," Hermione said coolly. "You were ill. It's hard to be
perfectly polite when you're ill. I understand."

But Harry could tell by the look on her face that the words *I understand* did not, in this
case, mean *it's okay*. He felt like he was missing something, something important.

"Hermione-"

"And you explained already," she said, her voice strained but calm. "You
don't want anyone to see you like that, to see you lose control. Anyone. I
understand."

"Hermione-"

"In fact, there's no reason for us to still be talking about this." Her hands
shook slightly in her lap, belying the control in her voice. "Ron!" she shouted.
"You can come out now!"

Ron appeared in less than a second and dropped down into the armchair. Hermione pulled off her
coat and turned in her seat so that her back was to Harry. As she and Ron began talking, Harry
returned to his sandwich, not paying any attention to what they were saying. He tried to think
through what had happened at the Burrow logically, step by step, but he just couldn't see what
he'd done that had been so wrong. Harry knew he hadn't been terribly nice, and he was sorry
about that; but he'd been thinking of her, and that couldn't be wrong. Could it?

He shrugged. Witches were strange, he decided. Strange and unusual. And it probably wasn't
just witches, either; probably Muggle females were every bit as unfathomable as well. Which
reminded him. . . .

"Ron! Your dad knows about Sarah. Seamus's mum told him."

Ron gaped, speechless, for a moment. "Bloody buggery fuck!"

"Ron!" Hermione leaned over and smacked his arm. "What's so awful about that?
You did plan on introducing them at some point, didn't you?"

"Yes, but. . ." Ron shook his head. "Never mind. You're right." To
Harry's surprise, Ron was still visibly shaken, his face paler than usual, with his freckles
standing out sharply. Harry didn't know much about the whole
introducing-your-girlfriend-to-the-family thing personally, but he wouldn't have thought it to
be so bad. Although with Fred and George around, maybe Ron did have reason to worry.

Ron seemed to draw himself together. "Right. Harry, are you going to be really busy at work
this week?"

Harry blinked, startled by the change of subject. "Probably not," he said resignedly.
Downtime was all very well and good, but right now it only served to remind him of how in the dark
he and Dean and Moody were. . . that they knew nothing more about that bloody snake and Crabbe and
Avery than they had weeks ago.

"Do you think you could get some time off to come to Diagon Alley? And bring Sarah with
you, so she can visit me at work?"

"Most likely," Harry replied. "I'll ask Moody on Monday."

"Brilliant," Ron muttered. "I think."

*

Ron hovered outside Sarah's flat on Monday evening, holding a few takeaway cartons and
trying to talk his hand into knocking on the door. Between Seamus's mum and his own bloody
brilliant suggestion about Diagon Alley, he was quite firmly painted into a corner. There was only
one way out: he had to tell Sarah everything he hadn't told her yet about the wizarding world,
and he had to do it tonight. Because if his dad knew about Sarah, chances were good more Weasleys
would know sooner rather than later, and if Harry accompanied Sarah to Diagon Alley tomorrow,
chances were even better that he would be recognized and that some sort of Boy Who Lived comment
would be made.

Ron had a tight deadline, thanks to Moody, who had given Harry time off for the very next day.
Unfortunately, his Gryffindor courage seemed to have taken a holiday, leaving him with only a long
list of fears: Sarah would be angry at him for keeping more secrets. . .she would be afraid of
wizards once she learned about Dark ones. . . she would turn into a Boy Who Lived fan.

After earning a curious stare or two from people coming and going in the corridor, Ron balanced
the curry boxes in one hand and knocked on Sarah's door with the other. Better to face Sarah
than the Muggle police on loitering charges.

She let him in, and her eyes flicked to the cartons in surprise. "You brought food? I
thought we were going out."

"Well. . ." Ron dumped his armload onto her oddly immaculate dining table. "I
thought this would be more intimate." She raised her eyebrows, and his ears burned in
response. He hadn't meant it like *that*. . . unless, of course, she didn't mind him
meaning it like that. "For conversation, I mean."

"Oh, that's fine. It's sort of wet and icky out, anyway. Help me set the
table?"

It *was* intimate, Ron decided a few minutes later. The room was lit by just one lamp,
rather than the overhead light, and Sarah had put some sort of soft Muggle music on the stereo. Ron
hoped he'd remember to try this again, someday. . . a day when his brain wasn't too numb to
carry on conversation, and his stomach was calm enough to actually allow him to eat.

"Hermione came by today."

"Oh?"

"She lent me some robes and a cloak to wear tomorrow. She says I'll feel more
comfortable if I blend in."

Ron swallowed. "Yeah, she's probably right."

"She also said something about you being a self-centred prat."

Ron took a deep breath, stared at his plate, and dove in. "She's probably right about
that too. But not for the reason she thinks." He couldn't stop himself from muttering,
"I'm still right about the bloody beasts."

Sarah gave a small, uncertain laugh. "Ron? What's wrong? You're not going to start
banging your head into things again, are you?"

"No. No, I'm not." He looked up to meet her eyes. "It's just - there are
a few more things you should probably know about wizards, before tomorrow. And I should have told
you sooner, and I'm sorry."

She reached across the table and grabbed his hand. "That's okay, Ron. The way I see it,
the fact that I know about magic at all. . . I mean, it's a pretty huge thing, and you've
trusted me with it. That means a lot."

Oh, how *brilliant*. How absolutely bloody brilliant. Sarah could have given
*Dumbledore* lessons on killing with kindness.

He offered up a weak smile. "Okay. Here goes. Um. . . wizards are people, right? And some
people are good, and some people are sort of okay, and some people are just diabolically
evil?"

Sarah nodded. "Sure. There's Mother Teresa, and then there's the rest of us, and
then there's Hitler."

"Right. Well, there was a wizard like Hitler, until a year or so ago." Ron looked
away, not sure what to say next. How do you tell someone that they had been the target of genocide,
without even knowing it? How do you say, *Some of my people wanted you dead?*

"Was there a war?" Sarah whispered.

Ron nodded.

"Were you in it?"

He nodded again. Before he could say anything else, Sarah darted out of her seat and around the
table. She threw herself in his lap and buried her face in his shoulder. "You don't have
to tell me," she said. "You don't have to tell me anything that's too
hard."

Ron considered that. What could he say that wasn't too hard? Not just for him to talk about,
but for her to hear?

Not a whole hell of a lot, Ron decided. She didn't need to know about the power of green
light, or creatures that could eat your soul, or words that could set every nerve in your body on
fire. She simply didn't need to know.

"I was really lucky," he said finally, into her hair. "My whole family survived.
Pretty surprising, considering how many of us there are." He took a deep breath. "And my
two best friends survived. . .I didn't expect that, either. After fourth year, I was so sure
that Harry. . .Some nights, I'd make sure that the curtains were open on both our beds, so I
could see him, all night, and know that he was okay. But some nights, he'd be sleeping on his
back, perfectly still, and all I could think was, *That's how he'll look in his
coffin.* And I'd get up and close them, and try to pretend I'd never had a friend called
Harry Potter. Just so I could sleep." He paused, and wiped at his eyes. "See, I told you
I was a prat."

"You're not," Sarah said quietly. "Not at all."

She stroked the back of his neck and Ron found that he couldn't say any more. It had been a
good while since he'd let himself truly think about their last few years at school, to slip
into those days and *feel* them again. It wasn't pleasant.

But then Sarah's lips were on his cheek, softly, and then on his mouth; Ron seized the
distraction, the opportunity to let go, and kissed her back appreciatively.

Some time passed quite pleasantly, before Ron remembered one thing he absolutely had to say. He
moved his lips away, just a centimetre, and said, "Oh yeah - Harry's a war hero."

Sarah placed her mouth back on his. "Okay," she said against his lips.

It tasted wonderful.

*

At quarter of ten the next morning, Sarah huddled under her umbrella just outside the entrance
to the Charing Cross Underground station. It was miserable weather, cold but not cold enough for
snow, and she had to squint through the rain and mist to try and spot Harry.

Sarah was practically beside herself with excitement, and if truth be told, a little fear. She
had been surprised last night at Ron's revelations, but in retrospect, she shouldn't have
been. Ron had been exactly right: wizards were people. And, unfortunately, death and destruction
were things that some people did.

And one person had done them well, if the pain in Ron's eyes last night was anything to go
on. She'd set out to cheer him up, to wipe that expression off his face, and she'd
succeeded. And in doing so, she had also managed to quiet a little voice in her head, one that had
said over and over, *You don't want to know, you don't want to know*. . . .

But Ron had promised that she would be as safe in wizarding London as anywhere in the city.
Especially with Harry, he had said. And the more she thought about it, the more she believed him.
Harry was a wizard policeman, and, apparently, a war hero. She didn't feel like she knew him
very well; he was much more reserved than Ron, and she simply hadn't been around him as often.
She would feel more comfortable if Ron was here now, she knew that. But it would be ages before
they could work it out, he'd said, and her curiosity was definitely getting the better of
her.

"Sorry I'm late," came a deep voice from just over her shoulder.

Sarah jumped slightly. Wizards really did have an unfair advantage at sneaking up on people
unawares. "You're fine, right on time."

She was relieved to see that he was dressed in Muggle clothes as well. She had Hermione's
robes folded up in her backpack, ready to slip on when the time was right. She looked Harry over
critically, wondering where his robes were hidden. Special magical pockets? Invisible backpack?
Maybe he would just tap his clothes with his magic wand and they would change instantly. The
possibilities seemed endless.

"Want to share my brolly?" he asked. "I've made a few, er,
enhancements."

"That'd be brilliant, thanks," she said, moving over to take him up on his
offer.

"Plus," Harry added quietly as they started off down the pavement, "when we get
there, you're going to need to hold onto me. I don't think you'll be able to see the
entrance on your own - although I'm not quite sure. I should've asked Hermione how it was
for her parents."

"That's right, they're Muggles too, aren't they?"

"Right."

"Huh." Sarah thought about it for a minute as they squished along. "That must
happen fairly often, then. Wizards in Muggle families. I mean, your aunt -" She broke off,
noticing that Harry was gripping the umbrella handle more tightly than strictly necessary.

"Fairly often." His voice was strained, but polite, and Sarah got the message that his
family was off-limits for discussion. Which was okay, because hers rather was too.

After a few more minutes of walking in silence, Harry stopped on the pavement, right between a
bookshop and a record shop. "Do you see a pub?" he whispered.

"No, should I?"

Harry shook his head. "Nah. Just hold onto my arm. You might want to close your eyes, so
you don't see yourself walking into a wall."

Sarah determinedly ignored the squirming in her stomach, where excited butterflies were fighting
with scared ones for the upper hand. She hung onto Harry and walked forward with her eyes squeezed
shut. She heard him fumble with a knob, and the sounds of the street melted away as they stepped
through a doorway.

"Mr. Potter!"

"Hullo, Tom," Harry said.

Sarah opened her eyes slowly. They were in a very small, very grubby, very empty pub. At first
glance, it looked much as any pub would during off-hours, and Sarah felt a stab of disappointment.
A bald, ancient man in a faded brown robe began shuffling out from behind the counter.

Harry took a few quick strides forward. "Good to see you, Tom," he said, shaking the
old man's hand. "But we mustn't stop. Lots to do today."

Sarah let Harry hustle her out through the back of the pub, into a small courtyard. She surveyed
the wet brick walls and the grungy dustbins skeptically. "What now?"

"First, we should change." Harry brought a little folded square of cloth out of his
pocket, took out his wand, muttered something, and was suddenly holding long black robes and a
cloak. Sarah pulled off her backpack and rustled out Hermione's dark blue ones. She had tried
it on in front of the mirror last night, so she knew how she looked. Different. Blending in with
the witches and wizards was a good idea, but it was also faintly unsettling.

When they were both changed, Harry studied the wall for a moment, took out his wand, and tapped
a brick three times. Sarah sucked in her breath as the bricks began to move and shift, every twist
enlarging her view of a very different world beyond. "Oh," she said quietly.

Harry grinned at her. "Yeah. Amazing, isn't it?"

Sarah nodded and pulled up the hood on Hermione's warm winter cloak, shielding her face from
the rain. It *was* amazing. It was every Dickens novel she'd never finished, and every
fantasy one she had, tossed together and brought to life in full colour. The street was quiet, with
only a few witches and wizards scurrying about under cloaks. But the shop windows told the story -
shiny cauldrons and polished broomsticks, spell books and bottles of potions. . . .

"Ready?" Harry asking, still grinning at her amazement.

They set off down the alley, Sarah twisting her neck left, then right, furiously snapping mental
pictures to pore over later. "Is it always this quiet here?"

Harry laughed. "Not at all. It's the rain, for one. Plus, this time of day, most people
are at work. That's one reason Ron picked it. He didn't want you to be
overwhelmed."

They drew closer to a white building at the end of the street that loomed over the others.

"There. That's Gringotts."

"Wow."

As they approached the bank's great silver doors, coherent speech left Sarah entirely. A
short creepy thing let them in; she couldn't help staring at its face, its ears, its
*teeth*. Inside the hushed marble hall, there were more of them - she assumed they had to be
goblins - along with wizards and witches and some creatures she couldn't even begin to
classify. Getting a good look at them all simply wasn't possible, but she gave it a go
anyway.

Sarah noted vaguely that she had attached herself to Harry's arm again. He didn't seem
to mind; he smiled as he propelled her toward one of goblins seated behind a high counter, where he
plunked down a stack of heavy coins. "Harry Potter. Need to change this for Muggle money,
please." Money was exchanged, normal, everyday pounds and pence looking incongruous in
wrinkled goblin hands. When the transaction was completed, Harry added, "And we'd like to
see Ron Weasley, if at all possible. I have a few investment questions."

The goblin looked at them closely, and Sarah shivered at the scrutiny. Finally, it nodded.
"You may, Mr. Potter."

A few minutes later, Sarah and Harry were ushered into an office that was mercifully free of
goblins. Ron jumped up from behind a small desk in the corner. "Brilliant! You made
it!"

They settled into chairs in front of the desk. "Thanks, mate," Ron said.

"Oh, it was nothing. I needed to get some Muggle money for the rent, anyway."

Sarah scooted forward, and began to relate every sight and sound she'd experienced in an
animated whisper. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Harry politely burying himself in an
assortment of financial-looking parchments. The time flew by; Sarah had no idea how long they'd
been talking when a goblin appeared in the doorway and fixed them all with a powerful stare.

"Right," Harry said loudly, laying the parchments on the desk. "Investing in
dragon's blood seems like a good idea. These import figures are truly staggering."

Ron mouthed a silent thank-you.

"We'll get back to you on the details," Harry added, rising to his feet. Sarah
followed, giving Ron a tiny, undetectable wave with her fingers. She hoped the incomprehensible
goblin noises that followed them out into the corridor were happy ones.

*

Hermione watched the rain fall outside a window in Harry and Ron's flat, ignoring the books
spread out on the table around her. She'd come over to the boys' flat because she was in a
mood to be distracted from her work (something she would never, ever admit aloud) and because she
had hoped Harry might drop by after he was done in Diagon Alley. She needed a chance to see him, to
talk to him casually one-on-one and prove that everything was completely normal and best
friend-like between them.

"Because it would be," she muttered angrily, "if I weren't wandering around
like some lovesick fourth year, taking it personally when a bloke wants to throw up
alone!"

Hedwig, perched on the back of a chair, hooted her agreement.

"Thanks," Hermione said sourly.

Hedwig hooted again, but this time it was because Harry had appeared in the middle of the room.
He was shaking water out of his hair like some sort of disheveled, black-furred animal, and holding
what was unmistakably a Flourish and Blotts bag in one hand. It took less than five seconds for him
to tense up, slip a hand inside his pocket, then visibly relax as he recognized his visitor.

"I hope you don't mind," Hermione said quickly, uncomfortably aware that if the
room had been any darker, she would have probably been hexed into the new year. "I just -
well," she shrugged, "it gets quiet at home."

"Don't mind at all," Harry said. Hermione couldn't help but watch, smiling, as
he made a pathetic attempt to hide the shopping bag behind his back.

Harry followed her eyes and blushed. "You might as well see," he mumbled, walking over
to the table and dumping the bag down on top of it. "I got it for you. I was thinking
Christmas, but - I don't know. I always get you a book for Christmas."

Hermione looked up into his face, which was rather adorably pink. "Harry! You didn't
have to - and anyway, save it for Christmas."

"No." Harry shrugged off his cloak and sat down at the table beside her. "Go
ahead. I want you to."

Hermione slid a heavy book out of the bag and gasped. "Oh Harry, it's beautiful!"
A shimmering, magnificent dragon blew smoke and breathed fire underneath the title: *A Compendium
of Creatures (That Can Kill You If You're Not Careful).*

"You think so?" Harry asked eagerly, sliding his chair over. "And - I know how
important they are to you - it's even got an index." He flipped rapidly to the back of the
book. "There," he said proudly.

Hermione beamed. "Perfect," she said. "Cross-references and everything."

She began to browse her new book, impressed with the intricate illustrations and the sheer
wealth of information provided on each creature. Harry read along over her shoulder, his breath
warm on her neck as he pointed out the entry on hippogriffs, or laughed at the drawing of a gnome
fiercely attached to an old wizard's ear. Hermione knew - *knew* - that reading out of the
same book did not strictly require two people to sit so closely. She'd shared books with plenty
of study partners at uni, and never had a shoulder pressed against her back, or her leg outlined by
the warmth of another's.

She tilted her head at Hedwig, the closest thing to a girlfriend in the room, as if to say,
"Do you see it? Have you *been* seeing it?" But Hedwig chose to be maddeningly,
owlishly enigmatic, and refused to even blink her eyes in reply.

Hermione was so busy shooting her best glare back at Hedwig that it was a moment or two before
she realised that Harry had gone completely still, and possibly even stopped breathing. She turned
her head and sucked in a breath at the sight of his face, pale and frozen, eyes wide behind his
glasses. "Everything all right?" she asked quietly.

He started at the sound of her voice. "Yeah," he said quickly. "Fine."

Hermione didn't believe him in the slightest, but was determined not to push, this time.
"Okay." She turned back to the book in an attempt to demonstrate just how non-pushy she
could be, and was treated to the barest glimpse of a giant snake before the volume was closed
abruptly.

"I should go to work, I think," Harry said, standing. "Before Dean gets all
shirty about me getting too much time off."

"Okay," she repeated, watching his back as he put on his cloak.

He might be fine, and she might not be pushy. . . but she *was* going to read every last
word of that serpent entry, the minute he popped out of the building.

No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

*

Notes: Many thanks to Cynthia Black and Paracelsus for betaing this version, and to Stacy for
plowing through the original. And thanks to everyone who's taken the time to review! Song title
in the first scene shamelessly stolen from The Smiths's *Some Girls Are Bigger Than
Others.*



9. Nine
-------

**Nine**

*Even though I watched you come and go, how was I to know you'd steal the show?* -- Foo
Fighters

*

The hour was late, but the old stone building hummed with activity. Unfortunately for the
Aurors' sleeping schedules and social lives, people did insist on stealing things and hexing
each other at the oddest hours of the night. The atmosphere was remarkably like that of Muggle
police stations scattered across the city: people came and went quickly here, the guilty and the
innocent, those charged with disturbing the peace and those sworn to protect it.

There were differences between the two institutions, of course, worlds of difference, and in a
small room on the third floor, Harry sat at a well-worn table and wished for a small bit of Muggle
life - fluorescent lights. Because fluorescent lights were everything oil lamps were not: clean and
crisp and capable of illuminating all parts of an entire sheet of parchment equally. It was easier
for Harry to blame the lamp than his own weariness, bad eyesight, or tendency towards repression
for the strange tricks the words in front of him were playing. One minute he was looking at the
dry, dull language of an Apparition report; the next, a serpent poised to strike, a blade glinting
in the moonlight, or a red, dripping stone. Harry took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes,
determined as always to bury those images in the past where they belonged - where they would be
tonight, if not for that book he'd bought Hermione.

The door behind him opened with a loud creak. "Go home, Potter."

Harry shoved his glasses on and whipped round in his chair. His boss was slowly walking across
the office, the heavy drag of his wooden leg betraying his weariness. "But sir - I missed so
much earlier today -"

Moody lifted the Apparition record from the table. "Have you found anything?"

"No, sir."

Moody grunted and threw down the parchment. "As I expected. Unfortunate, to be sure, but as
I expected." He leaned heavily on the table beside Harry and the ancient wood groaned in
protest. "Our Deputy Head has just informed me that we are wasting time and resources with our
current course of action. We must either apprehend Crabbe or suspend the case."

"But - but - sir!" Harry took a deep breath, determined to collect himself. Aurors
didn't throw wobblers. "You said it yourself - if we bring him in, we show our hand.
Whoever's running him will know exactly how much we know! And what good would it do? Crabbe
probably doesn't know anything. He's not the sort of person you'd clue in to your
master plan."

Moody nodded slowly, the lamplight throwing dark shadows on his shaggy white hair.

"And we can't just stop," Harry continued breathlessly. "These are the first
of Voldemort's possessions we've seen in over a year! We can't ignore that. And then
there's that snake. . . No-one's had any luck locating that snake, have they?"

"No. We've had eyes on all of the usual shops, using a sketch Thomas made, but there
have been no sightings. Apparently whoever took it wanted it for a private collection." Moody
gazed at Harry steadily, piercingly. "You are quite correct in everything you say, Potter. But
I think more will be gained if we continue this discussion after a good night's sleep."
With a flick of his wand, Moody banished the Apparition record into a drawer. "So go home and
come in tomorrow ready to help plan our new strategy."

"Yes, sir," Harry said dutifully. He rose to fetch his things from the towering
mahogany rack behind the door. As he shrugged on his cloak, Harry watched Moody begin his nightly
round of security charms. "Want any help, sir?"

"No, Potter. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

The flat was dark when Harry Apparated in a moment later. He tossed his cloak on the table he
and Hermione had occupied earlier, now empty of her books and papers. Harry moved on down the hall,
knocking a hello on the lav door as he passed. The crooning coming from within could only mean Ron
was showering - that, or an Augurey had taken up residence for the winter.

Harry didn't bother to turn on a light in his room. He undressed slowly, tossing clothes on
the floor in a messy pile. He should really go to bed, Harry knew, for it was well after eleven.
But he had no desire to lie awake in the dark for hours, slumberless and uneasy, present worries
twisting around shadows from the past. So he took his time, patting Hedwig and meticulously
adjusting the heating charms before climbing into bed. Something crinkled under his ear when his
head finally hit the pillow, and Harry picked it up with one hand and pulled his wand out from
under the pillow with the other. He popped on his glasses. "Lumos!"

*< p>*

Thank you again for the book. I hope you didn't have to work too terribly late.

Love from,

Hermione

Harry sighed. He'd acted such an idiot when he'd stumbled across that entry in
Hermione's book, and she was sure to have noticed. Not just noticed, but read and memorised
every word, and found at least six other sources on the topic. He wasn't even sure why it was
affecting him so much. It wasn't as if there weren't other, more frequent, reminders of the
night in question. And he wouldn't even rank it as the worst night of his life. In the top
five, yes, certainly, but there were plenty of other things his brain could've picked to obsess
over. . . Maybe he was just tired, or stressed from work, or still a little ill. Or a combination
of the three.

Harry tucked the note and wand back under his pillow, then laid his glasses on the bedside
table. He stretched out, watching the fuzzy patterns the streetlights made on the ceiling, and
resigned himself to a long night.

*

There were a few advantages to sleepless nights, Harry had to admit. They gave him plenty of
time to think, and given five or six hours, he occasionally had a good idea. Or recalled someone
else's. Sometime in the hours before dawn, he remembered Hermione's great Polyjuice scheme
from second year. It was a little risky, maybe, but Harry thought something similar might be the
perfect solution to their Crabbe problem. A way to question Crabbe and escape detection, a way to
appease the powers-that-be and maintain secrecy.

Moody and Dean finally agreed (although it took some time for Dean to get over the shock of
learning that Hermione had made Polyjuice when she was twelve). Harry and Dean spent some time
studying Apparition records, and discovered that Crabbes Junior and Senior liked to meet at a
Knockturn Alley pub on a fairly regular basis. At least once a fortnight, and always on a
Tuesday.

"What do you want to bet," Dean remarked, "that Tuesday is ladies'
night?"

That had been hours ago, and now Harry was walking home from work, the smell of exhaust on the
night air making it perfectly clear that he had passed through the Leaky Cauldron into the Muggle
world. He wasn't entirely certain why he'd decided to walk tonight, but it felt good to be
doing it, especially now that he'd left the wizarding alleys. The Muggle streets were,
arguably, less exciting than the twisting ones he'd just left; for starters, fairy lights
without real fairies in them hadn't twinkled properly to Harry in years. But it was a wonderful
thing to be one average bloke in a crowd of hundreds, in a city of millions, and Harry took his
time, window-shopping as he went. It was December now, after all, and the number of presents
required for the Weasley clan alone was seriously daunting. And then there was Remus. Harry
flinched, trying to remember the last time he'd owled the man, much less visited. His Christmas
gift would have to make up for that, somehow. And then there was Dean, and Hermione. . . .

When Harry entered the flat an hour later, he was halfway through with his one purchase of the
evening, a bar of Christmas-tree-shaped chocolate. He checked the answerphone, and was relieved not
to see any blinking lights. He carried a slight dread with him always, that Aunt Petunia would do
*something,* something that would get her locked up in one of the special wings of the
residential home for good. And there was that niggling worry for her safety, even though he had
long ago covered her room with protection spells. As all seemed quiet tonight, Harry flipped on a
lamp and stretched out on the couch with the *Prophet* and the remnants of his snack. Before
long, his restless night caught up with him, and sleep won out over earnest articles about the tax
rate.

He didn't hear Ron come in, but woke with a start when the phone rang. Harry eavesdropped
shamelessly as he struggled out from the depths of the newspaper and readjusted his glasses.

"Yeah, he's here, but he's asleep. . . yeah, pretty late, and he left early this
morning too. . . No, I don't know how well he slept, because I was asleep too, wasn't
I?"

Harry lunged across the room and took the phone away from Ron, who gave it up with a shrug. He
had a pretty good idea who the caller was. "Hermione?"

"Oh, you're up!" she said, somehow managing to sound both contrite and delighted.
"Did I wake you?"

"Yes," Harry yawned, "but don't worry about it."

"Okay, I won't." She drew in a breath. "Harry - I need to talk to you. I need
to ask you a favour - well, I say favour, but you wouldn't have to do much, it would be me
doing the actual work, that's assuming he agrees of course -"

"Slow down," Harry interrupted. There were several things that got Hermione this
excited - Arithmancy, house-elves, library cataloguing systems, just for starters - and Harry was
fairly certain that this conversation would be best continued on a full stomach. "Why
don't you come over here and tell me about it? We could do Chinese takeaway or
something."

"No," she said immediately. "No, not if Ron's staying in. It's about. . .
well, *you* know. And I don't want to have to listen to his nonsense. Will you come here
instead?"

"All right," Harry agreed, wondering exactly how he was going to stop Ron from coming.
Food was a Ron magnet.

As expected, his flatmate was bouncing on the balls of his feet, thrilled by the prospect of
food, when Harry rang off a moment later. It took a reminder that Sarah might ring, a hint that
Hermione's flat just might be harbouring a giant spider, and a promise to bring home any and
all leftovers for Harry to be allowed to Apparate away on his own.

*

Hermione was setting the table when he popped into her little flat, his arms full of white
cardboard cartons. "Wow," Harry said. "You've been busy." And she had. Two
tall, slim red candles flickered in the middle of the table. Their bases were ringed by dark holly,
its berries matching the colour of the candles perfectly. An impossibly small living Christmas tree
stood in front of the window, covered in miniature white lights and delicate wooden ornaments.
Underneath it - Harry gulped - rested a pile of perfectly wrapped gifts.

Hermione smiled. "Oh, I'm not done yet," she said, helping him set the boxes on
the table. "Do you like the tree? I used a really interesting charm on it. Sort of a shrinking
charm, but it magnifies all of the subject's other characteristics at the same time."

Harry sniffed appreciatively. "It does smell extra-foresty."

She beamed. "And it'll get more so as we get closer to Christmas, not less. There's
a fascinating temporal dimension to the charm, but it only works if you apply it at just the right
moment in the downward swish. . . ."

"Fascinating," Harry agreed politely, fumbling with the nearest carton. "Are you
ready to eat?" He sat down across from her at the table and began heaping bits of everything
onto his plate. For a while, the only sound was the clicking of their chopsticks.

"So, this favour," Hermione said.

Harry nodded encouragingly, his mouth full of chow mein.

"Will you take me to see Remus, the next time you go?"

Harry coughed, sputtered, and dropped his chopsticks with a clatter. "What? Why?"

"We had a meeting today," Hermione said excitedly. "Witch Weekly has promised us
some more space. And Roger and Sally-Ann think a series of interviews would be really effective -
you know, what it's like to be a vampire in today's society, or a giant, or a werewolf. . .
."

"Ah," Harry said faintly. "And they want you to interview Remus."

"Yes," she said. "Do you think he'd do it? It could be anonymous, even.
It'd be brilliant if he would - I'm the only one who's in touch with a werewolf at all,
you see."

Harry nodded. He did see. And he didn't see how he could say no. Of course Hermione had no
way of knowing what the thought of visiting Remus was doing to his insides; it wasn't sensible
for him to still be like this, years after Sirius's death, and so it never would have crossed
her mind.

Looking across the table at Hermione's bright, hopeful eyes, he sighed. "I'm sure
he will," Harry said, folding up the napkin in his lap, eating no longer seeming like an
attractive option. "I'll owl him tonight."

Harry waited until Ron went to bed to keep his word. Before long, he was lobbing piece after
piece of parchment at the bin, and Hedwig was hooting in reproach or impatience. "Oh, belt
up," he said. "You'll get your letter when I'm good and done, and not a minute
before." Harry refilled his quill and stared at another sheet of parchment, ignoring the stray
drops of ink speckling its edges, and waited for inspiration to strike.

Remus would be pleased to hear from him, Harry told himself firmly. He'd be proud of
Hermione and ready to support her and glad to have them come out for a visit. And Hermione would
take care of all the awkward pauses; she would talk and talk and there would be no room for any
other words to float in the silent spaces between them.

Harry told himself that, and he wished he could believe it.

*

Hedwig had flown away with Harry's final draft and returned with Remus's pleased reply
by the end of the week. Harry was mulling it over in his mind on Friday as he and Dean left work on
foot, heading for what was supposed to be a night of food, drink, and fun. Dean accepted his
silence good-naturedly as they walked down Charing Cross Road, headed for a pub halfway between the
Leaky Cauldron and the Underground station.

The place was busy when they arrived, and it was a lucky thing that Hermione and Sarah had
already claimed a small corner booth for them. Harry slid in beside Hermione, who placed her fizzy
lemon on the table and helped him out of his coat. He became uncomfortably aware as she did so that
his day's work had left him smelling of sweat, grime, and dragon slobber. Harry shifted away as
unobtrusively as he could, deciding it would be a good idea to keep his arms as close to his sides
as possible for the rest of the evening. Watching from across the table, Dean grinned widely.

"Ron's on his way," Harry said, ignoring Dean. "Pig attacked us in the middle
of Diagon Alley."

"It's been said before, but I'll say it again," Dean remarked. "That bird
is a menace."

Sarah checked her watch. "I hope he gets here soon," she said. "I've got
schoolwork to do tonight."

Hermione gave Sarah an approving sort of look, then frowned as she caught sight of Dean's
bandaged hand, resting on the tabletop. "Dean! What happened?"

"Oh, nothing much," Dean said carelessly. "We were confiscating some dragon eggs,
and one hatched on us. Bugger bit me."

Hermione sucked in a breath. "Did you go to the infirmary? Dragon bites can get nasty -
remember Harry, what happened to Ron?"

"Oh yeah," Dean nodded, "you don't have to worry about me. *I've*
got sense. Now that one over there-"

"Why don't you go get us a couple of pints, Dean?" Harry interrupted, pulling his
left sleeve down over his wrist in an attempt to hide a few tell-tale claw marks. Scratches
weren't as dangerous as bites, he was fairly certain, although he doubted Hermione would see it
that way.

"All right," Dean said affably. As Dean left, Sarah leaned forward and saved Harry
from any further scrutiny. "So dragons are illegal, then? I thought Ron said his brother
worked with them?"

"They're mainly kept in colonies now, sort of like zoos. Or they live way out in the
wild. Ron's brother works at one of the colonies," Harry explained. He scanned the room
out of habit as he spoke, but no-one seemed untowardly interested in their conversation. A hectic
London pub was, Harry thought, one of the best places in the world for sharing things that were
rather secret and having them attract no attention at all. Which was another reason his and
Dean's plans for Crabbe would hopefully go off without a hitch.

"They're so large, it's very hard to keep them from Muggles. That's the main
reason it's illegal for private individuals to own them," Dean said, appearing at
Harry's elbow and handing over a brimming glass. "And they're dead fierce," he
added, settling back into the booth. "Takes loads of trained wizards to handle just one grown
dragon."

"Plus, they're powerfully magical," Hermione said. "From their hides to their
blood to their heartstrings. So if someone can manage to raise one to adulthood, or at least
adolescence - which only takes a few months, really - they stand to make a pretty steep
profit."

"Oh, that's so sad," Sarah said, frowning. "They're so beautiful - wait,
at least, I suppose they are. If they look anything like what you see on telly."

"Basically, yeah," Dean replied. "Muggles use ancient drawings as their sources,
and those were based on the real thing. But there are some differences, here, let me show
you-" Dean grabbed a napkin, Sarah handed him a pen, and he began outlining a Hungarian
Horntail with quick, fluid strokes.

Harry turned to Hermione and said, very quietly, "We're on. We're to go down
tomorrow afternoon, and stay the night."

"Tomorrow?" She looked suddenly, feverishly delighted. "But - I'm not ready -
I have to sort out all my questions - I have to pack-"

"You only need one change of clothes, and I'm sure you've written down plenty of
questions already."

"Well, of course - but that's just a *draft* - oh, Harry, there's so much to
do!"

"It'll be fine," Harry said reassuringly. He meant it - he knew *she* would
be fine, even if he had no such guarantees about himself.

"What'll be fine?" Ron arrived at the end of their table.

"Er, something for school. You wouldn't be interested," Hermione said quickly.

Dean rose to let Ron into the booth beside Sarah, but she slid out as well. He shrugged and sat
back down.

"I'm sorry, Ron," Sarah said, grabbing his hand, "but I've got to go.
I'm meeting a girl from my class about our networking project."

"Now? It's Friday bloody night!"

"I know," Sarah said, "but this is the only time she could do it. And it'll
leave me the rest of the weekend free."

"Well, all right then," Ron said grudgingly. "All weekend?"

She stepped closer, flushing a little, and repeated deliberately, "*All*
weekend."

"I'd better go as well," Hermione said, picking up her parka. Harry stood
obediently to let her out. "I've lots to do. You boys stay out of trouble." She
squeezed Harry's shoulder in farewell.

Ron watched with a dazed expression as the girls wove their way through the pub. "Do you
think," he began, sinking down in the booth and nearly squashing Dean, "do you think that
means nights, too?"

*

Harry got up and padded into the kitchen early the next morning (before ten, anyway), and
fetched himself some cereal and juice. He settled down on the couch to eat, choosing a patch
sun-warmed patch and being careful not to spill. He made quiet, quick work of his breakfast.

Hermione hadn't wanted him to tell Ron about their trip, Harry knew, and thanks to Sarah he
didn't have to. Ron had been a bundle of nervous energy since her comment the night before, and
he'd just got more hyper when he found out that Harry was going out of town for the weekend and
leaving the flat to him and the owls. There had been no questions, and no pouting. And if Sarah had
meant what Ron was hoping she meant, Harry doubted they had to worry about Ron trying to ring
Hermione for company, either.

Harry had finished his breakfast and was shoving a final pair of socks in his duffle bag when
Ron stumbled in, his hair looking rather like it had on that unforgettable day when his curiosity
about electrical outlets had got the better of him. "Mumph," Ron said, staggering towards
the teakettle. "You off, then?"

"Yeah. See you."

"See you."

Harry spent a few hours in Surrey with Aunt Petunia, who alternated between sniping and ignoring
him entirely, stopped for a late lunch, and then turned up at Hermione's. He knocked on the
door, even though the security spells had been designed to allow him to Apparate straight in. Girls
and privacy went hand-in-hand, in his experience.

The door swung open, and Harry grinned as he caught sight of Hermione's bag, which was
leaking bits of paper and threatening to burst at the seams. "Are you ready?" he
asked.

"Nearly," Hermione said, struggling with the zip. "How do we get there? It's
been simply ages since I went, and I think we had a Portkey that time."

"Well. . . we can't Apparate right to his front door. Not if we value our
appendages." Harry wasn't sure if that was completely true, but he also didn't like
the idea of the coordinates to Remus's house being marked down on their Apparition licences.
"So we could fly," he grinned at Hermione's shudder, "or we could Apparate to
the little Muggle village and walk from there. It's not too far."

"Sounds perfect."

After some discussion over who would carry what bags (Harry was eventually allowed to carry them
all, but only after Hermione had lightened them with a spell) and Crookshanks's food supply was
double-checked, they Disapparated. They appeared a few seconds later on the outskirts of a tiny
borough in East Anglia. The town was quaint, but when they turned their back on it and set off down
the winding country road, a wild, flat, lonely landscape stretched out before them. Harry
wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

"It's so. . . still," Hermione murmured, gesturing at the fields surrounding them,
lying brown and dormant for the winter. The only variations on the scenery were deep canals
punctuating the fields, and far-off trees rimming the edges of the farmland.

"Yeah," Harry said. "I think that's why Remus likes it here. Solitary.
Peaceful."

"Are you sure you know the way?"

"Positive. We follow this road until we get to the big oak tree." Hermione raised her
eyebrows at him, conveying effectively with one look something women have thought about men and
directions for generations. "That's not as silly as it sounds," Harry protested.
"It's huge, and it's right in the middle of a field. Look around. Do you see anything
like that?"

"Well, no."

"Right. So trust me, you won't be able to miss it when we get there."

They hiked on in silence, old, crumbling asphalt crunching under their feet. Harry listened to
all the quiet outdoorsy sounds he never was able to hear in London, and found himself wishing he
knew how to identify birds by their calls, or exactly what animal was lurking in the ditches by the
way the dry grass rustled.

"Are you sure Remus is all right with this?"

"Absolutely," Harry said. "Although I do think he'd like to stay anonymous.
But he thinks you're brilliant, you know. He's always thought so."

Hermione's cheeks turned pink.

The sun was low on the horizon when Harry and Hermione spotted the massive oak, standing tall in
the centre of a field, silhouetted against a reddening sky. Harry jumped over the ditch at the side
of the road, then reached for Hermione's hand to help her do the same. Her legs weren't
quite as long as his, but she made it across with room to spare. They struck out across the field,
heading directly for the tree.

Travelling cross-country wasn't exactly easy, Harry learned quickly. He and Hermione
discovered that there was a trick to it, but only after a bit of stumbling and the acquisition of
some glorious mud stains. They tried to measure their strides so that they hit the troughs in
between the rows of winter wheat, holding onto each other's arms and laughing at their
missteps.

As they drew closer, the outline of a little cottage became visible just beyond the oak. To
their eyes, it was small and snug, with a thatch roof and curls of smoke drifting out of the
chimney. Harry supposed it looked like a rundown shack to the person who owned the land, and that
the farmer suddenly remembered he'd left the kettle on any time he happened to wander too
close.

When they arrived at the cottage's front door, Harry took a deep breath, then knocked. As he
stepped back to stand beside Hermione, he noticed that Remus had done a bit of Christmas decorating
himself; there were large clumps of holly hanging on the windows and the door. Just then, the door
opened, and Harry found himself face to face with Remus, looking a little bit older and a little
bit more worn than the last time they'd met. For a moment, the three of them stood there,
looking at each other. If Sirius had been there, he would have rushed forward, trapped Harry in a
bear hug, ruffled his hair, and said something to make them all laugh. That knowledge hung in the
air between them, in one frozen moment; then Remus reached forward and clasped Harry's hand in
both of his own. "It's wonderful to see you," he said. It sounded like he meant
it.

"Yeah," Harry said, relaxing a little, "you too." Remus turned to greet
Hermione, then ushered them inside. The narrow hallway was as bare as Harry remembered, one small
table, one coat rack, one faded rug on the floor. Remus didn't have many trinkets and
knickknacks of his own; he'd spent too many years moving from one job to another to acquire a
lot of things.

"Harry, you know where the spare room is. Why don't you drop your bags in there, then
meet us in the kitchen for dinner? Just sandwiches, I'm afraid. . . ."

"Sandwiches are perfect." Harry hung his coat on the rack, then went down the corridor
while Remus and Hermione turned into the little kitchen. He stopped short when he stepped into the
bedroom, which contained an old wardrobe, a night table, and just one big bed. He'd forgotten
about that. Harry dropped their bags onto it a trifle uneasily and went to the kitchen, where their
host was setting out tea, sandwiches, and biscuits. He snagged a chocolate biscuit and popped it in
his mouth at once. Walking was hungry work.

"How are things in London?" Remus asked, pouring the tea.

"Busy," Hermione said, and Harry nodded his agreement, mouth still full.
"We're all running round in different directions," Hermione went on.
"Harry's got work, and Ron's got his new girlfriend, and I've got exams coming up.
. . ."

"Like you haven't been revising since the first day of term," Harry said, eyeing
the sandwich plate.

"Well, *yes*, but that's just common sense. It's high time I stepped up my
schedule, now."

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Sugar?" Remus asked.

"Yes, please. Two lumps." Harry stirred them in, then reached for a large sandwich.
They drifted into a silence that was almost, but not quite, companionable. Harry supposed,
uncomfortably, that it was his turn to talk, to share some of his day-to-day life with Remus. He
put down his sandwich abruptly and turned to Hermione. "Tell Remus about what you and your
friends are doing. You can explain far better than I did."

Hermione took the opening and ran with it, very enthusiastically. Harry sighed in quiet relief
and let his eyes wander around the kitchen. It was nothing like his and Ron's, that was for
certain. There were no open tins scattered on the counter, no stacks of dirty dishes threatening to
reach the ceiling. Remus's kitchen was a room Aunt Petunia would have appreciated, Harry
thought as he looked around. Neat, clean, organised. Although she probably could have done without
the newts splashing happily in a tank on the window ledge, or the cauldron tucked into the corner
by the Aga stove.

"More tea, Harry?"

"Yes, thanks."

Remus refilled their cups. "Hermione, what sort of responses have you lot
received?"

"We've had some really thoughtful, really nice letters of support." Hermione
shifted in her chair. "But not all the letters have been so nice."

"What do you mean, not so nice?" Harry's voice was sharp.

"It's not a big deal, Harry," Hermione said. "I never - *we* never -
expected everyone to agree with us. Look at Ron, for goodness' sake."

"But that's - that's just *Ron*," Harry said. "Name me something you
two have ever wholeheartedly agreed on. You can't. And besides, I think he's with you on
lots of things. Fair trial procedures and freedom of expression and all that. The beast part just -
shook him up a little."

Remus nodded and set down his cup. "Exactly. And I'd be quite surprised if Ron was the
only one. Hermione's talking about changing the world most wizards and witches grew up in.
That's not always easy for people to accept."

"We knew that," Hermione said, nodding. "But we thought, it's as good a time
to try as any. Maybe even better than most, with Voldemort gone. The world's already just
changed, for the better, and we thought with everyone being all optimistic these days. . .
."

"You may be right," Remus said. He went on to say something else, but Harry had tuned
out again. His mind was consumed with the image of Hermione's fifteen-year-old hands, red and
raw and swollen from contact with bubotuber pus. The Auror in him knew that a lot more dangerous
things than that could be concealed in just a single sheet of parchment. He'd been far too busy
worrying about his own problems lately; he hadn't stopped to think that not everyone would
consider Hermione and her friends as brilliant as he did.

When the last biscuit had disappeared, Hermione excused herself for a moment. Harry took his
dirty dishes to the sink and reached for the dishwashing soap. "You don't have to do that,
Harry," Remus said, appearing at his elbow.

Harry shrugged. "I don't mind," he said.

"We'll do it together, then."

They began the rhythms of washing up silently, Harry lathering the dishes with soap, and
scrubbing them with flicks of his wand, Remus rinsing and drying.

"You're worried about Hermione," Remus said, finally.

"Yeah," Harry admitted, eyes fixed on the plate in front of him.

"Hermione's clever," Remus said quietly. "And she knows that old prejudices
die hard. She knows it first-hand."

"Yeah." Harry remembered a pale, pointy boy, standing in a grove of trees on a night
when the Dark Mark lit up the sky, and then again on a train, hurtling towards London. He had
warned them of what Hermione might face, both times, and he had been proven right, in the months
and years that followed. "But," Harry said finally, "I don't think she knows how
much sympathy for Voldemort is still out there. Not really."

Remus placed the last dish in the rack to dry, and shooting Harry a keen look, delivered one of
those parting remarks he'd always been so good at: "And if she knew, she'd have to be
a lot more worried about you, wouldn't she?"

Alone in the kitchen, Harry wiped down the countertop, first with force, and then more slowly.
He listened to the sounds of the house - those thuds were Remus, adding logs to the fire, and those
footsteps were Hermione, coming down the hall. Then voices, and after a moment or two Harry hung
the damp rag over the tap and went to join them in the lounge.

The three of them sat in front of the fire and talked in a desultory way for some time longer.
Remus was the first to turn in, and after he left, Harry found himself with a tough job. Deciding
to sleep on the couch had been easy; it was proper, and safer, for a variety of reasons, only one
of which was related to the unsettling dreams he'd had off and on all week. But getting
Hermione to accept the idea was much more difficult. It was his bed, she protested, and if anyone
belonged on the couch, it was her. Harry found taking hostages of three textbooks she'd simply
had to bring along for the weekend to be a winning manoeuvre.

With the battle won, Harry brushed his teeth, changed into pyjama pants and a long-sleeved
t-shirt. He poked his head into the spare room and said goodnight to Hermione, who was sitting up
in bed and reading an incredibly thick, boring-looking book. Harry grabbed a pillow off her bed and
a wool blanket from the closet, stretched out on the couch with them, and tried to sleep.

Sleep came slowly, and when it did come, it wasn't pleasant.

*

Hermione was still awake, her attention divided between the book propped on her knees and the
papers scattered on the bed, when she heard soft noises outside her room. She was inclined to write
them off at first, maybe to the dying fire hissing and spitting in the grate, but after a moment
she rose and tiptoed down the hall to make certain. She opened the lounge door noiselessly and
paused, a chill running up and down her spine. Harry was twisting and turning on the couch,
wrestling desperately with a pillow and making sounds that weren't truly human. It frightened
and worried her, hearing him upset in a language she couldn't understand. Hermione rushed
across the room in stocking feet to shake his shoulder, first gently, then more soundly, until his
eyes flew open and he bolted upright. "It's all right, Harry," she whispered,
perching beside him on the couch.

He nodded, gulping air, and Hermione put an arm around his shoulders, pushed sweaty hair off his
forehead. His face was hot under her hand. "Do you want some water?" she asked, a little
alarmed. "I'll get some for you -"

Harry shook his head. "No," he said, his voice rough. He looked at her for the first
time, squinting without his glasses. "Hermione, I'm sor -"

"Stop it," she cut in firmly.

"Yes ma'am," he said, with a faint grin. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and
Hermione leaned back into the cushions, pulling him with her, settling his head on her shoulder.
She crossed her arms over his chest, feeling its rise and fall slowly return to normal. Finally,
Hermione asked quietly, "Tell me about it?"

She heard his intake of breath, felt him flinch, and was certain his next word would be no, just
as she'd expected his earlier apology. Hermione lifted her arms, to let him get away - *she
would not be pushy* - but Harry grabbed her hand with warm fingers. "No, don't
go," he said.

"All right," Hermione said, curling her fingers around his.

"I always do that, don't I? Like last weekend. I don't know why."

Hermione caught her breath. *I know why*, she wanted to say. *It's called
conditioning, and I'll never tell you this, but I hope that uncle of yours is rotting in hell
for it*. "It's all right," she whispered.

"It's not, really," Harry said. He turned his face away from her then, although it
wasn't like she could see it anyway; with his head level at her chin, her best view was of
tufts and spikes of dark hair. "I was just - remembering something from the summer before
seventh year."

Hermione nodded, held him a little tighter. She remembered the beginning of seventh year. She
remembered how Harry had come back to Hogwarts pale and closed-off, with a dead uncle, a dead
cousin, and a batty aunt. *He'll speak of it when he's ready*, Dumbledore had told
them, but Harry had never been ready. Hermione hadn't been surprised. His family had always
been something removed from their relationship, set apart, something he mentioned on occasion but
she and Ron hardly dared to.

"Did it - did it have to do with a snake?"

He nodded, his hair tickling her cheek. "Yeah. Nagini. Voldemort's snake."

Hermione had never seen Nagini, but she'd heard about her. She pictured a massive snake,
like the one in her book, strangling a fat blonde boy, or maybe swallowing him whole. . . But Harry
blew that image out of her mind with his next words. "I killed her. He made me kill
her."She made a small, surprised noise.

"It wasn't easy. He made me slit her throat. . . but it wasn't as hard as the
basilisk, either."

"No, I suppose not," Hermione said, befuddled. *Why on earth*? She flicked her
mind back to her new book. There had been something in there, a vague, half-explained legend about
snakes with stones in their throats. . . .

"And then he killed Dudley." His voice trembled, his shoulders as well. "There
was blood everywhere, so much blood. . . " He was shaking openly now, and Hermione squeezed
him tight, held him as close to her as she could, as if she could banish whatever horrid images
were replaying in his mind.

"I'm sorry," he said, finally.

"Don't be." She smoothed down his hair, fingers brushing against his forehead.
"You're so hot," she murmured, worriedly.

"Was hot in my dream."

"Still." She thought for a moment. "And I'm not helping, am I?"

He rolled toward her, shifting in her arms, shaking his head. "No, you're all
right."

"Okay." He went quiet then, and she let him, hoping he would be able to sleep,
peacefully. His hair was soft on her cheek, his breath warm on her neck, and she tried to keep her
mind focused on those things, rather than let it try to visualise exactly what had happened, years
ago. It bothered her more than she would ever admit, the gaps in her knowledge of Harry: of the
places he'd been, the things he'd seen, the ways he'd found to deal with it all. The
boys laughed at her and got exasperated with her sometimes, and mocked her need to know everything,
but to Hermione, that desire was natural and right and not funny at all.

When his breath came even and deep, Hermione closed her eyes, and tried to join him in
sleep.

*

When Harry woke, he froze. He sensed the unfamiliarity of the place, the strangeness of arms
around him, holding him down, and very nearly panicked.

Then he cracked his eyes open, and realised whose arms they were.

Her face was very close to his, close enough for him to see perfectly, even in the darkened
room, even without his glasses. She looked worried in her sleep, little wrinkles creasing her
forehead, her lips pressed together in a frown.

Without pausing for thought, Harry shut his eyes and closed the gap between them, brushing her
lips with his own. She didn't respond. He hovered there, barely a millimetre from her mouth,
hardly daring to breathe, until he couldn't stop himself from leaning in and meeting her lips
again.

He kept his eyes firmly closed. If she woke, if she was shocked, if she was disgusted, he could
pass it off as an aberration of sleep. Nothing more. Just one of those things that happens,
sometimes.

And then - and then it almost seemed as if she were kissing him back. She didn't make a
sound or show any overt sign, but there was pressure there, now, that hadn't been there before.
Slight and silent and wonderful. Harry's body was tense with the effort of not moving, of
keeping up the illusion of sleep, but his heart pounding so that he was sure she could hear it,
could feel it through his chest. He drew back, finally, astounded at himself and his own
daring.

He was excited and terrified and quite possibly mad. He had kissed Hermione Granger.

He wondered if he'd ever have the nerve to do it again.

*

A/N: Lots and lots of thanks to Cynthia Black, Dorotea, E. E. Beck, Paracelsus, and Stacy for
betaing various incarnations of this chapter. And thanks so much to everyone who's taken the
time to review!



10. Ten
-------

**Ten**

*Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies; tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound
misfit, I.* --Pink Floyd

*

The next time Harry woke he was alone, weak winter sunlight pressing through the windowpanes,
the air full of the appetizing smell of frying bacon. He stretched slowly, sleepily. His legs and
back were incredibly cramped; for some reason he seemed to have restricted himself to the smallest
sleeping space possible, right up against the back of the couch.

He stretched again, brushing away a long, wavy hair that was tickling his neck. *Oh*. That
was why. He frowned, wondering when she had left.

Harry closed his eyes, picturing a variety of possible scenarios. Hermione had stayed with him
until morning, getting up only when she heard Remus stir. Hermione had stayed until he had snored
or drooled or done something else embarrassing that had driven her away. Or - Harry could see this
one most clearly of all - Hermione had been awake when he'd done, well, what he'd done, and
then put as much distance between them as possible the moment he'd fallen back asleep.

Getting off the couch was looking like an unattractive option.

Harry had finally worked up the momentum to reach for his glasses and wand when the lounge door
creaked open.

"Oh good, you're awake," Hermione said softly, from the doorway.
"Breakfast?"

"All right," Harry croaked. He was still holding his glasses, and he didn't put
them on. Easier not to see her face. "I'll be ready in a minute."

He dawdled in the lavatory. First he decided it was absolutely necessary to brush his teeth,
even though it would assuredly make his breakfast pumpkin juice taste terrible. Then he decided
that he simply had to be dressed and clean before joining Remus and Hermione, despite the number of
times in his life they'd seen him in his pyjamas.

He was flattening his damp hair for the fifth time when the mirror grew tired of looking at him.
"Other people might want to use the bathroom at some point," it remarked.
"Politeness is a virtue, they say, something you might want to keep in mind. . . ."

Harry glared at it, which proved supremely unsatisfactory, as it translated into glaring at
himself.

"Ooh," it said, and Harry could somehow hear it rolling its nonexistent eyes.
"Ooh, I'm scared, I am."

"Sod off," Harry muttered. He scooped up his dirty clothes and gave the mirror one
final glare before stepping into the hall, closing the door with a nice pointed bang.

He hovered in the kitchen doorway a moment later, watching Hermione set the table, and bacon and
eggs shuffle around a frying pan in time to flicks of Remus's wand. He wished that he felt like
talking to either of them.

"You're just in time," Hermione said, shooting him a smile.

He tried to smile back, but it was a feeble attempt. "How can I help?"

"By sitting here," Hermione said, steering him to a chair, "and eating a
lot."

"Pretend I'm Ron, you mean?"

"Exactly."

Harry tried, he really did, but he found it very difficult to concentrate on breakfast or
conversation or anything at all with Hermione sitting right beside him. She and Remus carried on a
conversation, but he didn't really pay attention. He vaguely heard them settle on doing the
interview for *Witch Weekly* right after breakfast.

When everyone else was through eating, Harry banished his half-full plate to land on the counter
beside Hermione's empty one. She frowned, but didn't comment, and then left to gather up
her notes.

Harry turned on the tap, thinking he'd pass the time washing up while Remus and Hermione
talked. But Remus waved his wand, and the water stopped. "Enough of that," he said.
"Come on."

Harry followed curiously into the hall, where Remus opened a narrow cupboard door. "Thought
you might prefer flying," he said casually.

Harry grinned, a real, true, spontaneous expression. "*Brilliant*," he said, and
Remus laughed.

There were three brooms to choose from, hanging neatly on a rack. One had belonged to Sirius;
Harry had first seen it in the attic at Grimmauld Place, when they'd sent him up there 'to
see if there was anything he wanted.' He couldn't take anything then and he couldn't
use that broom now, and Harry turned away from it to consider the other brooms. Both had the
initials *R.J.L.* carved into the handle. Harry hesitated over the newer, sleeker model,
before grasping a dusty Cleansweep that he felt sure dated back to Remus's school days.

He was just summoning his coat from down the hall when Hermione re-appeared, holding several
rolls of parchment and two quills. "Cheers, Remus," Harry said. "Have fun,
Hermione." He gave her a little wave, then turned and banged out the front door.

It was a cold, brilliantly clear day, and Harry quickly pulled on his coat. He muttered a quick
Disillusionment Charm as well. He didn't run a great of a risk of being seen - Remus lived too
far from most other people for that - but if a Muggle did happen to spot him, he would most likely
be mistaken for a very large, fast bird.

He was smiling when he kicked off the ground a moment later. It was wonderful to be flying for
the sheer pleasure of it again; he couldn't quite remember the last time it had been just him,
a broom, and clear blue sky. He sped up as Remus's cottage grew small beneath him, testing the
old broom's limits for speed as he passed over one field, and then another. It wasn't as
fast as his own, but Harry found he didn't mind. There were fewer charms on this broom, less
between him and his skill and flight itself, and he threw himself into it, concentrating on dives
and turns and loops instead of the lingering nightmares and worries waiting on the ground.

Harry flew until he was hot and sweaty and all the turning, flipping, and squinting into the sun
made his head spin. He hung in midair for a moment, catching his breath. There was something so
peaceful about the world from up here, high above the trees, and it was with reluctance that Harry
performed a Four Point spell and turned back towards the cottage.

He landed outside the front door with a thump. Harry entered quietly, not wanting to disturb
Remus and Hermione, and tucked the broom back in the cupboard. He could hear Remus's voice from
where he stood, describing an inspection by the Werewolf Registry. Walking on tiptoe, Harry peeked
around the open lounge door. Hermione was sitting on the couch, parchments spread out all around
her, quill skidding furiously over a sheet in her lap. Harry could only see her profile but it was
enough; she was wearing an expression of righteous outrage that he had seen on a healthy number of
occasions.

Harry sighed, watching her. He was no longer certain that this interview - this
*everything* - was a good idea, now that he knew how some people were reacting to what
Hermione and her friends were trying to do. But Hermione looked more determined than ever, and he
knew from experience how difficult getting between Hermione and something she'd set her mind on
could be.

Filing that worry away for later, Harry went to the kitchen to begin the washing up. He
hadn't gotten far when a creak of the floorboards made him turn.

Remus crossed the room. "Hermione's doing a bit of writing, while things are fresh in
her mind."

"Oh, okay," Harry said, turning back to the sink.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Very much," Harry said. "I don't get much chance to get out and fly like
that in London. It was wonderful."

"Good."

Harry cast a few drying charms on freshly scrubbed dishes. He could feel Remus watching him for
a moment, then the older man reached into the sink and began working on a frying pan.

Harry searched for small talk, but he couldn't think of anything. He didn't know what to
say to Remus, hadn't for about two years now. He'd said it all, once: *It's my fault,
go ahead, stop pretending, tell me you hate me!* And Remus had been kind but unflinchingly
honest in return, one of the few people in the world who allowed Harry to own his share of the
blame.

Harry smiled, thinly. All the time he'd spent raging because no-one was honest with him, and
here he was in a house with two people who were exceptionally good at being just that, and not a
clue what to say to either of them. Fair enough. He rubbed his forehead with wet, soapy
fingers.

"You're always welcome to come out here and fly," Remus said, almost - but not
quite - casually.

Harry looked out the window. *But it's not easy*, he thought. Standing here in the
little silent house, it struck him how inadequate, childish, and entirely selfish those words
were.

"I know," he said, finally. "I've been really busy lately." He cringed
at how weak the excuse sounded.

"Yes, Hermione mentioned that."

The words contained no rancour, just a gentle curiosity that Harry recognised as an invitation
to speak, to confess his worries, to perhaps gain some advice. "I might get some time off at
Christmas," he blurted. "If you'd like company?"

"Of course," Remus said, with a smile.

Harry watched the newts splashing happily in their windowsill tank while resisting the urge to
smack himself on the head. Avoiding conversation by promising the opportunity for more conversation
was not, perhaps, the most brilliant of plans.

He was sure that the newts were laughing at him.

Harry might have said something hurtful to the slimy little creatures - a comment upon the
versatility of newts' eyes in modern potion-making, perhaps - but was distracted by the coffee
pot, which chose that moment to lurch down the counter and plunge itself into the sink in front of
Remus.

There was something indisputably funny about watching an older, more distinguished sort of
person get an unexpected bath. Harry looked at Remus, who was dripping with suds, water, and the
remnants of that morning's coffee, and tried to stop laughing long enough to perform a drying
charm. "It thought you had forgotten it," Harry managed, gasping and waving his wand.

A slightly drier Remus reached into the sink and held the pot aloft by its handle. "Stupid
bugger," he growled. "I don't know why I put up with you. I should have smashed you
ages ago."

Hermione poked her head around the door, grinning. "Everything all right?"

"Yep," Harry said.

"It will be soon," Remus said, the pot twitching and jumping in his hand.

"You're not going to hurt it, are you?" Hermione stepped closer to Remus, tilting
her head to examine the coffee pot. "It's still fascinating to me, we give them a sort of
life with our animation charms, but the personalities. . . we don't plan for them but they
happen anyway."

Rights for coffee pots, Harry thought, smiling. He could see it now. . . As he watched Hermione
and Remus talk, Harry's thoughts turned back to that night, to Kreacher, to *Voldemort knows
you, Harry*. . . .

He put a hand on the countertop. There was no reason to suspect he wasn't alone in his own
head again, absolutely none. His scar hadn't hurt, every bad dream had had a real-life trigger
and anyway, they were scenes from the past, *his* past, it was all him.

It had to be.

*

It was dark when they popped into Hermione's flat, and she was frustrated.

Harry had never been the chattiest friend a witch could have - if she wanted non-stop
conversation, she simply turned to one Ronald Weasley - but today he had been so quiet she
couldn't help but be worried, and just a twinge annoyed.

She had given up on trying to get him to talk. Hermione supposed he felt uncomfortable, after
sharing so much the night before. She'd been very careful not to mention it, to show she
wasn't going to pry, and had spent their walk back to the Apparition point talking about other
things, but he had barely responded.

She flipped on the light, then bent down to pet Crookshanks, who was fussy at having been
left.

"I'd better ring and see if Ron's ready for me to come home," Harry said.

Hermione nodded and shrugged off her coat as Harry made his way across her tiny kitchen to the
telephone. "No answer," he said a minute later.

"Do you think he's out?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe."

She watched as he fiddled with the strap of his duffle. Hermione was sure he would disappear any
second, but she didn't want him to leave, not until they'd somehow regained the closeness
they'd shared last night. She thought about going over and putting her arms around him, a
friendly thank-you-for-taking-me hug, but the fear that he would just stand there like a statue
stopped her.

"Does Ron know where we went?" she tried instead.

Harry shook his head. "No. I know I shouldn't have kept it from him, but -"

"But you wanted some peace," she finished for him. "I understand."

When he popped out of sight just a few moments later, Hermione was left with a squalling cat and
the lingering, depressing thought that peace was one of the last things Harry ever seemed to
have.

*

Harry was mindlessly listening to the wireless, trying not to dwell on his day with Remus and
Hermione, when Ron came home.

"Have a good trip?" Ron asked. He took off his coat and dropped it onto a chair.

Harry shrugged. "About as good as I expected." He sat up to make room for Ron on the
couch. "How was your weekend?" he asked, eager to change the subject.

"Good."

"Just good?" Harry asked, noting the flush creeping up Ron's neck.

"Er, really good."

Harry grinned, wishing Dean and Seamus were here to do the thing properly. They had an
inimitable way of extracting juicy private details, honed over the years in the Gryffindor
dormitories. He would never be able to do this justice.

His friend was frowning. "Harry," Ron began slowly, "you have more experience
with Muggles than I do, right?"

"Depends on what you mean by exper-" Harry broke off, realising that Ron wasn't in
a joking mood. "Yes, I'd have to say so."

Ron glared at the carpet. "Sarah made me wear this - this *thing*," he said.
"To prevent - you know. And I told her that I knew a spell that would take care of all that,
but she wouldn't let me use it."

"Considering how many Weasleys there are," Harry said, trying not to smile, "I
really can't blame her."

Ron stopped glaring at the carpet and started glaring at Harry.

"Besides," Harry went on, "no matter how okay she is with magic and everything,
the idea of having it performed on *her* - that's different, I think."

Ron nodded. "True. Yeah, I can see it might be scary for her." He sighed pathetically.
"It was awful, though. Suffocating. There I was, trying to do my business, and all I could
think was that it was going to wither and die!"

Harry howled. "Thanks, Ron," he sputtered finally, tears streaming down his face.
"I needed a good laugh."

"I don't know how you *can*," Ron grumbled. "Have you *used* one of
those things?"

"No -" *never had a reason to* "- but I caught Dudley practising with one
once."

Ron looked horrified.

Harry collapsed further into hysterics. "On a cucumber! On a cucumber!"

*

It was dark outside, dark and cold and cheerless. There were few holiday decorations in this
tiny slice of the city; here wreaths and fairy lights were trappings of another way of life, one
that too many people here still saw as inferior and, when they would admit it, dangerous.

It was warm inside, with a roaring fire and wall torches punctuating the gloom, but Harry looked
around the pub with distaste. It hadn't changed much since the first time he'd visited, a
month ago. It was still smoky, still crowded, still loud, and he still felt very much out of
place.

He *looked* like he belonged, though. Harry was at this moment the spitting image of
Vincent Crabbe, Jr., down to his extremely chubby knuckles and pudding-bowl fringe. The wizard had,
as per his custom, arrived at the pub well before his father in order to take full advantage of
happy hour. He had been Stunned rather abruptly on his first trip to the loo, and was now lying on
the sticky floor of a stall, out cold, with Dean's wand trained on him.

Harry checked his watch casually. It had been ten minutes since he'd drunk the Polyjuice,
and Crabbe the elder still hadn't shown up. He swallowed, still feeling queasy; Polyjuice was
one of the most stomach-turning potions known to wizardkind.

Another few minutes, and Crabbe Sr. finally appeared in the pub's doorway, flinging back the
hood of a heavy cloak. Harry waved in what he hoped was a Crabbe-like manner to hail the man over
to his table. As he lowered his hand, he checked the earplug link to Dean with a quick,
inconspicuous motion. It was secure.

"What, no drinks?" The older man slapped Harry on the back in greeting.

"Sorry. . . father." The words felt strange in his mouth. "I'll do that
now." He began to rise, but Crabbe waved him back into his seat and headed to the bar
himself.

Harry tried not to wrinkle up his nose a few minutes later when he was presented with the same
nasty-looking drink he'd encountered on his earlier visit to Knockturn Alley.

"So." Crabbe set his goblet down on the table. "Tell me you've done something
useful since I last saw you. Tell me you've gotten a job."

"Well. . . ."

Crabbe snorted. "What I thought. You and that Goyle, you sit around all day. . . if his
father weren't such a soft touch, you two would've starved to death by now."

"I do stuff," Harry muttered rebelliously. He hoped Crabbe wouldn't ask him what
*sort* of stuff. He couldn't imagine what Vincent got up to all day, barring eating,
sleeping, and scratching himself.

"Right. Of course you do."

They lapsed into silence. Harry tried not to be too obvious about the fact that he wasn't
drinking anything, or that he was keeping a close eye on his watch. He had decided to say as little
as possible - because Vincent had never really seemed the talkative type, and because the more he
spoke, the more likely he was to say something suspicious.

Crabbe scooted his chair closer to Harry's. "You're about to do more
*stuff*," he said. "I have a job for you."

Harry swallowed. "You do?"

"Yes. Do you good to get off that arse once in a while."

"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked.

"I've been collecting something for - for a friend, and you're going to help
me."

Harry tried very hard to look annoyed by this interruption in his busy schedule. It was hard,
because his heart was pounding. *For a friend*. He hoped the recording charm on his earplug
was catching everything.

"What is it, then?" he asked grumpily.

"Buy as much of this as you can find. Bring it over to the house." The old wizard
reached into the pocket of his cloak, pulled out a dirty glass bottle, and pressed it into
Harry's hand. Harry ran his finger over the picture on the cap, memorising the detail of fangs
and scales. When he handed it back to Crabbe, something as red and nasty as the untouched drink in
front of him clung to his fingers.

Harry curled his fingers up, not wanting to lose a drop that could be analysed at the Auror
headquarters. He furrowed Crabbe, Jr.'s large forehead. "Why?"

For a moment, his companion looked eerily like Uncle Vernon, as if he'd like nothing better
than to cuff Harry about the head. He scanned the crowd slowly, then leaned over to speak in
Harry's ear. "I've told you before, boy - when you get a parchment signed with that
mark, you don't ask questions. You do what it says."

Harry decided to push his luck. "Like last time?"

Confusion passed over Crabbe's face. "Oh, you mean Avery, that old bastard." He
laughed unpleasantly. "Yes. Merlin, that was fun." He drained his drink and stood up.
"I'm going for a refill. Do you need one?"

"No." Harry waited until the man had joined the throng at the bar, then pulled a flask
out of his pocket and forced himself to drink another dose of the sludge-like potion, even though
the hour wasn't quite up yet. He resolutely ignored the unpleasant way his insides were
churning.

Thankfully, he was nearly done here. Crabbe appeared to be a man who knew his orders and nothing
more, as Harry had suspected, and the interview needed only a memory charm to complete it. Harry
had hoped that wouldn't be necessary - he had been planning on casting a quick Confundus, just
enough to blur the conversation in the man's mind - but now that Crabbe had assigned a task his
son knew nothing about, he had no choice.

Harry sat quietly, waiting for Crabbe to return, and the potion to settle. The moment the wizard
sank into his chair, Harry rose. "I need to use the loo."

Crabbe grunted. Harry crossed behind him, carefully gesturing with his arm - his wand was
strapped to it, underneath his sleeve - and whispered, "*Obliviate*."

Harry walked unsteadily across the pub. He breathed a sigh of relief when the door of the
lavatory closed behind him. He saw feet he hoped were Dean's peeking out from under the
farthest stall.

"Dean?" he said quietly, tapping on the door.

"Yeah," his partner answered. It took Harry a second to realise why his voice was so
loud. He quickly removed the plug from his ear, then squeezed inside the stall.

He'd never really wished for being short and thin before, but he was seeing things a bit
differently, crammed into such a small space with Dean, who was built for football (and American
football at that) and Crabbe, Jr., who was slumped on the toilet and taking up a great deal of
space.

"You look like hell," Dean remarked.

"I'm him, what do you expect?" Harry said half-heartedly, leaning against the
wall. Dean and Crabbe and the grey tile walls were swimming in and out of focus.

Then his legs gave out.

"*Harry*?"

"Will you Obliviate him for me?" Harry asked, vaguely aware that his cheek was pressed
to a grimy tile floor. If he didn't move, he might not be sick. And the black spots might not
take over his vision completely.

"Of - of course," Dean replied. "But -"

"*Do it*," Harry said, closing his eyes. He listened to the rustling, grunting,
and whispered spell that meant Dean was taking care of their companion.

"Okay, he's gone," Dean said, kneeling down beside Harry. "What the hell
happened? Can't hold your liquor?"

"Didn't drink anything," Harry mumbled. "Well - the Polyjuice."

"That wouldn't. . . Never mind, let's get out of here. Can you Apparate?"

"Of course," Harry said.

"There's no *of course* about it," Dean said, grabbing his arm. "Are you
certain?"

"Yes."

"All right," Dean replied.

And in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

*

It was a good thing Dean held onto his arm.

Harry woke up on a different floor. He blinked a few times and realised, fuzzily, that he was in
Moody's office. Dean was still kneeling at his side, but was now running his wand over Harry as
if scanning for curses, while Moody stood nearby. Harry wasn't sure how long he'd been out,
but it must have been less than an hour; a large mound of stomach stopped him from seeing all the
way to his - make that Crabbe's - feet. He struggled to sit.

"Stay down, Potter," Moody said at once. Harry complied.

"Thomas says you didn't eat or drink anything, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir. Just Polyjuice."

"We need to focus on curses rather than poisons, then. Continue scanning, Thomas."

"Sir-"

"Yes, Potter?"

Harry took a breath. "It's not a curse. It's just. . . me. I think I have a virus
or something, this has happened before -"

Moody was never particularly light-hearted, but now his face was fiercely grave. He spoke in a
whisper. "You knew you were ill?"

"Well -"

"And you jeopardised this operation?"

Harry knew it was no good to make excuses. "Yes, sir."

"You may stop, Thomas," Moody stayed sharply. Dean dropped his wand to his side.

Moody was silent, and Harry held his breath. He wished Dean would leave.

"There will be consequences."

Harry nodded. He wanted to sit up now - the indignities of being chastised while lying on a
dusty floor were legion - but was afraid of angering Moody further.

"It would not be fair for me to amend your punishment in any way because you managed to
carry out the operation successfully. There was every chance you would fail, and that failure could
have easily been prevented.

"Nor would it be fair to adjust your punishment because you are the only Parselmouth on our
staff. Or because that mark on your forehead means that if our dearly departed Dark Lord manages to
resurrect himself once again, you may be the first to know and the best to deal with him.

"But," Moody gave a twisted, humourless smile, "it has well been established that
life is not fair. So your punishment is this. You will go to the hospital wing and take whatever
medication the nurse gives you. You will take every dose she prescribes, and you will not come back
to work until you have done so."

"Yes, sir."

"Thomas, take him to the hospital wing."

*

The hospital wing was hopping. There was only one nurse on duty, and she was rushed off her
feet, tending to some Aurors that had caught nasty hexes during a raid. Harry gave Dean a
we'll-just-be-in-the-way sort of look, but Dean was having none of it. He made Harry lead the
way into the ward.

The fact that Harry looked like a suspected Death Eater triggered no comment as he and Dean sat
down to wait on hard wooden chairs. Harry's chair was nearly too small for Crabbe's large
rear; he thought, with half a smile, that the older man had been right in suggesting his son get
off his arse every now and then.

It did cause some discussion when Harry began slowly changing back into himself. He distinctly
heard a "Fucking hell" as he slid on his glasses. Dean took advantage of the attention
they'd gained and strode over to speak to the nurse, while Harry rolled up the sleeves of his
now tent-like robe. After she heard his symptoms, the nurse thrust a potion bottle at Harry,
watched him drink a dose, and sent them on their way.

Harry didn't argue when Dean insisted on accompanying him home, as well. The potion
wasn't working yet, as far as he could tell, and he felt unsteady on his feet as they walked
out of the building.

Dean wouldn't let him Apparate for fear of splinching. Harry knew that he was damn lucky to
be in one piece after his last attempt, so he didn't complain. Floo powder was out of the
question, since the flat didn't have a fireplace, so Dean steered him out to Charing Cross Road
and bundled him into a taxi.

Harry let himself float along, not quite there, not quite not, the world a blurry, swirling
place. Streetlights and headlights merged together until he closed his eyes, and before he knew it
they were in the flat. He leaned against a wall while Dean woke Ron up and told him how much potion
Harry should take and when. He let himself be led to the bed, where Ron pulled off his boots and
glasses before turning off the light.

Ron left the door open, and Harry listened as Ron tried, unsuccessfully, to make a stealthy
telephone call.

"Hermione?" Ron said, in what he obviously thought was a whisper.

*No*, thought Harry. *No, no, no*.

"Dean just brought Harry home from work," he continued. "He's this awful grey
colour, and Dean said he passed out on the job -"

Harry turned over miserably. She was going to come over, and he couldn't face her. He just
couldn't.

There was a long silence from the other room, and Harry held his breath. Finally Ron said,
"All right. Probably is just best to leave him be, for now." He was quiet a moment.
"I'll ring you tomorrow, then. Good night."

*She* couldn't face *him*. Not in a darkened bedroom, not after Saturday
night.

Harry was sure of it.

*

A/N: Many, many thanks to Calliope, Cynthia Black, Dorotea, Paracelsus, and Stacy for betaing
this chapter in its various forms. And thank you so much to everyone who's been kind enough to
review!



11. Eleven
----------

**Eleven**

*Then I remember you're mine and I have a world that's fine.* --They Might Be
Giants

*

"Harry?"

He blinked out of sleep, wondering muzzily what time it was. It was impossible to tell; the
curtains were drawn and the room was grey and full of shadows. It could have been the start of a
gloomy day, or nearly dinnertime.

"Harry?"

He recognised the voice, of course. Harry took a moment to wish he'd slept hidden from the
world underneath his invisibility cloak. He might have avoided this, being found by one of the last
people he felt like being alone with. Although it did cheer him to know she didn't mind being
alone with him. Perhaps she really didn't know what he'd done that night at Remus's
place, or maybe she was willing to pretend it had never happened. "Hi, Hermione," Harry
croaked, rolling over towards the sound. Her very blurry face peeped around his bedroom door.

"Hello," she replied. Her voice was soft, and worried. Harry struggled to sit,
ignoring the way his head swam, and rummaged around on the bedside table for his glasses.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Hermione said. She crossed the room and plucked his
spectacles off the table easily, then pressed them into his hand. Harry slid them on and flinched:
she was sitting very close to him. "But I have to go to class soon," Hermione continued,
"and it seemed like you were going to sleep forever."

"How long have you been here?"

"Oh - just the morning. Ron will be here soon, we didn't like to leave you alone."
She tilted her head, studying his face. "Silly to wake you, I know. I just. . . couldn't
leave without knowing how you were."

Harry shrugged. He was painfully aware that she was clean and neatly dressed, while he was
sporting day-old rumpled clothes, bad hair, and worse breath. He scooted away from her and swung
his legs over the edge of the bed. "Back in a moment." He sorted out as many of those
problems as he could in the loo, wobbling only slightly on his way there and back. A huge
improvement over yesterday, he thought optimistically.

Hermione, however, seemed less impressed. She watched, frowning, as he settled back onto the
bed. "You're not going back to work for a while." It was clearly a statement of fact,
not a question.

"No," Harry said. "Moody won't let me until I finish that." He pointed
to a nearly-full potion bottle on his beside table.

"Good," Hermione said. She was still eyeing him closely, and Harry looked away,
uncomfortable. He wasn't sure what she was looking for in his face, but he was unreasonably
afraid that she'd find it. He cleared his throat, ready to politely suggest that she be on her
way, so she wouldn't be late for school.

But Hermione took him by surprise then, flinging her arms about his shoulders and knocking his
glasses askew. "I worry about you," she said. Her breath was warm against his neck, and
her voice was doing something funny to his spine. "I know it annoys you and I'm sorry, but
I've been doing it since we were eleven and I don't think I'll be stopping anytime
soon."

"I -" His throat was tight, and his words came out as a whisper. "I don't
mind."

"Yes, you do," she said promptly. "I know you, Harry Potter, and you do not take
well to being fussed over."

"Well," Harry said, absently wondering when he'd begun running his hands over her
back, "well, I can learn."

She lifted her head a little, just enough that he could see her smile, then pressed her lips to
his cheek. Harry bent his head. He meant to reciprocate, only reciprocate, but whatever had taken
over his hands and was making his heart pound so finally captured his mouth too, and what was
supposed to be a peck on the cheek became an unmistakable kiss on the lips.

Hermione froze, then pulled away. "I've - we've -" Her voice was small,
bewildered. "We've done that before, haven't we?"

Harry closed his eyes. The answer was written in his face, he could feel it, red-hot. There was
nothing left to do but nod.

"I thought it was a dream."

He thought about saying *sorry,* or *it was a mistake, it won't happen again,* but
before he could say anything at all, she was kissing him once more. It was tentative, soft and
sweet - then suddenly it wasn't, and her mouth was open against his and she was pushing him
back against the headboard and his hands were tangled in her hair. And the room that had been
tilting in a low-key way was now officially spinning, and his glasses had fallen off and were
probably being crushed to bits beneath them; but it didn't matter, he didn't care.

Harry could feel nothing but her; she was everything.

*

She left too soon, though whether it was after half an hour or five minutes, Harry couldn't
be sure. He liked the thought of her rushing into class late, sliding into a seat on the back row,
for once, her hair wilder than usual and her lips swollen and it being *all his fault*.

She'd let him make her late to class. Harry smiled, savouring the thought. It had definitely
meant something, then.

*Of course it did,* he chided himself. *Do you really think Hermione's the type to
get. . . friendly with just anyone?*

Harry lay back and contemplated the ceiling. The answer to that question was an unhesitating
*no,* but. . . there was nothing stopping her from regretting it any moment now. He let
himself ponder that unhappy thought for some time, imagining how she would look, the way she would
bite her lip and toe the ground as she said *Harry, I'm truly, truly sorry, but we really
shouldn't, not again. . . .*

Pushing that aside, Harry finally sat up and reached for the potion bottle. He poured the liquid
into the little measuring cap carefully, wrinkling up his nose. The potion was green and smelled
like something Hagrid would have probably found delicious. It tasted as bad as it smelled, and
Harry shuddered as he drank. It made no sense to Harry: thousands of years of magical knowledge at
their disposal, a hundred different ways of fooling the senses at their fingertips, and
potion-brewers invariably turned out foul draughts that no Muggle pharmaceutical company would even
dream of marketing.

"And that's not just my love of Potions talking, either," he said aloud, setting
the bottle down.

He stood, gripping the cool wood of the bedside table. Harry made his way to the toilet by
holding onto things - the chest of drawers, the walls, the basin. He sank down onto the fluffy mat
beside the tub, letting his head fall to his knees. "Bath instead of shower, I think," he
muttered.

It was probably a bad idea, Harry reflected a little later, lying in a tub full of water when he
could feel unconsciousness trying to sneak up on him. He could see the *Daily Prophet* now:
Boy Who Lived Drowned in Bath. Rumours of Evil Taps Remain Unproven. Besides, even though there
were no bubbles in sight, his masculine dignity was taking a direct hit with every moment. He
dragged himself out, threw on jeans and a faded t-shirt, and headed for the couch.

In the quiet, dim flat, it took little time for Harry to fall asleep. His dreams were dark
things, full of snakes and blood, and the loud banging that woke him was startling, yet also a
relief. Someone was knocking on the door, and after stumbling over and checking the peephole, Harry
undid the latch and let Dean in.

"Still alive, then," his partner said, looking him over.

"Yep," Harry said, returning to sit on the couch. "And ready to have my wand
back, thank you very much."

"Oh, right." Dean sorted through his cloak pockets, and then tossed it over.

Harry caught it easily. He ran his fingers over the familiar wood before tucking it onto the
cushion beside him. It felt good to have it there, close by and at the ready. It had been gone less
than twenty-four hours, most of which he'd been asleep, but that still was enough to have left
him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

"We listened to your recording," Dean went on, taking off his cloak. He shoved a stack
of Quidditch magazines aside and settled into the armchair. "And did a test on that residue
from your hand. Crabbe wanted you to buy dragon's blood?"

Harry blinked. That had been his first guess, upon seeing the bottle, but he'd immediately
rejected it on the grounds of not being evil enough. "I suppose so," he replied.

"Nothing illegal about that." Dean scratched his head. "Although I'm sure
there are plenty of less-than-friendly ways they can use it."

"I'm sure." Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. Moody often said that the trouble
with most Aurors (and Harry was sure that referred to every last one but the old man himself) was
that they didn't have a criminal imagination. He usually followed that up with a profound
phrase such as *Thinking like slime is the first step to catching slime,* or *It takes a
mouth-breathing piece of filth to know one.*

It would be a frightening, frightening day in the wizarding world if Moody ever decided to take
up writing inspirational literature.

"Cloning!" Dean yelled.

Harry jumped. "What?"

"Magical cloning! Maybe they're trying to create their own dragons. Could have
something to do with all the egg trading that's been going on, too."

"Hmm." Harry mulled that over. "Maybe you're right." He closed his eyes,
considering. Everything to do with dragons was so magically powerful, and so incredibly expensive,
that he could definitely see the logic behind Dean's theory.

"You still look like hell, you know," Dean said conversationally.

Harry opened one eye. "Do I?"

"Yes." Dean frowned at him in concern. "I should go. You let the old man and I do
the worrying for awhile."

"All right."

Dean stood and pulled on his cloak. "Magazines okay on the floor, or do you want them back
in the chair?"

"Doesn't mat-" Harry broke off; Ron had popped into the room, and he looked
furious.

The redhead rounded on Dean. "He's supposed to be in bed. You know that. You told me
that, for Merlin's sake."

Dean held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I know, I know, I was just
leaving."

"Too right," Ron agreed.

Normally Harry would have been annoyed at Ron for being in overprotective mode, and would've
said something. But today he was content to simply wave goodbye to Dean as the other man popped out
of sight. Ron dropped into the chair Dean had vacated, leather workbag in his lap, black work robes
pooling around him. Harry tried to remember when his friend had become a complete grownup, and
wondered if there was a wizarding term for 'yuppie.'

"Do you feel like eating?" Ron asked. "I bought tins of chicken soup on the way
home. My mum used to always make soup, when we were ill."

"I'm not sure," Harry admitted. He eyed Ron's bag thoughtfully, a memory
surfacing in his mind. "Ron - can I ask you something?"

"Sure," Ron said. "But do me a favour, lie down first, will you?"

"Fine," Harry said, in a mock-grumble. He stretched out obligingly, pulling a fuzzy
orange blanket over him. "Better?" On Ron's nod, he continued, "So, when I was
in your office a while back, there was a paper on your desk with import figures for all sorts of
things."

"Yeah, probably, there usually is."

"Where do - or I suppose I mean, how do you lot come up with those?"

Ron opened and closed his mouth several times, then said, "I could give you a crash course
in goblin-style economics, or you could just tell me what you need to know."

Harry hesitated. He needed to ask, wanted to ask; Ron's expertise could be invaluable. But
he was about to break the promise he'd made to himself - that he'd keep his friends
uninvolved - not to mention the vow of secrecy he'd sworn for his job. After a long, quiet
moment he said, "Okay. I need to know how long the import figures for dragon's blood have
been abnormally high. And I need to know the names of the merchants who've done the most
trading in it."

"The first is easy enough, it's a matter of public record. People track stuff like that
to help them make investment decisions. I just get paid to analyse it." Ron thought for a
moment. "The second - I'm sure it's on file somewhere in the department. It's not
what you'd call conventional information to keep, but the goblins pride themselves on their
detailed records." Ron looked at him intently. "Is this - are you asking me - are you and
Dean going to come down and talk to the goblins about this all official-like, or are you asking me
to take a snoop through our files?"

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know," he said. "You tell me.
How likely are the goblins to tell me what I want to know?"

"Not very. They don't feel that human laws apply to them, exactly."

"Then, could you? I'll understand if you say no."

"Of course I will," Ron said. "I'm - we're - always glad to help you,
Harry. You know that."

"Yeah," Harry said. "I do."

*

The following days passed in a blur of potions and dreams and Hermione. Harry slept for long
stretches of time; when he woke the covers were usually in disarray, tied up and twisted, and once
both they and he were on the floor. He'd been alone in the flat that time, and glad of it.
Usually, though, Hermione was there when he woke, curled up in the sitting room with a thick book
or her laptop computer. He liked it best when she was too busy working to spot him leaning in the
doorway. It gave him a long moment to study her, to notice how her forehead wrinkled when she was
thinking hard, or the way she absentmindedly tucked her hair behind her ears as she read, over and
over again. And any spark of irritation he felt at needing a nursemaid melted away the instant she
raised her head and smiled at him.

It was easy for Harry to think this was the dream, in moments like this one when she pulled him
down into the chair beside her and greeted him with kisses to his forehead, cheeks, and mouth.
Everything was a little mixed-up, a little off-balance, and Harry was half-waiting for a sharp
pinch to bring him back to reality.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked, drawing back slightly.

Harry made a noncommittal noise.

"What I thought," Hermione said. She leaned over the arm of the chair and, after
rummaging about, came up with two little pillboxes. "From the chemist's," she said.
"Will you try them?"

"Hey, thanks," he said, taking the boxes. "It can't taste any worse,
that's for sure. Need to wait 'til this dose wears off, though."

She nodded. "It really was quite funny, talking to the chemist. He wanted to know all about
what you'd been taking, and I kept having to put him off. We got there in the end,
though."

Harry smiled and leaned into her, resting his head on her shoulder. There wasn't really
enough room in his chair for two, and while that could be easily solved with a wave of a wand, he
had no inclination to do so. He was happy, excited, sick, worried, and nervous, very nervous. If
today was like yesterday and the day before, they would sit together in silence, or perhaps talk
about ordinary things. Hermione's school, what Ron wanted for Christmas, the relative merits of
strawberry and grape jam. What they wouldn't talk about was the way their fingers twined about
one another's at every possible opportunity, or the way Harry kept leaning his head close to
hers and breathing her in.

He was smelling people now. This was new.

Not-talking was perfectly okay, because Harry didn't want to talk about those things. He
didn't think he could, actually, although he might just be able to manage looking at the floor
and saying 'er' while *she* spoke. But he couldn't get too comfortable; even if
Hermione wasn't talking, she was surely *thinking.* And even though he and Ron had sat
through countless "This is how girls operate" Hermione-lectures over the years, Harry
felt wholly incapable of determining what she was thinking about. Ron had been right; she should
have written a book, with a chapter dedicated exclusively to explaining herself.

Hermione quietly reached for her wand and flicked on the wireless. The familiar Christmas
melodies washed over Harry, warm and comfortable. *On the first day of Christmas my true love
gave to me. . . .* It was funny, how with one line he was back in the cupboard at Privet Drive,
watching through a keyhole as the Aunt Petunia placed the fanciest decorations she could buy just
so. But then the next could remind him of nowhere but Hogwarts. . . *a snidget in a squill
tree.*

"What are you smiling about?"

"Our first Christmases at Hogwarts," he said. "Singing armour and Weasley jumpers
and real live fairy lights. . . ."

Hermione laughed, softly. "A different world." She smiled to herself. "I almost
thought there would be a Father Christmas. I really almost did. Everything else completely
unbelievable was suddenly true. . . Silly, isn't it."

"No. Not at all."

"But you didn't think it. You always were just a little quicker to fit in than I
was."

He shook his head. "That's not it."

"No, I don't suppose it is, entirely," she said, and he could tell from her eyes
she was being very careful not to speak ill of the dead. "But it is true."

*

Hermione *was* thinking, as it happened.

She sat close to Harry as he drifted off to sleep, and thought. Her world had shifted in the
past few days. The change was certainly a pleasant one, but it had left her with a lot to sort
through, to hold up and examine and try to understand. So just as if she were dealing with a
question of legal precedent or a tricky bit of Transfiguration, Hermione took refuge in a nice
list. Circumstances required her to compose it mentally, but she organised it neatly nonetheless,
numbering and annotating each point:

*1. Finally. Two and half years of waiting. Nine hundred and some days. Twenty one thousand,
six hundred plus hours. And finally.*

*2. Waiting had been the right thing to do. There'd been times when it had seemed wrong,
too passive and non-independent-woman-ish. Mum would have been unimpressed, if she'd known, and
probably would have handed over an assortment of feminist texts for light reading. Which was why
Hermione hadn't told her.*

*3. But it hadn't really been passive, anyway. It had been an active choice not to pursue
a relationship until the time was right. Yes. Absolutely.*

*4. The right time was proving to be an odd time, with one-half of the equation germy and ill
and generally non-functioning.*

*5. That was nothing to be fussed about. Normalcy was for other people.*

*6. Trying to talk about what they were doing or where things were going was just not on.
Harry was not about words. Harry was about action, and if she wanted to know what he thought or
felt that was where she would have to look. And right now, things were looking pretty good.*

*7. Six was rather an unwieldy number on which to end a list. Seven wasn't much better,
but it would have to do.*

Hermione nodded in a satisfied way and began humming "I Saw Three Brooms" along with
the wireless. She still worried about Harry, no question; but above and beyond and around that, she
was utterly content.

*

Ron had to admit it wasn't so bad, having Hermione practically living in the flat. She
hadn't tidied up - they were grown men, she said, and perfectly free to live in squalor if they
so chose (although the sniff she gave when she said it made Ron doubt the sincerity of her words.)
At any rate, he was glad she'd left things alone. He knew his piles of clothes and papers and
books inside out, and he didn't need her mucking about with them. She *had* made a few
small touches in the flat, but he didn't mind them so much. Thanks to her there were dark green
leafy things strung above the sitting room window, and a little mistletoe ball hanging in the
doorway. But best of all, what he *really* didn't mind was that whenever Hermione cooked a
little something for herself, she prepared enough for him and Harry too. And when Harry turned the
offer of food down, as he had all week, Ron ended up with seconds. He smiled around the table. This
was something he could get used to.

"Pass the salt, please," Hermione said.

Ron did, handing it first to Harry, who was sitting between them. He was pleased to note that
tonight, Harry's usual tea and crackers were supplemented by a small bowl of soup. He
hesitated, then said, "Harry, mate, I've found out some of what you wanted."
Actually, he'd already had the information for two days, but hadn't been willing to say
until Harry seemed better.

"You're being all mysterious, Ron," Hermione said. "Is it a secret? A
Christmas secret?"

"Nah," Ron replied. He looked at Hermione as he spoke, thus missing the expression on
his other best friend's face. "Just information. I'm unofficially assisting the Aurors
with their inquiries."

"Oh?"

Harry sighed as if succumbing to the inevitable, then briefly outlined the situation.

"I don't have any names for you yet," Ron went on, "but there's a
definite upward sales trend visible in the October mid-term report. Which means the phenomenon most
likely began sometime in September."

"September," Harry muttered. "Of course."

Ron scooped up a forkful of pasta, rather pleased at being useful. Granted, he hadn't done
much yet, but it was a nice feeling, being the expert at something, the one with the answers. Thus
occupied, he didn't notice the stormclouds in Hermione's face until she exploded.

"Harry Potter! You can't imprison people because your friend who happens to have access
to all their private financial information gives you their names! You need, you need a warrant or
something! You know that."

Harry set down his teacup. "I'm not going to imprison them, Hermione. I'm
interested in who's been buying from these shopkeepers, not the merchants themselves. All I
want to do is question them."

"And anyway, aren't warrants Muggle things?" Ron pointed out. It was quite fun,
watching Hermione get hold of the wrong end of the stick.

"Yes, they are," Hermione said evenly. "Even more reason that Harry should know
how important they are, in principle if nothing else."

"Hermione?" Harry said softly, laying a hand on her arm. "I do know.
Really."

She smiled at Harry then, and there was something very familiar, yet so very not, in that look.
Ron studied the curve of her lips, the soft light in her eyes, trying to pick it out, pin it down.
But before he could, the moment was gone; Harry was reaching for his tea, and Hermione was
returning complacently to her vegetables.

"That reminds me," Hermione said. "Ron, your brother's coming over to talk to
me in a bit. I hope you two don't mind that I asked him to meet me here?"

Harry shrugged, apparently unperturbed. Ron stared at Hermione with deep suspicion. "Which
brother?"

"Percy."

"Oh, fucking hell, Hermione! Why? What did I do to you?"

"Nothing," she said. "He and I have a few things to discuss, that's all.
Things you've made quite clear are of absolutely no interest to you."

Ron sighed. He wasn't altogether sure what she was on about, and quite frankly, didn't
feel like finding out. And now that he thought about it, a little unscheduled visit to Sarah's
flat tonight could keep that from happening. Of course, teasing Hermione was still required, as a
matter of principle. "Time to hide the booze and the naked women, Harry."

Harry grinned. "Okay. My room, you think? There's plenty of room in my bed. . .
."

"Oh, like you *have* naked women in the flat, Ron," Hermione said.

Ron was enjoying himself thoroughly. "They're hypothetical naked women, Hermione. They
are all around us, existing in a land of sweet possibility. The point is, they could have easily
chosen tonight to make themselves visible, and you didn't know that before you invited the
stuffiest stuffed shirt in wizardom along!"

Harry was laughing helplessly, head down on the table. Hermione had opened her mouth to retort,
but instead broke into a smile, huge and happy. Ron knew what she was thinking, because when he
looked at Harry's cheeks, tinged with colour, and the nearly-empty soup bowl, he thought it
too: *Thank Merlin. It's about time.*

*

A/N: The squill is really a lily, not a tree, but we're going to pretend that wizarding
versions grow differently, okay? :) I've credited the Giants for the lyrics at the start
because their version of *We've Got a World That Swings* spins in my car, but I don't
know who sang the original. Also, as sort of a progress report - I'd promised myself I
wouldn't post this chapter here 'til I was half-done with the next one. I managed to hold
out to about the three-fourths mark. :)

And as always, lots and lots of thanks to Cynthia Black, Paracelsus, and Stacy for beta, and to
everyone who's taken the time to review!



12. Twelve
----------

**Twelve**

*You said "I'm feeling fine" but it didn't really rhyme.* --They Might Be
Giants

*

"I'm going for another. Sure you don't want one?"

"No thanks, this is fine," Harry said, indicating his club soda. He took a sip as Ron
headed back to the bar. He felt well enough, but there was no sense tempting fate; this was, after
all, the first time he'd been out of the flat in days.

"I'm still not sure why we let Hermione and Percy take over our home," Ron said,
upon returning. "Aren't you upset? Isn't it a bloody great injustice?"

"It's not like they threw us out by force," Harry said reasonably.
"They're only 'taking it over' because you didn't want to stay."

"If we'd stayed, we would be number one, bored," Ron began ticking points off on
his fingers, "number two, roped into doing something, number three, very bored."

"You make a good case," Harry said. "Really though, I don't mind. This
civil-rights stuff is awfully important to Hermione."

"I know." Ron ran his finger around the rim of his glass. "I just think - she
gets carried away. It's like S.P.E.W, you know? Except. . ." Ron shrugged, out of
words.

Harry blew out a breath. *But not all the letters have been so nice. . . .* "Except
that was school. Yeah."

He wished he knew what was being said back in their flat. Was Percy promising his support?
Probably. Percy was smart enough to look at this Beings' Rights Act, or whatever Hermione and
her friends were calling it, and see it for the good idea it was - not to mention clever enough to
realise what it could do for his career. He'd have a completely new name for himself. . . .

Harry took a long drink from his glass. It was probably just as well he *wasn't* there
right now. It would be hard to display the kind of enthusiasm he'd once had for Hermione's
project, and too, Ron might very well be right. As things moved from the planning stage to the
action stage, Hermione was likely to find jobs for them. He pictured himself and Ron standing on a
corner in Diagon Alley, forcing leaflets on passers-by.

But of course - Harry grew cold at the thought - that wasn't really what they'd want
from him. There was a much more obvious, public role for the Boy Who Lived to play, and if Hermione
asked, how could he say no?

He must have groaned, or possibly moaned, because Ron turned to him then with an expression of
concern. "All right?"

Harry endeavoured to look all right. "Yeah."

Ron drank more quickly after that, though, and before too much longer his glass was empty. He
caught Harry's eye, Harry nodded, and the two rose from their seats and began shrugging on
their coats. Sometimes words weren't necessary when you'd known each other forever.

Then again. . . . They'd walked to the pub, as it was just two blocks from the flat, and as
they exited the pub Harry set off down the pavement, assuming they'd walk back as well. Ron
appeared to have a different plan; he grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him into the shadows
behind a nearby telephone booth.

"We could Apparate."

"We could," Harry said, with a grin. The word 'lazy' was on the tip of his
tongue, but he bit it back.

"But we wouldn't want to just show up in the lounge - might interrupt them, you know
Hermione wouldn't appreciate that."

"Ah," said Harry, catching on. "My room, then? Quietly?"

"See you there," Ron said, and blinked out of sight.

Harry arrived in the bedroom a beat behind Ron, who immediately went to the door and pressed his
ear against it. Harry was just reaching for the lamp when Ron turned round and made a slashing
motion with his hand. "They're still at it," he whispered.

Swallowing a laugh - Ron was now crossing the room on careful tiptoes - Harry sat down on the
edge of the bed and untied his shoes. 'No' didn't, as a rule, take very long to say,
and the fact that Percy and Hermione were still talking meant odds were extremely good that he was
on board. Harry sighed, and scooted back on the bed. If Ron weren't here, he'd go to the
mirror and practise his pleased excited face until it was perfect. Perhaps he could do it anyway,
sans mirror, as ridiculously dark as the room was. . . .

"Did someone just knock on the door?"

Harry considered this. "Out there? Maybe."

"Oh, Merlin, I bet it's Sarah," Ron said, jumping to his feet. He took two steps
toward the bedroom door, then dithered. "If I don't go out there, maybe Percy'll just
think she's a friend of Hermione's. Or yours."

"Mmm," Harry said supportively.

Ron put his ear to the door. "I think - yes, it is. Damn. I tried to ring her before we
went out, why couldn't she've just been home then?"

Harry decided to offer practical advice rather than comment on the likelihood of women being
where you wanted them to be at any given point in time. "If you're going out there,
remember, you'd better Apparate."

"Right. We're still at the pub. Thanks, ma-"

Tapping on the bedroom door. Ron shot a frantic look at Harry before pulling it open.

"Hi," said a befuddled-looking Sarah. "Er - why are you two hanging around in the
dark?"

"Ah - the light hurts Harry's eyes?"

Harry, who was in the process of flipping the switch on the lamp, winced convincingly.

"How'd you know we were here?" Ron asked, ushering Sarah in and closing the door
behind her.

"Hermione said it was worth a try," she replied. She perched on the foot of the bed.
"I met your brother. He's very. . . polite."

"Good word," Harry said.

"Did he show any signs of leaving?" Ron asked.

"Erm. . . ."

"Told you, Harry. Taking over."

Harry sighed, defeated.

Sarah gave Harry a look of such deep sympathy that he blinked in confusion. Then he twigged on.
*No, don't worry, Ron's brother isn't stealing my girlfriend* - and then,
*girlfriend*? Yes, he thought, and no, because the word was too small somehow, but all the
bigger ones weren't the sort he'd ever been good with at all.

"Percy invited me to one of your mum's Sunday dinners," Sarah said. "At
least, I think that's what he did. You know, I have a university education and he used some
words I don't think I've ever heard before."

"Oh God," Ron said, putting a hand to his head, "that's brilliant. That's
just brilliant. And shut it, Harry."

"What?" Harry asked, chortling. "I haven't said anything. . . ."

"I don't have to go, Ron, it's not a big deal," Sarah said, and Harry was sure
she was thinking of her own family - he doubted she was in a hurry to introduce him to her own
brother, and while he didn't really know her parents, he pictured them as larger, older, more
opinionated versions of Piers. At the same time, he had sense enough to know that Ron was teetering
on the edge of making a serious mistake here. Sarah was probably already wondering if he was
ashamed of *her.*

Luckily, Ron seemed to know it, too. "They're just really overwhelming," he said
quickly. "Tell her, Harry."

Harry nodded. "It's true. I'm still afraid to be alone with his twin
brothers."

"Hey," Ron said, mock-indignantly, "at least I don't have to take her home to
a werewolf."

Sarah's eyes got very big and round. "A werewolf?" she squeaked. "As in -
werewolf?"

*

Harry entered the office to find Dean there alone, a dusty book open in front of him and several
more piled on the floor nearby. They exchanged nods, the most greeting they tended to manage at
this hour of the morning, and Harry set about the business of removing his cloak, fishing a
wrapped-up piece of toast out of his pocket, and generally getting ready for the day.

"He around?" Harry asked, jerking his head towards Moody's desk.

"Yeah," Dean said, "at a meeting."

Harry took a moment to hope it was a very thorough, very long meeting, as he was in no hurry to
see his boss again, considering the dressing-down he'd received at their last encounter. He
pulled out a chair and sat down beside Dean. "What're you doing?"

"Looking for potions and things that use dragon's blood. Trouble is, there's too
bloody many of them."

"Ah. Fun." Harry pulled a book off the pile, opened it to the table of contents, and
joined in. He was uncomfortably aware that Dean had probably been doing this all week, in moments
between other cases, while he'd been lying around snogging. *And dealing with blinding
headaches and nausea and. . .* Still.

But he was back now. And while he wasn't going to be sick or pass out anytime soon, the
headaches had never really gone away, and there was something not right about that. And when he put
the headaches beside the dreams, Harry was becoming more and more afraid that it totaled up to
something very not right.

It had been three a.m., this time, when he'd woken from the same dream he'd been having
for what felt like forever. He'd spent the hours before dawn trying to clear his mind, trying
to turn it into a blank slate, an empty shell, a *nothing*. But it was extremely hard when his
thoughts kept circling back to the fact that only one person in the world had ever, *could*
ever manipulate his mind from a distance.

But why in the world Voldemort would return from the almost-certainly-dead to have him to relive
that night, with Nagini and the Dursleys and everything, Harry couldn't imagine. And the fact
that it made no bloody sense was nearly enough to convince him that it wasn't happening at
all.

Pages rustled; after a while, Dean spoke. "So - ah - you all right, now?"

Harry looked up. "Yeah."

"Good." Dean was still looking down at his book, but Harry could tell he wasn't
done - and that whatever he had left to say, he really didn't *want* to say. "On that
last job," he said finally, "you didn't tell me everything. And if you had, you
know," he turned his hand palm-up, flat on the table, "ten minutes earlier, I
would've reacted as if you'd been poisoned. Which would've meant considerable
unnecessary risk for both of us."

*Not to mention,* Harry thought, *if you'd run into any sort of trouble whilst doing
surveillance, I'd have been completely useless to you.* "Er, yeah." He, too,
stared at the book in front of him. "It won't happen again."

"'kay."

Pushing guilt aside, Harry flipped a few more pages. It was an impossible task, trying to guess
the *what* when they didn't know the *who* or the *why*. Unless someone really
knew how Death Eaters thought, and knew potions inside-out, going at things from this angle was
just taking stabs in the dark. Harry realised he'd just come awfully close to wishing Snape
were still alive, and resisted the urge to bury his face in the book and moan.

"I can't help but think," Dean said, "there's no sign they're up to
anything hugely nasty, is there? I mean, Voldemort's things, yes, and Crabbe mentioned the Dark
Mark, but. . . no sign of any major players, and, it's been months and nothing's actually
*happened.*"

Harry wished he could join in this bout of positive thinking. "I hope you're
right," he said.

Both Dean and Harry were nodding off over their books when Moody came in, and both started in
their seats at the door-slamming, owl-chittering, and roaring that accompanied his return.

"*What* in Merlin's name is this?"

"Er," Harry said, "that's my friend's owl."

"Yes," Moody said dangerously, "I *know* it's young Weasley's owl. I
remember him most specifically, as he chose to roost in my pocket once during the middle of an
extremely secret Order meeting." He glared at Pigwidgeon, clenched in his fist. "This
bird should be *contained.* Risky enough to let it fly all over Black's house, but to send
it *here*?"

"I'm sure he didn't exactly send it here," Harry said. "I think I, ah,
let him think I was staying home a day or so longer."

Moody gave him a look which managed to convey very clearly that he had *better* be well
enough to be back at work, because if he as much as sneezed Moody wouldn't be responsible for
the consequences.

Harry swallowed, and put out a hand. "May I have him?"

Moody let go, and Pigwidgeon flew over to Harry and, after dropping a letter in his lap, began
nibbling cheerfully upon the earpiece of his glasses. Harry unfolded the parchment and read the
three words there, then read them again, and again. Complete and utter puzzlement gave way to
foreboding as Ron's attempt at a cryptogram began to make sense.

*MASSIVE QUANTITY BERK*

Fingers suddenly a little clumsy, Harry re-folded the note and tucked it in his pocket. He would
tell Moody later, when he'd decided on how to explain Ron's involvement in their case
without sending the man into a state of paranoid cardiac arrest.

Dean wanted a sign, Harry thought, and now they had one.

*

Hermione loved her little flat. She had two very small rooms and a bath near the top of an old
terraced house, which meant things like hardwood floors, ancient appliances, and a good view of a
street full of similar houses from her windows. Her downstairs neighbours had a yappy dog, which
she didn't like and Crookshanks didn't like, but a few soundproofing charms let them
pretend it didn't exist.

She liked to get up late on Sunday mornings - but not too late, nine-thirty was just about right
- make some tea, then pad back to bed in her pyjamas and surround herself with books and a purring
cat. This morning she was deep into *Goblins and E.T.: How Failed Memory Charms Influence Muggle
Science Fiction* when the peace was disturbed by a very loud crash and a "Bugger!"
from the next room.

Hermione grabbed her wand, even though she was fairly certain she recognised the voice, and went
to see what was going on. She stood in the doorway to the lounge for a moment and stared, then
said, "Why, hello there, Father Christmas. Brought me a present?"

"Oh -" Ron unfolded his top half from the fireplace, and turned, still kneeling on the
hearth. "Hi, Hermione, does this thing work?"

"Of course."

"Oh. Good." He stood and dusted soot off himself and onto her nice clean floor.

She crossed her arms over her chest. Her winter pyjamas weren't at all on the skimpy side,
but still, they were pyjamas. "I have a phone, you know."

"Oh right, can I use it to ring Sarah?"

"*Yes*," she said, "but, and this is just a thought, you could've rung
*me*, too."

He smiled, that really annoying, disarming Ron smile. "Didn't want to wake
you."

She threw up her hands and sputtered. "Nice of you," she finally managed, "would
you mind telling me what this is all about?"

"Going to take Sarah to the Burrow this afternoon," he explained. "I thought Floo
Powder was the best way to go."

Hermione frowned. "Hmm. I would've thought a Portkey, no risk of her getting off at the
wrong stop - could your dad not get you one?"

Ron shuffled a bit. "Ah. Well. They don't know she's coming."

"Oh, *Ron*, that's not fair to your mum, she needs to know!"

"It'll be all right. She always does plenty of food on Sundays, because she never knows
who's going to show. And I figure if Fred and George don't know Sarah's going to be
there -"

"They won't have time to come up with too much," she finished. "Is Harry
going?"

"Think so. He went to work an hour ago, but he said it would only be for a little while. I
asked him to meet me here."

"I bet *he* knocks." Hermione gave Ron a final Look, then said, "I'll go
get ready - you make yourself at home. There's tea in the kitchen."

"Ta, Hermione," Ron said, and she left him to it.

She took a hot shower, washed and dried her hair, and put on a dab of perfume. Then it was time
to decide on clothes, and for the first time in a long time she found herself actively considering
what Harry might think of each top as she pulled it out of the drawer. She'd got so used to
thinking he'd never notice, but she was pretty sure that wasn't the case now. . . . She
ended up with dark blue jeans and an orangey-brown v-neck jumper that wasn't revealing or
attention-seeking (nothing Hermione owned could be described as 'attention-seeking'), but
it wasn't shapeless, either.

Satisfied, Hermione headed for the bedroom door. She paused with her hand on the knob: Harry was
speaking in the other room.

". . . told him that we met in St. James's Park, and that I checked all the bushes for
listening devices and the ducks for Animagi before you came, and that after you gave me the
information, I memory-charmed you."

"Was he satisfied with that?" Ron asked, laughing.

"I think. But if you ever happen to see him again, remember, you know nothing. I
wouldn't put it past him to try and test you."

"Gotcha." Ron paused. "So - ah - was it helpful?"

Harry's voice was a little muffled; Hermione thought he might be running a hand over his
face. "Very. Now that we know Burke's been playing middleman with those large shipments of
dragon's blood, we've a much better shot at figuring out where it's going." Harry
paused. "And here I thought Burke was packing it in. Since Borgin died, that shop's been
closed more days than not."

"You going to interrogate him? Veritaserum?" There was a trace of wistfulness to
Ron's words, and Hermione wondered if Harry heard it. Being an Auror would always be a little
bit cool to those boys, she thought, no matter how happy and successful Ron was at his own job, no
matter how much Harry's took out of him.

"Probably not. We'll start with surveillance, see what he does when the next load comes
in. See who comes to buy it."

Hermione leaned against the door. It'd been days since she'd found out, but she
hadn't got over it yet. Harry had confided in Ron, asked for his help, told him something he
wasn't supposed to tell a soul. He'd been right to do it, too: Ron had found the answer.
She couldn't have.

It was so completely and perfectly logical she could cry.

*

When faced with a roaring fire and told that she was going to have to step into it, Sarah
didn't back away or protest or question anyone's sanity. She was, Hermione had noticed, a
person who expressed a lot of things with her eyes, and as she stood and stared at the flames they
grew very large indeed. Hermione tried to think of something helpful to say.

"If you keep your eyes closed, you probably won't throw up."

That wasn't it. Hermione shot Harry a frown over her shoulder.

Sarah gave Harry a wobbly smile, then looked up at Ron. "You're going with me,
right?"

"Of course," Ron said, in a voice so strong and reassuring that Hermione wondered
where the idiot who'd broken into her flat that morning had gone. He took Sarah's hand.
"Whenever you're ready."

Sarah took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes closed. "Okay."

Ron tossed the powder on. When the flames were high and brilliant green he hugged Sarah to his
chest, then carefully walked them both into the fireplace. "The Burrow!" he said, and in
a *whoosh* they were gone.

Hermione let out a breath. She'd never actually seen a Muggle travel by Floo before, and in
the back of her mind had been muttering dousing charms, just in case. "She really trusts
him," she said quietly.

"Yeah," Harry said, and she felt him move closer. "Hi."

She turned and greeted him properly. "We should go," she said finally,
reluctantly.

"Suppose so," Harry said, but he didn't move his hands from her waist, or his head
from where it rested alongside hers. As they stood there, not moving, just breathing, Hermione had
the sudden, frightening feeling that she was the only thing holding him up.

And then he stepped away, and that was that. "Shall I put the fire out?"

"Yes, thanks," Hermione said. "And I'll just go check Crookshanks' food
dish -"

When they arrived at the Burrow, Hermione and Harry found everyone gathered in the kitchen. Mrs.
Weasley seemed to be winding down from a flustered state; she was busy telling Ron what a bad idea
it had been to bring Sarah by Floo. Fred, George, and Ginny were hovering in the background,
wearing delighted grins, while Mr. Weasley was looking after Sarah in his quiet way, bringing her a
glass of water.

"Harry! Hermione!" Ron said, in a tone of a man being thrown a life preserver.
"Well, now that there's so many of us here, we really should get out of your way, eh
Mum?"

"Capital idea, little brother," said one of the twins, with a wicked smile. "Lead
on!"

Hermione followed the tide of younger Weasleys and guests to the sitting room. Ron had a
protective arm around Sarah, as if to warn his brothers that they would have to come through him
first. Hermione thought, or maybe she hoped, that his fears were misplaced - if she knew the twins,
they would be nothing but gracious to Sarah, and completely merciless toward their brother.

Harry had been walking ahead of her, but as everyone settled on various couches and chairs, he
held back a little awkwardly. Hermione couldn't help but flush as she realised he was waiting
to see where *she* chose to sit. She chose a puffy footstool, and moment later, he sat there
as well, facing the opposite way.

"So, Sarah," Ginny said brightly, "I'd like to say we've heard so much
about you, but. . . ."

"Oh, that's rich," Ron said. "Coming from little Miss Secret Parade of
Boyfriends."

And they were off. Harry's back was warm against hers and Hermione leaned into him, content
to enjoy the show.

*

Lunch was wonderful, and the largest meal he'd eaten in a long time; Harry was afraid he was
in danger of exploding. What he really wanted to do was lie on his back somewhere and play dead,
but he followed the twins and Ron out to the garden dutifully. Fred and George had something they
wanted to show him - meaning there really *was* a possibility of little bits of Harry being
strewn all over the lawn before the day was over.

"In here," George said, pushing at the door of the garden shed. They all filed in,
blinking against the gloom. Harry and Ron hovered near the doorway out of an instinctive
self-preservation, while Fred lit an old lantern.

"Here's Sweetie," George said, gesturing. Sweetie appeared to be a pair of
gleaming metal scissors, hanging from a peg on the wall amongst shovels and rakes and Muggle
television aerials.

"Nice," Harry said politely. He couldn't help but notice that the scissors'
blades were bound together with metal twine.

Beside him, Ron took a step backwards.

"Sweetie's a bit of an experiment in the Home Hygiene line."

"Why go to a barbershop -"

"Or your mother's house -"

"Or pester your girlfriend -" (This last was accompanied by a significant look at
Ron.)

"When Sweetie can give you a perfect haircut in minutes?"

"Because I like my ears?" Ron offered.

The twins laughed. "Silly boy, I can't imagine why."

"Erm," Harry said, as George lifted Sweetie off the wall, "if she's for hair,
why is she all tied up in a shed?"

"Ah. Well, you see, this model is a tad. . . zealous. She's proven herself a bit much
for normal hair."

"Great on hedges, though."

"And you, Harry Potter, have hair that. . . well. Has anyone ever used the word normal to
describe those locks of yours?"

"Oh no," Harry said, one hand already scrabbling for the doorknob.

"You needn't be alarmed - see here, Fred's already got his looks back -"
George pointed reassuringly at a spot on the side of his brother's head.

Just then, the door opened with a loud, long creak. "What ho, Percy!" Fred said.
"We missed you at lunch."

"Yes, well, some hooligan thought it would be funny to plant lager bottles in a Muggle pub
that were charmed to whisper abusive statements to the person drinking them. You can, I'm sure,
imagine the fracas that resulted on a Saturday night. I've been dealing with things since about
one o'clock this morning," Percy drew himself up importantly, "thus allowing our
father to have a proper Sunday's rest."

"That's a shame," George said, trying and failing not to look amused. "Now
that you're here, need a trim?" Sweetie's blades clicked ominously against their
restraints.

"No, thank you," Percy said, frowning. "I'd like to speak with Harry a
moment, if I may."

"Oh, sweet Merlin, yes. Absolutely," Harry said.

He followed Percy out into the winter sunshine. The garden was dreary at this time of year,
trees bare, grass a dull brown, no gnomes in sight. He hugged his arms to himself.

Percy cleared his throat. "Hermione mentioned that your work has been keeping you quite
busy of late. More so than usual."

*Crap.*

"I don't know if that's true," Harry said carefully. "I always work a
lot."

Percy held up a hand. "I realise your profession requires you to maintain the highest
levels of secrecy. I am not asking - *would* not ask - you to break a trust. I'd just like
to hear your opinion as a member of law-enforcement, especially after what I've just witnessed.
. . . Are there a great number of people in our society today who are not as enlightened and
forward-thinking as we would hope?"

"Lots of Voldemort-sympathizers?" Harry said, when he had processed all that.
"Sure. Well, maybe not 'lots'. . . I don't know. But yeah. They're out
there."

"Thank you, Harry. It's important that I have the clearest possible picture of the
socio-political landscape if I am to be involved in re-shaping it in any significant way."

It wasn't a conscious thought. Something - a snake-whisper from a dream, pain that had never
really gone away, a dozen other thoughts and fears, *something* - made Harry stop Percy as he
turned to go back to the house. "Listen," he said, "if it was me, I'd. . . take
my time with things. I just would."

Percy looked at him intently, then gave a short nod. "Thank you," he said again, and
left.

*

After the washing-up, the girls settled down at the kitchen table with mugs of mulled cider and
second helpings of pie. Ginny and Sarah were getting along famously; Ginny had been telling
embarrassing childhood stories about Ron for some time and was, Hermione suspected, about one step
away from pulling out the photo albums.

Hermione was sipping her coffee and thinking her own thoughts, when suddenly -

"So, how long's it been going on, Hermione?"

"It? What?"

"You know *what*," Ginny said. "Or should I say, who."

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about," she said in her most
business-like voice. And then, at the looks on their faces, conceded, "Two weeks, more or
less." She could estimate down to the hour, but that would just be pathetic.

Sarah and Ginny made twin excited noises.

There was no escaping this conversation, so Hermione plunged in, willing her cheeks to stop
burning. "How'd you two know?"

"Well," Ginny said, "first off, there was all the smiling."

"What smiling?"

"Oh," Sarah said, "there's been smiling."

"And then," Ginny continued, "we have the seating arrangements in the lounge,
earlier."

"And at lunch, he refilled your pumpkin juice when you were getting low - twice."

"That's just good manners," Hermione protested.

"He's a *boy*," Sarah returned.

"He's *Harry*," Ginny added.

"So why aren't you two, you know, public?" Sarah asked.

That was the big question, and Hermione didn't answer. Ginny did, after a moment.
"Because he's Harry, and he's as emotionally savvy as, as -"

"As a toothpick?" Hermione said with a slight smile. "No - maybe - I don't
know." That was probably part of it, Harry's part of it, but her own reticence was
slightly different. Fourteen days was no time at all; they could fall apart next week, they could
fall apart tonight.

She didn't want the world to know if they didn't make it. She'd have a hard enough
time showing her face to Harry again.

"Maybe it's that," she said, pointing at Ginny. "What you just did. We'd
have to tell Ron first, and when they're alone in that flat of theirs he'd be rude about
me."

Ginny cocked her head to the side and Hermione was afraid, for a moment, that she might have
taken offence. "He would," Ginny said. "He might not do it on purpose, but yeah, the
last thing you need is his perceptions of you as a girlfriend colouring Harry's."

Hermione pushed her hair off her face and looked at Sarah. There was an awful lot of shared
boy-history around this table, and candor, she felt, was the way forward. "I was seventeen
when Ron and I dated. I wasn't at my best. Not that he was, either," she added.

"No-one's at their best at seventeen," Sarah said diplomatically. "Wait, how
old are you?" she asked Ginny.

"Eighteen," Ginny said with a grin. "So that's all right, then."

"You'll just have to lay down the law with Ron," Sarah said. "When you're
ready. Tell him he's not allowed to say or do or think *anything* when it comes to you and
Harry. Or," she smiled, "or I can."

"And tell him I'll hex him if he does," Ginny put in.

Hermione smiled at them both. "Thanks, you two. I may take you up on that." *One of
these days.*

*

A/N: I can't thank Cynthia Black and Paracelsus enough for helping me through revising my
old chapters (not to mention the beta work they did on this one!); I very seriously doubt this
would be here right now without them. But I'll try - a hundred million thanks to you! And to
Dorotea and Hiddenhibiscus for their betaing and tremendous support as well, and to everyone
who's been nice enough to review.

Credit where credit's due: Hermione's book *Goblins and E.T.* belongs to
Paracelsus. The hair scissors of doom belong to Hiddenhibiscus. The ducks of St. James's Park
don't actually belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, but I wouldn't have thought to
mention them if it weren't for *Good Omens.*

This was sort of the last bit of calm before the storm. . . excitement ahead! And some twists, I
promise. Hope to see you there. :)



13. Thirteen
------------

A/N: Hi. So it's been a while, hasn't it. And um, last time I promised excitement,
didn't I? Turns out we have to get through some talking, first. Sorry 'bout that.

**Thirteen**

It was the same but it was also different, every time. It never unfolded like a play, curtain up
on the Death Eaters taking their places on Aunt Petunia's front lawn, curtain down on twin
flashes of green light. He wished it would: then it would have a beginning, and an end, he would
know how long it would last, he might even remember something solid when he woke. Some detail that
would prove important, make him say *aha!*, explain the recurring show.

But instead, things would go from last to first to middle and back again, following a
dream-logic that made perfect sense, but meant nothing with eyes open. Or sight and sound would
fade away and the night become nothing more than its essence, a haze of fear and blood and
pain.

Harry kicked back the covers, sweaty and hot, and stared up at the dark blur of the ceiling. All
he had were dots, and no idea where to draw the line connecting them. Headaches. Dreams. A bit of
flu. And a plot involving known Death Eaters, the Dark Mark, blood from the most powerfully magic
creatures known to wizardkind, and, mustn't forget, a little jade snake with something to
say.

Dean would say he couldn't draw the line because there wasn't one to be drawn; just Dark
wizards to catch and a doctor or - Harry shuddered - a therapist to see.

Not that it mattered what Dean would say, now.

Yesterday at the Burrow, Harry hadn't thought, he hadn't rationalised, he hadn't
considered the implications. He'd simply opened his mouth, spoken two sentences, and very
neatly sabotaged everything Hermione had been working for.

That was yesterday.

Harry wondered how long it would be before she found out, before she hated him, before she was
gone. Today Harry was sorry, but she was safer, and if someone threw a Time-Turner around his neck
and spun the glass he knew he'd do the same thing all over again.

Today, he'd had enough.

Harry got out of bed and put on trackpants and a sweatshirt. The sky was lightening, grey
instead of black, and even if he thought he could, it would be pointless trying to go back to
sleep. Instead, a jog through early-morning streets, a shower, and then work, where he would
*do* something about this, finally.

He made it to Headquarters earlier than usual, before Dean, but not before Moody. Harry
wasn't sure that arriving before Moody was even possible; he was quite willing to believe that
his boss slept somewhere in the office, perhaps in his chair, or under his desk.

Harry walked up to Moody's desk and said, "Sir."

"Is that you here already, Potter?" Moody pushed aside a scroll and focused his
attention on Harry. "Should I put you to some kind of test to make sure you really are Potter,
and not someone else in disguise? I think maybe I should."

Harry did not doubt for an instant that the man was completely serious. "It's really
me," Harry said. "I wanted to have a word."

Moody regarded him for a moment, magic eye whirring. "If we were Muggles, how would I prove
your identity?"

"Fingerprints, sir," Harry said, holding up his hands, palm out.

"Really?" Moody pulled a piece of parchment to him, and scribbled this down.
"Interesting. And how would I remove them? A small, sharp knife?"

"No, sir!" Harry hastily stuffed his hands into his pockets. Leaving computer
technology out altogether - they were already wasting too much time - he explained about inkpads,
and about keeping the prints of known criminals on file. "And you would've taken my
fingerprints when I first joined up here, so you could easily check."

"Mmm," Moody said, still writing. "Fascinating, thank you." A twitch of his
wand, and a chair slid across the floor to stop in front of his desk. "Sit, sit."

Harry did, taking a deep breath. "Sir," he began, "I want to ask you about some
things, but I don't really want to talk about why I want to know. I just. . . want to
know."

Moody nodded approvingly. "Tell nothing you do not need to tell. Very wise, boy, very wise.
Ask, and I will answer what I am able."

Harry felt something in him unwind. Moody *had* been the right person to come to. He
understood wanting to keep a secret, and he would not consider Harry paranoid - well, he might, but
it wouldn't be a problem. To Moody, paranoia was a perfectly rational state of mind.

"Voldemort's body," Harry said. "I know what was done with it, but I'd
like to hear exactly how things went, from the moment he and I. . . I'd like to hear it from
someone who was there. And you were, weren't you?"

"That I was. I did not see what happened between the two of you - and I don't know that
anyone who did see understands *what* they saw." Moody looked at him steadily. "You
have kept that close, as you should. But you're asking about afterwards. . . ."

There was a silence, and as it stretched, Harry became afraid the old man was editing the story
down to something he felt it safe to share. He said, "If anyone has a right to know
everything, it's me. And it'll go no further, I promise. I've kept bigger secrets than
this."

"Yes," Moody said, "I suppose you have." He pinned Harry with that look
again, and for some reason that magical eye was *more* disconcerting when it was still and
intent. "Everyone was worried about his soul, or what passed for one. It was understood that
the body was his own creation, and that if he had created one, he could create another. There were
so-called experts from the Spirit Division combing the area -"

"And at St. Mungo's, doing tests on me." The things they'd done when he'd
woken up had been bad enough; Harry didn't like to imagine how invasive they'd been while
he'd been out of it.

"And doing tests on you. And they found nothing, anywhere. We can only hope that was
because there was nothing to find." The old man's look was sharp and Harry thought, *Of
course he's still not sure of me.*

"I know the body was burned with a torch lit on Fawkes's burning day," Harry said.
"But how long until that happened?"

"Three days."

"And was the body moved around at all, during that time?"

"By that lot?" Moody snorted, shaking his head. "None of them wanted to touch
him. They stood around and argued and scratched their arses. Didn't know what to do, didn't
want to be responsible for doing it. And then that bird of Dumbledore's showed up and burst
into flames, and they all said 'jolly good,' and that was that."

Harry could picture it: no Dumbledore to take things in hand, the Ministry a wreck, the members
of the Order who were still alive and conscious doing their best and being thwarted more often than
not. He was rather glad he'd been out of it in a hospital bed. It would've been left to him
to step into Dumbledore's place, and he hadn't been ready for that. Still wasn't.
"Good for Fawkes," he said.

"Perhaps," Moody said. "Don't know about letting birds make decisions for me,
myself. Still, I suppose what's done is done."

*Didn't move the body at all,* Harry thought. "So - who was there? Do you
remember?"

Moody grunted. "Too many damn people, flit-flit-flitting around. What was left of us -
Arthur Weasley, and some of his boys. Lupin, when he wasn't off checking on you. Shacklebolt.
Minerva McGonagall. And Magical Law Enforcement, of course, Aurors and Hit Wizards and
administrative paper-pushers all over the place. Can't tell you who all was in the Ministry
crowd, but the Minister was there, obviously. Healers. Those bloody spirit experts."

Moody was right: too many damn people. The more people, the more noise, the more chaos, the more
opportunity. Anyone could've been there. Done anything they liked. Taken anything they
liked.

"Were there guards posted over the body?"

"Yes, Aurors, in shifts. The other Order members stuck as close as they could, but not
having any official capacity, they were asked to leave after a while." Moody smiled his
twisted-up smile. "I didn't have any official capacity either, not at first. It's a
wonder how quickly you can get sworn back in as an Auror when you draw your wand and tell 'em
to move you if they can."

Harry smiled at that. "So you were there the entire time? Was anyone else?"

Moody tapped two fingers on the table as he thought. "No," he said finally. "Not
that I remember. Shacklebolt came close - he didn't take the breaks he was offered - but he
still had reports to file and superiors to meet with and all that rubbish." He harrumphed.
"There's a time for fooling with the Ministry and Headquarters and reports," Moody
waved a piece of parchment for emphasis, "and there's a time for staying put. Wouldn't
you say, Potter?"

Harry nodded. What he needed to know was if anyone had acted suspiciously, but Moody's
answer to that question would likely involve everyone and everything within a five-kilometre
radius. What he really needed was to stop relying on secondhand accounts, and see for himself. . .
"Sir? You wouldn't happen to use a Pensieve, ever, would you?"

That was, based on Moody's expression, the stupidest question he'd ever been asked.
"You know how those things work, don't you boy? Take a thought out of your head, where
it's relatively safe, and put it in a bowl where anyone can get at it? Madness!"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, and sighed. He could go find Kingsley Shacklebolt, and ask him
the same question, but there would be gaps in Kingsley's account, and what he needed was
certainty. Not to mention the issue of getting hold of a Pensieve.

"An observation, Potter," Moody said. "These are questions that would have been
well-asked a year and a half ago."

But he'd been certain then. He'd told the Minister and the Aurors and the
*Quibbler* (in his one and only official interview) that it was because he was confident of
the magic. And that was true enough - it was a good spell, the one that three of them had come up
with, and he'd had no doubt that it had done what it was supposed to do.

But what he hadn't said, not to anyone but Ron and Hermione, was what it had felt like
inside his head at the moment in question. He'd been *alone*, and massive pain aside,
it'd been the best he'd felt in a long, long time.

It's like this, he'd told them: when you have a houseguest that you don't want, one
that sticks around for years, you *know* when they've finally buggered off. There's
simply no doubt.

*And if they worm their way back in slowly, one visit at a time, how long before you realise
they've moved back in?*

"I expect you're right, sir," Harry said.

*

The Monday morning zombie that was Dean stumbled in just after nine. Harry took one look at him
and went off in search of coffee. There was a surveillance operation to organise, and he wanted
someone with functioning brain cells to help him organise it.

Dean made an attempt at stringing together sentences about midway through the first cup.

"That," *swallow*, "Knockturn Alley. Map."

"Yes," Harry said.

*Swallow.* "You've got a map, there."

"Drink faster," Harry said.

Dean applied himself as directed while Harry studied the map. They needed a secure location from
which to watch Burke's shop, to see who came to pick up the dragon's blood. . . "Oh,
bollocks."

"Mmm?"

"I'm going at this wrong," Harry said, rolling up the map with a snap. "We
don't know that Burke has a shipment in, and in fact, he probably doesn't - that's why
they've got Crabbe running round buying bottles. We should be watching Crabbe's house.
Should've *been* watching Crabbe's house."

Dean shook his head. "Nah," he said, putting down his cup. "I went round last
week to check things out. He's just got four bottles of dragon's blood, down on a table in
his cellar. We didn't reckon anyone would risk coming in person to pick up that."

"Just four bottles?" Harry contemplated this. "He hasn't made much of an
effort, has he?"

"Just enough to show willing," Dean said. "And here he calls his son
lazy."

"You're right, of course," Harry said. "They're not going to let Crabbe
see them. They probably think. . ." What *did* they probably think? That Avery had never
cracked, so the Aurors had never got on to Crabbe? That the Aurors had sniffed Crabbe out, but when
no more of Voldemort's artifacts had appeared, had gone on to other things? Did they suspect
that Aurors might be watching him still, but need the dragon's blood so badly that it
didn't matter? Harry slammed his hand on the table. "I don't *know* what they
think, that's the problem."

"Hey," Dean said, "hey. It doesn't really matter, does it? They're still
using him, so we still use him. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry said, reluctantly, "okay. They'll send an owl for those
bottles, don't you think?"

"Most likely. We could capture it, put a trace on it, but-"

"But we'd probably just end up getting it killed, and spooking them in the
process."

"So, back to the map?" Dean asked.

"Back to the map," Harry said, unrolling it. Back to a person they *knew* was bad
news, through and through. The one person that they'd found on their own, that they hadn't
been taken by the hand and led to.

"It'll be a big shipment, and Burke'll expect to be paid," Dean said, "so
they might show up personally for that."

"Or send a representative." Harry studied the street in front of him. They needed
somewhere close to the shop, somewhere a little more secure than the usual dustbins. And
considering the neighborhood, they didn't just have to worry about Burke spotting them. . .
anyone who noticed them hanging about was liable to take offence. Violent offence.

"That building there," Dean said, pointing to one behind the shop, "probably
gives a good view from one of the upper storeys, or from the roof."

Harry nodded. "And this one," he said, tapping a square on the map, "would do the
same for the front."

"Shall we go scout them out? And try to see if Burke has a load in already?"

They both looked across the room instinctively. "Yes," Moody said, from his desk,
"but not yet. Wait until lunchtime. The streets will be busier, and it's less likely that
you'll be noticed, or remembered."

Harry and Dean exchanged glances. That was fair enough, and if that was the only objection Moody
had to their plan, they were doing well indeed. Harry said, "And until then?"

Moody indicated the stack of books they'd been using to research spells that involved
dragon's blood. "This, of course, or," he gave Harry a significant look, "if any
of your own affairs are pressing, this might be the time to deal with them. I do not know when you
will have a better chance."

Harry felt a rush of warmth for the man, but restricted himself to a quick nod. Dean was busy
trying not to look delighted, and Harry could guess what his partner was thinking - something about
the pressing importance of more coffee, and perhaps the acquisition of a sweet roll or two.

"See that you're back by noon," Moody said. Harry checked his watch: ten-fifteen. It
would be enough time. It would have to be.

*

Dean went downstairs, and Harry went up. There might not be any good, quick, complete way of
seeing those first days after Voldemort, but there was *something* he could see, something
real and solid. And Moody, who made it his business to know things he wasn't meant to know, had
told Harry how to go about doing that.

The sign said MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT, ADMINISTRATION. The door was open, and Harry walked into
the small outer office and up to the desk.

"Harry Potter. I need to see Madam Bones. Or Mr. Caval." Not *I want*, not *may
I*: if he didn't ask, it made it that much harder for her to say no.

"You've an appointment?" The witch behind the reception desk looked through thick
glasses at her schedule-book. "I don't see the name. . ."

"Don't have one," Harry said, and let his tone say the rest for him: *don't
need one.* "I just need a minute from either of them, that's all."

He smiled and stood his ground. The witch looked at the book, at him, at the closed doors either
side of her desk, back to him. . . finally, she said, "I'll just see, shall I?"

"Thank you."

She took out a small, light-green parchment square and wrote upon it, then turned it into an
airplane and sent it flying through a flap built into one of the doors. They waited. Harry listened
to the tick of the clock on the wall and thought that he'd made a mistake. He didn't like
this entitled-hero persona, and she surely didn't either - and who knew if she'd written
anything at all helpful on that paper. . . .

The green airplane returned, landing gently on the desk. After reading it and depositing it
neatly in the bin, the witch said, "She'll fit you in as soon as her schedule allows. Wait
over there."

"And Mr. Caval?"

The witch repeated the process, wordlessly making it quite clear just how much he was asking of
her. When the paper returned, she read it, then gestured again toward a chair along the wall. This
time, Harry took it.

Harry waited. The chair was soft and squashy, but he sat up straight in it, jiggling his leg.
The clock ticked and tocked, and Harry found himself digging his fingers into the chair arms in
order to keep from getting up and pacing round the room.

Ten-thirty-eight. It was too much to hope that he could get things sorted before Percy spoke to
Hermione. Or was it? Percy would take his words seriously, that was a given, because the days when
he would've believed the exact opposite of whatever Harry said were gone. But what would he
*do*? Would he really pull out of Hermione's project altogether?

No, Harry decided. Percy might see the risk of it now, but that didn't mean he'd stopped
seeing the opportunity. And that opportunity in the hands of someone else. . . no, Percy Weasley
would not like the look of that at all.

So Percy would stall, then. He would continue working with Hermione, keep the wheels in motion,
but turn them at his own pace - that of a bureaucratic snail.

And Hermione, Hermione would still realise that something was wrong, of course. And she would
work out his part in it, because she was brilliant, and because Percy was not always subtle.

She was going to be so unhappy.

It was definitely time that he did this.

Ten-forty-three. A door opened, the one on the right, marked DEPUTY HEAD. Mr. Caval stepped out
and had a brief conversation with the witch at reception, in the course of which Harry learned
several things: that her name was Miss Callendar, that Mr. Caval's wife like to owl a
*lot*, and that his ten-forty-five appointment would be rather late, as security had found a
suspect handkerchief, perhaps dangerously enchanted, in her handbag. Harry wondered if he had Moody
to thank for that as well.

"Potter," Mr. Caval said, inclining his head toward his open door.

They went into the inner office, Mr. Caval closing the door behind them. Harry sat in the chair
he was offered. He was suddenly exponentially more nervous than he had been before talking to
Moody; he had little idea how Mr. Caval would react to his request. It might have been better if
he'd got Madam Bones. She might be busier and scarier (partly because she was his absolute boss
and partly because he'd never forgot being up before her in the Wizengamot at age fifteen), but
he knew, at least, that she'd hear what he had to say.

Although he didn't want to say much at all, so maybe things *had* worked out for the
best. . . .

Mr. Caval sat at his desk, folding his hands and giving Harry his full attention. "You
wanted to see me?"

*You know this much about him - don't waste his time.* "Yes, sir. I know
you're very busy, and I'm sorry to interrupt. If I could do it by myself I would." He
took a breath. "Could we go to Gringotts? Vault eight forty-two?"

The older man's posture didn't change, but his eyes went interested. "Ah," he
said. "When?"

In for a penny. . . "Now?"

"Mm. Any particular reason?"

"Not exactly," Harry lied, "it's just something I feel I should do. Should do
regularly, in fact, perhaps we could go ahead and schedule in this same time next year?"

Mr. Caval smiled, a brief flash of teeth. "How can I say no? Do you know why we hired you,
Potter?"

*Because you wanted to keep an eye on me? Because you thought the best way to make people feel
safe was to let them know Harry Potter was still taking care of them? Because I asked you
to?*

He shook his head.

"I shan't speak for Amelia, but this," he gestured between them, "this is why
I wanted you here. Precisely this." Mr. Caval stood, and a cloak drifted across the room to
come to rest on his shoulders. "No matter how this world of ours may change, Potter, I know I
can count on you to never forget where we've been."

*

The main hall of Gringotts was mostly empty, and their footsteps echoed on the marble floor. Mr.
Caval conferred briefly with a goblin at the high counter, and in no time they were off in one of
the rickety carts, heading down.

"I expect you're wondering why we chose Gringotts? Entrusted something like this to
non-wizards?"

Harry wasn't, actually. He hadn't thought too much of it, found himself nodding when
Moody had told him, in fact. Gringotts had done for Dumbledore, and Hagrid had had absolute faith
in the goblins, and that was plenty good enough for Harry.

Mr. Caval went on, "They may not think like us or play by our rules, but no-one does
security better than these fellows. No-one. No point in trying to reinvent the wand, eh?"

Harry shook his head no. He was holding onto his glasses with one hand, because they were moving
very fast and very deep, and he didn't want to lose them to an underground ravine. This trip
was such a strange echo of his first visit here with Hagrid, all those years ago; back then he had
known nothing of this world, and been tremendously excited and only very slightly scared. Now he
knew too much and not enough, all at once. Now, today, he was afraid.

"None of you can come here without me. Right?" Harry said, pitching his voice over the
click-click-click of the wheels.

"That's correct," Mr. Caval said. "The only people cleared for access are
myself, Amelia, and the Minister. And none of us can open the vault without you."

Harry hesitated, casting a glance at the goblin in the front of the cart. Could he hear them?
Did it matter? "But we've not come here before, just to check on things."

Mr. Caval said, after a moment, "The Minister didn't want it. He wouldn't like us
coming here today, in fact. While I may not exactly be a public figure, you are, and people will
see. See, and talk."

"He doesn't want people to know what's here? But they'd never manage to get
hold of it, not ever."

"I don't believe that's the issue," Mr. Caval said. "It's my
understanding that the Minister wants to usher in a brand-new era. Peace and prosperity -"

"And no-one frightened if he can help it," Harry said. "I get it." He was
quiet a moment. "Me, I'd rather be scared than in the dark."

Mr. Caval smiled, that flash of teeth again. "I'd have to agree with you."

Harry was shivering now, and he didn't know whether it was the cold or the anticipation or,
as they went over a particularly stomach-dropping bump, if he was about to be nastily sick. He
could only hope that it wasn't the latter.

They stopped, finally. There was a door cut into the rock up ahead of their cart; Harry could
just see it behind the bloody great dragon that stood before them. He pulled the neck of his robes
up over his nose like a five-year-old and breathed through it, trying to filter out the terrible
brimstone smell. He rather hoped that goblins were secretly skilled dragon-tamers, because he
didn't fancy trying to run past it or under it in order to get to the vault.

The goblin climbed out of the cart and onto the rock ledge. It stood before the dragon, tiny and
confident, and raised a hand. The dragon snorted once, then backed away.

Harry scrambled out of the cart, and Mr. Caval followed, a little more slowly. They followed the
goblin up to the vault door. Mr. Caval raised his hand to the door and hovered his palm there,
careful to not actually touch it. At his look, Harry followed suit. The goblin stepped between
them, and at the moment his fingernail touched the lock, they pressed their hands to the door. At
once the solid rock door was gone. The goblin stood back, and they entered the vault alone.

It was a very simple little room, just like all the other Gringotts vaults Harry had seen
inside. A stone jar sat very unceremoniously in the middle of the floor. Harry stepped towards it,
then hesitated. "Are there any other protections on it?"

"We didn't think it necessary," came Mr. Caval's voice from behind him.
"But if you wish to put some more in place before you leave, feel free."

Harry crossed the room, heart thumping painfully. It wasn't the ashes that he was here to
see. He was not so foolish to think that Voldemort needed the remains of this body to create
another one. He was here to see what kept showing up in his dreams, and it should be here. Surely
even Fawkes's fire couldn't melt stone.

He stood with his hand on the lid of the jar, thinking. There was a possibility he couldn't
ignore. Did Voldemort *want* him to open this container? Was that the point of all this? He
couldn't rule it out.

It must be heaven to be everyone else, to know that right or wrong, your decisions were your own
and no-one else's. To have a mind that *wasn't* a homicidal madman's personal
playground.

"This should've ended when you died," he said quietly.

Harry crouched down and ran his wand over the jar. There was magic inside, so much that it
rocked him back on his heels, but he felt nothing dark, nothing malevolent. *Fawkes*, Harry
thought, and removed the lid.

Dark ash, filling the jar about halfway. Harry didn't know why he'd thought there would
be more; he knew that he was looking at what had once been bone, that everything else had burned
away completely.

Hopefully not *everything* else. That was the point of this, after all.

"Accio stone!" Harry said, quietly but clearly. Nothing happened. He tried again.
Nothing.

He took his wand and put it inside the jar, running it around and about, back and forth. It met
no resistance. Finally, desperately, he put his hand in, and did the same.

Still nothing.

*So I'm not going mad,* Harry thought, staring into the container of ash, and only ash.
*Well, that's something.*

*

The main hall of the bank was busier when they left, the start of the lunch rush, and the
streets were busier too. Harry was a little surprised when Mr. Caval showed no signs of wanting to
Apparate back to Headquarters, settling instead for a brisk walk. He was probably being watched, he
realised, his reactions monitored; Mr. Caval hadn't asked any questions about what Harry had
done, but the man had to be curious.

Harry didn't like the idea of being under scrutiny. He picked up the pace.

"You've spotted her, then? I thought you probably had."

Harry had done nothing of the sort, but he wasn't about to admit it. He gave a quick look
over his shoulder. It was enough. "The blonde? She's being so obvious, it's hard to
imagine her a threat."

The girl really was following them, and she really was being very obvious. She didn't seem
to have the nerves for this sort of work at all; she'd actually stumbled in her haste to look
away when Harry had glanced at her.

"Probably just can't keep her eyes off the Boy Who Lived. Tell me, is this often a
problem when you're out on the job?"

"No sir," Harry said quickly.

"Certain of that?"

Mr. Caval was frowning, undoubtedly thinking up new, stringent disguise protocols for him to
follow. Harry groaned.

"Absolutely. Anyhow, it's not that often I'm out here amongst the general public
when I'm working. It's usually more, Knockturn Alley, people who *aren't* going to
be pleased to see me." He grinned a bit, thinking of criminals who'd hit the ground
immediately, hands behind their backs, when they'd realised it was Harry Potter who'd come
to sort them out. Might not have happened often, but it *had* happened. "Sometimes
it's rather an asset, being recognised."

"Mm," Mr. Caval said, which Harry thought might count as acceptance. They kept
walking, and she kept following.

Two more blocks to go, and Harry didn't need this girl getting her courage up and coming
over to embarrass him in front of his boss. "If you'll excuse me," he said,
"I'll just go speak to her for a second. Probably the best thing to do."

"All right," Mr. Caval said, and he continued on towards Headquarters while Harry
turned back.

Harry didn't plan on actually speaking to her. He thought that, as nervous as the girl
seemed to be, just the act of him walking towards her would probably fluster her so much that
she'd just walk right past him, and that would be that. He was wrong, though; as he drew
closer, her steps faltered, and she kept giving him quick little looks while she fiddled with her
handbag. *Oh, bollocks*, Harry thought, she's going to try and kill me, and she's
going to do a really bung job of it, and I'm going to have to take her down in front of all
these people, and please Merlin, has Mr. Caval made it to the next street yet?

He walked straight up to the girl, and she stopped short, eyes wide. "Hi. Listen. Don't
do anything silly, and nothing bad will happen, all right? Just take your hands off your bag, and
keep them where I can see them - that's right - now -"

"Am - am I being arrested?" she asked. She'd done as he asked, and her hands were
shaking as she held them up between them. "I wasn't stalking you, really I wasn't.
Well, I suppose I was, but -"

Harry looked her over. "Why were you doing that?"

"I just wanted to ask you some questions. It was a bad idea, obviously, I'm very sorry.
. . ."

"And what's in the bag?"

"My notebook," she said. "With the questions."

"Ah," Harry said, "a journalist. My favourite sort of person." He didn't
shift his stance in the slightest.

"Not exactly," she said. "I mean, I would like to write up what you say, but I
don't work for the *Prophet* or anything and I don't care how you take your tea or who
you went down the pub with last night." She took a breath. "May I start over? My
name's Sally-Ann Perks, we were at school together, and I'm working with a friend of yours,
Hermione Granger -"

"Oh!" Harry said. "One of Hermione's lot." He waved at her hands, and
she put them down, looking fractionally less terrified. "Sorry about all," he fluttered a
hand, "that. Thought you were trying to off me, there."

She stared. "What? Oh my God, no, I'm so sorry -"

"It's all right," Harry interrupted, "it happens. Don't worry about
it."

*One of Hermione's lot. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.*

"Listen," he said, "I know what you want, but I can't give it to you. Not
right now." She opened her mouth, but he forestalled her with a hand. "And not if we
arrange to meet later, either. I -" *Give her a reason, give her a reason, Hermione
won't see through it but this girl might, and maybe all of this will go no further -*
"I'm an employee of Magical Law Enforcement, that's no real secret, and as such I
can't give an interview about anything without it going through about a hundred official
channels. I'm sorry."

"I understand," Sally-Ann said. She looked like she did. She also looked like he'd
taken away her very favourite Puffskein. "I suppose that's why Hermione's never
interviewed you herself. I thought she just didn't want you to feel obliged, you being so close
and everything."

Harry swallowed.

"I'll let you go, then," she said. She smiled. "Sorry about all the
stalking."

He forced a smile back. Thanks to her stalking, he'd gone from *Hermione, he asked my
opinion and I gave it, he made his own choice, didn't he?*, to *Hermione, I think your law
is great and all, but I don't want to help you out with it right now.* Brilliant.

"It's forgiven," Harry said.

Not hard words to say at all. Hopefully Hermione would find them that way, too.

*

A/N: If you got through all that, you deserve a treat, you really do. There's chocolate chip
cake at my lj (significantowl). . . well, the recipe for it, at least. :)

Many many thanks to Hiddenhibiscus, Dorotea, Cynthia Black, Sahiya, and Paracelsus for beta. And
they've got the next chapter now, so, see you all in a couple weeks?



14. Fourteen
------------

**Fourteen**

*

Hermione's arms were full of groceries when she Apparated into Harry's flat, but they
didn't block her view of the startled look on his face. "I thought you might be
hungry," she said, smiling. She put her bags down on the kitchen counter and went over to the
lounge side of the room. Harry had been sprawled in a chair, but now he was standing, and she
leaned up to give him a kiss.

"How was your day?"

"Ah. Erm. Long?"

"Mine too." She went back to the kitchen. "You would think things at work would
slack off this close to the holiday, but you would be wrong."

"Tell me about it," she heard him mutter.

Hermione started emptying the bags. She'd got some chicken, a spice mixture to rub it in,
two jacket potatoes, and some sprouts. She wasn't sure how Harry was going to take to the
sprouts, but she knew how to cook them, and that was the main thing.

It had been research keeping her busy in the barrister's office that afternoon, which was
quiet work, but absorbing; research plus one visitor, who had *not* come to see the old wizard
she clerked for.

Harry had followed her into the kitchen, and was standing there awkwardly. "You don't
have to cook," he said.

"I know," she said. "That's why I want to."

"Er, okay," Harry said, looking completely befuddled.

She smiled to herself. "Where's your baking dish?"

"Ah. . ." While Harry began opening cupboards and rattling around in them, she set to
washing the chicken.

It was normal, Hermione supposed, to want to spread embarrassment and apologies around; told
enough times a story loses its sting and becomes just that, a story. And that was why Sally-Ann
Perks had come round to Hermione's work that afternoon. She'd told Hermione all about
seeing Harry on the street, about asking him for an interview and making him think she was out to
kill him in the process. Then she'd fretted for a good quarter of an hour over whether he
thought her mad or presumptuous or a bit of an idiot or all of the above.

Hermione had reassured her, sent her on her way, and been distracted for the rest of the
day.

Not just distracted; also piqued, perturbed, and very slightly cross. Harry had told her he
thought what she was doing was brilliant, acted like they were exactly of the same mind, and then,
when given the chance, he hadn't helped. From which followed the all-too-logical deduction that
he didn't care about it as much as she did, because if so, he would have jumped at the
chance.

She wasn't sure what bothered her more - the idea that he might have been pretending,
humouring her all along; or the fact that they *weren't* of the same mind, that they
weren't standing together and seeing the same thing when they looked out on the world.

No, she knew. It was the second one.

But that was illogical of her, and she'd told herself that quickly. They were two different
people, with two different brain chemistries and two different sets of experiences. She should
*expect* them to look at the world differently. It was just that everything was that much
better, felt that much more *right* when they didn't.

And of course it came down to experiences, here. There was a reason she'd not ever asked
Harry that question herself, after all; she'd felt it was just too much, asking him to
voluntarily put himself in the spotlight right now. Obviously, she'd been right.

By the time she'd left the office, she was simply relieved that it had been Sally-Ann to ask
and Sally-Ann to be rejected. The other girl had saved them no end of awkwardness. It would've
been uncomfortable enough if Hermione had asked and Harry had said no; it would've been worse,
she was certain, if she'd asked and he'd said yes because he felt he had to.

Hermione didn't like admitting it, but a small part of her was dead curious to know whether
he *would* have done it for her.

It was that relief that had propelled Hermione to the grocer's. She'd wanted them to
have a very ordinary, very nice evening because they *could*. She couldn't help but smile
a bit while she scrubbed the potatoes. Harry was so obviously ill at ease, silently hovering near
the stove. Hermione felt a little magnanimous: she got to understand and absolve without him even
knowing. It wasn't a bad feeling.

She was putting the sprouts on to boil when the owl came. She assumed at first that it would be
for Harry, something from Moody, most likely, that would take him away tonight. But the bird wanted
her.

Hermione read her letter through twice before looking up. Harry was watching her.
"What's wrong?" he asked. Two simple words, words anyone might say considering what
was surely on her face, but there was something about the way he said them that suggested he was
very, very afraid that he already knew the answer.

She handed the letter over, bitter disappointment twisting her stomach. Harry's eyes slid
down the page, taking in the signature first, and right then, in the second before his face became
blank, Hermione had her own answer.

Not looking at her, he said, "Hermione, I'm so sorry."

Through a rush of anger, Hermione took the letter out of his hand, placed it on the counter, and
went back to the stove. Her hands were shaking. He'd known this was coming. He'd been
talking to Percy yesterday, and walked away from that conversation *knowing*, and hadn't
told her. And right now she wanted so much to turn to him, let him hold *her* up, but she
couldn't.

It was very quiet in the kitchen; she could hear the chicken sizzling in the oven.
"It's just a couple months' setback, right?" Harry said finally. "I mean,
Percy's got to work on this exploding popcorn thing right now, but as soon as he's got that
sorted. . . can't have microwaves blowing up all over the city. . . ."

Hermione was silent, pushing the sprouts around the pot with a wooden spoon. It wasn't about
exploding popcorn and it wasn't just a couple months' delay, and Harry *knew* that. If
this law was going to be written, it would be without Percy.

Who in the world were they going to ask instead?

She would think this through rationally, and she would answer that question. This was only
defeat if she allowed it.

She still hadn't spoken, and she was sure that was making Harry nervous; she didn't look
at him, but she could picture him running a hand over his head, spiking that hair up, fiddling with
those glasses.

Her silence wasn't for him, though, it wasn't some kind of punishment. It was for her.
It was the only thing keeping her from crying.

"Tell me something," she managed finally. "You two were talking at the Burrow
yesterday, I saw you through the window. What did he say?"

Harry answered after a pause, in the tone of someone being asked to dig his own grave.
"He'd been dealing with some Muggle-baiting at work, and it got him worrying. He asked me
if I thought there were a lot of Voldemort sympathisers still around."

"And you said?"

He gave a short, sharp sigh. "What I thought. Yes."

"Oh." She squeezed her eyes closed.

"Hermione. . . I really am sorry. I know how much this means to you. But when he asked me.
. . well, honestly, I think it's only right that Percy have an idea of what he's getting
into. I wasn't going to lie to him."

"No," Hermione said, her voice shaky. She drew in a breath. "No, I wouldn't
expect you to."

"I didn't tell him that you lot had been getting threatening letters," Harry
said.

She considered that a moment, and turned around to face him. "Are you saying that because
you think it'll make me happy, or because you're insinuating that I should have told
him?"

Harry shrugged.

"Both?" she asked.

"Yeah, suppose so."

"I'm not trying to *keep* it from him," she said, and was she trying to
convince herself, too? "I suppose I don't see them as a threat so much as proof that what
we're doing needs doing. With that kind of prejudice out there. . . ."

"Exactly," Harry said. "Please don't underestimate it, Hermione."

"Wait until it's safe to do the right thing, you mean?" She laughed bitterly.
"Where would we be now if we'd always done that?" Before Harry could answer - or
shrug - Hermione went on, "And how many werewolves will find themselves passed over for a job
or thrown out of their flats before then? And how many people will find themselves wrongfully
imprisoned because your lot don't have time for things like innocent until proven
guilty?"

"I don't know," Harry said. "And of course I think that stuff is wrong."
He stepped closer to her, but didn't touch her; just stood there in her space. He said quietly,
intensely, "But I'm more worried about something happening to you than any of
it."

"Oh, now that's not *fair*," Hermione burst out, and there came the tears.
"You go to work and risk yourself for other people every single day, and I'm not allowed
to think that!"

Harry said nothing; his jaw was clenched tight. Hermione hugged her arms around herself. "I
try so hard not to make a fuss. I try so hard not to think about it. But there it is, every
day." She reached out then, put her arms around his waist, pulled them together. "I wish
you did something else," she said, her voice muffled against him, "but I understand why
you do it."

Differences, that's what she'd been fretting over earlier in the day. How silly. They
were more the same than anything.

Maybe that was what needed worrying about.

Harry was holding her now, too, but loosely, as if he expected her to try and get away at any
moment. He cleared his throat. "What are you going to do now?"

"Well," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder, "first, talk to Roger
and everyone. We'll decide who else in the Ministry to approach, and make certain, this time,
that whoever we work with has the stomach for it."

"Of course," Harry murmured. A minute later, he said, "Isn't your term about
done?"

"Yes," Hermione said, a bit wrong-footed by this sudden turn in the conversation.
"I just have two exams left."

Harry nodded, his head bumping hers a little. "When you're done, why don't you come
stay here?"

Something spread through her, warm and tingling. She'd practically been living in the last
week or so, because she'd been worried about Harry, but there was a qualifier in that sentence,
and it was important. Practically meant nights on couches and grabbing showers at her place and
no-one asking her to leave, but no-one asking her to stay, either. This. . . this was an official
invitation, and while she hadn't expected it yet - there were things that, to be honest,
she'd thought they would say and do first - she knew she was ready to accept.

Hermione looked up. His face was too close to really see, but the tension was still there in the
way he held himself, in the line of his chin. Afraid she would say no, she thought, and she was
opening her mouth to say yes when she thought of something else.

"What have you told Ron?"

"Er, well. Nothing."

"Do you think we should do it together?"

"Ah -"

Hermione pulled away so that she could see Harry properly. She knew that look: he was
gobsmacked, and Hermione realised he hadn't even considered that Ron would have to know about
them, because this wasn't the invitation she'd thought it was.

He hadn't asked her to stay because he wanted to come home to her every day, because he was
happier when she was there, because he wanted to begin and end every day with her, because he
wanted her in his bed. He'd asked her for some other reason, and Hermione had a pretty good
idea what it was.

He'd asked her to stay so he could keep an *eye* on her.

"Hm," Harry said.

She turned back to the stove, a solid, heavy cold where the warmth had been. Wiping her eyes,
Hermione bustled unnecessarily: she peeked in on the chicken, prodded the potatoes with a fork,
pushed the sprouts around in the pot.

"How about this," Hermione said finally. "I'll ignore the fact that you just
made an offer that you didn't entirely mean to make, and are obviously conflicted over whether
you're really ready to take things further, and I won't fuss or say we need to talk about
it, if you'll tell me just one thing. And tell me the truth."

She turned to look at Harry then, and it *hurt*. His eyes were on the floor and his lips
were pressed tight, and she wanted to slap him and hug him all at once.

She reached out, put her fingers under his chin, and forced it up so that he was looking into
her eyes. "What are you protecting me from?"

*

It was a weekday afternoon, and the train was crowded, packed with people heading home from
their jobs. Sarah had wanted to travel this way, and Ron was completely willing. He had not the
slightest desire to use a quicker, faster, more efficient wizarding mode of transport. They would
get there soon enough.

It was inevitable, of course, and something he really should have seen coming. It was almost
Christmas, and this was what people did at Christmas: they visited family. Whether they wanted to
or not.

But he had a feeling yesterday's trip to the Burrow was directly to blame for what they were
doing right now, today. She'd probably been thinking about it for a while, but hadn't felt
comfortable bringing it up until he had.

"I'm glad you were up for this," Sarah was saying. "It's better we do it
now, before it gets any closer to the holiday, and there's aunts and uncles and cousins to deal
with."

"Hmm," Ron said. He wasn't so sure about that. He could get lost among aunts and
uncles and cousins. But today, just him and Sarah and Sarah's parents, staring at each other
over tea and little cakes. . . something was going to go wrong. Horribly. Ron just knew it.

"Is your brother going to be there?" he asked, somewhat hopefully. But only
somewhat.

"No, I don't think so," Sarah said. "He likes to keep to his digs until the
last possible moment. There aren't too many birds to pull in Little Whinging, you
know."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Ron said, giving her a lewd grin. When she grinned
back, he leaned in and kissed her. The lady across the aisle rustled her *Times*
reproachfully.

A while later, Ron asked thoughtfully, "Does Piers really date a lot of women?"

"God, no. But he likes to try."

They walked down the street hand-in-hand. Sarah had suggested a cab, as her house was two miles
away, but Ron had rejected that, saying that it was a nice day - well, not actually raining - and
that the walk would do them good.

Sarah had given him an 'I know exactly what you're trying to do' look, buttoned up
her coat, and they were off.

Ron swung her hand and looked around at the neighborhood. The narrow streets, the perfect
gardens and perfect houses, the same-same-bloody-sameness of it all. It wasn't natural. He
wondered if he would recognise the Dursleys' old house if he saw it. He'd been there enough
times, yeah, but never approached it like this. Never seen it as just one among many.

He started wondering, then, if there were quiet hells like Harry's lying behind any of these
doors, up these perfectly groomed garden paths. *It's not a question of 'if',* he
thought a minute later. *It's a question of how many.*

He gave Sarah's hand a squeeze, hoping she hadn't lived one of them. He knew she
didn't exactly get on with her parents - 'They're very, very Tory,' she'd said
once, and while he wasn't sure exactly what that meant, her tone led him to think it wasn't
a good thing. But there was not getting on and then there was *not getting on*. . . .

"So your job's the same, you're an investment banker. I'm not sure where you
should work - if you want to pick somewhere they'd like," Ron nodded vigorously, "we
should go with somewhere a bit prestigious, Barclay's, somewhere like that. Same for school,
let's go with the LSE - London School of Economics - they'll be impressed, but it's
safe because they don't know anything about it really. You live with your best friend who works
for the CID -"

"What if they ask me about up-and-coming stocks, that sort of thing?" Ron interrupted.
"I don't know anything about your exchange. . . ."

"Easy. You're not at liberty to discuss it. And I'll cut in and imply that it's
rude of them to try and get free investment advice from a guest. And that'll end it, trust
me."

"Okay." Ron took a breath. "We're almost there, aren't we?"

"We are." Sarah gave him a reassuring smile, and tucked her arm through his.
"It'll be fine. Just don't magic anything, and it'll be fine."

"You're not worried?"

"Nope." A broad grin. "Terrified. Come on, here's our gate."

*

He had got this so wrong. He'd known a row was coming, he'd been formulating his
defences, but he might as well throw them all away. Trust her to see past everything to the one
thing that mattered.

*What are you protecting me from?*

And there was the choice, right there, right in front of him. Tell her, and keep her, and drag
her into all of this? Tell her, take her by the hand, and pull her back into the darkness?

On trial for secrets, truth the only route to the mercy of the court. . . And she would have to
know everything, and she would have to help, and she would have to get her law made at the same
time, no matter how much of the world was dead bloody set against her.

Right and easy. Right hurts, sometimes. Protection is pain, sometimes.

And he'd done enough worrying about the people he loved for a lifetime.

Harry stepped away, and her hand fell. "I don't know what you're talking
about," he said.

"Of course you don't," Hermione said. "Of course you don't." She was
shaking with anger and blinking back tears. She turned her back to him, and gave the pot on the
stove one last, furious stir. "These are ready, and the chicken and potatoes should be ready
to eat in ten more minutes." She propped the spoon against the rim of the pot. "As you
can imagine, I've suddenly got things to do."

And she was gone.

*

"See, that wasn't so bad."

"No," Ron said thoughtfully, "it wasn't. How about that." He considered.
"I think maybe they liked me."

"No," Sarah said, and she kissed his cheek, taking the sting away. "They
didn't. They were just being pathologically polite."

"Oh. I'm sorry." And he was, he realised. He wanted to be approved of. "But
they didn't figure out the wizard thing, did they?"

Sarah laughed. "No. They just think you're odd. Never in a million years would it cross
their minds that you're," she waved a hand, "magic."

They reached Ron's building and took the stairs to the flat. It was quiet in the corridor,
and there was no sound coming from inside, not the low hum of noise from the wireless, or the rise
and fall of voices, or anything that would suggest that it was occupied. Ron unlocked the door with
his wand and let them in.

The flat wasn't empty, though. Harry was sitting at the table, just sitting there. The room
was too dark, even though the lights were on, and there was a horrible burnt smell.

Something was wrong. Ron dropped Sarah's hand and crossed the room, slowing down as he
approached Harry. Ron didn't want to make a big deal of it, especially not in front of Sarah -
Harry wouldn't thank him for that - but if he was sick again. . . .

"All right, Harry?"

"Yeah," Harry said, not looking at Ron, "fine." He pushed himself up from
the chair, and Ron reckoned he was on his way out of the room.

"Listen, mate," Ron said, shifting position a bit - not blocking Harry in or anything,
but making it just a little harder for Harry to walk away from him. "If there's something
I can do -"

There was a noise at the door. It wasn't a polite knock. Harry and Ron exchanged glances,
and both began moving; Ron managed to get there first. He looked through the peephole. The person
out there was vaguely familiar -

"Let me in, you freaks, I want to talk to my sister."

Ah. Ron looked back at Sarah. Red was creeping up her face. "Do you want to see him?"
Ron asked quietly.

"No, but I should. I will." She gestured helplessly. "I'm so sorry."

"Hey," Ron said, "it's okay." He reached out a hand and she came and
took it, and was there at his side when he opened the door.

"What do you want, Piers?" Sarah was suddenly every inch the older sister.

"Mum rang to tell me who'd been round," he said. "Imagine how surprised I
was. Here I thought we had an understanding."

"I don't know where you got that idea," Sarah said. "You told me what you
thought. I didn't agree. End of story."

"You didn't *tell* me you didn't agree," Piers said.

Sarah shrugged. "Didn't see a reason." Piers opened his mouth, but she overrode
him. "So what did you do, Piers? Go round to my flat, and when we weren't there, bully Mai
Li into giving you my boyfriend's address? Class, Piers, really class. If you were really so
concerned about me, you could've rung me sometime in the past three months - oh, but you'd
forgot all about it til you talked to Mum, hadn't you?"

"Listen, Sarah," he said, his gaze flicking to Ron, "why don't we go
somewhere and talk-"

"No thanks," she said. "I don't think we need to. I think I have a much
better idea of who my friends are than you do. But I do think *you* should go."

Piers stared for a minute, his little eyes going comically wide. His mouth fell open. "Did
they make you one of *them*? They did, didn't they? Oh my God -"

Sarah sighed. "No, Piers."

"Aha!" he yelled. "You just admitted it. You know what freaks they are."

"Like I said," Sarah returned, "I know more about my friends than you
do."

Piers folded his arms, and addressed Ron for the first time. "Tell her everything, then?
Tell her how my best friend died?"

Silence. The loud, echoing kind. Ron hadn't, of course. He'd never got that far.

"He did." That was Harry, who thought he had, because Ron had let him think it. He
stepped forward, and Ron realised that the open door had been blocking him from Piers's sight.
"But if you want to talk about it, you should talk to me."

There was fear and fury on Piers's face, and Ron could see it was bravado that let him step
forward, towards Harry, crossing the threshold into their flat for the first time.
"Potter."

"He was your friend, and you do deserve to know what happened," Harry said. His words
were quiet and calm, but Ron knew his face, knew he was stretched so, so tight. Instinctively, Ron
slid and arm around Sarah, but she was stiff against him. Maybe from fear, maybe from anger, maybe
both.

"The wizard who killed my parents never stopped coming after me," Harry went on.
"He took Dudley and my uncle because he thought he could get me to do something for him that
way. I did it, he killed them anyway." His face closed. "Your sister would be safer if
she didn't know me. You're right about that."

"Liar," Piers said. Then, more loudly, "You're lying, oh, think you're so
special, don't you? Bad wizards chasing you, your whole life! Oh no, it wasn't me, it was
that evil man that follows me around that no-one ever sees!"

"Piers," Ron said, because someone had to stop this.

He thought something cracked, somewhere.

But Piers didn't listen, didn't hear Ron, didn't hear anything. Ron remembered that
Dudley and his friends used to beat Harry up, and he wondered if Piers had slipped back into
feeling he had some power over Harry, that he was in control; or maybe he just thought that if he
yelled loud enough, someone would come and take Harry away.

"You set a snake on us when we were kids, could've killed us then, and you get away
with it, scot-free! Then you get a little older, learn a few more freak tricks, and you set a
monster on him! He nearly died in that alley, and what happens to you? Nothing!

"They knew what you were, and you hated them. You killed them, and you as good as killed
your aunt, and -"

Ron saw it in Harry's face a second before it happened; he pushed Sarah behind him, between
him and the wall, and closed his eyes.

It was the light fixtures that went. When Ron opened his eyes, the flat was dark, illuminated
only by reflections of the city shining through the window. Piers was gone. In the silence, Ron
thought he heard the door to the staircase slam.

"Lumos," Ron said, and then was suddenly unsure that magic was what he should have
done just then. Sarah hadn't stirred from behind him. Ron could hear Harry trying to slow his
breathing; in the wand-light, it was almost like he was vibrating along the edges.

Harry stood there a second longer. He caught Ron's eyes, but Ron couldn't read the look
he gave him - was it anger? was it apology? - and then he, too, was gone.

Sarah stepped out from behind Ron, her footsteps crunching on glass. She was unscratched, thank
Merlin.

"Sarah -"

"Piers talks a good talk, but you see who he's worried about in the end, don't
you?" She gestured toward the empty space where he'd stood.

"Sarah -"

She held up a hand. "Not right now, please. What we need to do right now is find my
brother, and shut him up. Hopefully before he thinks to pull out his mobile. And then we can sit
down and you can talk all you want. I daresay you'll have plenty to tell me."

*

The rooftop was cold, but that was fine. Good, even. Harry was early, but that was all right.
No-one could see him, even if there were still people in the building who had not yet gone home for
the night; and the more he watched, the more he saw, the more he would learn.

He was in one of the surveillance locations he and Dean had scouted out that afternoon, tucked
against a chimney, wearing his Invisibility Cloak. He had chosen the building behind Burke's
shop, because if there were a delivery tonight, it would surely come in through the back. And if
any interesting customers happened to drop in, there was a very good chance they'd choose the
back door over the front.

Harry watched, trying to focus on nothing but the job at hand, trying to let the darkness and
the chill of brick against his back root him to this place. Someone three doors down popped out
long enough to shove something into a rubbish bin. Someone four doors down got an owl. People
walked through the alley occasionally, but didn't stop off anywhere; Harry had to strain his
eyes to see some of them, moving only in shadows.

Trying to focus, but not particularly succeeding. . . .

Hermione was furious with him. Ron probably was too. Harry reckoned he deserved it, but
*why* couldn't Ron have picked another girl? Why did he have to throw himself into a
relationship that was sure to be complicated and messy from the very beginning?

Why couldn't Hermione let the world *be*, for once?

*People are who they are, Harry. And now. . . now they're remembering who you are.*

Dean showed up, bang on time. "Harry? You there?"

Harry pulled the cloak away from his head.

"Cold up here, isn't it?"

Harry nodded. Dean was busily warming his coat and shoes and gloves with charms.

"Seen anything?"

"No." Harry pushed off the chimney, stretched, and turned to Dean. "You want to
go watch the front?"

"Okay." Dean fitted in an earpiece, and Harry did the same. A moment later, Dean was
out of sight, and speaking to him through it. "Okay, I'm in position. All quiet this side
- looks like he's closed up for the night."

"He always looks closed, these days," Harry pointed out.

"True."

They watched. By the laws of things, there should have been nights of this, weeks of this. But
luck decided to pay them a visit, for once, and there were only hours.

It was shortly after midnight when Harry saw the owl, gliding down to a window ledge on the
first floor of Burke's shop. He imagined it tapping its beak on the glass. A light went on
upstairs; a minute later, there was light downstairs. And then the owl and its package were let
inside.

"He's got something," Harry told Dean.

"What?"

"Don't know. But the window's open and I'm going to find out."

"Harry. . . ."

"Going silent now. I'll report when I can. Stay put until you hear from me."

Harry Apparated down to the alley, still wearing his cloak. He went to the window, his feet
carefully quiet, and looked inside. The package was on the floor in the middle of the room, a much
larger box, now - it had been shrunk for transport, obviously. Burke was kneeling in front of it,
checking through the contents; Harry couldn't see the interior of it at all. A minute later,
Burke, apparently satisfied, pulled an envelope out of his pocket and held it out for the owl.

The opportunity would be gone, very shortly. He Disillusioned himself, just in case Burke had
means of seeing through Invisibility Cloaks. Then, willing himself silent, Harry hoisted himself up
and through the window.

His feet met the floor without a thump, thankfully. Keeping against the wall - he was less
likely to be bumped into accidentally that way - Harry got as close to the box as he could. In the
box were plain bottles, filled with something very dark red. Yes.

When the delivery owl left, Burke snapped his fingers, and his own bird appeared. He went over
to a desk - Harry held his breath as he passed close by - and wrote something on a piece of
parchment. A note telling the buyer his goods were here, probably, and hopefully encouraging him to
pick them up immediately.

Burke's owl left, and the window closed. Harry settled in to wait.

It was a good sign that Burke went back to his desk, rather than back to bed; it meant chances
were good he *was* expecting more company tonight. But Harry wished he would've found
somewhere else to wait. There were boxes stacked all around the room, and interesting-looking
bottles on the shelves; Harry wanted to see what was in them all. Dragon's blood might be
legal, but how many things in this room *weren't*? He toyed with the idea of knocking
Burke out and having a good snoop, but decided against it. Whoever showed up for the transaction
needed to see Burke there, needed to think things were perfectly normal and be given the chance to
talk perfectly normally - and, maybe, give something away.

The only sound in the room was the scritch-scratch of Burke's quill on parchment, and Harry
was growing light-headed from the effort of keeping his breathing shallow and silent. The room was
strangely, oppressively hot, particularly for December, and Harry felt almost as if he were
swimming in the air. He was too close to Burke's desk, but he was afraid to move, afraid to
make the slightest sound. Burke might be old, but that meant he had been around a long, long
time.

A *crack*, and then a deferential, "Mister Burke, sir?"

"Ah, yes." Burke rose from his chair and came forward, towering over his visitor.
"This is it," he said, indicating the box. "You have the payment?"

"Yes, sir. It is here, sir."

Burke spread the contents of a little bag out on his desk and counted them. "Thank you. You
may take the merchandise to your master."

*Bollocks.* It was over, over that fast, and Harry had learnt absolutely nothing - it was
now or never - "Dean," he whispered, and then, pointing his wand at Burke,
"Stupefy!"

Burke fell, and Harry ripped off his cloak and trained his wand on Burke's visitor. In an
instant, Dean was there and doing exactly the same thing.

"Shite," Dean said. "An elf."

Harry nodded grimly. There wasn't much they could do with an elf. A house-elf couldn't
be bullied, couldn't be bought. . . no matter what he and Dean said or did, the elf
couldn't rat out its master. It was magically impossible. Of course, if the elf wanted to, it
could give hints, but Harry had met precious few elves willing to work against their families.
Dobby was the exception to every rule. There was really only one thing they could hope to get.

"Who are you working for?" Dean asked.

There *was* a chance they were facing that one-in-a-million disloyal elf, or even a free
one. There were more of those about these days, and some chose to turn their freedom to criminal
purpose, but Harry doubted that this was one. People who used the Dark Mark had no use for servants
that could give them away.

"Misters is knowing better! Misters is knowing elf is not being able to answer!"

Harry and Dean exchanged glances. Right. Not a free elf, and not new to this game, either.

"Let's try another one," Dean said. "Where are you taking this?"

The elf shook its head from side to side. Its eyes were huge and wide, yes, but Harry could
tell: it was *not* terrified.

Dean kept up the questions. "Have you been here before?"

"Do you know what this is?"

"What does your master want with it?"

Finally: "Do you want to go up before Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures? *Do
you*?"

"Misters cannot! Misters is knowing better! Elf is invited into shop, is buying legal
goods! Misters is having no cause!"

"Very aware of his rights, isn't he?" Dean said quietly.

Harry pushed ahead of Dean and knelt down in front of the elf. "Hello," he said.
"We've never met, but you've heard of me, I expect. I'm Harry Potter. Oh
good," he went on, as the elf shrunk back, "you have."

He didn't have to fake the edge to his voice; it was there, hard and dangerous. "You
know I've done a lot of things that were supposed to be impossible, then. You know how I got
this scar? Killing curse. And you know why Voldemort isn't around anymore, I'm sure. And
there's something else I bet you've heard, but maybe you've forgot - *I freed a house
elf who wasn't mine.*" He waited while that sunk in. *Now* those eyes were
terrified. "His name's Dobby, I'm sure you've heard of him. The elf who gets
paid?"

The elf threw itself at Harry's feet, banging its head on the floor. "Please sir,
please! Tarky is not a bad elf! Tarky does what he is told! Tarky does not deserve
freedom!"

"Maybe not," Harry said. "Maybe not. But if you don't want it, you've got
to keep a secret for us. You can't tell your master we were here tonight. And if you ever see
us again, somewhere else, you can't run off and warn master. Got it?"

"Yes sir! Yes sir!" The elf was calmer, but still lying prostrate, still
trembling.

"Get up," Harry said, "and do what you came to do."

The elf scrambled to its - his - feet, ran over to the box of dragon's blood, and gripped
the corner of it with his little hand. With a *crack!*, he and the box were gone.

"Well," Harry said, "we did what we could. We got the elf's name."

"I could've slipped a tracking amulet in that box, while he was flipping out,"
Dean said.

"And he'd have ended up dead."

And here was another reason Harry liked working with Dean: there were too many Aurors who
would've shrugged the life of a house-elf off, but Dean said, "Yeah. You're right. Bad
idea."

Harry leaned back against a table, taking deep breaths in, slow breaths out. Part of him had
wanted to shake that elf until he told - or bully him into beating himself up. Part of him still
wished he had.

He realised, with a sort of detachment he didn't often manage, that he was beginning to
crack along the stress lines.

"Shall we have a quick look-round?" Dean didn't wait for an answer, but began
opening cupboards and poking through boxes. "This place smells awful, what do you reckon it
is?"

"I'm going to guess that he mixes up potions in his spare time," Harry said,
"strong ones. Dark ones. Who knows what we're breathing in."

Dean shuddered, and kept snooping. Harry still didn't join him, because he was beginning to
realise that it wasn't just stress that had his body on edge.

This job was about to nosedive in the same way that their last one had.
He couldn't do that to Dean again. And he couldn't be forced into rest and recuperation
again, or worse, into a hospital bed, or even worse, into some sort of heavy-going observation/hunt
for pernicious magical influences. Not right now. He didn't have *time.*

Harry gave up on the deep breathing. "Dean, will you be in charge of finding out who Tarky
belongs to? You could go talk to Dobby - if he doesn't know, he could probably find
out."

Dean turned to look at him, obviously surprised. "Yeah, okay. . ."

"And you'll owl me?"

"Why -?"

"There's something I need take care of," Harry said. "And you'll be
better off on your own."

Dean, who was a very good Auror, studied Harry. "All right," he said finally.

"Thanks," Harry said, and left while he still could.

*

A/N: Many thanks to Cynthia Black, Dorotea, Paracelsus, and Sahiya for beta.



15. Fifteen
-----------

**Fifteen**

*

Tom was a very good innkeeper, Harry discovered. When famous guests appeared at his
establishment in the wee hours with no luggage and looking distinctly worse for the wear, he asked
no questions and offered no comments. He simply handled what needed to be handled, and managed to
seem both friendly and completely uninterested whilst doing it.

Harry followed Tom up the creaky old stairs to a room on the second floor. It had been a bad
idea to Apparate here, considering the state of his head, the kind of bad idea that could have
taken him miles off-course, and brought about interestingly rearranged appendages. But he'd
been tired and sick and unhappy and hadn't particularly cared. Now that he'd made it here,
Harry was beginning to feel glad that he *had* made it here, with all parts in place and
accounted for, even.

He leaned against the wall, only half watching as Tom readied the room, lighting lamps, turning
down the bed, even starting a fire in the grate. The moment the door had closed behind Tom, Harry
crossed to the bed and let himself fall across it. This was what he was here for - he'd wanted
a bed, but hadn't wanted to go back to the flat. Ron might be there, and they would have to
talk, and he wasn't up to that right now.

Hermione definitely wouldn't be there. For the first time in days, she wouldn't be
there. He wasn't ready for that, either.

Harry took off his glasses, and, moving only an arm, put them as far from him on the bed as he
could manage. He would sleep for eight hours - that magic number - and then he would get up,
whether he felt like it or whether he didn't, and he would get on with things.

He went to sleep, and as had become usual, he didn't sleep well.

At some point in the night Harry got under the covers, but he never took off his shoes and he
never turned out the lamp burning beside the bed. Which was good, because sometime in the night he
woke up from a dream, bolt upright and sweating, and if the room had been dark it would've been
that much worse until he'd realised where he was.

His body and his mind gave in, finally switching off and staying off for a sight more than eight
hours.

*

The elves were in the kitchens. It was just after breakfast, and the huge room was full of small
little bodies moving left, right, and everywhere. Dean stood in the doorway and thought mainly
about sausages. Some of the best meals of his life had come out of this room. . . . He closed his
eyes, breathing in. It would be unprofessional, wouldn't it, for his first words to Dobby to be
on the subject of leftovers? Terribly unprofessional. But if he waited and brought it up at the end
of the interview, surely everything would be cleared away. . . . With the feeling that this,
indeed, was what it meant to be a grown-up, Dean shut the wonderful sizzly smell out of his brain
and began looking intently at the elves, to see which was Dobby.

It didn't take very long. Dobby was the one wearing all the clothes, and *oh*, what
clothes. Dean's eyes were dazzled by clashes of texture and colour and pattern. He crossed the
room. "Dobby?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Hi. I'm Dean Thomas. I was in Gryffindor a couple years ago." Dobby nodded
vigorously, as if he remembered. Dean was surprised, and a little pleased. "I'm an Auror
now, I work with Harry Potter."

Dobby's entire body perked up at the name. "You is working with Master Harry?" The
elf looked round Dean, as if hoping to find Harry hidden behind him.

"Yes. We need some information, and he told me you were just the elf to come to."

Dobby was obviously tremendously flattered, and - Dean would've thought it impossible - drew
himself up even more. "Anything for Harry Potter and the associate of Harry Potter,
sir."

Dean looked around. "Is there somewhere we can talk quietly?"

"Yes, sir!" Dobby indicated that Dean should follow him, and Dean did. They crossed
the kitchen, busy elves navigating smoothly around them as they did so, and went out a door to the
right of the great hearth. Dean had made his fair share of midnight food raids over the years, so
he was familiar with the main kitchen, but now they were in a part of the house-elves' domain
that he had never seen. The corridor was narrow and twisty, but well-lit by torches, and they
passed a lot of closed doors, a room with alpine heaps of laundry, and finally went up a flight of
stairs and out a small stone door.

Grey winter sky overhead, and beautiful spring-like warmth all around: Dobby had led him to a
greenhouse.

"Is this suiting, sir?"

"It's perfect," Dean said, even though it wasn't. He would have preferred a
smaller room, where he could see all four walls and be certain beyond a doubt that he and Dobby
were alone. Here tomato plants and asparagus stalks grew tall enough to shadow a man, much less a
house-elf - hell, one of those raspberry bushes could conceal a house-elf. "Thank you.
I'll just do a distortion charm, too, to cover our conversation in case anyone happens to walk
in."

Dobby nodded, his giant green eyes solemn, while Dean performed the charm. He re-pocketed his
wand, and snagged a small, dirty stool to sit on, so he wouldn't have to keep looking so far
down to look the elf in the eyes.

"Can I get you a seat as well, Dobby?"

Dobby hesitated. "Dobby. . . Dobby will sit, sir, but Dobby will get his own seat." He
bustled over to a stool that was easily as big as he was, brought it close to Dean, and climbed up
on it.

Dean planned to take Dobby into full confidence, because Harry trusted Dobby unreservedly. That
sort of trust from Harry was hard to come by, and worth something. He wondered if he would ever
have it; if he and Harry would ever be that kind of team, if Harry would ever put himself utterly
in Dean's hands.

He himself did the reverse every day, of course. Even when it didn't feel right, it somehow
*did*, because Harry was Harry and it really couldn't be any other way. Like right now,
today, when Harry was obviously sick, possibly poisoned, and off doing something outside of orders
and surely dangerous, here Dean was, doing his part.

And Dobby was waiting. "There's an elf mixed up in some business that isn't very
nice," Dean said. "We don't want any harm to come to him; we just want to know who
he's working for."

"Many masters is using house-elves for bad things," Dobby said. He sighed, and his
ears drooped. "And many house-elves is not caring."

"Because they love their masters?"

"Yes," Dobby said, nodding, his eyes sad and his squeaky little voice serious.
"But some house-elves is too good at doing what they is told. And they is not seeing
*why* they should care."

Dean understood. Every elf might have a master (well, almost), but every elf also had its own
mind, and some elves were good and kind and some were not. Dean knew how much Dobby loved freedom;
he thought, looking at him now, that the elf might love goodness even more. "We don't want
any harm to come to this elf," Dean said. "We just want to know who he's working for.
If I tell you his name, can you find out who his master is?"

"Dobby will find out," the elf said.

*

Dean had never been in this room back when it had been Dumbledore's office, but he felt safe
in assuming there hadn't been quite this much plaid about the place then. But perhaps nothing
else had changed; there were all sorts of shiny silvery gadgets around the room that didn't
make him think of Professor McGonagall, somehow, and the wall was covered in paintings that had
surely been there forever.

He settled into a tartan-upholstered chair. "Thank you for seeing me, Professor
McGonagall," he said. "And for allowing me to see Dobby."

She waved a hand. "Not at all. It makes me happy to see my former students gainfully
employed. Biscuit?"

"Thanks," Dean said, reaching a hand into the tin. The house-elves had indeed cleared
breakfast away by the time he and Dobby had got done talking, and while Dobby had pressed food on
him afterward, it had just been tea and scones, and who could fill up properly without at least a
little protein? Of course this wasn't a sausage either, but it was food, and how many people
kept sausages in their offices?

*Not enough*, he decided, nearly cracking a tooth on a Ginger Newt.

Pleased to see him or not, the Headmistress wasn't one for spending a lot of time on
chit-chat. "What can I do for you, Mr. Thomas?"

Dean hesitated. He'd come up here on a whim. He wanted to speak with the Care of Magical
Creatures teacher, or the Potions Master, or the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. . . at
least, he thought he did. He didn't know who any of those people even were, anymore. Professor
McGonagall could see to introductions, of course, but still. . . a person wasn't trustworthy
just by virtue of working at Hogwarts. That was a fact.

But it couldn't hurt to at least find out. . . ."Professor?" he asked.
"Who's teaching Care of Magical Creatures now?"

McGonagall sighed. "Well that you should ask that question, Thomas. After Professor
Grubbly-Plank was taken from us so suddenly -"

"Oh *no*," Dean said. He remembered her, she'd been an all right sort.
"Was it one of the animals?"

"No, no," the professor shook her head, "a friend of hers came into some money, I
believe, and they've gone to the West Indies to study the effects of Shrake on local fishing or
some such."

*Or the effects of fruity rum drinks and steel band music on elderly witches*, Dean thought
with a grin.

"As I was saying, we were left with a vacancy that's only just been filled. I suspect
his family doesn't even know yet." The Headmistress smiled. "Our newest member of
faculty is another Gryffindor - Charlie Weasley."

*

Bundled up, Dean crossed the grounds to the caretaker's cottage with a bounce in his step.
This was the best sort of coincidence, the sort that only happened occasionally in this job but
made you feel like things were really falling into place when it did. He'd never actually met
Charlie Weasley, but it was hard to share a House with Ron and Ginny and Fred and George and Percy
without feeling like you knew all of the Weasleys quite well.

Dean knew a few things about Charlie: he was a good Quidditch player, he knew a *lot* about
dragons, and Ron worshipped him just a little bit less than he did his brother Bill. (This last bit
he'd got from Ginny.) He was as trustworthy a magical creatures expert as Dean could hope to
find, then, and if Dean weren't a six-foot-something grown-up, he might just have found himself
skipping on his way across the grass.

It wasn't until after Dean knocked on the cottage door that he thought, *oh Christ*.
He'd got so used to being around Ron, whom Ginny had thoroughly schooled into staying out of
her love life, that he'd forgot her other brothers might see him first and foremost as someone
who'd dated their little sister, and not made her terribly happy.

But that was okay. That was what made his luck here today real, and kept all of this from being
the sort of thing he'd shortly wake up from.

The person who opened the door was one-hundred-percent Weasley, hair and freckles and all. Dean
introduced himself, mentioning his name, his job, Harry Potter, Gryffindor, and Charlie's
youngest brother, and leaving Charlie's sister completely out of it.

"Nice to meet you," Charlie said. "Step over the Diricawl, and come on
in."

The room was littered with boxes. Charlie said that he had a teakettle, somewhere, he was sure,
but Dean told him not to worry about it. "I only need a minute, really, I'd just like to
get your opinion on something."

Charlie gave him a 'go on' gesture.

"Dragon's blood has come up lately in a case we're on, and I was wondering - if
someone had a lot of it, I mean a *lot* of it, what would you guess they'd want to do with
it?"

"Hmmm," Charlie said, tapping table with a finger. "There's tonnes of things
they might want it for, I should think."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, that's the problem. We've looked through all these books, and
the possibilities just go on and on. That's why I thought, if I could just ask someone
knowledgeable, get their opinion, you know, gut reaction, maybe it would help."

"No pressure, eh? Let's see then. . . my first thought is, someone could use it to kick
off an explosion. A big one. Or they could power any of a thousand spells, make 'em
self-sustaining, even." Charlie thought a bit more, tapping that finger again. "I
don't think there's a creature alive with more magic in it. Those dragons back in Romania
probably have more magic in their front claws than we could ever dream of." He gave Dean a
lopsided grin. "Well, me and you, anyway. That partner of yours, now. . . ."

"Yeah," Dean said, smiling a little back.

"It doesn't generally *take* a lot of dragon's blood to do anything. So I
think. . . I think you need to be thinking big."

Something cold skittered up Dean's spine. When he left a few minutes later, he was in no
danger of skipping.

*

Harry had never seen the village by the light of day, but he didn't have any trouble finding
his way. There was no chance of mistaking the house; it sat on its hill, still lofty and imposing,
despite all the work done by time and decay. And he knew where the church and its graveyard would
be, just at the bottom of that hill, so Harry began to walk, letting the dead house guide him.

It would be dusk, soon.

He had Apparated from one pub to another - or technically, to a spot behind another - because he
knew that magic would only get him so close. The Ministry owned the house now, and while the graves
in their yard were still the property of the Church of England, he knew that they too would be well
protected.

As they should be. If Voldemort had will and means, if he had created or borrowed flesh, if he
was a spirit on the air, he would come to this place, sooner or later. And if he had what Harry was
afraid he had, the stone that had once been Nagini's (and if Voldemort didn't have it,
where was it? Not in the jar where it should have been, and Harry couldn't make himself believe
that phoenix flame could turn rock to ash, he simply couldn't), he would come here to try to
work one of his perverted miracles. Again.

Harry didn't have a strategy and he hadn't worked out any tactics, but that was all
right; he'd got by without them before. Often. His life had allowed for very little in terms of
forward planning. And this time, at least, he wasn't dragging anyone else into anything. No-one
would get hurt if things went wrong.

He curled his hands in his pockets. No, he did have a plan, and it was clear and succinct.
*Go, see if anyone's been mucking about, deal with it if they have.*

No outline points, no charts, no timetables, no diagrams. She might not count it a plan, but it
was good enough for him.

He reached the foot of the hill, and the church. It was small, stone, and old. It seemed larger
in his memory, but maybe that was just an illusion brought on by fear and dark and shadow. Harry
walked around the building, through the gravelled, empty carpark, and stepped out onto short winter
grass. The cemetery was bare and almost golden in the late afternoon sun; the yew trees were still
there, still dark and forbidding, but the grass and the vines that had been tall and thick were now
dead and dry.

It made it easier. It was a graveyard, but it no longer looked liked a place where someone had
died.

He opened the heavy, rusty gate and stepped through. It closed behind him with a clank, and
something moved at the back of his mind, an urgent insistent little thought that wanted to push
itself to the front and take up all the space in his brain, if only he'd let it. *You
don't want to be here. You want to be somewhere else.*

Harry pushed it aside, and kept walking. That belonged to the Ministry, he was sure.

It was easy to spot the Riddles' headstones. Theirs were the tallest, six feet of solid
marble each, and by far the most ostentatious. Harry walked towards them quickly, weaving around
graves, and then it hit him.

He'd been expecting something else, he'd known that Ministry mind-trick wouldn't be
all, but still, it took him by surprise. Not a tickle this time, but a pounding, and not just his
head, but everywhere, his blood, his limbs, his heart. . . . He had to go. Ron needed him, needed
him right now. He had to go. Hermione needed him. . . .

Harry shook his head, hard. He'd actually started to leave - he'd taken himself almost
to the gate. He would have to do better than this. Back to Tom Riddle, Sr's grave he went,
slowly this time, shouting down the thoughts that didn't belong inside his head until they were
simply quiet background chatter, indecipherable and able to be ignored. Beside the headstone, Harry
pushed himself to his knees. It was a little like moving through water.

Time to think. What else would the Ministry have done? Probably not much, Harry decided, at
least, not much aimed at the general public. They wouldn't need to. He knew what he was dealing
with, and how to handle it, and he was still having to actively push down the desire to get the
hell out of here. Anything more - anything really *enthusiastic* - would be more specific,
more targeted. Probably triggered only by a Dark Mark.

All the same, Harry was careful to stay just outside the imaginary line running from headstone
to footstone. He wouldn't physically cross onto the grave itself unless he absolutely had
to.

He didn't expect to find evidence of a great bloody cauldron being dragged about, because
nothing ever really happened the same way twice. But then when it came right down to it, he
probably wasn't going to find so much as a muddy bootprint - spirits tended not to leave those,
and figments of his paranoid imagination definitely didn't.

And that's what he should want this to be, wasn't it? That's what he should want to
find. Nothing. Nothing physical, nothing magical, nothing at all. He should be hoping against hope
for it, but if he didn't find anything, what would he do? Keep on going, keep on looking,
wherever he could think to look?

Probably. That was the problem with things that were all in your head. There was no way to know
when to stop.

"Lovely day, isn't it?"

Harry whipped his head round. Standing at the cemetery gate was an old man with thick, white
hair and a long, black coat. Slowly, warily, a hand curling around the wand in his pocket, Harry
stood.

"Yes," he said, and then added feelingly, "but cold."

"We get very few visitors," the man said, and even though he wasn't close enough
to read his expression, Harry could hear the curiosity plain in his voice, "it's good to
see someone paying their respects."

The only reply Harry could think of was an 'mmm,' but it was fairly impossible to make
that carry halfway across a graveyard. He didn't want to move, and run the risk of undoing the
work he'd done in getting here; neither was the man was making any effort to open the gate and
come closer. Because he knew better, knew the cemetery would mess with his head? Harry would have
thought Muggles wouldn't consciously recognise the effects of the Ministry's spells, and
would therefore never realise the need to be wary.

"I'm just on my way to open up the church - I'm the vicar, forgot to say -
you're welcome to come inside and warm up, if you like." There was a pause. "When
you're ready, of course."

"Thank you," Harry said, polite and noncommittal. The man waved a hand in farewell,
and headed down the short path towards the church.

Maybe he was the vicar, and maybe he wasn't. Harry supposed that if any Muggle would realise
there was something funny about the place, it would be the man in charge of it. But even if he
really *was* the vicar, that didn't necessarily mean he was in possession of his own mind.
. . . Didn't vicars usually go around quoting scripture? Didn't they mention God at least
once in every conversation? Harry hadn't met all that many, but he thought they probably
did.

Harry turned back to the grave, wondering if he were being spied on through stained glass. He
knelt, the ground cold through his jeans, and began searching the ground with eyes only, not
touching anything. He moved along the outside of the grave, from head to foot, looking, looking,
looking -

There was nothing to see. Nothing but dead winter grass, brown and ugly.

Harry rocked back on his heels. So, on to stage two. Ha. Stage two: maybe he *did* have
outline points, after all. There were a few ways of testing for evidence of magic that were
standard practise among Aurors; he was partial to a particular sensing spell, one he knew to be
thorough.

Keeping his wand in his pocket, out of sight, Harry closed his eyes, and did the spell. Inside
his head was a steady loud hum of information; there was nothing in the world for him but this plot
of earth and the things that moved on it, within it, through it. Insects, worms, the occasional
small animal. . . .

And nothing that didn't belong. Harry did the spell again.

And again.

Nothing.

Harry steadied himself, slowed his breathing, and said the words and waved his wand one last
time. He put everything he had into it; when he stopped, he felt like a twisted-out dishrag, and he
couldn't see anything but stars.

But he didn't have to see to know. There was something there, and it was ugly.

*Of course there is,* Harry thought, stamping down on the little thrill running through
him. Some pretty unpleasant Dark Magic had been worked on this spot, seven or eight years ago. That
was the one thing he should've been *expecting* to find a trace of today. All those years
had simply made it very hard to sense.

Or was this something else, something newer? Something made so hard to sense by being very well
hidden?

Tired, very, very tired, Harry leaned back against a neighboring stone. After a moment he
shifted, bringing his head to his knees. So which was it? Clue, or red herring?

In his head, a voice that wasn't his said very sensibly, *Well, Harry, maybe it would help
to think about the reasons you're here, and whether they're good ones.*

*All right*, he thought back, *all right*.

So why was he here?

Because a stone snake had spoken to him, and told him that what was supposed to be over
wasn't over.

Because idiots were wandering around with things that had once belonged to someone very
dangerous, and somebody smart had wanted them caught and out of their hair.

Because people were buying something powerfully magical in the name of the Dark Mark, and he had
no idea why.

Because he didn't feel right in his head these days, and if he'd learned one thing in
his life, it was that when things didn't feel right, they usually weren't.

Right.

Harry clambered to his feet, one hand on a tombstone for balance. To the voice in his head, he
thought, *Thanks.*

*

Hermione had very definite views on when it was and was not acceptable for one's friends to
enter one's place of employment. If one's friend was bearing a missive from the Queen, the
Prime Minister, the Minister for Magic, or one's mother?

Acceptable.

If one's friend wandered in with no apparent purpose, sat upon one's desk, and
inexpertly began turning one's inkwell into a pepperpot?

Unacceptable, obviously.

Hermione made an annoyed sound, and moved various parchments to safety. Ron elevated the
pepperpot, and shook pepper out into his hand. It squelched.

"What do you want, Ron?" She was only allowing his continued presence because it was
five-thirty, and her boss had gone home. But she was meeting Roger and Sally-Ann and everyone at
six, for a dinner-and-work session that would probably last well into hours of the night when she
ought to be in bed, so if Ron actually had a point, it was time he got to it.

"Oh, that's friendly," Ron said.

"But apt," Hermione said. "What is it?"

"Harry," he said. "Is he at your place?"

Hermione schooled her face, keeping it very normal and very, very uninterested. "Why would
he be?" Bother, she didn't do nearly as well with her voice - too high, too much emphasis
on the 'why.'

Unsurprisingly, though, really, Ron didn't seem to notice. "Because I was hoping he was
kipping down with you."

"Excuse me?" Hermione said, higher still, as her world spun crazily and tried to
settle itself into one where Ron *wanted* she and Harry sharing a bed. If she hadn't been
a bit sensitive on the subject at the moment, she would've realised that wasn't exactly
what he meant.

Ron sighed. "I haven't seen him in two days, and he didn't leave under the best
circumstances." He put down her new pepperpot, and wiped his hands on his trousers, leaving
two dark smudges. "So if he's not with you -"

"What do you mean, not the best circumstances?"

Ron told her.

"Oh, no," Hermione whispered. Everything felt tight, too tight, and her hands shook
with it. She'd spent the past two days pointedly not dialing their flat, pointedly not stopping
by, and - with a little less success - pointedly not waiting for her own phone to ring or for
Hedwig to swoop through her window. And this, what she'd missed was *this*.

She wanted to blame Ron, for being with Sarah and setting the whole thing in motion - and he
looked like he expected her to, like he blamed himself. But that wasn't fair, and she
wouldn't.

She wouldn't blame herself, either, for fighting with Harry earlier on that day. She
wouldn't accuse herself of lighting the touchpaper. She wouldn't.

"Piers Polkiss," she said, "is a prat of the first order."

Ron made no argument.

"And the way the Ministry handles Muggle relations, the way it sweeps every mess under the
rug -" Hermione stopped, unable to focus long enough to say everything that could be said on
that. She looked up at Ron; he was looking down at his hands, one thumb fiddling against the other.
"Ron?" She hesitated: this was her other best friend, she could tell him why Harry
hadn't been at her place, why he hadn't contacted her and why he wouldn't. She could
tell him, and she probably should if they were going to do anything about this, develop any sort of
plan . . . .

"Ron, is Sarah all right?"

Ron didn't look up, didn't meet her eyes. "Yeah. We found Piers down at his pub,
and she took care of everything. I couldn't decide whether a memory charm would be the best
thing I could do or the absolute worst. . . didn't know what she was thinking. . . . But Sarah
knew what to do." He smiled briefly. "She told Piers exactly what she would tell their
parents about *him* if he so much as *looked* like he was going to open his mouth, and
what she would tell his flatmate, too. And then she pointed at me and said that I had my own ideas,
and she nodded at me, like, 'go ahead, pull out your wand,' and Piers just crumpled. I
didn't even have my hand in my pocket yet."

"Good," Hermione said, "that's good."

"Yeah," Ron said, still not looking at her.

He was keeping something back, too, and she wondered what it was. Hermione didn't ask if
*he* and Sarah were all right, because that was not her business (even if sometimes - like now
- she had to remind herself that things did not necessarily *become* her business merely by
involving Ron or Harry in some way). Hermione didn't ask if it had all come as a shock to
Sarah, or if he had prepared her as he should have, because that wasn't her business either.
She asked, instead, a question she very much wished she knew how to answer herself.

"What do we do about Harry?"

"You haven't seen him either? At all?"

Hermione shook her head.

Ron shrugged. "Reckon he's at work?"

"For forty-eight hours straight?"

"It's possible," Ron pointed out.

It was, very. Hermione sighed. And how would he do his job in that frame of mind? How much
attention would he pay to trying to keep himself safe? What would he do when it was time to stop,
time to pull back, time to *rest*? Keep going, and going, and going?

"He's got Dean," Ron said.

"He does," Hermione said, and felt a bit better.

*

Ron climbed the stairs of Sarah's building, one nervous foot after another. He and Sarah had
sorted out Piers together, yes, they had, but when Piers had gone. . . . They'd stood on the
pavement outside the pub, the city noisy and fast around them. She'd been quiet and he'd
been quiet, and finally, Ron had said, "Where do you want. . .?"

And Sarah had her arms hugged round herself, and kept them there as she said, "My place. But
not tonight. Is that all right?"

"Whatever you want," he'd said.

So now, two days later, Sarah was making dinner, and Ron was bringing wine. And truth. He hoped
that he had right amounts and the right sorts of each to turn this into a good evening.

Outside Sarah's door, Ron knocked straight away. No hanging about. He'd had two days of
that, two days of waiting and worrying and wondering what he should do, and what he should say, and
whether or not he had cocked this up beyond all hope of repair. And while he wished to Merlin he
could be doing anything else right now, he didn't want another minute to go by with this left
undone.

As the door swung open Ron realized that that, in and of itself, was something pretty
extraordinary.

Their hellos were awkward. Ron had decided, earlier, that he would greet her with a kiss on the
cheek. Quicker than a hug, assuming less than a kiss on the lips, it offered less opportunity for
uncomfortableness all round. He felt large and clumsy as he leaned in, but she didn't pull
away, and that was good.

In the kitchen, dinner was in the early, unrecognisable stages, just a little row of spice jars,
a heap of vegetables, and a cutting board. Ron deposited the two bottles of red he'd brought on
the counter (nine pounds each; going by price and taking current pound-to-Galleon conversion rates
into effect, twice as good as any wine he'd ever purchased in his life), and looked
consideringly at the bright pink plastic cups in the dish drain.

Sarah followed his eyes, opened a cupboard, and pulled down two wineglasses. "No telling
where the corkscrew is," she said, her tone almost-but-not-quite casual. "You'll have
to take care of it."

It took a second, but Ron got the point, and he liked it. "No problem," he said, and
uncorked the wine with a spell. He poured them each a half-glass. "What're we
eating?"

Sarah nodded towards a cookbook on the counter. "It's one of Jamie
Oliver's."

Ron reached around Sarah and picked it up. The cover promised an intriguing blend of food and
pornography, but, upon further investigation, the book did not deliver. The pork chops looked dead
tasty, though.

Leaning against the counter, Sarah sipped the wine and, to Ron's relief, didn't make a
face. "How's Harry?" she asked.

"He's. . ." Ron didn't know what to say. *After your brother accused him of
murder and he lost control and exploded all our lights, he did a runner and hasn't been seen
since. But don't worry, he's really innocent, and not violent or dangerous or insane, and
you're safe being around us, honest?* But editing truth had got them into this mess in the
first place. "I don't know," Ron said. "He hasn't been home."

"Has Hermione-"

"Nope."

"Right," Sarah said, with a decisive nod, "Piers is really for it now."

"So. . . you believe Harry, and all?"

"Of course," Sarah said. Putting her wineglass down, she turned to the cutting board,
and started on a pepper. "I've no doubt Piers has hold of the wrong end of the stick.
He's very, very good at believing only what he wants to. Then, that's easy to do, isn't
it, when you only have part of the story."

She said it lightly, without accusation, but Ron knew what she meant. He was getting good - no,
not good, but at least fair-to-middling at this stuff.

"Sarah -"

"Do you remember before?" she interrupted. "When I said that you didn't have
to tell me anything that was too hard?" Ron nodded, even though she couldn't see it with
her back to him. "That was meant to make me sound understanding, and respectful of your
personal space," Sarah went on. She shot him a grin over her shoulder. "How'd I
do?"

"Very well," Ron assured her.

"Ta," she said. She went quiet, and Ron wondered if it was his turn. He was afraid to
take it, if it was; with her in charge of the conversation, things were going better than he'd
expected. "But of course," Sarah said, after a moment of silence, "it was pretty
self-serving, too."

She was slicing some leafy herb into thin, neat strips, and Ron watched her for a minute. Her
hair was tied back in a neat brown ponytail, and her eyes were firmly on her work. "Because
you didn't really want to know?" he asked.

"Right." Sarah sighed. "I think it's brilliant that you can do magic. That
there's really such a *thing* as magic, that you lot have this world right beside ours
that I get to see."

*But*, Ron thought.

"But it's scary, thinking about people being able to do things that I can't. All
kinds of things, things I probably can't even imagine. Not you," she said, waving her
knife briefly in his direction, "but people I don't know." She sighed, and he watched
her shoulders rise and fall. "So yeah. You didn't want to say it, and I didn't want to
hear it. Can't be too cross with you, can I?"

Ron liked the sound of that, he very much did. He realised that he'd just assumed this would
be a fight. Probably because if it had been he and Hermione, they would have turned it into a
shouting match days ago.

"I should've told you anyway," Ron said. "I knew -" he hesitated.
"Well. I knew that you really needed to know."

"You knew that I knew people who'd died." Sarah said the words calmly,
matter-of-factly. She was chopping something else now, still with her back to him, and he wished he
could've seen her face, seen how well it matched her voice. This was what mattered more than
anything: if she felt safe enough to stay.

"Yes," he said quietly. He took a breath. "I should start at the
beginning-"

"No, skip to the end, please." She turned to face him then, her eyes very intent.
"Is everything over?"

"Yes," Ron said. "The war's been over more than a year now, and He's
gone." He realised she didn't know what he meant by that, and clarified,
"No-one's after Harry anymore."

"Good," she said. She took a breath, looked away. "Good."

"Sarah -" He stepped forward and took her hands. "Nobody's going to hurt you.
I promise you."

"I'm not worried about me," she said, moving closer. "Well, okay, a little.
But it's you I've been worrying about."

"Me?"

"You're Harry's family," she pointed out.

And he wouldn't have it any other way. "Yeah," Ron said.

They stood there together, her head on his chest, his cheek on her hair, and as the seconds
ticked by Ron let himself believe for the first time in days that things were going to be all
right.

Sarah spoke, after a while. "So the wizard who was after Harry," she said, "was
he just. . .somebody on the other side?"

"Erm. He. . . he sort of *was* the other side."

"Okay," Sarah said, with nervous laugh, "okay. I reckon you can go back to the
beginning now."

Ron took a breath, and did.

*



16. Sixteen
-----------

**Sixteen**

*

"Mother of God!"

The flat was small and Dean's legs were long, so he made it to the scene in no time. There
was Seamus, a spatula in one hand; there was a cheese toastie, cheese-side-down on the kitchen
floor; and there was the small, big-eyed, big-eared, frettingly apologetic creature that Dean had
last seen a few hours before and hadn't expected to see again for several days at least.

He had to give it to Dobby. The elf worked *fast.*

"Hello, Dobby," said Dean, grinning. "Got something for me?"

"Yes, sir! Dobby is reporting, sir!"

"Seamus, would you mind?" Dean nodded towards the back of the flat.

"Oh, no, of course not. Be glad to go starve in my room. You'll give me a nice funeral,
won't you?"

"Yeah, I'll hire the mourners and all," Dean called after Seamus. After adjusting
the heat on the stove so as not to end up burning the flat down around them, he gestured towards
the tiny little table.

When they were both seated, Dean quietly asked, "What have you found out?"

"The elf is working for the Nott family, sir."

"Nott?" Dean turned the name over in his head. There had been a Nott in their year, a
Slytherin. Dean could picture him hazily, but very little about him jumped to mind. . . had
Nott's father been arrested as a Death Eater while they were in school? Maybe. Or maybe Dean
was making that leap because he'd worn green and silver. Hard to say.

"There is the Mistress Nott and the young Master Nott, sir," Dobby said.

"Ah," Dean said. "So the old Master is dead?"

"Dobby is thinking Master Nott is dying in Azkaban," the elf said, "but he is not
knowing for certain."

"That's all right, I can find out if I need to," Dean said. Shouldn't be too
hard at all, he thought. "Thank you very much, Dobby," he added with feeling. "And
Harry thanks you too."

Dobby's cheeks darkened proudly. "Sir and Harry Potter is being most welcome." And
with a loud *crack*, he was gone.

Dean put some fresh bread in the pan, adding a slice for himself this time, reached for the
cheese, and yelled for Seamus.

*

The gate was hung with massive chains and secured with a padlock, but it was also rusting off
the hinges, and squeezing through was no trouble at all. As soon as Harry did, he was hit again by
that insistent, pounding desire - no, *need* - to rush away from this place, but he was
learning to anticipate these efforts by the Ministry, and his footsteps barely faltered.

But there was a voice in the back of his head that was harder to shake. It whispered *leave,
leave now, leave while you still can*, and Harry didn't know whether it belonged to him or
the Ministry or someone else.

The drive that led to the Riddle House was hemmed in by bushes. Some were green and some were
bare, but Harry imagined that in summer they were all thick and wild and overgrown. Underneath his
feet, the path was littered with branches left strewn and scattered from summers of wind and
winters of ice. No car would be able to pass along here, not anymore. Not that it mattered. It had
been a very long time since this had been a place where automobiles might be welcome.

Harry stepped carefully. Between his Invisibility Cloak and the debris, it would be very easy to
trip and fall on his face. Very easy, and very bad for stealth. It would be nice if he could light
his wand, but Harry didn't dare, out here where anyone might be watching. His eyes would just
have to adjust to the fast-falling dark.

He had seen the house that afternoon, from further down the hill, through the bare winter trees.
Harry was glad of that. He could fill in the shadows and the dark spaces of the building that rose
ahead of him, map onto it from his memory; it helped.

Harry had never been to the house itself before, never been any closer than the graveyard, even
though he had glimpsed inside once, in a dream. He knew that it hadn't been a real base of
operations for Voldemort and his Death Eaters, but a place that he used to when he wished to carry
out more. . . personal operations. The sort of place Voldemort would come to when he'd nowhere
else to go.

And a place where he'd rebuilt himself once before. Harry would never have any trouble
remembering that.

There was no point in trying the door. It and all the other entrances would be spell-locked
tight, and Harry didn't fancy the possible consequences of attempting the wrong counter-charm.
He had a feeling Alohomora wouldn't cut it. So when he drew close enough, Harry scrabbled along
the ground for a rock, then threw it at a window.

It vanished, mid-arc.

Harry walked around and tossed a few more rocks. None aimed at windows or doors reached their
mark, but all those aimed at blank wall did.

Something along the lines of an Imperturable Charm mixed with a Portkey, he decided; unwelcome
visitors - *all* visitors - were promptly sent away, wherever 'away' might be. Harry
was fairly certain he could lift the spell if he had to, but doing that kind of magic might raise
an alarm, and not necessarily one monitored by Ministry officials.

But there was one entrance to the house that might *possibly* have been overlooked. . . .
shame he didn't have his broom handy, but there were other ways of getting there.

The Invisibility Cloak would only trip him up, so Harry replaced it with a Disillusionment
Charm, shivering as the tell-tale prickles made their way through him. He followed that with a few
spells on his boots and gloves. Then, feeling rather like Spider-Man, and enjoying it, Harry made
his way up an ivy-covered wall to the roof.

It was deep dark, now. Harry stood looking out at a view that would make most people's legs
shake, even when wearing Spider-Man shoes. The little church was lit warmly against the night,
probably for evening services, which made Harry more inclined to think it really *had* been a
vicar that he'd spoken with, earlier. Away down the hill, the lights of the village winked, and
above, there were the tiny cold lights of stars. He looked up at those the longest.

Then he crossed the roof, climbed a little bit higher, and looked down into much blacker, more
threatening darkness. He'd pocketed a rock earlier and now he threw it down the hole, straining
to hear a *clunk.*

He heard. . . something. Maybe it was the rock hitting brick, and maybe it was the snap of a
spell as it was transported away. He thought it was the first one, *hoped* it was the first
one, but he really couldn't be certain.

Harry took one last deep breath. This would either work, or it wouldn't.

If it didn't, he hoped he didn't end up in *too* many pieces.

*

Even in the dark, Dean could see that the house had seen better days. He tended to judge other
people's homes by the flat he'd grown up in; this was four of them, stacked up two by two,
and let go in a way his mother would never allow.

He'd come alone. Dean hadn't heard a thing from Harry, had no idea where he was, what he
was up to, or how in the world to get in touch with him. Dean had thought through his options over
toasties: (a), go in and give Moody a full report, and, after the yelling stopped, be assigned
someone new to work with on this case (and probably many, many future cases, because who knew when
Harry would be allowed active duty again). That was assuming Moody didn't yank him off the job
as well, for conspicuously neglecting to mention Harry's absence earlier. Or (b), just go on
and do what Moody would expect he and Harry to do, and hope to God that he didn't bollocks it
up. And that Harry turned up by morning.

So here Dean was, across the street from the Nott's house, settled on a branch of a large,
evergreen tree, waiting to see if anything would happen. Not the most comfortable place he'd
ever lurked, but he didn't want to cross the property line yet - depending what kind of
defensive spells the Notts had up, that could easily be enough to give the game away. His
Omnioculars were special Auror issue, with a built-in heat-sensing spell that made them excellent
night-vision goggles. He could count three yellow-orange blobs in the house, two people sized, one
house-elf-sized. None of which were moving around a whole lot.

Without the Omnioculars, Dean could see the soft yellow of lamp-light. At first, it flickered
downstairs; then, as the night wore slowly and uncomfortably on, upstairs; finally, it flickered
out altogether.

Looked like they'd gone to bed. Sensible of them. And good for his purposes, because it
would mean that he'd got through the job without incident and learned at least one useful bit
of information - that the suspects were still living at their last known address.

But Aurors were used to looks being deceiving, and Dean knew that someone in that house might be
very much awake.

Dean sighed, letting his head thump back against the tree-trunk. Only one way to find out, and
it meant sitting in this tree for the rest of the night. For a brief, heartfelt moment, Dean wished
that he was a Muggle D.C. A Muggle D.C. in a car with cushioned seats, and doors to keep out the
cold, and a place to settle a cup of coffee. . . . And, oh yeah, surveillance cameras, those too.
What kind of spells would it take to magic a regular old-fashioned wizard's camera up to take
photographs at regular intervals? Be a hundred times easier just to use a video camera, but God,
imagine trying to get somewhere with evidence on VHS tape in a wizarding legal proceeding. . .
.

Resigned, Dean shifted about for a more comfortable position on his limb, put his Ominoculars to
his eyes again - and sucked in a breath.

Four blobs. There were four blobs, instead of three.

One was upstairs, completely stationary - in bed, presumably. Another was in the kitchen - that
was the small one, the house-elf. And in the front room, there was not one adult human-sized blob.
. . but *two*.

Someone had a visitor.

Together, the two blobs moved through the house, and then - Dean squinted - yes, they went
*down*. Below the house there must be a cellar, or a hidden room, or a secret passageway. . .
.

And here he was, pressed right up into a corner. If he walked away from this now, it would have
to be to go to Moody to ask for backup. And that might lead to the man himself coming out here. . .
a frightening, frightening thought, perhaps even more frightening than the inevitable effects upon
his and Harry's careers.

But it would be utterly insane for him to go in alone. Even if Harry *had* said that
he'd be better off doing things that way. Even if, looking at him that night, Dean had known in
his gut that his partner was right.

Quietly, Dean slid down from his tree, stumbling a bit, his legs cramped and unhelpful. At the
road, he ended the Disillusionment charm on himself, and walked straight up the Notts' garden
path. A family's protective spells were likely to be weakest at the spots where legitimate
visitors might enter, such as the chimney, or the front door.

It was well past the hour when such legitimate guests might normally drop by, but Dean
wasn't fussed. It was almost certain that this door would be answered by the house-elf -
everyone else was otherwise engaged, and besides, that was something house-elves *did*. A
house-elf on the other side of this door would suit his needs perfectly.

And if, for some reason, someone else answered his knock, well, Dean just might get a step
closer to figuring out another useful bit of information: Who was asleep in bed, and who was up and
awake and busily meeting with visitors? Mother, or son? And he could get away with it, because
there was one thing Dean Thomas could do that Harry Potter couldn't, at least not without a
very good disguise: stand on someone's doorstep and pretend to be someone he wasn't.

Dean's knock on the door was carefully judged, not too loud, but a little rough, a little
unsteady. Depending on who opened the door, he would be Dean Thomas, Auror. . . or he'd flip up
his hood and be some drunk in search of his mates who'd just happened to stumble to the wrong
house.

The door swung open, and there was Tarky, alone on the other side.

"Hi," Dean said, very quiet and very firm. "Remember me? My friend and I had a
few words with you, a few days ago."

The elf's eyes were wide and afraid, and he looked round Dean, ask if expecting to find
Harry back there somewhere. Dean was getting used to elves doing this. Not wanting this one to get
too comfortable when it became clear he was alone, Dean took his voice from firm to coffin-nail
hard. "You remember making a promise to Harry Potter?"

It was obvious that the answer was yes: the elf began to shake.

Dean waited until Tarky had managed a nod, and said, "Good. I'm here to collect on it.
I need to come inside, right now, without anyone knowing." Already towering over the elf, Dean
stepped closer, pressing his advantage. "Harry wants me to, very much. He'll be awfully
upset if that doesn't happen."

"Not wishing to displease Harry Potter, no, not wishing to displease Harry Potter, Tarky is
not wish -" The elf's voice was spiralling higher and higher in his fright, and Dean
fought the urge to clamp a hand over his mouth.

He interrupted instead. "Good," Dean said. "Now, what have your master and
mistress ordered you to do with uninvited guests?"

"Tarky is to be telling Master and Mistress right away. He is not to be wasting any
time." The elf looked back into the house, then back at Dean, his eyes even larger now, as if
he had forgotten to fear his masters in the midst of his other terror.

"Then," Dean smiled, showing teeth, "you'd better invite me in."

*

It was a proper cellar, not a trap-door-hole-in-the-ground sort of arrangement, which was good,
as far as Dean was concerned. He sat in the shadows, as far down the staircase as he dared descend,
cloaked by another Disillusionment charm. There wasn't much he could see from here, just a
sliver of junky basement, but he could hear.

And *smell.* This place reeked with the salty-sweet-sick smell of animals. Animals, and
Dark magic.

"This one's made it a week now," a voice said, after a while. It was male, deepish
and youngish.

"Yeah?" Another young male, this one a baritone. *The son,* Dean thought, *the
son, and a friend.* "Is it exhibiting behaviours appropriate to its species?"

"You mean, is it twitching its whiskers and that? Yeah. Hasn't eaten any cheese,
though."

"One thing at a time," the baritone said. "Self-motivated ingestion doesn't
have to happen right away. A full life can be lived without it, so long as there's
this."

There was a clang of metal - a cage being opened? and a quiet little scuffle. Intensely curious,
Dean slid down the steps just a bit further and eased himself forward. He was almost able to see
around the corner -

And, upstairs, the noise started. There were crashes. Bangs. Things falling, things breaking.
The sort of racket unfussy burglars might make, or a gang of unhappy toddlers.

It was, Dean realised, something he should have seen coming. It was the sound of a house-elf
beating himself up.

Dean went for the top of the stairs as fast as he could, not worrying about the sound of his
feet - Tarky was masking that quite effectively. He had to go out this way - he didn't dare
Apparate from inside this house. There could be all kinds of anti-Apparition spells in effect, and
he certainly didn't want to find out the hard way.

Of course, the people in the basement headed for the stairs as well. And Disillusionment charms
were all very well and good until you got knocked over like a bowling pin.

Dean's first thought was, *Shite.*

The second was, *When the Dark magic starts flying, I'm going to wish Harry were
here.*

The third was, *Good thing I'm not a D.C. after all. I'd be done for breaking and
entering and no mistake.*

D.C. or not, though, this was still pretty worst-case scenario stuff.

It took both of them, but they managed to strong-arm Dean and march him down into the cellar.
Pulling free, throwing some punches, and getting the hell out of the house were incredibly
appealing ideas. It'd be all right, if it stayed a physical fight: he was bigger than either of
these blokes, and they wouldn't be able to see the blows coming. But the last thing he wanted
to do was encourage a couple of Dark Arts practitioners to get spell-happy.

And if he were to leave this place, these two would do the very same thing: neither they nor
their operation would be here when the Aurors came calling. And it would be his fault, and his
alone. He'd made all his own choices since Harry had left that night, and he could get sent
down for any one of them.

Dean's wand arm was twisted up behind his back, but he was able to move it enough. He lifted
the charm and made himself perfectly visible, then stood, tall and confident, as two wands were
immediately trained on his chest. He would get as much information as he could, and if he
couldn't get himself out, he could probably get a message out. He had an ally in this house,
after all - an unwilling, fairly unhinged ally, but an ally all the same.

"Dean Thomas," he said, "Auror. We're," and that was a small lie, but
who could blame him? Never a great idea to admit you were alone - "here to have a look
around."

The introduction was, he suspected, completely unnecessary. Dean knew both of the people on the
other ends of those wands; they'd gone to school together. Different houses, different friends,
but the wizarding world was a bloody small place, when it came down to it.

There was a pause. A long one.

"So formal, Thomas," the skinny one - that was Nott - said finally, letting his wand
drop. Dean was careful not to breathe a visible sigh of relief. "Now, you want a look at what,
exactly?"

"Everything," Dean said, trying to make it sound as if he actually knew what the hell
he was talking about.

"After you," the other one - Carmichael, Eddie Carmichael, Ravenclaw - replied, all
smiles and politeness.

The room was like the office of a veterinarian - a back-alley, *evil* veterinarian. Against
the far wall were cages filled with mice and rats. Some animals were held singly, some in pairs,
and one cage was teeming with squirming bodies. There were cauldrons. Books. On the table, there
were bottles of dark red liquid which had to be dragon's blood, and a steaming cauldron behind
them. When Dean peeked in one of the boxes stacked in a corner, he saw many, many more bottles.

"Anything else?" Carmichael asked.

Friendly, welcoming, so-bloody-sure of themselves suspects had *always* got right under his
skin. Dean turned away from the boxes and stared these two down. "Yeah. Couple questions for
you. What are you doing to these animals?"

"You were Gryffindor, weren't you, Thomas?" That was Nott. Less polite than his
mate, but Dean didn't care for his casual insolence either. It felt like the real thing, not
like bravado, which worried him. And it kind of made him regret not getting a punch in earlier.

"Yeah. Now -"

"You know what you can always count on with Gryffindors?" Nott went on. "You can
count on them to think the worst."

"True," Carmichael said. "But be fair, Theo, sometimes they're
right."

"So what's this then?" Dean asked, moving quickly over to the cauldron on the
table, hoping to unsettle them, make them nervous with his proximity to their little experiment.
"If it's not the worst?"

"This," Carmichael said proudly, "is innovation in action. Take one of the most
potent, powerful substances in nature; do some very clever magic with it; and let blood does what
it does best." He smiled. "Bring life."

"Necromancy." Dean's insides went cold. *Harry had been right, oh fucking hell,
had he been right. . . .* "You're doing necromancy."

"Listen at how he says it," said Nott, and this time, that cocky voice made Dean
shiver. "As if it's a bad thing. Life from death."

"Muggles do it all the time, don't they?" Carmichael said. Still so friendly,
trying to pull Dean in with his logic and his smile. "With their machines and their medicines.
Why should we be any different?"

"You can say what you like about the Dark Lord," said Nott. "Merlin knows I
won't stop you. But you have to admit he got one thing right - why should we have to accept
death as the end?" He spread his arms wide, taking in the room and everything in it.
"What else is magic *for*?"

Dean watched Nott carefully, watched his eyes. *A father dead in Azkaban.* Maybe these two
really weren't trying to work their way from mice to a risen Lord. Maybe. But that didn't
matter. There were plenty of people who would be glad to jump right in and do it instead, once they
had the means.

Under Dean's gaze, Nott crossed the room, reached into the cage full of mice, and pulled one
out by its tail. Dean knew what was coming next, and he swallowed, but didn't look away. Nott
didn't wring its neck, as Dean had expected; instead he clamped his hand around the mouse's
mouth and nose, and held it until it didn't move any more.

"This is from our most recent batch," Carmichael said, stirring the cauldron twice
with a silver spoon. "We start with a base of pure dragon's blood, then temper it with our
own special spells."

"We won't be telling you what those are," Nott said.

"They're still in a state of flux, we're making changes with every
experiment," Carmichael said smoothly. He slid on a pair of thick dragonhide gloves, took the
dead mouse from Nott, and gently, so as not to splash, slid it into the cauldron.

"Skin is so greedy," he said. "Takes on moisture for days after death. We're
just putting nature to good use." He moved his wand sharply. "Anima!"

Inside the cauldron, ripples appeared in the liquid, becoming large and frantic. With his hands
still protected by gloves, Carmichael reached in and pulled a twitching, squeaking, *living*
mouse out.

"My God," Dean said. This was all *wrong*, horribly, unbelievably wrong, but he
couldn't look away - it wasn't a trick, that mouse had been *dead*, dead and
*gone* -

Nott grinned widely. "Sure you still need Him?"

- but was it even really a mouse, did it *think* like a mouse, would it *live* like a
mouse, or was it some horror-movie pits-of-hell zombie now? What would it do? What would a
*person* like this do?

"So what are you going to do now?" Carmichael asked. "There's no law against
resurrecting mice. There's not even one against killing them."

"No swag in this house, either," Nott said. He spread his hands wide. "Search it
if you want. Knock yourself out."

Dean forced his mind back to the details. "Suppose that's because you sold it all
already," he said. "Had to raise funds for this little venture, and all."

Nott shrugged. "I don't remember doing anything like that. Do you, Eddie?"

"Using fear and manipulation, you *engineered* the sales of numerous-"

"Let's get real here, Thomas," Nott said. "You'll never prove that we
possessed or sold anything illegal. You can put a circumstantial case together, if you want, but it
won't stick and you know it. I'll tell you what *will* happen, though." He
grinned unpleasantly. "It'll be in the papers, what we're doing, and people'll be
all over us like you wouldn't believe. They'll offer us money. They'll want to give
their poor dead the treatment - they'll be signing up to be our first human test cases!
They'll get on waiting lists for after their own deaths. So go on. It'll be
brilliant."

Dean looked away, realised he was looking to trade glances with Harry, to see what his partner
thought, and wrenched his eyes back to the pair. Carmichael was smiling, an apologetic
he's-right-old-chap smile that was more annoying than Nott's grin, and every bit as
threatening.

"Not sure what to do?" Nott asked. "That's all right. We understand. Go on,
think about it." He gestured toward the stairs. "We'll be right here if you decide
it's worth coming back."

*

It worked.

Down the chimney Harry went, like a skinny, bespectacled Father Christmas. He emptied out into a
large kitchen that time had long since forgot. The Aga was rusting, its door falling off. Two of
the table legs had rotted and collapsed, leaving it partially held up by the other two. Great huge
spiderwebs hung all around. Everything smelled of damp and decay, and Harry was careful with every
step where he placed his feet - he didn't trust the floorboards.

Harry left the kitchen for the front hall, trying to get a feel for the layout of the house. It
was a wide, open room, with four doors on each side and a sweeping staircase at the back. Kitchen,
dining room, library, plus three more rooms that probably had very specific names, but Harry could
only guess as to which might be what. Drawing room, morning room, parlour. . . . just how many
rooms had the Riddles needed for sitting around in, anyway?

Lighting his wand but keeping it dim, Harry began going through the rooms properly, looking for
footprints in the dust, signs of life, any indications of use at all. The house had definitely been
turned over, that became obvious, but it looked to have been some time ago. Probably, Harry
thought, by the Ministry, at the time when they'd taken possession. Or just before, by
Voldemort's followers, scavenging everything they could, taking artefacts for the power in
them, or the Galleons they would fetch. . . Harry wished he could believe that was all that little
snake statue was, a money-making venture for someone. If it hadn't led to so many other things,
one after another after another, and eventually to this. To him being right here, right now. . .
.

If he was lucky, if fate or fortune or one of those things he didn't care to believe in
smiled on him, he'd find an artefact in this place himself. Something very precious to
Voldemort; something that couldn't have turned to ash in Fawkes's flames. Something that
could grant Voldemort Nagini's centuries, all over again. . . . If he could find that, find her
stone, then it almost wouldn't matter what Dean found out, or where all that dragons' blood
was, because he would be holding the most valuable half of the unanswered equation in his
hands.

And Voldemort, or whoever was organising all this on Voldemort's behalf, would have to come
through him to get it.

It felt cold in the dining room, even colder than outside, or maybe that was just him. Harry was
still shivering from the chill of the Disillusionment Charm, occasionally violently. He wished he
could stop. But that was nothing, really, compared to the other things he'd like to stop; and
so he pushed the shivering aside, with the headache, and the dizzy spells, and the tiredness that
had come in waves since the graveyard, pulling at him slowly, threatening to drag him down. Far,
far down.

He heard something, something very soft, behind a door just to his left. For the first time
inside this house, Harry heard a sound that he himself had not made.

Carefully, so, so, so carefully, Harry reached out and cracked open the door.

He heard a rustle. He didn't see anything at all.

Harry made a slow pass with his wand, trying to see into the corners of the little room. It was
a butler's pantry, with dusty dishes, rusty tins, and blackened pieces of silver jumbled on the
shelves and floor.

It could have been a mouse, Harry thought, a mouse dragging something back to its hole. Could
have very easily been a mouse.

He wished he had seen it, and not just to ease his mind. It would simply have been nice to have
seen something living and breathing and normal and *alive* in this house.

Harry left the dining room and finished his inspection of the ground floor. He didn't hear
anything else, and what he saw was the same in every room. There was dirt, there was dust, and
underneath it all there were nice things gone to ruin. But nothing else; no footprints on the
floorboards, no sign of books being read in the library, or chairs sat on in any of the
sitting-around rooms, or fires kindled in the hearths. Nothing to see, not even the squiggle-slide
of snake tracks.

But if *feelings* counted for anything. . . the longer Harry spent in this house, the
longer he moved through the silent rooms, the more he felt like he wasn't alone.

The front hall was more than any other a room of shadows, thanks to the high ceiling, and here
Harry held up his wand, trying to catch a glimpse of what was above. He could see dark panelling,
and carved moulding, intricate and elaborate. They seemed to be very ordinary carvings, though,
just pretty designs, nothing fantastical, nothing magical, nothing dangerous.

But that was the thing about this house. There was a feeling of wrongness about it, to be sure,
but it wasn't because of anything that could be seen; it just hung in the air, waiting.

He crept up the steps, placing his feet carefully. The staircase was stone, marble probably, and
his footsteps sounded far too loud. Harry felt exposed, and not just because of the complete
openness of the curving staircase, or the fact that anything might be waiting in the darkness of
the landing above. It was more the feeling that something was right there, behind him, just over
his shoulder. Something that didn't want to be seen.

Or someone?

Harry's heart thudded faster as he reached the upstairs hallway, and not as a result of the
climb. Maybe it was because these were the bedrooms - private rooms - rooms of secrets and hidden
things - that did it, that made his body feel it was on the verge of discovering something. Or
maybe it was because of the shadow he had gained, which should perhaps make him afraid, but it
didn't really, it just made him feel he was getting somewhere, finally getting somewhere. . .
.

He reached for the first doorknob, and for the first time in this house found himself holding
his breath. He knew why: one of these doors would open onto a room he'd seen before, a long
time ago. And on the one hand it was silly to think history might repeat itself, and Voldemort
might be sitting in front of a fire somewhere on this floor, waiting; on the other, didn't he
himself tend to sit in the same chair every night, and sleep on the same side of the bed?
Weren't people creatures of habit, even people who weren't really people anymore?

The room was a bedroom; and yes, it had a fireplace, and yes, there was a large, high-backed
chair in front of it. But the chair was empty, he could see that from here, even by wand-light. And
he couldn't have said if it were the same room or not; it was so many years now, and only the
memory of a dream then.

The next room was empty, too. And the next. And the next.

Except for his shadow, which lurked cold and close, not quite solid, but definitely there and
taking up space behind him. He spun on his heel, once, but saw nothing, not even out of the corner
of his eye; he stuck out a hand and felt the chill. Whatever it was, it wasn't exactly hiding,
but it wasn't interested in being seen either.

Harry reached for the last doorknob and paused, his hand shaking on the worn metal. He heard his
heart in his ears, and his head felt unsteady. Spinning out of control of himself, that's what
he was doing; he knew it, and he couldn't stop.

In the very last room there was furniture; there was himself; and there, closer than ever, just
right *there*, was his shadow.

And Harry spun, and spun, and finally let go.

"Is that you? *Show yourself.* Tell me you're there. I know you can do that, even
if you don't have a body to show. *Do it.*"

"I'm going to find it, you know that, don't you? I'm going to destroy
everything you need. I'm going to find your rock and throw it into the sea. I'm going to
dig up your father's bones and blast them into a million pieces and dissolve them in acid.
I'm going to *finish you.*"

When Harry stopped he was shivering, and panting; his blood was boiling and he was freezing all
over. The dark room and his shadow answered him with silence. He was tired of silence.

The closest solid thing to him was a chest of drawers; he reached out, grabbed a drawer, and
threw it hard against the wall. Old wood splintered and moth-eaten clothes scattered across the
floor. He kicked through them, his feet meeting nothing but fabric. The lamp on top of the dresser
was next; it smashed easily into pieces, pieces that hid nothing.

He kept going. Harry threw and smashed and swore and broke and destroyed a room long dead, his
shadow watching, watching. It was on the mantel that his hand caught something sharp; the fresh,
biting pain was what stopped him, finally. He held his cut left hand in his right and stood still,
looking at the blood springing up and listening to it sing in his ears.

He was so tired.

There was a sensible way to do this.

He might only get one chance before his shadow adapted, or attacked. It would count. Squaring
his shoulders, Harry whipped round shouted and with every bit of magic in him, yelled,
"Revelio!"

He saw nothing but darkness; and the darkness took him.

*

Hermione was frustrated and unsettled, and she didn't like it. With Percy out of the
picture, the group needed a new partner at the Ministry, and they weren't able to decide on who
to approach. No-one *said* that perhaps the time wasn't right yet, that maybe they should
wait a little while before contacting anyone else. . . but Hermione knew what some people were
thinking, and it didn't help when Sally-Ann, still looking embarrassed, reported that Harry
Potter had declined to give her an interview. She spoke of time-consuming Ministry regulations, but
everyone *heard* something more like the truth: Harry Potter didn't want to do this right
now.

Hermione could feel the room grow colder at that moment; she could feel the energy slip out of
it.

The other thing no-one said was that they blamed Hermione for anything. . . but *she* was
the one that had done the most work with Percy, and *she* was the one that knew Harry Potter,
and oh, she knew what they were thinking.

Frustrated, unsettled, and angry too; by the time Hermione went home, everything she'd felt
as she'd walked away from Harry had been rekindled, and was burning high.

Her flat was cold and quiet, and Hermione poured herself a glass of water, and drank it with her
eyes closed. Harry Potter could do anything, she thought. He could tear everything down around her
because he thought it was right, and because he thought there was safety in the destruction. He
could take the explanation, the why, the *knowledge* away from her, and lock it away, just out
of sight, just behind his eyes.

Where she still couldn't reach.

Hermione placed her glass on the counter. No message on the answerphone. No owl waiting. Harry
hadn't been home yet, or Ron would have let her know.

*So a grown man who'd had a falling out with his friends has been away for a couple of
days,* she thought, being reasonable, trying not to care. *How unusual is that? Silly to
worry. Just silly.*

She gathered up Crookshanks and went to bed, put her head on the pillow, and turned out the
light. And there in the dark, something waited: the knowledge that Harry had been gone from them
too many times, for too many terrible reasons, for any worry for him to ever be silly.

And it wasn't just her own worry that waited. The worry he'd shown for her, that was
there as well; whatever the cause, his fear was a virus and she was catching it, the strain
thriving in the gaps in her understanding, growing, threatening to consume her if she didn't
find out where he was and why he was gone as soon as possible.

Hermione closed her eyes, because her mother had once told her that lying still and resting was
just as good as sleeping. She believed it now just as much as she'd done then, eight years old
and panicky with insomnia.

Not at all, in other words, but it was a fiction that wore well in the night.

Hermione left her bed at five; she left her flat at six. She could do this by phone, and should
do, really, but it was too early still and she needed to feel *busy*. She walked, then took
the Underground, then stopped off at a little bakery and bought a bag of pastries, both to using up
more time and giving her an offering. Not so much for Ron (for one thing, his early-morning
fireplace inspection was still fresh in her mind), but for Sarah, because Ron's nights
didn't just belong to him any more, and neither did his mornings.

Ron answered her knock with bleary eyes and morning hair. He didn't ask what she was doing
there, or make a fuss about the earliness of the hour. He just said, "Haven't heard
anything," and threw himself onto the sweet buns.

"I was thinking you could send Pig -"

"Yeah, he's on his way to Dean and Seamus's right now," Ron said, chewing
enthusiastically.

Hermione closed her eyes briefly against his manners. "Good," she said. "I'll
feel better if we know Dean hasn't been home either."

"Today's the last day of work for me before the holidays. What about you? Could you
stick around for Pig? Or so we'll know if Harry gets in?"

*No, I couldn't, I really, really couldn't,* Hermione thought. She wanted to see
that Harry was okay, but she wasn't ready to *see* him yet, especially not on her own.

"Oh, hey - you done with the shower?"

Hermione blinked at this, realised Ron obviously wasn't talking to her, and turned round.
Sarah had come into the room, looking ready for the day in jeans and a jumper.

"Yeah, your turn." Sarah walked over to Ron, stretched up on tiptoe as if to kiss his
cheek, then seemed to rethink things at the sight of Ron's furious jaw-work. She dropped down
off her toes, and patted him on the arm.

*So they are all right.* Hermione suddenly felt absurdly proud of Ron, and smiled.

Ron grabbed one last bun, waved it at Hermione and Sarah, and disappeared into the back of the
flat.

"Sorry about this," Hermione said, uncomfortable, partly because she was as in the way
as she'd feared she'd be, and partly because Ron and Sarah's easy domesticity pricked
at her. A reminder of what she had lost, not when Harry took off, but before, when they'd
argued. Or more accurately, of something she'd never truly had. . . . "I'm intruding
on your morning."

"Oh, not at all," Sarah said, moving to the refrigerator and opening the door.
"I'm glad you came. Ron hated for no-one to be here, that's why we came over last
night, but he can't get out of work today and neither can I. Not that I would be much good,
really. Ew, that milk's awful. Wonder how old the juice is?"

"Sarah -" Hermione broke off, uncertain how much she could say - how much Sarah
*really* knew - or what she even wanted to say.

Sarah closed the refrigerator. "Sorry, I'm babbling," she said, turning to
Hermione. "But. . . I didn't realise it was possible to feel worse about this than I did,
'til I saw you."

"Don't," said Hermione. "It's not your fault."

Sarah shrugged. "He's my brother."

There was a noise at the door, someone knocking, sharp and loud. And even though her mind was
very logically aware that Harry wouldn't knock on the door of his own flat, Hermione's
heart jumped.

She swallowed against all her nerves, against the *God-I-hope-it's-him*'s and the
*God-I-hope-it-isn't*'s, and went to the peephole. The person outside the door was
Dean, and he was alone.

Hermione wrenched the door open. "Do you know where Harry is? What's going on? Is he
all right?"

"Hell," Dean said, moving past her into the flat, "I was planning to ask you all
those questions. Every single one."

"I'll go get Ron," Sarah said, already halfway out of the room.

Hermione pinned her attention on Dean. Facts, time to gather facts. "When did you last see
Harry?"

"Two nights ago. Well, guess you'd say mornings ago, it was well after midnight. We
were finishing up an operation, and instead of coming back to Headquarters with me, he said he had
to go take care of some things." Dean shrugged. "Then he left."

"What was he like when you last saw him?"

Dean paused. "Not good. If Moody had seen him, he'd be on leave again."

"What's going on?" That was Ron, half-shaven and mostly-dressed.

Hermione spoke before Dean could. "Short version, Harry ran out on him as well. Dean, where
do you think he went?"

Dean hesitated, his eyes flickering around the room.

"I'm going to go," Sarah said, into that silence. "Ron -" she went over
and kissed his cheek - "be careful for me. Hermione -" she reached out, squeezed
Hermione's hand, and dropped it, "try not to worry too much. From what Ron's told me,
Harry can take care of himself."

"Then Ron's not telling it right," Hermione said, shaking her head. *And he
shouldn't have to.*

Hermione blinked once, hard, as the door closed behind Sarah. She and Ron and Dean instinctively
drew closer together in the grey morning light, getting down to business. Dean spoke first.
"I've no idea where he went," he said. "I hoped you'd know. Reckon you two
can guess better than me, at least. You know the inside of his head a lot better than I
do."

"Yeah, maybe," Ron said. "But I have the feeling you know a lot more about
whatever it is that's bothering him these days than we do."

"He thinks Voldemort's back," Hermione said.

She wasn't looking at any one or anything particular when she said the words, just the
cut-stone certainty in the back of her mind. Because Dean was right: he might know all the ins and
outs, mysteries and clues and players, but she and Ron knew *Harry.*

She looked at her friends now. Dean was nodding, agreeing; Ron's face was blotched red and
white. She couldn't help taking that as a little victory. Harry had told him more than he'd
told her, but Ron was *still* the one to be surprised.

"Now he hasn't said that -" Dean began.

"Oh, he wouldn't say," Hermione murmured.

Dean visibly took a breath. "But if you're right - then he's wrong," he said.
"Had a breakthrough in a case last night, and learned some stuff, and yeah. I think he's
wrong."

"You're certain?" Ron asked sharply.

"Well." Dean shrugged. "I'm almost positive. But Harry's the expert,
isn't he?"

Ron was nodding, still looking shell-shocked. "If Harry Potter thinks he's back,"
he said quietly, almost to himself, "how can the rest of the world not?"

"He's right about one thing," Dean said. "This thing that's going on, it
has the potential to be bad. Very, very bad. I need to go tell Moody what I've learned, but I
don't fancy going without Harry." He shuddered. "*Really* don't."

"Do you think he went looking for him?" Ron asked.

*Couldn't turn to you, couldn't turn to me, couldn't turn to work.*
"Yes," Hermione said.

"Okay," Ron said, swallowing, "okay, where would he look?"

Dean looked at the two of them, hope and desperation in his eyes. "*Please* tell me
you have some ideas."

"I have a few," said Hermione.

*



17. Seventeen
-------------

A/N: Hello Portkey, long time no see! Thanks very much to everyone who puts up with my
snail-like updating, plus a special thanks to Cynthia Black, Dorotea, Lightgetsin, and Paracelsus
for being wonderful betas.

*

**Seventeen**

*

"He's not here," Ron said. "And everything looks normal." He shuddered.
"Creepy, but normal."

"Did I *say* he would be here?" Hermione said. She was cold, she was worried, and
she was *not* in the mood for Ron to start telling her she'd got things wrong.
"We're a day behind Harry at the least. The idea is to figure out if he's *been*
here."

"I know that, I was just saying -"

But Dean had swung open the cemetery gate, and they had followed him inside.

There was a thought in Hermione's head that didn't belong. It was a loud thought,
insistent, very determined to be heard, but Hermione knew it didn't belong because it wanted
her to leave, and that was at odds with every other thought she'd had before stepping through
that gate. Closing her eyes, Hermione very firmly told the thought to go away. It did.

She opened her eyes just in time to see Dean do the same. Ron's lips were moving silently; a
second later he shook his head, hard, and opened his eyes as well. For a moment they were silent,
looking at each other. "That's a Ministry spell," Dean said, "perimeter
defence."

Hermione and Ron nodded, and they all walked on.

Some of the gravestones seemed fairly new, their marble shining in the sunlight, but most were
old, darkened, and beginning to crumble. The Riddles' headstones were the largest, and stood
out from the rest. Hermione's footsteps slowed. This was where Harry, younger and smaller, had
been tied up; this was where he'd been cut; this was where Voldemort had killed Cedric in front
of him and forced him to duel. And it was where Harry had reminded Voldemort that *young* and
*small* had never meant weak.

Hermione began to understand what Ron had meant. It *was* creepy here, but not for the
obvious reasons, the reminders of death. It was the history, the things they didn't see as they
stood in this place, but had glimpsed time and time again as they looked at their friend. And
*that* was the reason she'd insisted they try Little Hangleton first.

She had almost reached the spot.

What happened next was an invasion. No other word would do. For a few terrifying moments
Hermione didn't have control of her mind or her body, that all belonged to the screaming inside
her head - *Harry needs you, leave here right now, Harry needs you!* - it wasn't until she
was all the way out of the graveyard that she was able to shout it down - *But that doesn't
make sense! That's why I'm here!*

Hermione slowed her breaths, counting them, as her head pounded along with her heart and her
hands shook. She'd thought, in an intellectual, abstract way, that she understood why Harry
hated Occulmancy so much; she'd thought, too, that it was just something he needed to get past,
that if he'd only try properly he couldn't possibly fail.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Ron was almost as far as the church, and still walking. Hermione yelled for him, then turned to
Dean, who was standing nearby and looking a little like he'd been hit by a lorry. "The
Ministry has no right to invade people's heads like that, whether or not it's for the
public good," she said. "They need to find other ways."

Dean shrugged. "It's not like they could put up a wall. The Muggles would
notice."

"Not," Hermione said tersely, "if it was invisible. It just takes a little
-"

"Can we go look for clues, please?" That was Ron, back at her side, and he had a
point.

It took far more effort than it should have to cross back over to those graves, and seemed to
take far longer, too. Hermione's head felt thick and she had to work to think. She didn't
like that at *all*.

"Shame it's so cold," Ron said. "Ground's too hard for
footprints."

"Magical ones," Hermione said, "we need to be thinking about magical
ones."

"On it," Dean said. He pointed his wand, murmured two words, and closed his eyes.
There was a moment of quiet, of wind-noise and bird-chatter, during which Hermione held her breath.
"Someone's done magic here, very recently," Dean said, looking at them again.
"Not Dark magic. Just magic."

"Harry?" Ron asked.

Dean shrugged, slipping his wand back in his pocket. "Could be. It's a very strong
trace. If it wasn't Harry, it was someone else with some real power behind them."

"I want to think about this out there," Hermione said abruptly. Dean and Ron nodded
their agreement, and the three of them walked silently across the graveyard - *so* much easier
to walk away - and back out the gate.

"I still think Hogwarts," Ron said. "It's the last place Harry met him, and
all."

"Yes, Ron, we know what you think," Hermione said, closing her eyes, the click of her
own thoughts now comfortably fast. If someone had been at those graves very recently, doing magic
that wasn't Dark magic, what were the chances it had been Harry, doing the exact same spell
Dean had done? And if Harry had been there, what had *he* found? Nothing? Or something?

"And there's the Chamber of Secrets," Ron went on. "And the time with the
Philosopher's Stone. It's like, Harry and Voldemort and Hogwarts, they go
together."

Hermione winced at his wording. "How can you say -"

"That's true, though," Dean said thoughtfully.

"We're not done *here* yet!"

"But Harry is, if he was even here to begin with, and isn't the idea to catch up?"
Ron asked.

"But we need more information -"

"I'll give the church a quick look," Dean broke in. "See if I can learn
anything."

"Good idea," Hermione said, feeling a little tension slip out of her. They
couldn't leave yet, they *couldn't.* Harry might be here somewhere, they couldn't
just assume otherwise and walk away. And even if he wasn't here, they needed to know everywhere
Harry had been, what he'd done. *She* needed to know.

Besides, were they really going to walk into Hogwarts and say, 'Hello, we seem to have lost
Harry Potter, have you seen him lately?'

Dean walked away, his shadow long in the early-morning light. Hermione resisted the urge to go
with him; Dean knew what he was doing, and it would seem less suspicious if he did it alone.

"I *still*-"

"*Honestly*, Ron," Hermione snapped, "do you have no sense of
self-preservation at *all*?"

They stood in silence after that, which was finally broken by the crunch of gravel as Dean
walked back across the carpark, hands in his pockets. "I talked to the vicar," he said on
reaching them. "Did a little fishing. Harry - or somebody who looked exactly like Harry - was
here yesterday evening, around dusk. He remembers because it was the first stranger he's seen
here in ages."

Hermione was looking at the house on the hill, falling to bits behind the bare trees. She turned
back to Ron and Dean, making sure to give Ron a clear 'I told you so' with her eyes.
"Well, come on!"

Together, the three of them went.

*

Hermione was starting to feel seriously aggrieved with her government. She could feel the words
of a scathing letter to the editor building inside her, just waiting to get out. Another one of the
Ministry's insidious bits of perimeter defence had kicked in when they squeezed through the
gate onto the Riddle property.

As they walked, Dean fell into step with Hermione, leaving Ron a little ways behind. "Moody
went spare before," he said quietly. "That night Harry took ill when we were out on the
case. He could've blown the whole thing, and it wasn't like he'd been cursed or
poisoned or something. He was sick and he knew it."

Looking at Dean, Hermione thought, *And you were angry too, because it wasn't just the
case he was risking.*

"That's why he's done this," Dean went on. "He knew Moody'd lose it,
and he said - he said that I'd be better off on my own." He shrugged a little, looking
down at Hermione. "Just felt like you should know."

"Thank you," Hermione said, and wondered exactly what Dean saw when he looked at her
and Harry.

They reached the top of the hill. The morning light was weak, especially in the shadow of the
huge, crumbling house, but it was much, much better than the alternative. It wasn't just the
look of the place, every bit the haunted house on the hill, that made Hermione glad not to be here
after dark. Very logically, all looks and feelings and cultural wiring aside, she knew this house
might actually be out to get them. The Ministry's games might be just the beginning. . . . She
shivered a little, thinking of the traps that might lie inside, waiting.

She could only hope that nothing had caught Harry.

Dean's thoughts weren't far from her own. "Do you think. . . ."

"Think what?" Ron said.

Dean looked uncomfortable. "Well. *I* think that Harry's wrong about all this, but
what do you two think?" He gestured at the house. "Is it empty, or is there someone in
there that we'd *really* rather not see?"

Hermione wanted to say, *You're right, Dean, and Harry's wrong. Voldemort's not
here, he's not back, and there's no chance of us meeting the most evil wizard of our time
this morning, none at all.* But how could she? Harry was keeping things from her, important
things, and Dean was too. . . She didn't know what breakthrough he'd made in the case that
made him so almost-certain that Harry was wrong, she barely even knew what the case *was*. . .
. For a moment, Hermione was blindingly furious at Harry and Dean both, for expecting her to think
and act in the dark.

"I don't know," Ron said, "but it doesn't matter."

Dean glanced back and forth between them, frowning.

"If we think Voldemort *is* inside," Hermione explained, "then we've got
no choice but to get in there as well."

She looked at the two of them, her partners in this. She already trusted Ron with her life; that
was easy. She'd have to trust Dean, now. It shouldn't be too hard. Didn't Harry, every
day?

"Right," Dean said, swallowing. "Of course. Okay then."

It soon became obvious that the doors and windows of the house were protected by some sort of
translocation spell, spiriting away anything that touched them. Hermione wasn't surprised, but
it didn't make her feel any less like screaming.

Dean craned his neck, scanning the upper storeys. "If we do manage to get past the spells
on the entrances, the Ministry'll know. They'll come crashing down on us." He was
quiet a moment. "'Course, if Harry's the one who's right, maybe the Ministry
showing up wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"Actually," Hermione said, "it's not true that the Ministry would
know."

Dean said, "Listen, Hermione, I think I know about -"

"I'm sure they'd be alerted if we *broke* the spell," Hermione
interrupted. "But you said 'get past it', which doesn't mean the same thing, now
does it? We got past a spell already, at the property line. We didn't break it. Same thing for
the ones in the graveyard."

"If Harry went in, we have to reckon he did it without the Ministry knowing," Ron
said. "If they'd caught him up, Dean would've heard, wouldn't you Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean said, "okay, you're right, you're both right. Question is,
how do we 'get past it'?"

"If we can't get through any of the doors or windows," Ron said, forehead
wrinkled, "then we. . . make our own door?"

"In a manner of speaking," Hermione said, drawing her wand.

"You're just going to blast a hole in the wall?" Dean said, looking as if
she'd lost her mind. "Can't imagine that going unnoticed."

"No." Hermione turned the wand on Ron first. "*Conficio*!"

"Oi!" Ron said. Then, a second later, "Oh! *Cool*! I can walk through walls
now?"

"Only ones built by Muggles," Hermione said. "If the foundation's laid with
magic, forget it. But yes, you can. And now Dean can -" She waved her wand again. "And
now -" one more flick - "I can."

Getting through the wall wasn't easy, though. There was a second when Hermione nearly
panicked, afraid that whatever magic had been cast on parts of the house was enough to keep them
trapped inside the wall forever, even though the book she'd read the spell in had been
disgustingly proud of the fact that a foundation laid by Muggle means was always penetrable. But
she made it, pushing her way, and so did Ron and Dean, and Hermione smiled a little to herself as
she lifted the charm. She'd spent the past year living such a normal life, work and classes and
books and friends. No sneaking around, no life-or-death. It was good to know she remembered how to
do this sort of thing when she had to.

As if by previous agreement, none of them spoke, beyond Hermione's whispered Finite
Incantatem. She realised they should have already discussed what sort of magic they'd allow
themselves to do, what might be safe and what might alert the Ministry - or worse - to their
presence. Once again, she and Dean turned out to be thinking along the same lines. He held up his
wand meaningfully, then mimed putting it away. Hermione nodded, agreeing. Better to search with
eyes and ears first; leave magic as a last resort, or until they knew what they were dealing
with.

She took in her surroundings. They'd come out in a library, heavy with dirt and dust and the
smell of old pages, the books strewn and flung about in a way that tore at some deep part of
Hermione's heart. And nothing had happened, no jinx, no booby-trap, no sudden thundering
arrival of Ministry officials. They searched silently for a while, through the clutter, until
suddenly Dean stabbed a finger toward the floor.

Hermione and Ron gathered around. There were marks on the floor, cutting through the thick dust,
some scuffed and incomplete, one very definitely a footprint. Careful not to disturb anything, Ron
put his foot down beside the print. It was slightly smaller than his shoe.

*Harry?*, Hermione mouthed.

Ron gestured as if to say, *Maybe*.

They continued through the downstairs rooms. All were in a similar state of disarray and sported
similar scuffs and prints here and there. Hermione might not be Sherlock Holmes and able to piece
together a complete history from a footprint, but based on the amount of dust and grime everywhere
else she knew that these must be fairly fresh, and she felt certain that they were Harry's,
that he had walked these floors in the past day.

But he had to be gone by now. Like Ron had said, Harry was ahead of them, and this was a game of
catch-up. Besides, if he *were* still here, he would certainly know by now that they were
also, no matter how quiet they were being. He was good at that kind of thing.

Hermione pictured him for a second, standing just across the room, underneath the Invisibility
Cloak, watching in silence because the last thing he wanted to do was speak.

She took a moment to be very, very jealous of the Harry in her imagination. If she could see
that he was safe and sound without being seen, without having to say a word to him. . . .

They were in the front hall now, the ground floor completed without incident. Dean was already
on his way up the stairs. Hermione thought that he was getting impatient, and that he probably had
good reason to be. He should've told their boss straight away that Harry had gone off on his
own, but he hadn't. He was risking his own job, right now, out of loyalty to Harry. She felt a
sudden strong warmth towards Dean as she put a foot on the stairs behind him.

The steps were smooth, hard marble, and could easily be a death-trap if someone wanted them to
be. Hermione kept a careful hand on the rail as she climbed. Either there was nothing in this house
to harm them, or it was all waiting upstairs. . . .

By the time Hermione reached the landing, Dean was turning the knob of the first door along the
corridor. She made to follow, Ron at her heels, but Dean shook his head and pointed at the next
door down. Hermione understood, and nodded. She knew that Dean largely made the suggestion because
he wanted to speed things up, but these rooms *were* smaller and closer together than those
downstairs. As long as they were careful to move in a group, sticking to adjacent rooms, back up
would never be far away.

She poked through one mouldy old bedroom after another and, like Dean, as each one seemed to be
more of the same, began to find herself hurrying, her brain less and less concerned about the clues
or dangers this house offered and more and more focused on *what next?* Ron was right, Harry
would have gone on to Hogwarts if a search here proved fruitless, but did that mean that they
should do the same? If Dean truly was right, and Harry was wrong, then maybe Harry was back in
London by now. . . even hanging round Dean's flat, perhaps, wanting to see Dean before
reporting back to work just as much as Dean wanted to see him.

And they would go back to work, Dean and Harry, and things would be back to normal, and the
patterns would wear the same. This would be over; everything would be over. Except that nothing
would ever *really* be over between her and Harry, not as long as she heard his voice, saw his
face, said his name.

Hermione slipped through the door at the end of the hall.

Her heart nearly stopped.

The room was in a terrible state, even compared to the rest of the house, but that wasn't
important, her brain threw the data away almost as fast as it registered. Because there, on the
floor, amidst the clothes and knickknacks and upturned furniture, lay all that mattered.

Two people. Harry, and Ron.

Hermione made a sound that she tried to swallow. She dropped to the floor. *Calling for help
means attracting attention, you don't want attention -* They were lying face-up, their eyes
wide, glassy, staring, their skin cold. *Whatever happened to your boys happened in this room,
it's probably about to happen to you, whether you shout or not -*

Hermione heard something. She turned, her knuckles white around her wand. If she were lucky,
really, really lucky, it would be Dean. . . .

It wasn't. It was *Ron.*

Or, at least, something wearing Ron's face.

Hermione whipped her head back around, and now, instead of Ron and Harry, she saw something
massive and black, something many-legged and many-eyed and many-*teethed*. She squeaked,
scooting away, her heart pounding like mad even though she knew now what they were dealing
with.

She and Ron yelled "Riddikulus!", almost as one. The boggart-spider exploded, becoming
wisps of smoke on the air.

"Ha!" Ron said, looking pale and pleased. "We showed him!"

"Yes, and blew our cover as well," Hermione said, picking herself up. "Oh well, I
suppose we're about finished searching the house anyw -"

"Hermione?" Ron said, into the silence.

She'd put her hand down for balance as she'd begun to stand, but there wasn't dusty
wood floor under her fingers. She felt cloth and something solid, and as she looked closely she
realised she wasn't just seeing old floorboards beneath her hand, but something made to
*look* like old floorboards. She kept her left hand in place, pointed her wand with her right,
and after a Finite Incantatem, there was Harry and she knew, this time, he was real.

Ron was saying something, but she wasn't listening. Pulse, thank God Harry had a pulse.

"- come round now that the boggart's gone?"

It was slow, but it was strong. Hermione counted it under her breath.

"It would've been a Dementor, right?" Ron stuck a hand in his pocket and began
rummaging. "Good job I'm prepared. . . ." He must have looked at her face, because
then he said, "What, you don't think a boggart would turn into a Dementor for him any
more?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, "but I'm not sure this is as simple as a
boggart."

"But what else could it *be*?" Ron said. "We've been all over this house
and there's no-one here besides us and the boggart."

"Well, hurry up and find that chocolate, why don't you," Hermione snapped. She
couldn't fault his logic and she couldn't agree with him either. A boggart was too easy. A
boggart only answered the one question - why Harry was unconscious. And there were so many more
that needed answering.

"Aha!" Ron displayed a mushed bit of foil triumphantly, then dropped to his knees at
Harry's side. He peeled back the edges and waved the melted contents of the foil under
Harry's nose.

It did about as much good as Hermione suspected it would.

"Stop," she said, after a moment, a long moment of looking at Harry's still face,
"just stop, it's not working. Get Dean, and we'll get him out of here."

When they were alone, she and Harry, Hermione reached out and touched his cheek, briefly, then
dropped her hand. Her head buzzed with a thousand worries and questions and fears, but a part that
was deeper and more certain saw in front of her an unravelling, and knew only a very quiet
triumph.

It wasn't nice and it wasn't pretty, but maybe that was what made it love.

*

Harry sat straight up, breaking the first rule of returning to consciousness (Be careful how
much you move your head: it's probably going to hurt) as well as the second (Do not broadcast
the fact that you've come round: it's never a good idea).

"Ron! Why're you -" soft pillows, clean sheets, *cat fur* - "why am
*I* here?" Trying to think back was like trying to find his way through fog, all
confusion and fuzzy edges. Had he Apparated here on instinct, then blacked out? Merlin, he hoped
not.

"Brought you here, didn't we? There was a pub in the village, the Pointy Hat or
something, and we borrowed their Floo."

"You were there? At the house?" Harry's head felt fat and thick and unimportant.
"Hermione?"

"Don't worry, she's okay," Ron said. "We're all okay."

"But there was -"

"It was a boggart. Not a Dementor. A boggart."

"A boggart," Harry said dully. He had gone from sitting to propping himself up without
noticing; his elbows shook now with the effort of keeping him upright. He gave up, trying not to
make it look like a collapse, and fell back on the pillows. He remembered these pillows. That
wasn't fuzzy at all, even though it had been so long ago now, months ago. . . . He'd woken
up, and Hermione had been there, and something had started, then.

Harry gave himself a mental shake, focused. So who had levitated him? Kept him up like a puppet,
all the way through the village? Who had dug the Cloak out of his pocket, who had been in charge of
making sure it didn't slip?

"Yeah, a boggart, but don't feel embarrassed or anything. Hermione reckons there's
something really wrong with you."

"Does she? Great."

"She went to see Remus. She should be back soon, expect she'll explain then."

"She went to see Remus," Harry repeated.

She really *was* still angry.

And so was he. Angry at Hermione for not letting him keep her safe, for taking that choice away
from him. For finding him like she did. For proving he would never have been able to carry out that
choice anyway.

"Listen, Harry," Ron said. His voice was shatteringly sincere, and Harry forced
himself to pay attention. "I'm really sorry, okay? About Piers and everything. I
should've known he'd turn up. And Sarah is too, she told me to tell you, but really
it's just me who should be. If I had told her everything I should have -"

"Forget it," Harry said. Shutting up Ron, shutting up the voice in his head that heard
those words and thought immediately of Hermione, and shutting up the most dangerous voice of all,
the one that was saying, *He'd help you leave if you asked him, you know he would, even if he
knew Hermione would kill him afterwards.*

It was so tempting, but Harry couldn't do that, and not just because it wouldn't be fair
on Ron. There always came a time when standing up and dealing with things was all there was to do,
and this, now, was it.

Or sitting up and dealing, Harry thought, and couldn't help laughing at himself a little.
What did it say about him, that lying here and waiting to have a conversation was turning his
insides over and over in ways walking into Voldemort's house had not?

"You okay?" Ron asked, his voice nervous, probably because Harry had done his laughing
out loud.

Harry started to reply, but just then the door opened, letting in a whirlwind of brown hair and
brisk determination.

"Ron, we need a glass. Dean, the first potion. Harry -" The first time he'd heard
Hermione say his name in days, it did something to every one of his nerve-endings, and she
wasn't even looking at him as she said it - "sit up."

Harry sat up. Hermione stood at the foot of the bed, and Harry looked beyond her, toward the
doorway. Dean was in her wake - not all that surprising - but he appeared to be the only person
there. No Remus. Harry didn't know whether to think that was Remus's idea of mercy, a
little gift of dignity, or a sign that Harry had badly damaged yet another relationship in the past
few days.

"Tell us about the potion," Hermione said.

She was looking at Dean, and so Harry focused on him as well. In Dean's hand was a bottle
capped by a glass stopper. Something they'd got from Remus, Harry supposed, or maybe a fresh
bottle of the potion he'd been given the last time he'd collapsed on the job. The problem
there, of course, was that he hadn't been on the job this time around, and if Magical Law
Enforcement had supplied the potion then chances were good that he didn't even *have* a
job anymore.

Dean cleared his throat, and spoke as if he were stating something for the record.
"Soothing Solution, purchased from Jenkins's Apothecary." He shot Harry a glance.
"It's a lot like Pepto."

"Thank you," Hermione said. "Now, Harry," she went on, turning towards him,
but looking somewhere over his head, "on a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest and one
being the lowest, tell us how you're feeling right now."

Very, very, very low, if they were talking mentally as well as physically. Here he was
surrounded by people he had walked away from - all supposedly to some degree or another for their
own good - who had banded together, followed him, and rescued him. He knew he should feel sorry for
the choices he'd made; he knew he should realise how futile it had all been; but part of him
still refused to believe that wanting to keep these people safe was wrong, and the fact that the
words *I'm sorry* didn't feel right in his mouth yet made everything that much
worse.

Not to mention, it was all pretty bloody embarrassing.

"Er," Harry said. "Four?"

Hermione gave him a quick, sharp glance. "Four?" She'd probably thought he would
inflate the number, try and say that he felt better than he actually did. He'd surprised her,
in a good way, and he liked it.

He shrugged. "Worse than average."

"All right," Hermione said. "Four. Now, based on your current condition, what
effect would you expect this potion to have on that number?"

Seeing as his insides felt full of squirming things, Harry said, "Make it go up?"

Dean stepped up to the bed. He looked straight at Harry, steady and strong, and Harry found that
he couldn't return that look, couldn't keep his own eyes from sliding away. He focused
instead on the bottle in Dean's hands, the bottle that did *not* contain the potion from
work, which meant it was possible that Dean had covered his absence up. . . Had he? Had he withheld
information from their superiors, even out-and-out lied? Harry swallowed. He hadn't meant to
ask that of Dean. . . except for the part of him that had, the part of him that had left Knockturn
Alley that night thinking that maybe, just maybe, he could do this and no-one would ever know. . .
.

"Will you have a dose?" Dean asked.

Harry reached out a hand, granting permission without hesitation. Dean poured carefully, then
gave Harry a glass one-fourth full of something brownish-orange. It went down thick and sweet, and
Harry could feel it spreading through his body, faster than any Muggle medicine. He gave the glass
back to Dean, knowing both Hermione and Dean were watching his hand as he did so. He mentally told
it not to shake, but it didn't really listen.

"Number, Harry?"

He swallowed hard. "Three and a half."

Hermione had expected that, Harry could tell. "Ron?" she said. "The potion to
your left? Over on the chest of drawers?"

Ron picked up the bottle and brought it over to the bed, turning it around in his hands.
"Looks like headache potion, Harry," he said. "Two good chugs, that's what I
usually give it."

"Charming," Hermione said. "Yes, it's headache potion, which is often taken
in conjunction with Soothing Solution -"

"Yeah, especially after a good night out," Ron said.

"*So*," Hermione said, teeth slightly gritted, "there shouldn't be any
complications strictly thanks to the interaction of the two."

But she *did* think there would be complications, Harry realised. Why? What kind?
Complications could mean *anything* when magic was involved, from knocking him out to giving
him spots to making him speak in Hungarian for a week. Harry looked at Hermione for a long moment,
at the way her chin was raised, the way her mouth was set. Whatever she was doing, she was doing it
for a reason. She was doing it because she thought it had to be done.

He knew her, and he knew that, and it was enough.

Harry reached out a hand towards Dean, and took back the glass. From Ron he took the bottle, and
poured out what he supposed equalled two good chugs' worth. He knocked them back, swallowed,
closed his eyes. Kept them closed until his head was done doing tricks.

"Three," he said then, unprompted.

Hermione didn't miss a beat. "Ron? Empty your pockets, please."

"What?"

"Do I really have to repeat myself?"

Ron screwed up his face and silently mimicked Hermione, like a student behind the teacher's
back, but he followed directions too. Plundering his pockets, he threw all manner of stuff on the
bed, some of it landing on Harry's legs. His wand, four pieces of chocolate, six Galleons, a
mashed bit of sandwich, something in a yellow foil wrapper. . . .

"That," Hermione said.

Ron paused, hand half-stuffed in his pocket. "That? Why?"

Hermione opened her mouth, possibly to explain, possibly to bite Ron's head off, but Dean
spoke first. "Because it's not medicine," he said. "Just magic."

Harry glanced at Hermione again, and this time, he caught her looking at him. He saw the worry
in her eyes before they flicked away, and more than anything else, that made him reach out and take
what she wanted him to have.

He unwrapped the thing with fingers that felt a little clumsy, a little disconnected. As the
Soothing Solution had not soothed his stomach at all, it took will for him to put it in his mouth,
chew and swallow.

Harry felt himself grow feathers, which was always a very strange feeling indeed; then he felt
the world go spotty; then he didn't feel much at all.

*

It had been daylight, but it was night now. They were alone, just he and Hermione, in a
yellow-white pool of light surrounded by dark. She was sitting in a chair by the bed, and as Harry
blinked awake, she said, "Number?"

Her voice was quieter, now that it was meant for just him, and just her. Not quite softer, or
more gentle either, but quieter, and definitely more *hers.* Except, of course, for the
distance still in it; that was his, he'd put that there. Just like the space between them in
feet and inches, between bed and chair, that was down to him too. He'd put some of it there
when he'd scared Percy off her project, more - much, much more - when she'd asked a
question (*What are you protecting me from?*), and he'd thrown up a wall. And left it up,
and walked away. . . So much distance, and it wasn't something he could make disappear with a
wand and a word. It was something to be crossed, carefully.

Harry sat up, and turned his mind to her question. His throat felt like it had been gouged, one
long raw strip, all the way down. That wasn't good. But his head, oh, even sitting up his head
was *great*, the lack of any pain or tension in it an exquisite shock. "Seven," he
said. It came out as a croak, but that didn't matter. "No - eight."

"You're sure?" Hermione said, but Harry didn't reply. His eyes lit on a glass
of water on the nightstand, and he grabbed it and gulped. It was wet and cold and
*perfect*.

Hermione took a deep breath. "All right," she said, her hands tightening in her lap.
"I think it's time I told you what we did. I think it's fair."

Yes, it was. Very, very fair that she should tell him now, when it - whatever it was - was
done.

"But it would be best if you had another of these first. Will you?" Hermione held out
her hand, another Canary Cream on her palm, showing the tell-tale signs of time spent in Ron's
pocket - smushed in the centre, torn foil at the edges. Harry reached out, took it, and in the
taking their fingertips brushed, and he felt her for the first time in forever.

A few minutes later, the feathers were disappearing, the yellow was fading, and Harry still felt
pretty bloody good.

"Still eight?" Hermione asked, watching him closely.

"Yeah."

"Good," she said, and Harry saw the rush of open relief hit her, just for a second, as
if he were peeking through a crack in a closing door. Relief and maybe something else -
satisfaction? Pride? She deserved to be proud; looked like she'd fixed him. Saved him from
something he couldn't even see, because she was Hermione and she was good at that. She
continued, "We tested you for poison. You failed."

"What? Are you -?" Harry bit off his question, because there was no need to ask it.
This was Hermione, and she was announcing something as fact. She was sure. Instead, he started
thinking - amazing how much easier it was to do that all of a sudden, now that his head wasn't
stuffed with pain. "You gave me a bezoar," he said, realising now why his throat knifed
him every time he spoke, every time he swallowed, "and I got better, so I must have been
poisoned?"

"That's the short version, yes."

He needed to hear the long version, needed to hear it *right now*, but he couldn't
sound as if he was rushing her; he felt like every step had to be taken in her time if they were to
get anywhere at all. But he could sound pleading. That would be okay. More than okay.

"And the rest of it? Please?"

Hermione leaned forward in her chair, shifting into explanation-mode. "Your body was
working against magic used on it, like an allergic reaction. We proved that by giving you minor
magical substances that should have been beneficial, which you indicated were just the opposite.
Then we gave you a more complex substance that caused you to undergo a fairly large magical
transformation. You reacted even more adversely to that one." She paused, letting him take it
in. "So the options were, you suddenly developed an allergy to magic all on your own, or
someone saw to it that you did. Thus, the bezoar."

"But where did the poison come from? The house?" Harry had to admit, that sounded
better than the alternative - that he'd fainted from dealing with a boggart. "How? Was it
in the air? Or something I touched? I didn't eat or drink anything. . . ."

"No," Hermione said. "Not the house."

He blinked. "Then. . ."

"Oh, think about it, Harry! Doesn't the pattern stretch further back than that? Dean
told me that you'd had Polyjuice the night you got so sick at work. And it was when you'd
*stopped* taking your potion and started with Muggle medicine that you really seemed to get
better. That's right," she said, catching his expression, "I was paying attention.
And remember that night you were cleaning the oven, and there were magical fumes everywhere? From
dragon's blood, to be precise, which I know you've been dealing with at work lately, so no
wonder you've been ill all the time. So you tell me, Harry. When did all this really start?
Where *did* the poison come from?"

"I -" He should be thinking back, trying to connect a magical trigger to every time
he'd felt sick to his stomach or nearly passed out or had a headache. He should be trying to
find that very first time, so he could put a ring round it on a calendar, stand back and see what
it told him. But looking at the past few months felt like looking at a house of cards; Hermione had
just placed a new one, right at the very top, and now everything was a breath away from fluttering
down. "I'm having a hard time with this, sorry."

Hermione frowned. "Like something's affected your memory?" She leaned forward a
bit more, eyes searching as if examining an interesting specimen.

"No. Just. . . I've been thinking it was Voldemort." The words sounded strangely
smaller out loud than they had living inside his head. Interesting, a detached part of him thought,
has the name become something less powerful spoken than unspoken? "Everything that's been
wrong for months now, I've been thinking was because of Voldemort. And it could still be, I
reckon, I don't know. But this," he flapped a hand vaguely, "I never even thought of
something like this, because I was too busy thinking about *that.*"

There was a faint surprise on Hermione's face; at what he had said, or at the fact that
he'd been honest enough to say it? The second one, he realised immediately, she'd gone to
the Riddle House, she knew where his head had been. And she already knew how deep tunnel vision
could take him, sometimes.

Harry looked at her, and suddenly saw her much, much younger; the two of them were far beneath
Hogwarts, she'd just solved a logic-puzzle he never could have managed, won him a potion that
would take him through black fire. In the room beyond he was expecting to find the
Philosopher's Stone, and - he'd been so very certain, and so very wrong - Snape, the person
trying to steal it. . . .

"More important things," he said. "That's what you said."

Her forehead knit in confusion. "What?"

She'd been taller than him, he remembered that, and he'd accidentally tasted her hair
and the whole thing had been startling and suffocating, but in the best way, a way that had given
him warmth when the ice-potion had brought the cold. . . .

"Never mind," he said. Too soon to follow that thought; he was still facing a
roadblock on that path, and she would be too, from the other side.

"Well," Hermione said, after a pause, "Dean seems to think you're wrong about
Voldemort. He's pretty desperate to talk to you, actually. I should -"

But Harry wasn't listening; he was busy marvelling at the way her brain worked. She had
found him flat on the floor, a boggart in the room - a boggart that had never resolved itself into
any form or any shape for him, wasn't that nice and psychological? - and she'd gone from
there to poison, somehow, and she'd figured out exactly what the poison had been doing, devised
a test, and proved it. "Why poison? I mean, what made you think of it?"

"Well - like I said, I've been paying attention, these past couple of months."
Harry thought he caught a pinkness in her cheeks, at that. "So I started searching for a way
to link together everything I'd seen *without* bringing Voldemort into it. And Dean sort
of handed me the idea - while we were out looking for you, he happened to say something about it
not being like you'd been poisoned or anything, and the more I thought about it, the more I
realised it was *exactly* like that. Unexplained reoccuring bouts of illness that - well,
neither Ron nor I have shown the first symptom," oh yes, she was definitely going pink now,
"so it really can't have been down to a virus or bacteria."

"And Remus, he agreed?" Harry was probing now, to try and find out how much Remus knew
about everything.

"He thought it was a valid theory," Hermione said. "He gave us the bezoar. I
thought. . . I thought you'd rather we got it from him than if Dean got it from the
Aurors."

Suddenly unable to look at her, Harry studied his hands instead. Here she was, after everything,
still trying to save his job for him.

"I really should send Dean in now." Hermione got to her feet. "I promised him
I'd only take a few minutes."

"Hermione. . ."

She stood by the bed with her face carefully unreadable. "Yes?"

And - he couldn't quite say it, couldn't quite push that block out of the way. Because
didn't saying sorry mean he intended never to do it again? How could he say that, how could he
promise that? He was sorry he'd hurt her but he wasn't sorry he'd tried to keep her
safe, he *wasn't.* The fact that she meant more to him than maybe ever just meant that it
was doubly, tripley, quadruplely his job now, and how could he be sorry for doing that?

"I'm glad you came." Because that was true, and it was a hard-fought truth inside
him; he had not felt glad, when he had first awoken here. "Not just that you came, that you
knew where to find me."

By her eyes, she understood just how deep that ran; she heard the *That you know me that
well*, even if he hadn't formed the words. "Me too," she said quietly. They looked
at each other for one moment more, and Harry couldn't quite breathe, and then she was at the
door, her hand on the knob, turning.

Dean was there, waiting, on his way in as soon as the door began swinging open, but Harry
didn't care. "Hermione," he said, before she could disappear, "I want to fix
this."

A smile stole across her face, so real and true that Harry's heart flipped over.
"Good," she said. "I'd like that."



