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Chapter Text

Gripping his wife Jessica’s hand, who carried their six-month-old son in her arms, Matthew gave her a brief nod of his head before he twirled in the opposite direction, taking his family with him. The familiar sensation of being squeezed through a toothpaste tube addled their brains. Their son, Matt Jr., began crying. He had never come to like Apparating, but there were too many things in this world one had to do despite not admiring them. One such deed was what had brought the Youngs to the Maj Street today. 

Maj Street was to the American Wizarding society like what Diagon Alley was to the British. Set in Queens, New York, Maj street was devoted to obtaining all sorts of stuff regarding the Wizardkind. There was no ambiguity that also included wands, something the Youngs were particularly interested in today. 

Clad in overcoats, Matthew and Jessica strolled through the buoyant commotion on Maj Street, which was not unexpected considering Ilvermorny was undertaking new admissions next month. A group of three boys passed the Youngs, talking eagerly about their upcoming time at the Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

“. . . and the uniform is so cool, ain’t it?” said one boy to his friends. “Blue and Cranberry. My elder brother always says there is no school uniform as good-looking as Ilvermorny’s.” 

“Of course there isn’t,” said another boy. “Ilvermorny is the best Wizarding school in the entire world!” 

The Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was the American wizarding school, based on Mount Greylock in Massachusetts. It admitted students from all over North America. 

Ilvermorny was originally a stone house constructed by Irish immigrant Isolt Sayre and her No-Maj husband, James Steward. It became a school when their adoptive children, Chadwick and Webster Boot, hoped they could return to Ireland so they could attend Hogwarts. Isolt then promised they would build their own school at their Mount Greylock home, with the aim of home-schooling them. Thus, the school started with just the couple acting as teachers and their two adopted sons, Chadwick and Webster Boot, as students. Each of them named one of the four Houses: Chadwick created Thunderbird, Webster created Wampus, Isolt created Horned Serpent, and James created Pukwudgie. 

Eventually, the school enrolled more students, and the couple were able to provide wands not just for their children, but for the other students, too. By the eighteenth century, Ilvermorny became a granite castle, and more teachers were added to cope with the growing number of students. By this point, the school had become a boarding school. 

Ilvermorny reached the same reputation that other schools of magic had, and the founders had concealed their school by clever enchantments, some of which made it look like a misty cloud to No-Majs. 

When first-years arrived at Ilvermorny, they were sorted into their house and then taken to another area where they got to choose (or be chosen by) their wand. 

Before Rappaport’s Law was repealed, students were not allowed a wand outside of school until they were seventeen, and were not allowed a wand before arriving at Ilvermorny. As might be expected of a school part-founded by a No-Maj, Ilvermorny had the reputation of being one of the most democratic, least elitist of all the great wizarding schools. Students were also well versed in using a wand. 

Right now, Matthew was seriously contemplating Ilvermorny for his son’s education when he comes of age — considering, since he could not reach complete understanding with his wife on this subject. Jessica was hoping they would be returning to London in no time while Matthew, on the other hand, couldn’t see that taking place at all in the foreseeable future. 

“This way,” Matthew said to his wife, pointing at a wand shop with his thumb. 

“Are you sure about this, Matt?” Jessica asked cautiously. “We can always —” 

“I’m sure, Jessi,” said Matthew firmly. “You trust me, right?” 

“With my life,” said Jessica without hesitation. 

Beaming sincerely, Matthew pecked on his wife’s forehead before he led her inside the wand shop with a board that read: 

Caddelwood Wand Shop

Since 1851 

A bell clinked as they pushed through the wooden door only to discover themselves in a a narrow squeeze. The shop was not at all spacious like Matthew had expected. There was only so much space that Matthew and Jessica could stand side by side with their son in the latter’s arms. What was more surprising was the young woman sitting behind the small counter. Matthew had expected an old man like Ollivander, but now felt silly for having thought so. 

“Welcome, Sir, Ma’am,” the woman said cordially, rising to her feet and giving the Youngs a small bow. 

“Hello,” said Jessica, smiling. “Are you the owner or . . . ?” 

“My father’s the owner, Ma’am,” the woman told them. “But he’s aged gray and cannot look after the shop as regularly. I take his place on such days. My name is Ines Caddelwood.” 

“So, Ines, we both need wands,” Matthew cut in. “Help us out, yeah? Although . . .” He dragged his last word, his eyes wandering around the shop. There wasn’t too much to discover. Not a single wand was on display, unlike Ollivander’s Wand Shop in Diagon Alley where hundreds of wands were kept in boxes all around the vast shop. “Where are all the wands?” 

“Excuse me for my presumptuousness, Sir, but I presume you’re British,” Ines said readily, making Matthew’s eyes widen in panic. 

“Is it that obvious?” he asked anxiously. 

“Every British wizard poses the same question, Sir,” said Ines. “Them and all the excited children who don’t bother asking their parents or elder siblings how the Caddelwood Wand Shop serves their customers.” 

Jessica contained a giggle as Matthew’s expressions turned sour. 

“Ignorant children, eh?” he said, frowning. 

“You’re right, Ines,” answered Jessica. “We’re not American, I hope that doesn’t bother you.” 

“Not at all, Ma’am.” 

Ines knelt behind the desk. When she rose back to her feet, she had a blank slate in her hands. She put it on the counter and gestured at it. 

“Let’s record your magical core. Please put your wand-hand upside down on it.” 

Glancing around at Jessica with slight apprehension, Matthew moved as asked. The effect was immediately obvious. As soon as the back of his right hand touched the slate, a white tint gleamed in his chest. It spread to his right shoulder and lurked down to his palm before establishing contact with the slate. Matthew assumed it was his magical core. 

“Hold your hand as it is, Sir,” said Ines, peering straight up at the ceiling. 

Matthew followed her line of vision and was astounded to see a wooden board slide out of its place. He could hear things shuffling up there as if someone was rattling the attic above. Then, all of a sudden, a wand fell into Matthew’s hand. The white hue covered the wand as well before perishing altogether. 

“Nine-and-a-half inches, unicorn tail hair, ebony wood,” said Ines, as Sirius lifted the wand in his hand, clutching it firmly. “Ebony is known to be the happiest in the hand of those having courage to be themselves; unicorn tail hair is the least prone to accidents and to change loyalties. You have been chosen by an outstanding wand, Sir.” 

“Thanks,” said Sirius, making small circles in the air with the tip of his new wand. It somehow felt lighter than his previous one. 

Jessica’s wand, however, was a unique one. 

“Nine inches, Thunderbird tail feather, larch wood,” announced Ines with an awed expression on her face. “An extremely unique wand, Ma’am. Thunderbird tail feathers are extraordinarily powerful and can sense danger; larch wood has a reputation for instilling confidence in their users and usually prefers owners with unusual talents. I don’t think we have another wand made like this.” 

“That’s my wife,” Matthew said proudly, making Jessica blush an adorable shade of pink. 

Matt Jr. chose this moment to grip Jessica’s wand with his tiny fingers. Sparks shot out of the tip, leading Jessica to let out an embarrassed squeak. 

“Sorry,” she said hastily to Ines, who didn’t seem to mind. 

Matt Jr. was giggling. 

Matthew compensated for the two wands, and when they were out of the tiny shop, he spoke to his wife, “If my eleven-year-old self saw me holding a wand with unicorn tail hair, he’d be ashamed. Wands with unicorn tail hair are considered less powerful than the ones with a dragon heartstring or Phoenix feather. He’d be so jealous of you.” 

Jessica grinned, imagining an eleven-year-old him envying her for her unique wand. 

“Can you please take it from him?” Matthew said restlessly. 

Matt Jr. had his mother’s wand in his hands, and although no sparks were coming out of it right now, it still had Matthew on the edge. 

“I can’t wait for him to buy his own wand, Siri,” said Jessica. 

Sirius’s eyes went as round as saucers. Amelia grasped it a little too late. Sirius had already rushed into panic mode. He clutched Amelia’s arm and towed her into a tiny alley nearby, breathing harshly. 

“I’m sorry,” Amelia apologized honestly. “I didn’t mean to —” 

“Save it,” said Sirius, snooping around for possible onlookers and eavesdroppers. “We’re done here, anyway. Let’s leave.” 

He took her hands and spun, Apparating them back to their place on 11th Street, Brooklyn. It was a two-room set apartmin a No-Maj area. 

Sirius and Amelia had adopted aliases and were recognized by their neighbors as Matthew and Jessica Young, a couple who had migrated from Britain for some research purpose with their son and a cat. It was Sirius’s idea to hide their true identities, although Amelia continued to make her apprehension known to him from time to time. 

The truth was, he was terrified. Amelia’s abduction had shaken him to his core. He couldn’t possibly lose her, not now that they had established their relationship anew and had a son together. Moreover, throughout the time that he spent in Azkaban, he always thought how he could have acted differently, how he could have changed the outcome of his life, of Harry and Amelia’s lives. Fate had assembled a similar situation in front of him once more, and this time he was prepared to grab those he cared for and make a run for it. He didn’t care about fighting. He didn’t care about anything but his family’s wellbeing, that they stayed alive. 

“I’m making porridge,” Amelia said, handing over little Zain to her husband. “You want it with sugar?” 

“Yeah, a little,” Sirius said, nodding. 

As Amelia made her way to the kitchen, Sirius hugged Zain to his chest and rubbed his back while he approached the couch and sat down on it. 

Am I doing the right thing? Sirius thought; Zain had fallen asleep with his head on Sirius’s shoulder. Why does it feel like I am not? Didn’t I always feel like I should have done the same thing with Harry? 

Sirius sighed. The disastrous Halloween night flashed before his eyes as if it was only yesterday. 

There was rubble everywhere: different-sized lumps of furniture, wall plasters, picture frames, window panes. Potter’s Cottage had been blown off, its roof half-missing. 

And a cry. A baby’s cry. 

Harry’s. 

Sirius first saw James’s dead body down in the hall. James lay on the floor, his mouth half-open, his brows furrowed, his eyes lifeless. Color draining off his face, his mind reeling from numb shock, Sirius bent over and lifted his best friend’s upper half into his lap. A couple of drops splattered James’s pale face, and Sirius realized tears were streaming liberally down his own cheeks. He wished James would get up, laughing loudly, and say it was all a prank. Sirius imagined being mad at his friend, but relieved in the end. He so wished the truth wasn’t the truth. 

With feet heavier than logs, Sirius rushed upstairs, the wooden floor creaking under his feet. Lily appeared no different from James. More tears poured out of Sirius’s eyes. Two of his friends were lost forever. What right did he have to be breathing? What right did his heart have to still be beating? 

Sirius picked Harry from his crib. A strange lightning-shaped scar adorned his forehead. 

What have I done? Sirius thought, despaired. What do I do now? 

Heavy footsteps approached the bedroom. Sirius turned to find a sobbing Hagrid at the door. He put Harry back in his cot, mopped his tears away, and fled the cottage, vengeance aflame in his eyes. He would slaughter that betraying bastard. 

“Siri!” 

Sirius startled. He didn’t have Zain in his arms anymore. Amelia had placed him in his cot and was now peering down at Sirius with watchful eyes. She wiped his cheeks, and Sirius realized he was actually crying. 

“Amy, I’m so sorry,” he said, sniffing. 

Amelia sat down next to him and gently took his hand in her own. 

“You don’t need to be, I understand.” 

Sirius hugged her tight and didn’t let go for a couple of minutes. She patted his back while whispering soothing words. 

“I should have been careful,” Sirius mumbled. 

“You were, and that saved my life,” said Amelia, smiling. 

“No, last time. I should have taken Harry and reached out to you instead of going after Pettigrew by myself. I screwed up everything, and we all paid for it.” 

“Yes, as much as it hurts to admit, you did make a mistake,” said Amelia. “But I could say the same thing about me. Who on earth doesn’t make mistakes, Siri? We all do. The important thing is to learn from them.” 

“Which I have,” Sirius stated firmly. “I will not make the same mistake twice. I’m going to protect you this time, no matter what it takes.” 

Amelia sighed. She didn’t want Sirius to be protective by hiding them in another country. But she couldn’t deny his sense of duty, either. 

“Your porridge,” she said, handing it to him before picking up her own from the table. “With little sugar, like you said.” 

“Thanks.” 

It wasn’t like the USA was a very safe and sound country, either. There have been numerous episodes in the country’s long bloody history where conflicts were birthed and battles were fought over power and dominance. The Salem Witch Trials in 1600s were a shining example. 

The Salem Witch Trials were a series of hearings and prosecutions of people accused of witchcraft that occurred in No-Maj colonial Massachusetts in the years 1692 and 1693, resulting in the executions of twenty people accused of witchcraft, most of them women. Some of these women were actually witches, though they were entirely innocent of the crimes of which they were convicted. Others were simply No-Majs unlucky enough to be swept up in a moment of mass hysteria. 

The trials were the culmination of Puritan witch hunts in North America. Most of the judges who presided over the trials were Puritans, but, according to wizarding historians, at least two were actually Scourers seeking to settle personal vendettas against other wizards. 

The Salem Witch Trials were a major traumatic event in the history of the Wizarding World. They provoked many witches and wizards who had settled in the New World to return to their homelands, and helped to dissuade further immigration for centuries to come, especially from pure-blood families. 

Then came Rappaport’s Law. This law was intended to create absolute segregation between the No-Maj and Wizarding communities. It banned witches and wizards from marrying or befriending No-Majs, allowing only interactions “necessary to perform daily activities,” and meted out harsh penalties for fraternisation with No-Majs. To ensure complete conformity with the Law, only upon reaching the age of majority (seventeen) would a witch or wizard be legally allowed to carry a wand outside school. All wizards in America were also required to apply for and carry a wand permit. 

Another altogether different legend that had taken a deep-rooted residence in every American household was the Skin-walker. 

Skin-walkers were, according to the folklore of the indigenous people of North America, evil witches or wizards that could transform into an animal at will, having gained their powers of transformation through the sacrifice of close relatives. 

A legend grew up around the Native American Animagi, that they had sacrificed close family members to gain their powers of transformation. In fact, most Animagi assumed animal forms to escape persecution or to hunt for the tribe. Such derogatory rumors, even though the legend was somewhat based in fact, often originated with No-Maj medicine men, who were sometimes faking magical powers themselves, and fearful of exposure. 

But what country or civilization doesn’t have legends, right? Sirius reassured himself. No matter where they went, they would always face contradictory stories and challenges. Wait, didn’t that render Sirius’s decision to flee irrelevant? If every country had its challenges, there was no reason to leave Britain, was there? Voldemort was simply one of those challenges the Wizarding World was dealing with right now. 

Months passed, and the Blacks stayed in their apartment in New York. They killed most of their time locked inside, never having to earn their living, thanks to the huge piles of gold resting in their Gringotts accounts. Gradually, Sirius started to settle down and loosen up more around the city. He even started taking Amelia, Zain, and Crookshanks out for dates and picnics. 

Amelia, however, always had a look of hesitation on her face every time Sirius talked about their potential future in America, but she could never pry him for long because not only could she understand his plight, but also she loved him too much. It made Sirius feel like he was exploiting her, but neither of the two could turn up with a better solution. 

Then, one day, the unexpected happened. 

“Hey, look, an owl!” 

Amelia pointed out a barn owl waiting outside the window that opened into the hall. Sirius stood up, unnerved. Nobody was supposed to know where the Blacks were. He hadn’t even told the Order about their hiding location, rest aside which country. 

Then who was it? 

Sirius went and opened the window to let the owl in. It landed on the table in the center and presented its right leg to Amelia from which she untied a piece of parchment. 

“ ‘I know where you are,’ ” she read. “There’s no sender name.” 

His heart leaping up into his throat, Sirius snatched the letter from his wife and read it himself. He was so anxious, he couldn’t recognize the handwriting. His hands were quivering. 

Somebody knows where we’re hiding! But how? 

“I wonder who that is,” Amelia said, looking much calmer than Sirius felt. “Friend or foe? What do we do now, Siri?” 

“I dunno,” Sirius said helplessly, crumbling the parchment in his fist. “How on earth could they possibly find out we’re here? And more importantly, who are they?” 

As if on cue, someone knocked on the door. Sirius jumped in alarm, his new wand poised for action. Amelia, too, raised her wand, pointing it at the main door. 

Sirius did a shushing gesture and quietly approached the door on his toes, making sure his feet made no noise. Amelia followed likewise. 

There was another knock. 

“Who is it?” Sirius said loudly, his ears perked up, his eyes alert. 

“The one you call Moony.” 

“It’s Remus!” Amelia squealed excitedly. She stepped forward to grab the doorknob, but Sirius gripped her wrist just in time, preventing her from opening the door right away. 

“What’s your last girlfriend’s name?” Sirius called aloud. 

“I’ve never had any.” 

Sirius finally released the breath he was holding. 

“How did you find out we’re here?” 

“Your wife told me.” 

Sirius whipped his neck around at Amelia so quick, it creaked; surprisingly, she had an apologetic look on her face. 

“Amy . . . ?” 

Sorry, she mouthed at him. 

For a moment, Sirius felt offended, deceived. How could she do this without letting him know? 

Hasn’t she always tried to convince you to see what she can? A voice said in the back of his mind. It’s you who never understood what she wanted. She was going to crack one day or the other. 

Sirius’s grip on Amelia’s wrist eased off. She opened the door, and Remus Lupin stood there with a bottle of wine in his hands. 

“Remus!” 

Amelia embraced the pale man, who smiled, as he returned her hug. 

“Hello, old dog,” he greeted Sirius, who couldn’t help himself from smiling either. The two friends shared a hug as well. 

“I guess you’re here on my wife’s word,” Sirius said pointedly. 

“Yes, I’m here in order to give you an earful or something,” said Remus, nodding seriously. “So,” he cleared his throat, “COME BACK, YOU DOOFUS.” He yelled loudly. “That sounds good?” he asked Amelia. 

While she swatted Remus on the arm, Sirius laughed out loud. He hadn’t laughed that freely in days, he realized. 

“I’m sorry, Amelia, but this is not the same Sirius we knew at Hogwarts,” Remus told Amelia. “He’s changed.” 

“I know. Siri’s changed a lot, ripened.” 

“All I’m doing is for you and Zain, Amy,” Sirius said truthfully. “I’m trying to protect you. I believe I should have done the same with Harry fifteen years ago, and we all know what happened otherwise. You know it’s risky there, right? You could’ve — you could’ve died, Amy. We could’ve lost you forever.” 

His voice cracked by the end. 

“I know, Siri, I know,” said Amelia, looking up at him, meeting his eyes. “But I don’t want Zain to grow up here. I want him to spend his childhood with his family. I want him to play with his elder sisters Susan and Hermione and brother Harry. I want him to have what you missed. A big, caring family, and we clearly can’t have that here.” 

Sirius let out a deep breath while both Amelia and Remus watched him carefully. 

“Only if I get to decide when to return,” he said at last. 

“Yes!” Amelia cheered and flung herself into her husband’s arms. Remus also patted on Sirius’s back while he hugged his wife. Zain chose this moment to start crying. 

“Oh, my little puppy,” Remus said petulantly. He quickly picked the little boy from his cot and handled him with care. 

“I’m shocked to see you being so efficient with a child, Moony,” Sirius quipped. “Have you been hiding something from us all this time?” 

Amelia giggled. 

“Actually, and I can’t believe it myself when I say this, finally, at this point in my life, I’m really close to having a girlfriend.” 

“WHAT?” yelled both husband and wife. Their son cried harder. 

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” 

Remus grinned. He pulled Zain up to his chest and patted him on the back. 

“Who’s she?” Amelia asked at the same time Sirius said, “Is she mad?” 

“Siri,” Amelia rebuked him. “Who’s she, Remus?” she inquired the other man gently. 

“Yeah, who’s the lucky wolf, I mean, girl?” Sirius hastily corrected himself as Amelia glared at him. “Who’s the lucky girl, Remus?” 

“Her name’s Gwenyth Bach,” Remus told them, his cheeks a faint pink. “That’s also what the wine’s for, to be frank.” 

“You’ve got to introduce us, Remus,” Amelia said eagerly. 

“Yeah, I wanna ask her why,” Sirius muttered under his breath. 

“Siri, enough with the jokes already,” Amelia said, annoyed, and stomped on his feet. 

“Ouch!” 

“Guys, she’s not my girlfriend yet,” Remus reminded them. “But I will introduce you. She’s a nice one.” 

“Not too young, I hope,” Sirius whispered, looking away when Amelia glared at him again. 

“She’s a widow,” Remus stated quietly. “Her husband died in an accident. She was pregnant at the time, but the mental stress led to a failed delivery.” 

“That’s awful,” Amelia gasped. Sirius had no words to say. 

“What have you been up to lately?” he asked after a moment of breathing space. 

“Oh, I’ve been underground,” said Remus. “Almost literally. That’s why I haven’t been able to write; I’ve been living among my fellows, my equals.” 

“Werewolves?” said Sirius. 

“Nearly all of them are on Voldemort’s side,” said Remus. “Dumbledore wanted a spy and here I was . . . ready-made.” He sounded a little bitter, and perhaps realized it, for he smiled more warmly as he went on, “I am not complaining; it is necessary work and who can do it better than I? However, it has been difficult gaining their trust. I bear the unmistakable signs of having tried to live among wizards, you see, whereas they have shunned normal society and live on the margins, stealing — and sometimes killing — to eat.” 

“How come they like Voldemort?” Amelia asked bitterly. “I mean, I kind of get they think that, under his rule, they will have a better life.” 

“And it is hard to argue with Greyback out there,” said Remus. 

“Greyback . . . You mean . . . ?” Amelia whispered, color draining off her face. 

“You have heard of him, I deduce,” said Remus. “Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as his mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many people as possible; he wants to create enough werewolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort has promised him prey for his services. Greyback specializes in children. . . . Bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards. Voldemort has threatened to unleash him upon people’s sons and daughters; it is a threat that usually produces good results.” 

Remus paused and then said, “It was Greyback who bit me.” 

Both Sirius and Amelia knew this, of course. 

“My father had offended him. I did not know, for a very long time, the identity of the werewolf who had attacked me; I even felt pity for him, thinking that he had had no control, knowing by then how it felt to transform. But Greyback is not like that. At the full moon, he positions himself close to victims, ensuring that he is near enough to strike. He plans it all. And this is the man Voldemort is using to marshal the werewolves. I cannot pretend that my particular brand of reasoned argument is making much headway against Greyback’s insistence that we werewolves deserve blood, that we ought to revenge ourselves on normal people.” 

“But you are normal!” said Amelia fiercely. “You’ve just got a — a problem —” 

Remus burst out laughing. 

“James used to call it my ‘furry little problem’ in company.” 

Sirius laughed too. 

“Many people were under the impression that you owned a badly behaved rabbit.” 

“Anyway, I haven’t been able to prove myself of much value,” Remus went on. 

“Wait,” Sirius said abruptly. “Don’t tell me you’re the one in the way of your relationship with Gwenyth.” 

Remus looked away. 

“Don’t be stupid, Moony,” Sirius said fiercely. “Just tell her. You both need it.” 

“Yes,” added Amelia. “She’s not a distraction, Remus.” 

“But —” 

“No buts, Moony. You’re going to let her know about your feelings the first instance you see her or I’ll kick your furry ass to death,” Sirius threatened, and Remus could see it in his eyes that he meant every word. 

“And I won’t stop him,” Amelia said just as seriously. 

Remus exhaled. 

“Fine,” he said, looking both defeated and slightly overwhelmed. “I guess I just wanted to hear from you both that doing this won’t be the wrong thing to do. Thanks, both of you.” 

“You deserve it, mate,” Sirius said encouragingly. “You really do.” 

Chapter Text

Since the Blacks were out of the country, Susan elected to stay at the Grangers Residence for the Christmas holidays. Harry also didn’t go to Dora’s apartment and apologized to the gloomy Auror over a call, expressing his will to spend time with his friends, but Dora only argued back, saying all he wanted these days was to snog his girlfriend. 

“Like you don’t do that at all,” Harry hissed through gritted teeth at last. 

“That — that’s entirely a different matter, Potter,” Dora stuttered, flustered, and disconnected the call. 

Hermione had informed her parents about Daphne’s invitation over a letter, and they had made the vital arrangements for her, Harry, Susan, and Ginny, i.e. their flight tickets to New York. They were to board their flight on the twenty-sixth of December. Hermione also penned a letter to Daphne to notify her about their journey. 

Daphne’s reply arrived a couple of days later. 

Hermione, 

Thank you for your letter. I am glad all of you accepted my invitation to spend time at our family home in America. 

I also wish to inform you we have purchased flight tickets for the same vessel as yours. 

See you at the airport. 

Daphne 

“Vessel?” said Susan, cringed. “Looks like she can’t decide whether she wants to be formal or friendly.” 

“I think she’s nervous,” said Hermione. “Can’t blame her, I’d be too if it was my first time inviting friends over. I remember being out of my wits as me, Mum, and Dad decided to visit Harry’s relatives in the second year.” 

“That was a lifesaver,” said Harry. 

Mr. Weasley dropped his only daughter at the Grangers Residence on the night before Christmas. 

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Granger,” he said, shaking hands with Dan enthusiastically at the main door. “I wish I could stay and have a cup of tea with you,” he added when Dan invited him inside. “Sadly, I’m supposed to be somewhere else. I only came to drop Ginny. I hope she’s not a bother.” 

“Of course not,” said Dan. “It’s Christmas. The more, the merrier.” 

Mr. Weasley departed after another jolly handshake, and Dan let Ginny inside. She was wearing her best dress: a red spaghetti strap dress that only reached half her thighs. She had also put on make-up and tied her ginger-colored hair in a bun. 

“Hi,” she said as soon as she spotted her friends. 

Susan, Hermione, and Harry got off the couch to greet her. They were preparing ribbons, frills, stars, and balloons to decorate the Christmas tree and the fireplace. Susan hugged Ginny and made a sly remark about her look. 

“You look ready to be unpacked,” she purred in her girlfriend’s ear, making her blush. “I can’t wait.” 

“Oh, you’re decorating the tree,” Ginny said in order to distract the red-haired witch. 

“What’s this?” asked Susan, pointing at the handbag Ginny was carrying. 

“Gifts for everyone,” Ginny said with a smile. “I saved money for this, so you better appreciate it.” 

“Oh Gin, you didn’t have to,” said Hermione. 

“You can give her present to me,” Susan said, unsympathetic. 

“No!” Hermione slapped Susan on the back, twice. “Shut up, you present-stealing dimwit!” 

“What? You said it yourself you didn’t want it,” Susan argued, jumping away from Hermione’s field of physical damage. 

“I didn’t say I don’t want it. I just said Ginny didn’t have to!” 

“I see little difference.” 

“A dimwit, like I said.” 

Ginny and Harry snorted. 

The six of them had a grand feast together over which Ginny raised a lot of questions about their upcoming journey. Unfortunately, Emma and Dan would not accompany them since they were having a get-together with their college friends on New Year’s Eve. 

Ginny had invested a lot of thought behind the presents she had picked for her friends. 

“This is so cool, Gin,” Harry said, as he unpacked a pair of coffee mugs from his box. Both the mugs had half a heart engraved on them, so that when put together, they formed a complete heart. 

Hermione’s present was an expensive “For Your Nerd Friend” set. It comprised a small journal with leather jacket, a premium quill, and several charmed bookmarks that even marked the line you stopped reading at. 

“Thank you so much, Gin!” Hermione said joyfully. “Although, what do you mean by ‘nerd’? I’m not a nerd.” 

Susan made a funny noise while rolling her eyes. However, as she tore through the wrappings of her present, her eyes widened and a small “Gin . . . ?” made its way out of her mouth. 

“Do you like it?” Ginny asked hopefully. “I saw it in Muggle London this summer, so I thought of buying it for you. I hope you like it.” 

It was a khaki-colored dress with a white puff sleeve shirt. 

“It’s so pretty,” Susan whispered. “I love it.” 

“I’m glad to —” 

But Susan had stepped forward and hugged Ginny so tightly she couldn’t finish her sentence. She patted Susan’s back and saw Harry and Hermione beaming at them. 

A few minutes later, it was Ginny who was rendered emotional. Harry was giving her his Firebolt. 

“But, Harry, you got it from Sirius,” Ginny attempted to reason, although rather feebly. “I can’t accept this.” 

“This is the best broom in the world, Gin,” Harry said casually. “And it’s only eating dust on my shelf. But you’re the Seeker of the team, right? I believe you’ll do it better justice than me. Sirius would agree, I’m sure.” 

Ginny had no words to say. She hugged Harry in gratitude. 

They also had a video call with the Blacks over the enchanted mirror in the evening. 

“I can’t see my little hero,” Hermione whined as soon as Sirius and Amelia’s faces appeared in the mirror. “You two can go away and put Zain on the call. I wanna see him.” 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Hermione,” said Sirius, sighing. 

“He’s asleep,” Amelia told Hermione. “Here, look.” 

She went and showed Zain sleeping in his crib. 

“My baby.” Hermione pouted longingly. “Don’t worry, my love, we’re coming to see you very soon.” 

“Yes, about that,” Amelia said, reappearing in the mirror. “We’ve decided to return to England with you all.” 

“Really?” said Emma. “Oh, that’s fantastic to learn, Amelia.” 

“Yes,” said Sirius, appearing next to his wife. “We’ve spent enough time hiding — wasted enough time hiding. It’s high time we came back.” 

“Only if you’re comfortable enough,” said Dan wisely. “Don’t get bothered by what others say, Sirius. I know I’d have done the same thing if Emma and Hermione were in a crisis.” 

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” Sirius confessed. “When I was in Azkaban, I always thought I should have run away with Harry instead of rushing after Pettigrew. I could have given him a better childhood. James and Lily trusted me with it. They trusted me to give their son a decent childhood in their absence, and I failed them. I let my feelings get the better of me. 

“But God gave me a second chance, a second shot at a better life with Amy. God gave us Zain. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. 

“So, when Amy was ambushed and kidnapped . . . and buried alive I got so scared. I couldn’t see a way to take care of my family, so I ran with them. I ran far away into hiding, even thought of settling down there and restarting my life. A third shot at it. But . . . 

“But clearly I overlooked the fact that there are certain things you can’t escape from. I realized that what happened at the Bones Manor could happen to other places too, that there’s no running from this. And most importantly, I forgot that my family isn’t just Amy and Zain. It’s all of you, and I refuse to desert you anymore. I’m sorry for taking so long to recognize this. Amy realized it right away; she kept trying to make me see the truth, but I can be really thick sometimes, I guess.” 

It was a truly Merry Christmas. 

... 

“So Snape was offering to help him? He was definitely offering to help him?” 

“If you ask that once more,” said Hermione angrily. 

“I’m only checking!” said Susan. 

Her, Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were inside a car owned by the Grangers (Harry was sitting next to the driver that was none other than Dan). 

“Yes, Professor Snape was offering to help him!” said Hermione. “He said he’d promised Malfoy’s mother to protect him, that he’d made an Unbreakable Vow —” 

“An Unbreakable Vow?” said Ginny, looking stunned; Susan looked the same. “Nah, he can’t have. . . . Are you sure?” 

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Hermione. “Strange, isn’t it? You die if you break an Unbreakable Vow.” 

“Pity you didn’t hear what Malfoy’s actually doing, though,” said Susan. 

“We couldn’t have done, could we? That was the whole point, he was refusing to tell Professor Snape.” 

“Dad says it’s been very busy at the Ministry,” Ginny told them. “Of the three arrests his team’s made in the last couple of months, he doubts that one of them is a genuine Death Eater — only I’m not supposed to tell you,” she added, shrugging her shoulders; Susan giggled. 

“They’re not still holding Stan Shunpike, are they?” asked Harry. 

“I’m afraid so,” said Ginny. “Dad told me Dumbledore’s tried appealing directly to Scrimgeour about Stan. . . . I mean, anybody who has actually interviewed him agrees that he’s about as much a Death Eater as a satsuma . . . but the top levels want to look as though they’re making some progress, and ‘three arrests’ sounds better than ‘three mistaken arrests and releases.’ ” 

“Politics has always been shady, I guess,” Hermione said quietly. 

“Dad also went and searched the Malfoys’ house,” said Ginny. 

That achieved Harry and Hermione’s attention. 

“There was nothing, either broken or whole, that shouldn’t have been there,” Ginny added monotonously, much to their discouragement. 

“Yeah, I know, I saw in the Prophet that he’d looked . . . but this is something different. . . . Well, something more . . .” 

“Has it occurred to you, Harry,” said Susan, “that Snape was simply pretending — ?” 

“Pretending to offer help, so that he could find out what Malfoy’s up to?” said Harry quickly. “Yeah, I thought you’d say that. But how do we know?” 

“It isn’t our business to know,” said Susan. “It’s Dumbledore’s business. Dumbledore trusts Severus, and that ought to be good enough for all of us. It might have been on Dumbledore’s orders that Snape questioned Malfoy.” 

“But,” said Harry, “just say — just say Dumbledore’s wrong about Snape —” 

“People have said it, many times,” said Hermione unexpectedly. “It comes down to whether or not you trust Dumbledore’s judgment. I do; therefore, I trust Severus Snape.” 

“But Dumbledore can make mistakes,” argued Harry. “He says it himself.” 

“Everyone does,” Hermione said firmly. “Isn’t that the whole point about learning?” 

Harry quietened down. Susan whistled teasingly. 

“I didn’t know you two could argue,” she said, nudging Hermione in the ribs. “You look no less than a married couple.” 

Dan cleared his throat, reaffirming his grip on the steering wheel. 

“Of course we can have a healthy conversation,” Hermione stated haughtily. “How else do you suppose we’re in agreement with each other most of the time? We talk things through.” 

“Yes, yes, you’re Miss Know-It-All and the rest of us are all foolish, lowly beings,” Susan said, rolling her eyes. 

She was the only one on the face of earth who could still call Hermione a Know-It-All and get to live to call her that all over again the very next day. Hermione loved the stupid redhead witch a little bit too much. 

“Oh, by the way,” Harry spoke up suddenly. “Did you see it, Hermione? Dora’s Patronus has changed its form.” 

“What?” Hermione gasped. “I never saw her Patronus before, so I can’t say whether it’s changed.” 

“I have,” said Harry. “It used to be a bird which is totally different —” 

“— from the horse that it was that night,” Hermione finished for him. “I didn’t know that could happen.” 

“You didn’t?” said Susan, looking shocked. 

“No, do you?” 

“Yes, I heard it from Aunt Amy,” Susan told her. “Hers also changed.” 

“Really?” said Hermione, fascinated. “Why would your Patronus change?” 

Susan thought hard for a second. 

“Aunt said a great shock, an emotional upheaval can change your Patronus form. Like finding out your true love in Aunt’s case. She couldn’t produce a corporal Patronus when Sirius was in Azkaban. I heard she’s able to again now.” 

“Interesting,” Hermione said, awed. “Still so much to learn.” 

“Hermione, answer me one thing honestly, okay?” Ginny spoke up. “Do you really believe you can learn everything there is on this planet?” 

Hermione looked ahead and saw her father watching her through the rear mirror. She smiled as she answered calmly, “Of course not, I just like to learn, that’s all.” 

“And I love that about you,” said Harry from ahead. “It saved my ass more times than I could count.” 

Everyone inside the car erupted in laughter. 

“Where are we, Dad?” Hermione asked Dan when they were almost an hour into their journey. 

“Downside. Still half an hour remaining.” 

“Still?” Susan whined. “I didn’t know your place was so far from the airport.” 

“Well, not so much from the London City Airport,” Hermione stated matter-of-factly. “It’s only around fifteen miles from our place and yet takes almost the same time as it takes to reach the London Gatwick Airport which is sixty miles from our place. London is a compelling place, don’t you think?” 

“More like congesting,” Susan said with a bored sigh. 

“Why are there two airports in the same city?” Ginny asked interestedly. 

“To diverge the crowd,” answered Dan. “One was too few for London, so they made many.” 

“You mean there are more than two?” 

“If my memory serves me right, six international ones. Somehow they still feel less. Such is the scale of London.” 

“We Wizards consider ourselves superior to Muggles and tend to overlook all the fantastic things they have built over centuries,” said Susan. “They’re no less than us, even better at certain things.” 

“For example, we have a better dressing sense,” said Dan. “I can’t believe wizards still wear robes in this era.” 

“Yeah, they have nothing else to wear,” said Harry, laughing. “Dress robes are the best they can do for functions and ceremonies.” 

The car drove through the Surrey Hill National Landscape, a designated natural area popular for scenic views and walking, running, cycling, and equestrian trails. Like Dan had predicted, they reached the London Gatwick Airport in a half an hour’s time. Hermione hugged her father through the car window before she and her friends moved on. Since neither Harry, Susan, nor Ginny had ever stepped foot inside an Airport, Hermione had to lead. She guided them through the check-in that took another half an hour, which was a relief in itself only because they had booked seats in Premium Economy. At last, they reached the waiting rooms where Daphne and her family were already present. 

“Daph!” Susan said brightly, giving the blonde Slytherin witch an exuberant hug. 

“Susan,” said Daphne, smiling as she returned the hug. “Hello, everyone,” she added in response to Ginny waving a hand and Harry and Hermione standing close by. 

“Hi,” said Harry politely. 

“I’ll — I’ll introduce you,” Daphne said hastily, looking slightly agitated. “You all know Astoria,” she said as they reached her family. 

Astoria, in contrast to her elder sister, had dark brown hair, a skinny figure, and an outgoing personality. She waved at them energetically. 

“This is my mother, Sofia Greengrass.” 

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Greengrass,” said Susan, bowing; the rest of them followed. 

Hermione now knew where Astoria got her dark hair and skinny figure from. 

“Nice to meet you too, everyone,” Mrs. Greengrass said, a gentle smile on her face. She was around the same height as Daphne. 

“Mother, this is Susan Bones, Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter.” Daphne introduced them all. “Ginny is a year behind.” 

“Thank you for joining us today,” Mrs. Greengrass said softly. “We’re pleased to have you at our family home in New York.” 

Daphne moved on to her father. 

“This is my father, Damion Greengrass.” 

“Thank you for having us, Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass,” said Hermione curtly. “We’re honored —” 

A scoff from Mr. Greengrass cut her off. He was a tall, sturdy man with a perpetual look of no-nonsense on his face. Daphne and Astoria seemed to have inherited their popular bright blue eyes from him. 

“Enough greetings,” said Mr. Greengrass, turning away. “I’m waiting outside.” 

He walked out of the waiting room, leaving behind an awkward silence in his wake. Hermione saw Daphne clench her fists. 

“Please don’t mind him,” Mrs. Greengrass said quickly. “He’s not comfortable with a crowd.” 

“It’s alright,” Susan said maturely. “Thank you again for your invitation, Ma’am.” 

“What an adorable child.” Mrs. Greengrass swooned and patted Susan’s head. “Thank you for becoming my daughter’s friend. All of you.” 

“It’s my pleasure.” 

“Friends?” Hermione said smugly. “I’m sorry to say, but we are not friends, Mrs. Greengrass.” 

Mrs. Greengrass’s face turned sad. 

“Granger, what’re you talking about?” said Daphne, frowning. 

“We’re eternal rivals, remember?” Hermione smirked. “But you can’t seem to beat me for the last five years.” 

“You . . .” Daphne hissed under her breath. 

Although Mrs. Greengrass seemed not to understand the joke, she still laughed along with the rest of them. 

Their flight arrived at one o’clock in the afternoon. Hermione hooked her arm with Harry’s; the two of them brought the rear end of the group with Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass in the lead as they all hopped on the bus that transported them to their flight. Premium Economy seats were in the front one-third of the airplane. The seats were arranged in pairs. Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass sat ahead, then Susan and Ginny, then the two sisters, and Harry and Hermione in the end. 

As Ginny occupied her seat, she sank into the wide, cream leather seat with extra room to stretch out on a raised cushioned leg rest. The headrest was adjustable and the seat could recline just the right amount. Looking upwards, she saw stars in the overhead lighting. 

The rear of Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass’s seats had a thirteen-inch high definition television screen with an upgraded in-flight entertainment system. 

“ ‘Choose from thousands of movies, TV shows, albums and more, and connect your own headphones wirelessly via Bluetooth if you prefer,’ ” Susan read from a pamphlet. 

“What’s Bluetooth?” Ginny asked. 

“Oh, it’s fucking ingenious.” 

Susan opened her handbag and pulled out a headphone set. 

“You can connect this system with this,” she told Ginny, giving her the headphones. “Wear it, c’mon.” 

Ginny gingerly put the headphones on her head. Susan pressed a button on the left ear, then fumbled on the screen in front of Ginny for a few seconds, before at last, she seemed to have worked out whatever she was trying to do. 

“Your device has been connected,” a female voice suddenly spoke up in Ginny’s ears. 

Susan pressed on the screen again, and to Ginny’s surprise, a song started playing. 

Meanwhile, in the back, Hermione was also reading the same pamphlet. 

“ ‘Taste the local flavours with a choice of dishes from our regional monthly menus. Enjoy generous servings on royal china tableware with stainless steel cutlery wrapped in linen. Your polished woodgrain dining table folds neatly into your seat and you have a side table to rest a glass of your favourite drink. Choose from a wider range of beverages from our extended list, including a Chandon sparkling wine, extra vintages from our Business Class list, as well as chocolates and liqueurs.’ 

“Hm. . . . Excuse me,” she called out to a nearby air hostess. “I wish to try sparkling wine, please.” 

She was on a foreign trip without her parents. She might as well enjoy some proper benefits. 

“I’m sorry, miss,” the air hostess said. “The wine is for adults only.” 

Harry snorted into his own pamphlet. 

“But I —” Hermione restrained herself in mid-sentence. “Never mind,” she added in a deflated voice. 

The air hostess went away, and Harry chuckled a bit more freely. As Hermione huffed and pouted, crossing her arms at her chest, he leaned towards her and squeezed her cheeks. 

“You missed the note,” he told her. “But I don’t blame you, it was really tiny to read.” 

“Don’t kiss me, I’m not an adult yet,” Hermione said moodily. 

Harry chuckled a bit more before pulling his girlfriend into a kiss against her half-hearted struggles. 

Two rows ahead, a sort of similar thing was taking place between the lesbian pair. 

“All of this looks so expensive,” Ginny said thoughtfully. 

“Well, I won’t claim it’s cheap per se,” said Susan. 

“No, I mean, two buses carried us to this plane, and there were more people on the other bus than ours. Are they all in the back? Why can’t we see them?” 

“Calm down, calm down,” Susan said, a little awkwardly. “Yes, they’re in the back. Actually, we’re in the Premium Economy section. More money, more facilities, you know.” 

“That’s why you didn’t let me pay for myself. You knew I won’t be able to afford it,” Ginny said, looking hurt. “Sue, you know I don’t prefer stuff like this. I don’t want to owe anyone anything.” 

“It’s a gift,” Susan said hastily. “Our one-year anniversary is right around the corner, isn’t it?” 

Ginny watched her girlfriend for a full minute before exhaling. 

“I love you,” she mumbled under her breath. 

“I love you too,” Susan said, relieved, before proceeding to kiss the ginger-haired witch. 

“Such a lovely atmosphere,” Astoria whispered, looking back and forth at the two couples. “Don’t you ever feel like a third wheel with them?” 

“Surprisingly, I don’t,” said Daphne, smiling. However, she had heard Susan say “our one-year anniversary” and “I love you too” to Ginny, and it broke her heart into pieces. She was mad at herself. Hadn’t she made a truce with her feelings? How long was she going to keep feeling miserable every time she saw Susan and Ginny happy together? They didn’t deserve this from her, not after being such great friends with her. 

... 

The flight touched down in ten hours. Daphne had to wake up her friends, all four of whom had fallen asleep after a few hours. Harry complained of stiff shoulders; Daphne regressed from telling him that the reason his shoulder was stiff was because Hermione had placed her head there for the better part of the last few hours. 

“Why couldn’t we have come through an International Portkey?” Ginny asked Daphne once they had gotten off the plane. Hermione was also curious to know, so she held back to listen. 

“Interestingly, my parents met for the first time on a plane. So, yes, they do appreciate this Muggle mode of transportation.” 

“Oh, wow,” said Ginny, amused. 

“No-Maj,” Hermione provided. “That’s what Muggles are known as by the American wizards.” 

“Nobody asked you, Granger,” Daphne hissed in exasperation. 

Just like it was in London, it was snowing in New York as well. It was truly mesmerizing how something so microscopic like snow could cover the entire city en masse. 

Interestingly, from outside the John F. Kennedy International Airport, they did take a Portkey. Mr. Greengrass had it in his coat pocket all along. Once their feet found solid ground again, Hermione glanced around to find them standing in a village, seldom habituated, but extraordinarily beautiful, and flabbergastingly, not covered with snow. 

There were wheat fields all around them, with no trees in plain sight, only houses very far from each other. It hadn’t snowed there for centuries, it seemed like. 

“What place is this?” Susan asked in wonder. “It’s summer here!” 

“Yes,” said Astoria. “But let’s discuss this inside. That’s us.” 

She pointed ahead at a two-storeyed building. 

With Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass in the lead, the eight of them walked through the crops, their flowing stalks reflecting bright sunshine to create a gorgeous landscape. 

On the two sides of the main door were a grilling yard and a smaller front porch, and above the door was written, quite fittingly: 

Where Sun Shines Bright 

“Welcome,” Daphne said softly, as she led her friends inside. 

They passed a foyer to reach a hall with a sofa set, a center table, and an attached kitchen on one side. Mr. Greengrass immediately took the stairs next to the gas vent. 

“Dear?” Mrs. Greengrass said after the disappearing figure of her husband. 

“I’m tired,” was the only reply. 

As Mr. Greengrass’s footsteps subdued, Daphne shot up to her feet and rambled under her breath, “Erm, er, water, yes.” 

She hurried to the sink and brought a glass for each on a tray. Once they had all accepted their glasses, she stood in front of them, wringing her hands, bouncing on the balls of her feet, too excited to say anything, her smile contagious. 

It took the two dark-haired Greengrasses a couple of minutes to convince the blonde one that her friends needed nothing at the moment. Daphne couldn’t help constantly pestering Hermione and the rest if they would like to take a rest or something to eat. At least Hermione was annoyed. Harry, Susan, and Ginny were much more respectful. 

“Yes, I need something,” Hermione spoke, fed up with Daphne’s constant inquiries. 

“What?” 

“Answers,” said Hermione with an impassive look on her face. “First, I didn’t know the Greengrasses had their roots in America. Second, what kind of place is this? Why isn’t it snowing here?” 

“For the first question, it’s not my fault you didn’t know,” Daphne said sourly; Ginny cleared her throat to not snigger; Hermione scowled at the blonde witch. “The answer to the second question is . . . well, I don’t know.” 

“What? What do you mean, you don’t know?” 

“I meant what I said.” 

Hermione frowned again. 

“It’s true,” said Mrs. Greengrass. “None of us know where this place is.” 

“That hardly makes any sense,” Hermione mumbled, puzzled. 

“It doesn’t have to,” said Daphne. “This village was built and inhabited by our clan a long, long time ago. It dates back several centuries to be frank. Our clan was known as the Wheat Clan in those times, for their occupation as farmers, especially wheat. The Greengrasses are an extension of the original clan. 

“The clan was dealing with extinction during a long-standing war in the Wizarding World in Great Britain at that time. We were never the sorts to become warriors. So the then clan leader, by the name of Charles Wheat, for a better future of the clan, decided to lead a mass migration, and hence, the remaining, surviving members moved to a faraway land, America. They created this village with magic and named it the Field. It’s guarded by several layers of Runes and Charms so that no undesirable wizard or No-Maj can encroach upon the territory. The information regarding the village’s whereabouts is secretly passed down from the clan leader to their successor.” 

“Doesn’t that make your family a member of the American Wizarding World?” questioned Harry. 

“Charles Wheat, before his death, established a pact with the then American Minister that the Wheat Clan shall forever remain a part of the British, and in return, the Clan shall never trespass into the political corridors of the American Ministry. 

“Besides, most of the Clan members moved back to Britain after a few decades, like our ancestors did. This is just our homeland now. The place that protected us in our trying times.” 

“And the weather . . . ?” said Susan. 

“This is the best weather for wheat production,” said Astoria. “Our clan pretty much dominates the crop markets of both the British and the American Wizarding Worlds.” 

“Why is this not anywhere in the history books?” Hermione asked, rather disheartened. 

“It is —” Daphne started, but Hermione interrupted, “It is not. I have read every history book there is in Hogwarts library. There is not a single word written about any of this.” 

Daphne’s expressions turned devilish. 

“Does that scare you? That you don’t know everything?” 

“Of — of course not,” Hermione said, looking away. 

“Do not tease your friend, Daphne,” Mrs. Greengrass reproached her. 

“But she herself said we’re rivals, didn’t she?” Daphne said wittily. “But anyway,” she added, “before you interrupted me, I was going to say that, yes, this piece of history is indeed recorded in text, just not in the books you encounter in Hogwarts library. We have a library here as well, upstairs. You can find it there.” 

“You have a library here?” Hermione’s eyes lit up with sheer passion. “Can I — can I have a look at it? The books?” 

“Sure,” said Mrs. Greengrass. “Except for the ones we really can’t show you, or anyone else, for that matter. Every ancient family has a few records that’s precious to them. We’re forbidden from showing them to outsiders.” 

“Not even Sis and I can touch them,” Astoria told Hermione to provide a bit of comfort. “We’re not sophisticated enough, apparently.” 

“It’s your father’s decision,” Mrs. Greengrass said decisively. “He will let you see them once you’ve truly grown up.” 

Neither of the two sisters said a word. Mrs. Greengrass rose to her feet. 

“Your father must be waiting for me. Why don’t you give your friends a tour of the place, Daphne?” 

Daphne agreed. 

“I will make some sandwiches by then,” said Astoria. 

“Let me help,” Harry said in an instant. 

“Oh no, it’s alright,” Astoria said, but Harry had already rose up to his feet. 

“Please, I insist.” 

“Let him, Astoria,” Susan said, grinning. “He loves to cook.” 

“You don’t have elves?” Ginny asked. “I thought you would.” 

“We used to have one,” said Mrs. Greengrass. “Tori liked him very much, but he died when she was only six. She has never let us employ another elf since then.” 

“I’m not ready yet,” Astoria said sadly. “He’s the one who taught me cooking.” 

As Mrs. Greengrass patted the top of her younger daughter’s head before climbing the stairs to reach the level above, she pulled a couple of aprons from a cabinet and passed one to Harry. 

“Let’s go,” Daphne said to Susan, Ginny, and Hermione, the three of whom followed her to the back. 

Chapter Text

“A swimming pool!” Ginny said in awe, as the four of them stood before a massive swimming pool, one even larger than the one in Prefects’ Bathroom at Hogwarts. “Can we take a swim?” Ginny asked Daphne eagerly. 

Hermione vaguely recalled the episode when the four of them had slipped into the Prefects’ Bathroom on her birthday three months ago. Daphne hadn’t quite appreciated Susan’s persistence at having them all take a swim in the pool, had even shouted at the red-haired Hufflepuff before storming out of the place. Hermione wondered what was going through Susan or Daphne’s minds as Ginny asked this question. 

“Once the water’s been changed,” Daphne replied after a pause, averting Susan’s gaze. 

She walked them around the place, showing their grilling yard and their storage shed where their family stored uncountable barrels of booze, meat, and sacks of grains. 

“Why so much?” Susan asked, staring at the sheer quantity of the stuff stored in the shed. 

“You never know when you’re going to be isolated from the rest of the world,” Daphne explained. “So thought our predecessors. I believe it was quite comprehensible in those times, but it’s nothing more than an old habit now.” 

“Like a tradition,” said Hermione. 

“Quite so.” 

There was not much else to explore except for the vast wheat fields. There was a clearing nearby; Daphne proposed sitting down. 

“It’s scary,” Ginny said once they had all sat down. 

“What’s scary, Gin?” Susan asked immediately. 

“All of this family secret and clan survival thing,” Ginny said in a low voice. “Our predecessors left little stuff like that, and to be honest, I’m half-relieved.” 

“It can be burdensome, yes,” Daphne agreed. She took a pause, stared at her own hands in her lap, then said in a hushed voice, “And I’m supposed to inherit our family secrets one day. I think it’s a part of the reason father is unhappy with me. He wishes Tori was the elder one. I can’t blame him either. She’s a lot better at socializing than me. She makes making friends so easy.” 

“You have friends now,” said Susan, placing a hand on Daphne’s and squeezing it. 

“And one eternal rival,” Hermione added wisely. 

“Not all the damn time, you doofus,” Susan admonished her. 

But Daphne chuckled heartily. 

“Yeah, I won’t have it any other way with you, Granger,” she said, grinning at the brunette witch. 

“Don’t mind me, Daph, but what exactly is your father’s deal?” Susan asked crossly. “Why is he always grumpy and treats us like we don’t exist, or rather don’t belong here?” 

All the lightheartedness punctured out of Daphne’s body. She let out a sigh and rubbed her temple. 

“Like I said, he expects certain things from my side, and I haven’t been able to deliver up to his standards yet.” 

“Well, I think he needs to tone down a little.” Susan scoffed. “You’re a spectacular witch, Daphne Greengrass. You’re smart, you’re kind, you’re composed, you’re beautiful, you’re excellent in studies — I can’t figure out what else he wants.” 

“Thank you, Susan,” Daphne said, pleased. “He wants me to carry on the will of the Wheat Clan, and like I said, I believe Tori’s a better candidate than me. If only she was the elder one —” 

“Can’t the younger sibling inherit the family will?” Hermione questioned and received a hard punch on the arm from Susan. “Ow, that hurts!” 

“You’re not helping!” Susan said angrily, punching her again. 

“Stop it!” Hermione exclaimed, trying to wriggle out of Susan’s way and falling on her side. 

“It’s okay, Susan,” Daphne said calmly. “Yes, there have been a few cases where the younger sibling inherited the will, but I believe father is holding out hope for me, and that makes me feel even worse.” 

“What’s the will?” Ginny asked. “What’re you supposed to do?” 

“That, apparently, I have to find out for myself,” Daphne said, a half-hearted smile on her face. She rose to her feet and took a deep breath with her arms spread wide. “We should head back. I’m famished.” 

They returned to find a stack of beef and vegetable sandwiches awaiting them in the kitchen. Harry and Astoria seemed to get along well, but then, Astoria did have a knack for making friends faster than one could learn to wave a wand. 

They didn’t see Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass again until dinner. The eight of them sat down at the dining table at around half past seven. Mr. Greengrass was neglecting everyone that was not his wife or daughter, just like he had been doing it throughout the day. Hence, it was a rather silent affair over the dining table for a while, the only sounds produced belonging to the cutlery in their hands. 

Daphne had been swallowing the bitter bile that surged in her gullet every time her father gave her friends a nasty look throughout the day. She knew what he was thinking. He didn’t want them there; they didn’t belong there, on the same dining table as him or his family, in his opinion, but Daphne had had enough of caring what anybody thought of her friends. She was done having second thoughts about who she wanted to be friends with. All her life, her father had decided for her who she should spend her time with. He took her to dinners with the Malfoys, the Averys, the Parkinsons, the Notts, and such likes. He took her to fancy parties where all the so-called important pureblood families presented themselves in their best suits and gowns to mingle with each other, while in reality, they were all only keen on measuring each other’s strengths and weaknesses. They were of the attempt to understand how much the other one had changed since the last time they met. It was never friendly with those parties. Daphne never felt like being there, much less enjoying her time there. It suffocated her, made her find it hard to breathe, even though she was dressed in her best clothes, as she put on a smile for others, greeting them all with civility and courtesy. 

Her friends, on the other hand, made her feel alive. They made her happy. They made her want to do better, to be better. So, when Damion made the mistake of hurting Susan, she couldn’t hold back. 

Damion had finished his bread and Susan had only tried to pass one to him, but he slapped her hand away. Daphne saw the bread fly away, and the hurt look on Susan’s face before she concealed it quickly. Daphne, however, snapped. Slamming her hands down on the table, she bolted to her feet, bumping her chair several inches back, and said loudly, “That’s enough! What is the matter with you?” 

Everyone, including Damion and Sofia, looked up at her, shocked. None of them was moving, much less eating anymore. Daphne had never talked to her father like this before after all. 

“Daphne . . . ?” Sofia whispered, her hand on her mouth, her eyes full of panic. 

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Damion said in a low, but angry voice. 

“No, father, what do you think you’re doing?” Daphne said furiously; it could be rightly said that she was out of her damn mind with rage. “Why are you treating my friends like this?” 

Susan, who was sitting on Daphne’s immediate righ,t was the first one to recover. She grabbed her arm and said quickly, “It’s okay, Daph, it’s not a big deal.” 

“Not a big deal? Not a big deal?” Daphne screamed at her friend, but when she noticed the upset look on Susan’s face, she looked away. Taking a deep breath, she refocused her temper back on her father, determined to let it out before she began wavering, eventually. “You’re disrespecting my friends, father, and that’s disrespecting me.” 

“What? No —” Susan said urgently, but was cut off by Damion rising to his feet as well. 

“I’ve eaten my share,” he said rather easily. 

“Father, you’re going to apologize — wait, no, you can’t walk out of this — you have to —” Daphne yelled, but Damion had already made his way to the stairs. 

Sofia came around and slapped Daphne so hard on the cheek that her ear rang, effectively disabling her hearing for a full minute, her cheek scorched. 

“I can’t believe your behavior,” Sofia said shakily. “This is your father you’re talking to.” 

By the time Daphne had recovered, both Damion and Sofia had already left upstairs. She saw her friends gaping up at her, and she felt a vindictive satisfaction deep in her belly she couldn’t quite explain. 

“Well, that was . . . unexpected.” Astoria broke the silence. 

Daphne breathed ragged for a few seconds, trying to decipher her own rampaging thoughts. 

“I’m going out,” she announced. “Don’t follow me,” she added just as Susan opened her mouth, no doubt, to ask her where she was going. 

Daphne saw Ginny place a hand on Susan’s shoulders. As Susan looked around at Ginny and closed her mouth, Daphne carried her dish to the sink, rinsed her hands, and stepped out of the house without a word. 

“What did y’all do to her?” Astoria asked around. “That was so cool. ” 

“Was it?” said Susan worriedly. 

“Yes! Absolutely cool!” Astoria said roguishly. 

“It seemed more like problematic to me,” said Susan. “Today only I told her she was very composed.” 

“Yeah,” said Ginny, taking a sip from her glass of water. 

“No, that was long due,” Astoria said. “It was only a matter of when. Well, I don’t suppose any of you are going to eat anymore.” 

“Er . . . no,” said Ginny, regretfully pushing her plate of chicken away. “I guess not.” 

“Can you help me, Harry?” Astoria asked the only boy in the room. 

“Sure, Tori.” 

Hermione’s eyebrows shot off straight into her mane of brown hair. 

“Tori?” she said, looking around at her boyfriend with a puzzled look. 

“She insisted,” Harry explained, grinning. 

“Playing nickname-nickname, are we?” 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell her what you like to be called in bed these days —” 

Hermione’s eyes widened in alarm. She jumped out of her chair to properly shut Harry’s mouth with her hands. 

“You shush, Harry Potter,” she said, red-faced. 

The rest of them laughed. Harry also chortled behind her hands. 

“When do you think she will be back?” Susan asked Astoria, staring at the back door. 

“I have a fair idea where she might be right now,” said Astoria. “She should be back in a couple of hours.” 

Once she and Harry had scrubbed the utensils, Astoria led them into Daphne’s bedroom. Apparently, the Ice Queen of Hogwarts appreciated well-carved traditional woodcraft items. She also, predictably, had a dedicated bookshelf. Hermione noticed a few books she had been craving to read recently and made a mental note to ask Daphne for them later. 

“There are three rooms here,” Astoria explained. “Sis and I can sleep in mine, so you should take hers and the spare one in pairs. I hope that’s good for you.” 

“Definitely, Tori,” said Harry; he had a teasing glint to his eyes as he watched Hermione for a reaction. 

“Okay then, let me show you the other room.” 

Since Susan and Ginny chose to take Daphne’s room, only Harry and Hermione followed Astoria into the spare bedroom. 

“Don’t hesitate if you need anything,” Astoria said before she made her leave. 

“Bye, Tori,” Harry greeted her off before locking the door from inside. But as soon as he turned around, a slightly smaller being pounced on him. “What — ? Oh, hmm.” 

Hermione’s mouth was on his in a fierce lip-lock. She pushed him flat against the door and snogged him wild, letting out small puffs of breath in between their kisses. 

“You’ve earned some punishment, you sly boy,” Hermione breathed, grabbing onto Harry’s collar and dragging her lips to the lump in his throat. 

“I don’t think so, Mommy.” 

Hermione drew a sharp breath and trembled. Harry was perfectly aware the word made her heart race these days. It was a bit of an exaggerated response, to be honest, but Hermione would never shy away from being herself before Harry. So, she let him know in no uncertain terms how much she craved to be called out by that term by him. 

“But you do, tiger,” she whispered, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “You’ve been very naughty today.” 

“Have I, Mommy?” He feigned innocence. 

“Yes, very much so,” she said and caressed his chest with her hands before starting to unbutton his shirt. “You’ve been naughty and sexy . It’s been bothering Mommy all day, and that’s why Mommy’s going to punish you now.” 

“In that case, guilty as charged,” Harry said with a grin before he suddenly swept Hermione off her feet and claimed her lips. . . . 

A few hours later, when both Hermione and Harry were soundly asleep in each other’s arms, the constant knocking on the door stirred them awake. 

“I think Sue’s about to tear it down,” Harry whispered. 

Hermione rolled onto her back with a groan. Why did she have to wake up early after such an amazing make-out session with Harry? She was going to bite Susan’s head off for this. 

“Wake up, Hermione!” Susan’s voice called out. “It’s urgent!” 

Grumbling expletives under her breath, Hermione quickly searched around for her clothes; she had chucked them around carelessly. She thanked Harry when he handed them to her. Putting them on, she went and opened the door and asked her red-headed friend indignantly, “Why only my name?” 

“Because I know you’re holding him back and not the other way around,” Susan said automatically. 

“You’re being too cheeky these days,” Hermione said moodily. 

“What’s the matter, Sue?” asked Harry. 

It was not only Susan, though. Ginny and Astoria were also there behind her. 

“Is everything alright?” Hermione asked concernedly. “And where is Daphne?” 

“She hasn’t returned yet,” Susan told her, worry etched on her face. “We’re going to look out for her.” 

“If I’m right about where she might be,” Astoria spoke up, “it’ll take us a few minutes to reach her. You should not forget your wands.” 

So, with their wands ready in their hands, the five of them set out in search of Daphne. 

“I don’t guess your parents are aware of this,” Hermione said to the youngest witch among them. 

“Let’s keep it that way,” Astoria said decisively. 

“Where do you think she is?” Hermione spoke again when they had walked a few yards away from the house. 

It was near midnight, and the moon was only crescent tonight, so their only plausible source of light was their wands. They crossed paths with crickets and flies in their way. 

Ginny suddenly screamed, making the rest of them jump. 

“What happened?” Harry asked, pushing forward to the front and looking around thoroughly; Hermione followed him, taking his free hand in her own. 

“I — I thought I saw a snake,” Ginny said, shuddering. 

Susan embraced and rubbed Ginny’s back soothingly. The youngest Weasley child was genuinely afraid of snakes; Hermione guessed it was the aftermath of the Basilisk incident. 

“It might be, to be honest,” said Astoria. “Be careful, guys.” 

“How far away is she, Tori?” Harry asked. 

“We’re close,” Astoria said, resuming her path. “Just a few steps.” 

“How are you even navigating here?” Hermione asked curiously. “It’s just wheat crops everywhere. How do you know which direction is which?” 

“It’s a hunch.” 

... 

Daphne ran and ran and ran, tears flowing down her cheeks, her face blazing with both shame and remorse, not halting until her feet literally hurt. Now that the moment of daring had passed and she could think calmly once again, she believed things could have gone a lot differently, a lot smoothly. She didn’t have to set up absolute chaos so that her mother was left with no choice but to slap her to silence. 

She dragged her feet to the grave and leaned against the tombstone, panting. Her grandfather rested there. He used to be her most favorite person in the world. He took great care of her, always understood what she wanted before she had even put it into words, and she loved him for it. When he passed away because of chronic illness, she cried for weeks. She was only seven years old. Such was the weight and extent of their bond that even to this day whenever Daphne felt helpless, whenever she needed to just sit down for a while to restore her peace of mind, she paid a visit to his grave and talked to him for hours at a time. 

But tonight, she couldn’t talk. Her brain had momentarily let go of that ability. She was almost sure had he been alive, he would have been ashamed of her for having talked back to her father like that. She would have hated to see the hurt on his face, hated herself even more. Which she now did, anyway. 

Tumbling down to her knees with an unceremonious thud, Daphne hid her face in her palms and sobbed her heart out, her tears dripping through the cracks between her fingers, her howls of agony ripping out of her chest. . . . 

When Daphne came by again, Susan’s face was the first visual before her eyes. 

“She’s awake!” Susan gasped in relief, a drained smile on her face. 

“S-Susan . . . ?” Daphne mumbled. 

“You scared us,” Susan said in a way that told Daphne she was trying to be gentle while scolding her. 

It made Daphne giggle, only for a sudden, sharp pain shoot through her spine, making her gasp. The back of her neck was rather stiff. 

“Take it easy, Sis,” said Astoria, who was standing close. “I knew you’d be here.” 

“Where am . . . Oh!” 

Everything came rushing to the forefront of her mind. She groaned while rubbing her temple, then taking Susan’s offered hand, she stood up and looked around. Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were there as well. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered miserably. “You all had to come looking for me. What time is it?” 

“Past midnight,” said Hermione, dramatically shaking her head. “I was happily napping with my boyfriend, but alas, here I am.” 

“Really sorry,” Daphne apologized again while Susan turned to scowl at the brunette witch. “Let’s go back.” 

“Why did you come here though, Daphne?” Harry asked. “Is this a — ?” 

“Oh, this?” 

Daphne turned around to face the tombstone again. 

“This is our grandfather’s grave,” she told them. “He passed away when I was seven, a couple of days after Christmas, which I now realize is today. I make sure to come here every year. Won’t miss it for anything in the world.” 

“I don’t remember him as much as Sis,” said Astoria. “He loved us very much, though. He used to call Sis ‘Sunflower,’ remember, Sis?” 

“Sunflowers were his favorite,” Daphne said softly. She stepped closer to the tombstone and read in the dim light of Susan’s wand: 

Michael Greengrass 

1905 - 1986 

Whose Soul Was Brighter Than The Sun 

Caressing the cold stone with a light touch of her hand, she knelt down and whispered, “And he was my favorite. Our grandmother died a lot earlier than him. Tori and I were not even born. He would always say I look like her. He would gladly make my smallest of wishes true. Our family was never the same after his death.” 

Hermione bowed next to her and rubbed her back. 

“I never had the privilege to be pampered by my grandparents, so trust me when I say this, Daphne, you’re one lucky girl to have experienced that.” 

“I know,” Daphne said, nodding. 

She rose back to her feet, followed by Hermione, and faced the rest of them. 

“Thank you for looking out for me.” 

“Don’t be silly,” said Susan earnestly. “We’re friends, remember?” 

Daphne nodded her head, smiling warmly. 

“Yeah, how else were we supposed to swim in the morning in your absence?” Ginny joked. “We had to find you.” 

The rest of them snorted, and Daphne couldn’t help joining them. 

Hermione realized it took them even less time to find their way back with Daphne in the lead. Daphne both apologized and thanked the rest of them once again before she followed Astoria into her room. 

Hermione followed Harry into their own room, thinking hard, and as usual, he noticed. 

“You have something on your mind, don’t you?” he asked her gently. 

“We have to stop her, Harry,” Hermione said resolutely. “She will go mad if we don’t.” 

“Are you talking about Daph — okay, okay, I’m in —” Harry said quickly as his girlfriend seized his arm and pulled him out of the room with her. 

They reached Astoria’s room, where Hermione knocked on the door. Thankfully, it was Daphne who opened it. 

“Oh, did you need something, Hermione?” the blonde witch asked. 

“Yes, you,” said Hermione. “Borrowing your sister for a minute, Tori!” she said loudly for Astoria’s benefit and pulled Daphne out of the room. “I suggest you shut the door,” she added. 

“What on earth are you up to?” Daphne asked, puzzled. 

Instead of answering, however, Hermione simply extended a hand towards Daphne. 

“What? What do you want?” 

Hermione sighed. 

“Very well then.” 

She made a gesture of holding something in her right hand and flipping it with her left index finger. Daphne’s eyes went wide in panic; behind Hermione, Harry gasped in realization too. 

Daphne hastily shut the door behind her and pulled Hermione aside by her arm. 

“How?” she stuttered. “Since when?” 

“When you were facing the tombstone, I saw something like a sparkle on the inscription,” Hermione explained. “It couldn’t have been the moonlight, so I stepped closer to you —” 

“And looked inside my shirt!” Daphne hissed bitterly. “How — how dare you! I thought you were trying to console me.” 

“That thing is dangerous, Daphne —” 

“Thank you very much for your warning, Granger,” Daphne retorted, acid sizzling her voice. “I can handle myself pretty well. So you keep your mouth shut and go back to napping with your boyfriend.” 

“I’m serious, Daphne, and I’m talking with experience,” Hermione said calmly. “I had a Time-Turner once too.” 

“Yeah, sure, of course — wait, what?” Daphne halted abruptly. “You — you had a Time-Turner? But how ? Time-Turners are highly classified artifacts. You can’t just have one without making news unless you belong to a family who’s always had it in their vault in Gringotts?” 

“So you stole it, huh?” Hermione grinned. 

Daphne’s cheeks turned pink. 

“May I ask why?” 

Daphne let out a sigh. Looking around to make sure nobody else was there to watch or listen, she opened the top button of her shirt and pulled the golden Time-Turner out for Hermione and Harry to see. It was just like the one Hermione had three years ago. 

“I . . . I’ve been training,” Daphne whispered, holding the golden device in her hands. 

“Training?” repeated Harry. 

“Yes, when the time comes, I want to fight for my friends, with my friends.” 

Daphne sounded sincere; courage and conviction raging behind her bright irises. 

“You don’t need a Time-Turner for that,” Hermione reasoned. “It messes with your head. Trust me, I suffered way worse than you seem to do yet.” 

“But I don’t have enough time, Hermione,” Daphne said dreadfully. “The war’s about to explode right in our faces —” 

“Still, I insist,” Hermione went on firmly. “If you trust me, if you believe that I only want the best for you, then you must stop using it.” 

She turned to her boyfriend. 

“Let’s go, Harry.” 

When the young couple was back in their own room, Harry suddenly engulfed Hermione in his arms from behind. 

“Harry!” She giggled. 

“I just fell in love with you all over again, Hermione Jean Granger,” Harry whispered, squeezing her. “You have a big brain for sure, but your heart’s even bigger.” 

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said appreciatively. “You saved me from that thing once. I just wanted to do the same for her.” 

She turned around in his arms and wrapped her own around his neck. 

“What else, by the way, do you love about this girlfriend of yours, Harry James Potter?” 

“Oh, there is a lot to love. Let me see, I love how closely our initials match. Just a simple change and they will be perfectly alike.” 

Hermione pulled her head back to look at him so quickly, her neck gave a crack in protest. But she was several light years away from being concerned about that. 

Could Harry possibly be — ? 

“Not yet, love.” Harry punctured her hopes. “Not yet.” 

Hermione breathed again and hit her forehead against Harry’s chest. 

“Ow, your skull’s so heavy,” he joked. “It’s carrying that big brain of yours, after all.” 

“Don’t you ever —” 

“I wasn’t joking about that,” Harry said, and he sounded as honest as he ever could. “One day, I will change your initials.” 

Hermione glanced up into his eyes and found her own reflection staring back at her. She was about to melt into his arms. 

“You have me waiting.” 

Their lips brushed for a sweet kiss. 

“Oh, there is another thing I love about you,” Harry suddenly spoke up. 

“What is it?” 

“The way you shiver when I call you Mommy while I’m sucking on your boobs.” 

Hermione couldn’t help the shudder that rocked her body as her imagination produced a very vivid picture of the scene mentioned for her. 

“Yes, just like that,” Harry whispered, smirking, and caught her lips for another passionate kiss that made her toes curl and her heart throb against her chest wall. 

... 

The daily routine that Daphne had indulged herself in made her wake up by six o’clock in the morning. Donning a white sports bra, a black sweatshirt, and a matching pair of sweatpants, she set out for a sprint in the vast field. She finished five laps around the place before she got to stretching, squatting, and doing fast steps at the same spot. She was bathed in sweat by the time she returned. Everyone else had risen as well, except for Susan. Daphne was kind of relieved. 

“I’m going to take a shower,” she told Astoria, who was helping their mother make breakfast. 

“Won’t suggest anything else,” Astoria said wittily. 

“Can you look over the pan for a moment, Tori?” Sofia asked. “Thank you,” she added as Astoria agreed. She walked over to Daphne and said, “Listen, I —” 

“I’m sorry, mother,” Daphne spoke up, finally gathering the courage to meet Sofia’s eye. “I spoke out of my limits yesterday.” 

“Oh Daphne,” Sofia mumbled, a teary smile on her face. “I shouldn’t have slapped you either. It was wrong of me.” 

She caressed Daphne’s cheek and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. 

“But I want you to apologize to your father too. Your actions hurt him, but he can’t stay mad for too long. You’re his precious daughter after all.” 

Daphne nodded her head in agreement. She had decided to apologize to her father after a long hour of poring over her thoughts and feelings last night. 

“I didn’t know she works out,” Daphne heard Ginny ask the rest of them when she was leaving the hall. 

Inside the bathroom, as she stood facing the mirror, thoroughly naked, she wondered what Ginny would have to say when she saw how ripped Daphne’s muscles had become after a year’s worth of intense exercise and battle drills. She had gained hard six-pack abs and a lot of muscles on her arms, back, and legs. She wondered what Susan’s reaction would be if she saw her now. But they were all going to see her, nonetheless. She had realized last night how wrong she was to think she could protect her friends by keeping them at an arm’s length. They cared for her without a second thought. Why should she be the one holding back? 

Everyone gathered for breakfast, and once again, the dining table was a silent affair. Damion had wished Astoria good morning, but not Daphne, rest aside any of her friends. Sofia gave Daphne a meaningful look every other minute, but now that the moment had actually dawned upon her, she found it quite challenging to muster her courage to do the necessary. 

“Father,” Daphne said at last; everyone except Damion stopped eating to look up at her. “I . . . I am sorry for last night.” 

Damion acted like he had heard nothing. Daphne glanced around at Sofia, who signaled for her to keep going. 

“I should not have acted the way I did,” Daphne continued. “Please forgive me. It will not happen again.” 

“Pass me some butter, Tori,” Damion said, facing Astoria. 

“Father, I —” 

“And a bread too, thank you,” Damion overrode Daphne, his eyes fixed on Astoria alone. 

Susan placed her fork down. 

“She’s apologizing for what she did, Mr. Greengrass,” she said fearlessly. “The least you could do is acknowledge her.” 

“The least I should have done is teach her how to identify the likes me and my family should have been sharing this meal with,” Damion’s voice cut the already palpable tension in the hall like a sharp knife. “I clearly failed.” 

Daphne did not know when she sprung up to her feet. All she had the memory of was screaming, “Okay, enough! How dare you say that to Susan! These are all my friends, and I cannot let you speak to them in such a derogatory manner! Why — why do you hate them so much?” 

“I thought you said you will not speak to me in a loud voice again,” said Damion. “You clearly are not being yourself lately. I can see why.” 

The way he looked around at Daphne’s friends with malice made her blood boil with fury of the highest order. 

“Dear, please calm down,” Sofia said urgently, coming around to soothe Daphne. 

“Alright then,” Daphne said clearly, her heart thumping in her ears. “You do not approve of my friends, do you? They are not welcome here, right? Well, I do not want to stay here either.” 

Sofia gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. 

“I’m sorry, everyone,” Daphne addressed her friends. “I am ashamed you were humiliated like this.” 

“It’s nothing like that, Daph,” said Susan hurriedly. 

“You should calm down and think again,” Hermione suggested. 

“I’ve had enough of only thinking and not doing anything I want to, Hermione,” Daphne said adamantly. “I’m sorry you all had to witness this. I hope you can forgive me, but we are leaving this place.” 

“No . . .” Sofia sobbed, trembling in despair. 

Daphne made sure to avoid her gaze. Instead, she was watching her father. Either he was acting like he didn’t care or he had been expecting this from the very beginning. Daphne couldn’t decide what was worse. 

“Tori, please ask your sister not to leave,” Sofia requested Astoria, her voice punctuated by her sobs. “Dear, please,” she gasped, approaching her husband. “Don’t let her go, I’m begging you.” 

When Damion didn’t respond, Sofia moved over to Susan and requested her too. One by one, she begged all of Daphne’s friends for help, but nobody said a word. 

When Damion didn’t respond, Sofia moved over to Susan and requested her too. One by one, she begged all of Daphne’s friends for help but nobody said a word. 

“Stop it, Sofia,” Damian said loudly. “Do not beg.” 

“But our daughter —” Sofia whimpered. 

“Our daughter is not going anywhere.” 

He said those words with such confidence that Sofia ceased crying at once, hope filling her eyes. As he rose to his feet, Daphne watched him with a racing heart, her brain unable to process his next move. Damion came around and stood right in front of her elder daughter. 

“I have been waiting for this moment since forever,” he whispered; he had unshed tears in his eyes and a proud, fatherly smile on his lips. 

What’s going on? Daphne thought, dumbfounded. 

Damion turned to face the rest of them, and placing a hand on her shoulder, he announced, “Everyone, behold the new head of our family, Daphne Cindy Greengrass.” 

A stunned silence persisted in the room for more than a minute. Daphne couldn’t believe her ears. 

“Father?” she mumbled, looking up at him. “What are you saying?” 

“I just named you the new head of the family,” Damion said rather casually. 

Sofia let out a squeal of joy and flung herself upon her elder daughter to squeeze the daylights out of her. 

“That’s so cool, Sis!” Astoria said cheerfully, coming around as well. “Congrats!” 

Susan, Ginny, Harry, and Hermione congratulated her too, but she had eyes for no one but her father, who was smiling down at her. 

“I thought you were mad at me. I thought you didn’t think positively of my friends.” 

“No, that was a lie,” he revealed. “Greengrasses’ve never differentiated people on the grounds of their bloodline. We’re undoubtedly proud to be one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but we don’t mind sharing the same podium with half-bloods or Muggleborns either.” 

“But you always seemed to hate us,” Susan pointed out. “You always seemed to think like we don’t belong here.” 

“I’m sorry to you all,” Damion apologized, his head bowed. “I never meant to hurt any of you.” 

“Then why — ?” Daphne asked. 

“Because grandpa asked me to.” 

“What?” Daphne choked, her heart skipping a beat. “What do you mean grandpa asked you to?” 

“Before his death, he told me he believes you have all the qualities to lead our family to greater heights, even more so than him or me, but you lack self-confidence,” Damion explained. “You took grandpa’s death harder than the rest of us. I started taking you to all those fancy parties with me because I wanted you to interact with people outside the family, talk to children your own age, make friends, but unfortunately, it all seemed to have the exact opposite effect on you. You tended to become reserved and even less confident. I had failed to raise you the way I was supposed to.” 

So every time he looked at me like he expected better from me, he was actually blaming himself? 

“But now I realize,” Damion continued. “I was pushing you towards the wrong people. . . . Miss Bones,” he addressed the red-haired witch, “please forgive this old man for his rudeness.” 

Susan gave a nod of her head. 

“I just wanted you to be more confident in yourself. The way you stood up for your friends today has made it very clear to me, Daphne, you’re ready.” 

“But, father, I’m not even seventeen yet,” Daphne found her voice again. 

“To become the head of a family has nothing to do with the coming of legal age,” said Damion, shaking his head. 

“This is so sudden,” Daphne said pointlessly. “I’m not ready.” 

“Yes, you are, my sunshine. Grandpa would agree too if he saw you today.” 

Daphne’s eyes filled with tears. It had been so long since Damion had called her by that name. She hugged him tight and her tears dampened the front of his shirt. He didn’t mind at all and wrapped his own arms around her shoulders. 

“I was not a good father, was I?” he whispered in a choked voice. 

“No, no, I mean yes, no, argh!” Daphne rambled against his chest, sobs interrupting her statement. “You are the best father in the world.” 

“I’m so happy,” said Sofia. 

Damion pulled her too into his arms. Of course, Astoria couldn’t be the only one left out. She slithered her way into the family embrace, making her elder sister giggle. 

... 

“Incoming!” 

Before Susan, Harry, or Hermione could even prepare themselves for the inevitable, a giggling ball of flesh with ginger-colored hair that was Ginny Weasley ran and bolted off the edge of the swimming pool high into the air and folded her legs, wrapping her arms around her knees, and came down crashing into the water on her butt, creating a huge splash that wetted the rest of them. 

As Ginny’s head broke the surface a couple of seconds later, a huge smile threatening to split her face in half, Susan squealed, “You jumped even higher than Harry!” 

“You bet I did,” Ginny said smugly and shoved Harry on the arm. “Don’t be sad, Potter, you’re still learning.” 

The two witches broke into a fit of laughter. Harry just shrugged off and finished a full lap of the pool before approaching his girlfriend, who was no longer inside the water but sitting on the edge of the pool, lazily paddling her feet. 

“Hey,” he said, making space for himself between her legs. “I can’t believe I’m taking a swim in December.” 

“True.” She chuckled. “There’s still so much we don’t know. My imagination could never birth something like this until I actually experienced it with my own eyes it exists.” 

“Hm . . . To be honest, though, at one point, I really thought our trip was about to get cut short.” 

“Me too, and when Daphne said we’re leaving, I was like — God, no, we haven’t even been to New York yet.” 

“But everything seems fine now,” 

“Yeah, seems like it. Good for her. She deserves it.” 

“She stood up for us, didn’t she?” 

Hermione nodded her head. Planting his hands on both sides of her frame, Harry pushed himself up to steal a kiss from her. She giggled and gave him a full-blown kiss until her attention was taken away by Astoria’s arrival. 

“Where’s Daph?” Susan asked her. 

“She’s coming,” Astoria said. “Father handed over some secret scrolls to her and stuff like that. She’s getting ready now.” 

The four witches and Harry were down to their undergarments. Harry was in simple blue shorts; Hermione in a matching one-piece swimming suit; Susan and Ginny wore bikinis matching each other’s hair color; and Astoria was in a one-piece as well, an orange one. 

Daphne eventually arrived, wrapped in a towel. 

“Let’s go, Harry,” Hermione said. 

Harry helped her get back into the pool, and the two of them swam over to their friends. 

“Come on down, Daphne,” Ginny cheered. “You do know how to swim, right?” 

“Yes,” Daphne answered, swallowing a dry lump in her throat. 

They were all looking up at her expectantly; it creeped on her nerves. She knew there was nothing to be embarrassed of. These were not the people who make fun of someone simply for their own amusement. But she had lied to them and that made her dither. 

“Daph, come on,” said Susan, looking up at her blonde friend, waving her arm. 

Daphne looked around; while Susan and Ginny were simply waiting, Hermione and Harry were watching her, so when the insufferable know-it-all brunette Muggleborn witch gave a small nod of her head, Daphne took a deep breath and let the towel fall off of her body. 

“Oh wow,” slipped out of Ginny’s mouth, her pupils dilating to catch most of the view before them. 

Sunlight embellished Daphne’s fair skin as she stood at the edge of the pool, holding her right arm with her left hand, her solid muscular frame finally exposed to the outside world, the only piece of clothing covering her body being a two-piece black lingerie. She watched her friends shyly, and as she let her hand fall by her side, her biceps tightened and her abs shone against the sunlight. Her throat went arid as a tense silence hovered in the air. 

“You were hiding that?” Susan said accusingly. “That’s a felony if you ask me, girl!” 

“You — you like it?” 

“Yes, duh,” said Susan like it was painfully obvious. “Have you been working out all this time?” 

“Only recently, yes,” Daphne said, shooting a quick glance towards Hermione. “I wasn’t ready to let anyone see. That’s why I refused to undress in the Prefects’ Bathroom. Sorry.” 

Susan mock-frowned at the blonde witch for a moment before sighing and saying, “Can’t stay mad at nobody for too long around here.” 

Daphne’s face brightened up. Ginny got out of the pool and crouched before Daphne and pressed a finger into her abs. 

“Oooh, they’re harder than Demelza’s,” she cooed. “That girl works out like a beast. What have you been doing?” 

Daphne blushed. 

“Just a bit of running and stretching,” she whispered and blushed even more when Ginny caressed her left biceps, as if measuring the bulk, and whistled. 

“Looks more than ‘just a bit of running and stretching’ to me.” Ginny made an honest observation. 

Suddenly, from behind, Astoria pushed her elder sister into the pool. Daphne let out an uncharacteristically high-pitched squeal as she slumped down in the water. They were all howling with laughter when she broke out of the surface again, gasping for oxygen. 

“What was that for?” she yelled, glaring at her sister. 

“Less talking, more swimming!” Astoria said and jumped straight into the water so close to Daphne that she had to hurry out of the way, which she did barely in time. 

“Close to me, Astoria, but I’m still the highest,” Ginny stated proudly before she made her highest jump in the air yet. 

Chapter Text

Dinner was a relatively talkative affair that evening. Mr. Greengrass was chatting freely, smiling more often, his eyes less piercing. Mrs. Greengrass was glad everything was finally how it should have been from the start. Surprisingly, the only one quiet over the meal was Daphne. She seemed to pore over a deep, intractable thought that was most likely causing her a great deal of conflict. Hermione, despite noticing this, turned an ignorant eye because she had a gut feeling Daphne would open up soon. 

“I’m excited,” Harry told Hermione while she rechecked her backpack. “Never been to a city outside London.” 

“Oh, we’re going to have a lot of fun, Harry,” Hermione said, beaming up at his frame. He was currently lying on the bed, his arms underneath his head, while she reopened her bag and went through her things that she had packed for the second time to make sure she had everything crammed in there. “There’s the Statue of Liberty and Grand Central Terminal and the Metropolitan Museum and the —” 

A knock on the door interrupted Hermione’s enthusiastic barrage of every place and monument they were going to visit the next day. 

“Of course it’s you,” Hermione muttered under her breath upon opening the door to come face to face with Daphne. 

“Glad to see you too, Granger,” Daphne said sarcastically. 

“Is there anything you want or am I allowed to slam this door in your face now?” Hermione followed without hesitation. 

Daphne cleared her throat and said in a noble voice, “I came to hand over this.” 

To Hermione’s baffling, the blonde witch produced the same book over which they had been quarreling since the very first day of school this year: the Half-Blood Prince’s Potion book. 

“Daphne?” Hermione voiced her surprise. “Are you kidding me? You were obsessed with this book.” 

Daphne stared down at the book for a long moment before taking a deep breath of determination and thrust the book into Hermione’s hands. 

“You keep it,” she said, “I have also decided to return the Time-Turner from where I picked it —” 

“You mean stole it?” Hermione added wisely. 

Daphne scowled at her from the corner of her eye before she sighed and said, “I’m handing over this book to you because I think . . . because I think you’re better suited at keeping things under control, so much for everyone calling me the Ice Queen.” She bore a meaningful smirk. “Oh, and this too.” 

She pulled a small bottle out of her jeans pocket. 

“You’re giving away Felix Felicis?” Hermione said, shocked. “You won this —” 

“Who’s giving this to you, dimwit?” 

Daphne pushed Hermione to a side and surrendered the tiny potion-filled bottle to Harry, who was now propped up on the bed. 

“You need it more than anybody, Harry,” she said solemnly, “you need all the luck in the world to do what I know you’re going to do, and if I can be of even a little help, I’m glad to.” 

“Thanks, Daph,” Harry said gratefully. “I . . . don’t even know how to thank you properly.” 

“Don’t misuse it, of course.” 

“I won’t.” 

“I know. Just . . . be careful, okay? I haven’t tried this thing yet, but it sounds really shady to me. A potion that gives you good luck, sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it?” 

“I will be careful,” said Harry, nodding. 

“About the ‘better suited at keeping things under control’ thing,” Hermione said, an impish grin on her lips. “I’m glad we finally cleared up that I am the superior witch between the two of us.” 

“Ho ho,” Daphne drawled, pretending to be bored. “I acknowledge Granger is better at controlling and manipulating others. Sounds good to you, cupcake?” 

Hermione’s left eye twitched. 

“I hate you, now get out of my room,” she said bitterly, gesturing at the open door. “Ice Queen.” 

Daphne was grinning too slyly for Hermione’s comfort. She flicked her blond hair out of her face and made her way out of the room with an air of elegance around her. 

“Really, love?” Harry spoke up. “We reaching that low now?” 

“Not my fault! She just gets on my damn nerves!” Hermione grumbled, slamming the door shut. 

“Come here,” Harry said softly, spreading his arms wide. 

Hermione squirreled into his warm embrace, taking in his soothing scent. 

“There, there,” he whispered, patting the back of her head. “My adorable ball of fury.” 

She hummed and tried to bury herself even further into his chest. His body was warm and comfortable. She would never get away if she had her way. 

“Are you done packing?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you going to keep this Potion book?” 

“No.” 

“What are you going to do with it, then?” 

“Shove it back inside the Ice Queen’s extra-sly ass.” 

Harry chuckled, and Hermione was proud to have caused it. But she wailed reluctantly when Harry pushed her at an arm’s length. 

“What was the point, though, then?” he asked her. “You kept antagonizing her over this book and now when she finally gave it up, you want to give it back to her? Why?” 

“Because she painted it like I’m a controlling, manipulative freak.” Hermione pouted. “I want to show her I’m nothing like what she thinks I am.” 

“Oh, and I thought you were trying to make her feel more confident in herself,” Harry said, grinning knowingly. 

“No, no, not at all,” Hermione said, shaking her head, but Harry didn’t stop grinning, and she ended up admitting, “Okay, you got me . . . like always. Yes, I want her to be more confident, and it’s not like she was cheating, anyway; don’t tell her I said that.” 

“Thought so,” Harry said and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. 

“But you know what, Harry,” Hermione said in a low voice. “All of this Potion book fiasco got me thinking. It’s a well-known fact that I prefer the written over the heard, right? And I always learn official texts by heart. But ever since Daphne began doing better than everyone else by following a different set of instructions from an obvious Potion Master other than the Ministry-approved one, I wonder if what we’ve read until now is —” 

“Stop right there.” Harry caught her. “You’re questioning your very existence, Hermione, and I’ll have none of it.” 

“But, Harry —” 

“Listen to me, love,” he spoke softly, carefully. “Do not question your ideals. They are pure, angelic. You did not do any wrong reading those textbooks. It’s saved my skin more times than I can count. I admit I am not sure whether they’re the best source of information but I guess that’s the part of growing up, you know. And to be honest, it’s a part of why I always say you’ll be the best Minister for Magic ever. Because you have self-awareness and a great understanding of everything around you. That, in my opinion, Missus Potter, is your greatest asset.” 

“No, my greatest asset is your love,” she corrected him. “Thank you for taking care of me. I don’t think I can stop reading textbooks, anyway. Won’t be me. 

“Besides, I also wonder if this is the answer to our question.” 

“What do you mean? What question?” 

“The ‘How to get rid of Voldemort?’ question,” she said. “What if the source of information we possess right now does not contain what we require? What if we need to expand our catalogue?” 

... 

Hermione returned the Potion book in the morning. Daphne was puzzled, to say the least, and offered to simply burn the stash but Hermione insisted she kept it. 

“Never burn a book, you miscreant,” she said testily. “Never seen someone more ungrateful than you, honestly.” 

“What are you talking about?” said Daphne in equal rage. “Why did you mess with me over this book for months, then?” 

“That’s ancient history, Greengrass. I don’t need a crooked book to excel. Keep it with you or you won’t be able to stay on the top anymore.” 

“Please,” Harry added quietly. 

Daphne closed her mouth and watched her messy-haired friend for a brief second. If that’s what he wanted. . . . She trusted his judgment, and hence, agreed to keep the Prince’s book. 

... 

Wriggling his tail over Zain’s nose earned him a gentle rebuke from the little boy’s father. 

I just want to play with him, mate, Crookshanks complained to the man. He’s been knocked out for three hours. That’s not healthy, man. 

But apparently, it was all meows to human ears because Sirius understood nothing. He picked Crookshanks by his belly and dumped him on the floor, saying, “Don’t wake him up, Crooks. He kept Mama and Papa up all night. Please let there be quiet for a while.” 

Cats don’t sleep for hours like that. No, please. We got preys to catch. Nobody’s feeding our families but our own jaws and claws. How these brats earn their rats is beyond me. 

The ginger-colored giant half-kneazle half-cat went up to the windowsill and sat down with his front paws stretched ahead. He wondered when his mistress and her faithful mate would come and take him. He’s getting bored here. 

Perhaps his voice had finally made it to the God of Cats. At around ten in the morning, there was a knock on the door. 

“I’ll take it,” Sirius told his wife, who was in the kitchen preparing milk for their son. 

“Papa!” Zain called out, his arms stretched out. “Papa!” 

“You woke up?” said Sirius, lifting his son from the cot. “Well, can’t stay down for too long, can you?” 

He approached the door and peered into the eyepiece. 

“Oh, it’s you!” 

“Who’s it, sweetheart?” Amelia asked from the kitchen. 

Sirius swung open the door and a group of teenagers shoved inside. 

“My sweetie pie,” Hermione mumbled, pouting her lips, while she squeezed Zain’s cheeks. “I mished you sho much.” 

“Her — Her —” 

Hermione gasped, her mouth falling open, her pupils dilating. 

“Did you see that?” she asked around. “He — he tried to say my name!” 

“Hi, Zain, remember me?” Susan spoke up, pushing Hermione aside. 

Zain grabbed Susan’s hair in his tiny fist and said in his adorable voice, “Su . . . Su-san.” 

Susan and Ginny squealed, which made Zain giggle. He struggled out of his father’s arms to be held by Susan, who let him grab her hair as much as he wanted. 

“Ha-rry,” Zain said, pointing at the bespectacled wizard with his free hand. 

“Hello, Zain,” said Harry, waving at him. 

“We taught him names of all of us,” Amelia explained. “He can say a lot of things now.” 

“Wow,” said Ginny. “I had no idea babies can learn names and faces this early.” 

“Fascinating, babies are,” said Sirius knowingly. “The day he called me Papa for the first time when I was nailing a screw on the wall, I almost hit my thumb into the plaster. Never been happier, though. I had been trying to make him say Papa for a while, got Mama in the first go. I wonder how that happened.” 

“Might be because I talked to him a lot when he was in here,” Amelia said teasingly, tapping her belly. 

“That’s helpful.” 

“Can you say my name, Zain?” said Ginny. “It’s Ginny. Gi-n-ny.” 

“Gee-nee,” Zain tried out. 

Ginny and Susan snickered. 

“Almost there,” Ginny said. “Ginny.” 

“Gee-nny.” 

They both squealed again. 

He’s saying everyone’s names, Hermione thought sulkily. 

“You’re the smartest boy in the town, Zain, I’ll give you that,” Susan said extravagantly. “Hey, what’re you doing out there, Daph?” 

“Daph? You mean — ?” 

Sirius’s question was answered when Daphne entered the apartment as well. She walked inside and immediately bowed her head at Sirius and Amelia. 

“Greetings, Mr. and Mrs. Black. I apologize for arriving unnoticed.” 

“Not at all, dear,” said Amelia gently. “And there’s no need to be formal. You’re a dear friend to all of them. Please feel welcomed.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Black.” 

“Oh, please, it’s Amelia, and this is Sirius.” 

“Or Padfoot, whatever you like,” said Sirius, smiling. “How’s everyone at home?” 

“They’re all great,” Daphne answered cordially. “Ouch.” 

Her hair had suddenly been seized by Zain. 

“Da-da,” he said, now struggling out of Susan’s arms to land into Daphne’s. 

The blonde witch took it in her stride and placed Zain on her hip. He was momentarily focused on her silky blonde hair. 

“Daf-ne,” Zain said, putting her hair into his mouth. 

“He knows my name?” 

“We told him yours too,” Sirius told her. “A lot of others as well.” 

He can say her name too? Hermione was beyond herself with envy. 

“Da-da,” Zain said again, spitting Daphne’s hair out of his mouth. “Da-da.” 

“I’m Da-da?” she asked, amused. 

“Da-da.” 

“Okay, and you are Za-za.” 

Zain giggled. 

“You like it,” Daphne said happily. “Za-za.” 

“Da-da.” 

“Za-za.” 

Zain giggled again and hid his face in Daphne’s generous bosom. She warmly accepted his embrace with a smile on her face. 

“You’re comfortable with a child, Daphne,” Amelia observed. 

“I took care of Tori a lot,” said Daphne. 

“Amelia, were you cooking something?” Harry asked suddenly. “I think it’s burning!” 

“Merlin!” 

Amelia hurried back into the kitchen with the rest of them on her heels. The milk she was preparing for her son was boiling out of the steel pot, sizzling over the stove and the counter. 

“Shit, it’s all over the damn place,” she cursed as she turned off the gas knob. 

Zain let out what sounded like a scoff. 

“Yes, give me an earful, fella,” Amelia said crossly. 

“Hey, he don’t give you no earful,” Sirius argued. 

Amelia scowled so angrily at her husband that he lost his wits in an instant. So, he turned to the rest of them. 

“Okay, erm, yes, Harry, clean up the mess, please.” 

“I am on it.” 

“And you, Susan, get your dear aunt a pack of Skittles from the cabinet over there.” 

“On it, sir,” 

“Hermione, make some good ol’-fashioned lemonade for your boyfriend’s gorgeous godmother. Ginny, do whatever you can to help these three, and Daphne, Merlin, please keep holding Zain like that, you’re doing excellent.” 

Everyone moved accordingly, which left Sirius with only Amelia to talk to. 

“Babe, it ain’t your fault the milk spilled over,” he said smoothly. “It’s the damn milk’s fault it spilled over. Nothing you could have done about that.” 

“No, I should have remembered,” Amelia said guiltily. “I cursed in front of Zain. I panicked.” 

“Which is no big deal. I mean, I mess up shit all the time, right?” 

“Seconded,” said Harry from a distance, his back towards the Blacks. 

“Thank you for your vote, Potter,” Sirius said through gritted teeth; Amelia giggled. “It’s almost James all over again for Merlin’s sake,” he added under his breath. 

“But he’s got Lily in there too,” said Amelia. 

“Yeah, he does, especially because of — holy shit, Hermione looks mad,” Sirius said, wide-eyed. 

“That she does,” Amelia confirmed, looking around at the brunette witch. “Why, though? And what is she staring at?” 

“I have no idea why kids do anything these days.” 

“You speak like you never troubled an adult when you were a kid,” 

“Never.” 

“Yeah, right.” 

Amelia rolled her eyes to which Sirius displayed his most boyish grin to her. 

Meanwhile, Hermione was squeezing — no, crushing the lemons one after another in a squeezer, gritting her teeth, glaring at Daphne, who was carrying Zain in her arms around the hall while talking animatedly to him. 

Harry stood close to her and whispered, “We don’t want to kill nobody, love.” 

“Are we sure?” she hissed, not taking her eyes off of Daphne until Harry literally pulled her face towards him by her chin. 

“He’ll learn your name in no time,” he comforted her. “It’s just a little bit difficult for him right now.” 

Yes! Exactly! 

Hermione took out her cell phone and called her mother. 

“Hello? Hermione?” 

“Why couldn’t you have chosen a simpler name for me?” she hissed as soon as Emma picked up. 

“Not again,” Emma sighed; they were not having this conversation for the first time, and neither did Emma think it was the last one. 

“Answer me!” 

“What’s wrong with ‘Hermione’?” 

“Zain can’t say it! That’s what’s wrong with it!” 

“He will learn to, eventually,” Emma said reasonably. 

“But he can say everyone else’s names already,” said Hermione, furious. “Do you realize how that makes me feel? Awful.” 

“You have a special name, dear. One day, you will realize —” 

“Bye!” 

Hermione expelled air through her nostrils. 

“It’s okay,” Harry said calmly, patting her head. “Sometimes, you have to wait for good things to happen, right?” 

... 

“— I am not listening to anything, we are going to the New York Public Library first, that was pre-decided,” Hermione entered the kitchen where Daphne was folding the tortillas’ short sides over the fillings and Harry was cooking a few rolled ones on a nonstick skillet; Susan heeled her. 

“Yes, by you, without taking our opinion into consideration, and you know that —” 

“What do you possibly know about Muggle New York, Susan Bones?” Hermione said sharply. “You didn’t even know there’s something called the Statue of Liberty until I told you about it.” 

“That’s not the point! There are plenty of things you don’t know about the Wizarding World. Have I ever judged you for that?” 

“She’s right,” said Harry. 

“Okay, but first, the library — just listen to me, Sue,” Hermione said quickly because Susan had reopened her mouth to counter. “Just listen, okay? First, let’s visit the library and then we will go to the Statue next. The library gets more crowded as the day progresses.” 

“I think it’s more about you having your way, isn’t it?” Susan said shrewdly. 

“No, it’s not,” Hermione denied in a way that told Harry she did have an ulterior motive. 

“Fine,” Susan agreed, albeit reluctantly. “Harry, is breakfast ready? I’m starving.” 

“Yes, I’ve cooked a few already,” he said, gesturing at a plate full of burritos. 

“Great!” 

Susan pulled a dish for herself, spread some chilli tomato sauce in a corner, and dipped a burrito in it to finally devour it. 

“Mmmm, it’s delicious,” she said, taking another big bite. 

Hermione licked her lips and swallowed before the enticing smell of Harry-cooked meal consumed her. She dipped a burrito in sauce in Susan’s dish and took a bite. The flavors exploded inside her mouth. She could taste beef, beans, tomato, and blend cheese. 

“I’m so lucky to have you, Harry,” Hermione reminded him. “You’re too good for this world.” 

While Harry chuckled, Daphne, who was still folding tortillas, said in a sarcastic tone, “You better take care of him then, Granger. He attracts a lot of eyes everywhere.” 

“That’s all they can do,” Hermione said boldly. “Over my dead body will they ever get close to him.” 

“Who will get to whom?” 

Ginny had entered the kitchen as well. 

“Hey, you started without me?” she said indignantly as she found Hermione and Susan devouring burrito after burrito. 

“They taste so good, Gin,” Susan told her, swallowing whatever she had in her mouth. “Here, have one.” 

“No, I want you three out of the kitchen right now,” Harry spoke up, and his voice had a certain authority to it; he had turned off the gas. “I can’t concentrate with you all here talking nonstop.” 

“But I didn’t get to eat even one,” Ginny complained. 

“Take these to the dining table now that you’re at it,” Harry instructed them. “Call Sirius and Amelia over too.” 

“Aye aye, sir.” 

Susan and Ginny hopped out of the kitchen with the plate of burritos but Hermione held back. 

“I’m distracting?” she mumbled, giving Harry her twinkling puppy eyes, her lower lip pouting. 

“Very much,” said Daphne, her back towards Hermione. “Your voice has got an irritable note to it. Has anyone ever told you that?” 

“You’re the first one, Greengrass,” Hermione hissed. 

“Gladly,” said Daphne coolly. “Whenever you need a reality check, do not hesitate to approach me.” 

She gave Hermione a brutal smirk before she turned to address Harry. 

“I’m finished here, so I will join Susan and the others at the dining table. I hope that’s good.” 

“Yeah, sure,” said Harry. “Thanks for the help.” 

“Mention not.” 

When Daphne had left, Harry turned towards the skillet again and turned on the gas. A pair of arms looped around his waist from behind. Hermione pressed her cheek against Harry’s wide back, as she mumbled, “You’re so good.” 

“So are you,” he said gently, placing a few burritos simmer side down on the skillet, a sizzling sound notifying the burning oil. 

“No, I am not, definitely absolutely not,” Hermione said stubbornly, her arms tightening around him. “Everyone thinks I’m brainy but I’m more tongue than brain, but you’re not, Harry, you don’t hurt anyone with your words.” 

Harry took a moment to reply. 

“That’s because I wasn’t allowed to talk often. You have a sharp tongue, Hermione, and that’s why you’re the perfect fit for aiming for the Minister —” 

“Oh, Harry, I wish you would stop saying that,” Hermione said, exasperated. “Politicians are supposed to make cordial relations with even unfavorable parties, and my sharp tongue will undoubtedly get in the way.” 

“Maybe, but that sharp tongue of yours gives you something many of us lack.” 

“What’s that?” 

“It makes you able to take a stand, Hermione,” Harry said like it was so obvious Hermione might just have been blind to not have seen it yet. “There are not many people on the planet that can take a stand and stay committed to it like you can. Do you remember the first time we called a meeting for the H.G. to pen down everyone’s names? You stood up and convinced everyone to sign, Hermione. That was some top-tier magic there, I saw it. You were amazing. If you’ve put your mind into something, there’s nobody who can change your mind —” 

“You can,” she said clearly. “You can change my mind at any point of time, Harry. I will eat poison if you ask me to, I’m serious.” 

The way she stared Harry in the eyes with a piercing look almost scared him. She was not joking. 

He exhaled deeply before he leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. 

“Don’t you ever be that stupid,” he whispered. “I won’t hold a minute without you, silly.” 

Hermione rested her head on his chest under his chin. 

“Harry, Hermione! Please watch Zain, he’s crawling towards you!” 

Amelia’s voice startled them. To their amazement, Zain arrived in the kitchen on all fours, giggling. 

“Got him, Amelia!” 

“Okay!” 

Hermione immediately picked Zain up and installed him on her hip. 

“You have got milk on your cheeks, dear,” she noticed. 

Harry said something about finding a tissue but she had already wiped Zain’s cheeks with the back of her sleeves. 

“Mi-ni,” Zain said, clapping his hands together; his hands were so soft they didn’t produce any sound. “Her-mi-ni.” 

Hermione whipped her head towards Harry, her almond-brown irises dilated. 

“Did you — ?” 

“He said your name,” Harry whispered happily. 

Her eyes filled with tears. She had spent hours yesterday teaching Zain how to pronounce her name. However, he had never said any more than “Her-my.” 

... 

“Her-my-oh-nee,” she reminded Zain for the umpteenth time that evening. 

“I think he’s tired now,” said Amelia, closing the novel she had been reading over the past hour. 

Sirius, Harry, Susan, Ginny, and Daphne were all playing cards in the hall. Hermione had opted out of it and instead been with Zain. 

“It’s too hard, my name,” Hermione said dejectedly. 

“I asked Emma once why they gave you such a unique name,” Amelia said, and when Hermione looked up, she was smiling. “The story she told me — it was inspiring, honestly.” 

“Story? What story?” 

Hermione frowned, gears turning furiously in her mind. She couldn’t remember ever hearing an inspiring story from Emma why she named her after a Shakespeare character. 

“You will find out, some day,” Amelia said knowingly. “It’s getting late now, and you’re going to roam around the city tomorrow, aren’t you? It’s time for his milk.” 

“I’ll get it,” Hermione said promptly. “Is it in the kitchen?” 

But, to her baffling, Amelia laughed. 

“It’s here,” the older witch said, pointing at her own chest with her eyes. 

“Oh.” 

Hermione’s entire face blazed. 

“I didn’t know,” she said embarrassedly. 

“It’s okay.” 

Hermione sat rooted to the spot, as before her eyes, Amelia unbuttoned her shirt. She was wearing a nursing bra that had a clip to each cup in the front. She unclipped the left one so that her shapely breast came to display. Hermione could even see a drop of white hanging down the engorged nipple. 

“Mama!” 

“Yes, yes, come here.” 

Amelia picked her son and laid him in her lap. Zain engulfed Amelia’s breast with his mouth and suckled. 

“Does it hurt?” Hermione couldn’t help asking. “When he, er, sucks?” 

“It was overwhelming in the beginning,” Amelia said thoughtfully, determined to give a well-thought out answer; Hermione had been particularly curious about pregnancy as well and had sat for a long while of question-answers a few months ago when Amelia was pregnant with Zain. “The whole thing, from pregnancy to delivery, was overwhelming and so is now taking care of him. It’s exhausting to say the least. We’re both trying our best. Siri’s still slightly awkward about me breastfeeding even though he’s seen them like a thousand times before.” 

She let out a hearty chuckle. 

“Just being a boy, I believe. As for your question, Hermione, in the beginning, Zain didn’t know how to latch on properly. My breasts used to get sore very quickly. I’m not exactly the age to have a child, you know, but your mother helped loads. She taught me lots of things, like how to feed properly, to never miss the night feedings or else I will leak in the daytime. I can’t wear tight clothes. I can’t use everyday shampoos because they might touch the nipples. There are a lot of other things I am not supposed to do these days. Can’t hear fast-paced music, that one was rough. But still I love all of this. I’ve waited for this moment for years, to be Siri’s wife and the mother of our child. I’m living my dream, Hermione, and it makes me really happy.” 

“And we’re happy for you,” said Hermione, smiling back at her. 

... 

“See? What did I tell you?” Harry said wittily. “He learned your name in no time.” 

“Yes, he did,” said Hermione, ecstatic. She smothered Zain on the cheeks with kisses, which made him chuckle and hide his face in her neck. She lightly patted his back and mouthed Thank you to Harry. 

“You’ll make a good Mommy one day.” 

Her eyes almost popped out while her body stiffened. 

“Can I confess something, Harry?” she spoke in a hushed voice. “Last night, when you were playing cards with others, I saw Amelia breastfeed Zain, and — and —” 

“It was hot?” Harry provided wisely. 

“Yes,” she admitted, barely suppressing a shudder that threatened to overwhelm her entire body. “I feel awful now. It’s a pure bond between a mother and a child.” 

“Do you want me to stop calling you Mommy?” 

Hermione inhaled deeply; Harry could be so excruciating sometimes. 

“No,” she said truthfully. “Never.” 

“Thought so. . . .” 

“It’s one of the largest and most visited libraries in the world,” Hermione explained to his friends in her usual matter-of-fact tone, as they finally reached midtown Manhattan and stood before the stunning building. “It’s a National Historic Landmark and was constructed in 1895 —” 

“That’s ancient!” said Ginny, amazed. 

“And it holds millions of books, manuscripts, pictures, maps, films, and more,” Hermione finally finished with a puff of breath, her eyes visibly excited to explore this revered sanctuary. 

The library, as they stepped foot inside, seemed to become even larger with breathtaking architecture and high ceilings. 

“Wow,” whispered Daphne. “This place is huge!” 

“Hush, don’t speak too loudly,” Hermione said urgently. 

“I barely heard her,” Susan pointed out fairly. 

But Hermione shushed her too. She led the rest of them around the vast library that never seemed to end, and what she said about there being millions of books now seemed more plausible than just a fragment of her imagination. They didn’t realize the time until Harry noticed it had been an hour already. They couldn’t stay in the library all day after all, but Hermione seemed to rethink. 

“I know it’s really hard for you both to leave this beautiful library, but we have to,” Susan made things clear. 

“I didn’t even say anything,” said Daphne. 

“You have the same sparkle in your eyes, girl. You both want to pick a book and sit down in the lounge, don’t you?” 

Daphne and Hermione exchanged a glance with each other. 

We’re outvoted. Three on two. 

Harry’s neutral, we can pull him to our side. 

No, Susan’s staring holes in our sides right now. It’s better we left. 

They both sighed in unison and agreed to leave. 

“Great!” said Susan, clapping her hands together. “Let’s head to the Statue now!” 

She was wearing the dress that Ginny had gifted her back in London under a puffer jacket along with high boots; Ginny had a woolen coat over a high-collared pink knitted dress; Daphne was in a black patterned bodycon dress; Hermione in a fold-over collared skater dress that reached her knees, high stockings, and shoes. She had no idea she owned this outfit until Harry showed it to her in the morning. Apparently, she bought it this summer and forgot because she was busy stealing his shirts and pajamas. Which was true. Without a doubt. 

Harry was sporting a white high-neck T-shirt, a black blazer, and black pants with leather shoes. He looked the most dashing, if you asked Hermione. 

“You were right,” Susan said to Hermione. “It’s a good thing we did the boring stuff first because now we got all the good stuff ahead, and that’s so exciting!” 

Hermione scowled at her. 

“It’s not boring,” said Daphne. “It just relaxes you.” 

“But we’re not here to relax,” Susan said, thrilled. “We’re here to enjoy!” 

“Yay!” said Ginny, just as enthusiastically. 

“Wait a minute,” said Daphne; she had taken out the city map from her bag and was reading it carefully. “I don’t think we can go to the Statue of Liberty yet.” 

“Why not?” asked Susan, outraged. 

“We made a list of places we want to see, right?” Daphne explained. “The Statue of Liberty is far from here, which means we would waste time if we went there now and came back to see the other places. It would be more effective if we went to Central Park and the cathedral first and then to the Statue.” 

“What the — hey, where d’you think you’re hiding?” Susan said angrily. 

Hermione, who had very conveniently gone behind Harry, came around gingerly and said, “I — I forgot to tell you.” 

Susan let out a roar of frustration. 

“I can’t believe you,” she said, glaring. “You know how much I want to see the Statue of Liberty.” 

Hermione stood there unmoving, looking guilty. 

“I guess you have a plan,” said Ginny. 

Hermione did. From the library, they first went to see Times Square, which was only a five-minute walk away. Times Square was a must-see entertainment hub and neighborhood in midtown that had everything from street performances to food and shopping. The streets were packed with tourists, street performers, and vendors. The five teens watched a mimic artist and enjoyed hot dogs from a vendor. 

After that, they approached Central Park, New York City’s iconic 843-acre urban park. Home to water views, a zoo, a conservatory, and so much more, the Central Park had all-year-round activities like bike riding, running, yoga, and horse and carriage tours. They paid for one such carriage tour; Harry clicked pictures with Dan’s camera. They passed famous monuments such as the statue of Alexander Hamilton, the Bethesda Fountain and Terrace, and the Simon Bolivar Monument. Hermione wanted to enjoy ice-skating at Wollman Rink but neither the crowded list of places they wanted to see or the utter lack of her friends in the field allowed her. But she was properly compensated for her sacrifice. 

They sat down in a boathouse in the middle of the park for lunch. Starting with stuffed mushrooms, fried calamari, and rigatoni, the five of them went through roasted chicken, jumbo lump crab cake, and roasted forest mushrooms, tipping the lavish meal off with a serving of Classic Martini for each. 

Their tummies full, they went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which housed five thousand years of art from across the globe with an extensive collection of art galleries, exhibits, paintings, and sculptures. If there was someone more awed than Daphne, who admired art, it was Ginny, who was astonished by the exquisite collection created by Muggles. 

Somehow, the American Museum of Natural History amazed her even more. The museum was one of the Muggle world’s top scientific and cultural institutions for representations of people and animals throughout the ages. It had plenty of animal displays, a planetarium, and dinosaur exhibits. 

“Holy smokes, what is that supposed to be?” Ginny asked, stunned by the sheer size of the Tyrannosaurus Rex’s skeleton. 

“It’s a dinosaur,” Hermione told her. “One of the most savage ones when they roamed this planet, which was about sixty million years ago.” 

“No way!” 

Their next destination was a world-renowned Roman Catholic church, St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Not only was its Neo-Gothic style architecture eye-catching, the interior was equally spectacular. 

“It’s a testament to hardworking and poor immigrants who helped to build the church as a symbol of freedom and tolerance,” Hermione stated matter-of-factly. “The famous Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade takes place in front of the church, it’s a pity we’ve missed it. Happened last month.” 

The Sun had set by the time they left the church. Everyone was so tired after walking all day that Hermione decided it better to catch a cab to their next destination, which was Greenwich. They got some Desi Indian street food packed from a local eatery and enjoyed it sitting down on the grass in the nearby Washington Square Park. 

“It’s so spicy!” Daphne mumbled as soon as she took a bite from her Pakoda Chaat, expelling small puffs of air from her mouth; temperature had lowered down considerably, they could see the puffs of air coming out of Daphne’s mouth. 

“Indians love their spices,” said Hermione, relishing her choice of Aloo Samosa. “Mm, delicious.” 

“Where to, next?” asked Harry. 

“I’m tired,” Susan moaned, “Ginny too.” 

Ginny was on the brink of falling asleep, her head repeatedly falling over Susan’s shoulder. 

“But I wanted to go and see a famous bookstore nearby,” said Hermione. 

“Me too, actually,” said Daphne. 

“Maybe we can split,” Harry offered. “The two of you should check out the bookstore while we stay here. I would like to stay here too for a while, to be honest. My legs are about to give up.” 

“Besides, we still have to see the Statue,” said Susan. “Gotta save energy for it.” 

“Sue, we’re going there tomorrow,” Hermione said meekly. 

“What?” 

Susan’s face fell. 

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you —” 

“No, Hermione, you of all people don’t have the right to say that you forgot anything,” Susan said sharply. “You don’t forget. You’re just doing it on purpose, and I have no idea why.” 

“I’m sorry —” 

“Save it.” Susan cut Hermione off by raising a hand. “Just — just go.” 

As Susan looked away in disappointment (Ginny aroused and looked around in confusion), Hermione turned to Harry. He subtly nodded his head. 

“Why are you doing that?” Daphne asked Hermione when they were outside the park. A few moments later, when Hermione had explained her reason to Daphne, the blonde witch gave a sigh and said, “Can’t be helped, I guess.” 

The two witches reached the bookstore in a few minutes. It was a historic landmark bookstore that opened in 1927 as a family-owned and operated business and now had a collection of over a million new and used books. 

“Half an hour,” Hermione told Daphne, “to choose one book we want to buy the most, alright?” 

Daphne nodded in agreement, and the two of them shot off in opposite directions. Hermione headed straight into the Psychology section; she had been wanting to explore this topic for a while. She scoured through shelves of books on Psychology. The more she walked through the place, the more she wanted to get lost in the store’s vast collection. 

Half an hour later, they were paying for their purchases: Hermione went with Harry Harlow’s The Nature of Love while Daphne had picked Russell Kirk’s The Conservative Mind. When they reconciled with their friends back in the park, all three of them were laid down under a tree. Ginny had dozed off with one arm over Susan’s midriff. 

“Let’s have dinner,” Hermione said, taking a brief glance at her wrist-watch. “Ginny, get up,” she said loudly, clapping her hands. “It’s time to eat.” 

Ginny sat up groggily and stood up taking Hermione’s hand. However, when Hermione offered the same hand to Susan, the redhead witch gave her a cold shoulder instead. 

They had another grand feast for dinner. Starting with egg rolls, they went through chicken breast, steak and broccoli, and a large pizza; the strange architecture of pizza astonished Ginny. But Susan didn’t talk throughout the meal, or more precisely, didn’t talk to Hermione throughout the meal. 

“Wow, it’s beautiful,” said Ginny, awed, as they walked over to the Rockefeller Center for their ultimate stop for the day. 

“And fucking HUGE!” said Susan, her mouth falling open. 

The holiday season was inarguably the best time to visit this place because of the annual Christmas Tree Lighting. 

“It’s ninety feet tall this year,” Hermione told them. 

Supported by four guy-wires attached at its midpoint and by a steel spike at its base, the giant spruce tree was decorated with about fifty thousand multi-colored LED lights and the star top. 

“Let’s have a picture,” said Harry, taking out the camera again. 

“Yes, Hermione can do that,” Susan spoke up. 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, you will do that, right?” 

The way she stared at Hermione, the brunette witch couldn’t say no. She took the camera from her boyfriend and called for them to stand in front of the tree and pose accordingly. One by one, she clicked no less than ten photographs of her friends but every time she tried to switch with someone else, Susan distracted everyone with either a change in positions or suggesting a solo or couple photograph. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said tearfully, about to start crying. “I want a photo too.” 

“Oh, sorry, I forgot,” Susan spat savagely. But when Hermione sniffed, she seemed to have found her salvation. “Fine, let’s take a group photo.” 

“Who will hold the camera, then?” asked Hermione. 

“There is no need,” said Harry. “I borrowed Dan’s camera stand as well.” 

“Harry!” 

“Sue said not to tell you.” 

“Did I? Must have forgotten it,” Susan taunted. 

“I’m sorry!” Hermione cried, a tear slipping down her eye. 

“Okay, okay,” Susan said hastily. “Come here.” 

While Hermione wiped her cheek and approached her female friends, Harry set the camera on a timer. 

“Say cheese, everyone!” 

He came running and stood next to Hermione; she slipped an arm across his back. On her other side was Susan, standing in the middle of the group. Hermione stared at her for a moment before she felt an arm rest on her hip as well. Susan’s arm. Grinning, she looked ahead and smiled widely, before all five of them shouted, “CHEESE!” 

Chapter Text

“C’mon, Sue, hurry up!” 

“Yeah? But I don’t feel like hurrying up at all,” Susan said flatly. 

“But you were so excited to see it yesterday,” said Ginny, pulling on Susan’s arm. 

“And whose fault is it I am not anymore?” 

Hermione flinched at the bitterness in Susan’s voice. 

“I already apologized,” the brunette said, “and —” 

“Save your breath,” Susan cut her off. 

Hermione looked around at Harry and Daphne, the only two who knew her reason for delaying their visit to the Statue of Liberty despite realizing how much Susan wanted to see it. Daphne gave a small nod of her head while Harry placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder in a gesture of silent support. 

“Astoria Park,” Hermione let the bus driver know once they had all boarded the vehicle. 

Astoria Park was one of the few parks in Queen’s borough, spanning nearly sixty acres, hosting a public pool, track, tennis courts, and more. The Dutch settled here first, so most of the area had Dutch architecture. It was also one of the oldest and largest parks in the neighbourhood. Astoria Park offered plenty of hiking and walking trails dot the park, with huge lawns, outdoor tennis courts, bandstand and playgrounds for kids. Indoor pools and basketball courts were also on offer, but the most popular spots were along the riverbank which was the Promenade and shoreline. Outside the park was a shopping street and eateries and restaurants section to indulge freely. Only fifteen minutes walk away, they got to try some of the best Greek food like Souvlaki, Saganaki, Moussaka, and Dolmades. 

By eleven o’clock, they had boarded another bus for the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, a fifty-two acre land of beautiful plants, wildlife, and greenery. The Brooklyn Botanic Garden had yearly programming catering to the different seasons. The Cherry Blossoms in the month of April, Hermione had heard from Amelia, are at peak bloom, and they are breathtaking to see in person. 

“ ‘Night exhibit with illuminated trails and festive music to kick off the holiday season,’ ” Ginny read from a banner. “Aw, we’re going to miss something fun.” 

“Clearly this is not a well-planned trip,” Susan made a snide remark. 

Hermione barely held back from retorting for she was confident in her planning. 

For lunch they headed out to Coney Island, a southwestern Brooklyn neighborhood that hosted food, entertainment, and the famous Luna Park. 

“I don’t want to walk around in another damn park,” Daphne complained once they had had their fills. 

“Let’s see the Aquarium!” Ginny suggested excitedly. “I want to see sharks!” 

“We can’t —” Hermione objected, but the gingerhead witch took no more than a second to improvise. 

“The beach then! Let’s go to the beach!” 

Everyone, including her boyfriend, turned anticipatory eyes towards Hermione. She truly hated being the one to turn them down. 

“I’m sorry, Gin, but we can visit neither of the two.” 

“Why not?” Ginny asked, frowning. 

“Because it’s holiday season and both of them will be clogged with visitors, and we really can’t spare time for —” 

“For what exactly, Hermione? It’s not like we’re doing anything even remotely interesting today, are we?” 

“For the Statue of Liberty,” the brunette hissed impatiently. 

Even Susan’s ears parked up, and although she was trying her best to feign indifference, her eyes were clearly unable to mask the excitement. 

“Oh,” Ginny breathed, “so we are going there.” 

“Obviously,” Hermione spoke through gritted teeth. 

At last, by around four in the evening, the five of them reached New York’s most famous monument, a gift from France, and one of the most iconic and well-known sculptures around the world for its rich history and symbolism of freedom and democracy: the Statue of Liberty. Once their tickets were reserved from the Crown, Susan’s mood went through a total upturn; she was smiling fully again. 

Their visit to the Statue was the best part of their trip, or so Susan kept claiming until she later realized the endgame. They boarded a ferry from Battery Park and let the vastness of the grand monument sink into their very skins. 

“Here’s a fun fact: The Statue of Liberty was a gift from France for the United States,” Hermione told her friends, who all bore looks of awe on their faces at her statement. 

“For real?” Susan wondered. “Freaking cool.” 

“Isn’t it?” 

“Thanks, Hermione,” Susan said, rubbing the back of her neck a little awkwardly. “And sorry . . . for being shitty like that. You didn’t deserve it.” 

“Save your breath, Sue,” Hermione said but not with malice. “The evening hasn’t ended yet.” 

It was fun watching Susan’s eyes go wide. 

“A fucking cruise!” she exclaimed when she read from her ticket about half an hour later. 

“And it’s fucking huge!” said Ginny, jumping on the balls of her feet. 

The five of them had reached Whitehall Terminal and were standing in the queue to their cruise. The sun had set, leaving saffron halo in the sky in its wake. Hermione had this planned all along. Susan grabbed her in a crushing hug. 

“Sue, you’re cracking my ribs!” 

“I always wanted to get on a cruise,” she whispered in Hermione’s hair. “I can’t believe you did this for me.” 

“Love makes you do all sorts of things, doesn’t it?” Hermione said. “And I totally love you, Susan Bones.” 

 Susan both laughed and sobbed at the same time. 

“I love you too, Granger.” 

They ended their trip on a high note with an enchanting view of the New York Harbor from their cruise, watching raptly as the ever-busy city turned on the lights to keep on working at night as well, and a slice of pizza with each of them, ready to capture and immortalize this unforgettable moment with a photograph. 

“Oh, I just remembered something important!” Ginny called out right on the cruise. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell y’all.” 

“You were very excited to see this city,” Daphne provided. “It’s understandable your brain decided to sideline something important.” 

Hermione wondered if that was supposed to comfort Ginny. 

“Yeah, but anyway,” Ginny went on, glancing at the rest of them for dramatic effect. “Bill is getting married this summer, and Mum and Dad have invited all of you.” 

... 

“This was the best trip ever,” Ginny told Susan. “Not that I have many to compare with, but you know what I mean, right?” 

They returned late at night. Zain had been awaiting them but fell asleep pretty soon in Harry’s arms. Amelia said he had been waiting for his uncle and aunts to return for hours and had most likely exhausted himself. Harry was tired too; he had carried the camera and stuff all around throughout the day. So they decided to call it a night and parted their ways. 

“Yeah,” Susan whispered. “I’ve been to Iceland and Brazil before with Aunt Amy. Both places were nice, but trust me, they were nowhere near as fun since I was roaming around practically by myself. Aunt was busy with her work people all the time. I don’t think she even enjoyed being there.” 

“Adulting sucks,” said Ginny, shuddering. 

Susan hummed agreeably. 

“You know what else sucks?” Ginny asked coyly, and before Susan even had the time to respond, she was down by her thighs in an instant. 

“Oh,” Susan breathed, fisting the sheets between her fingers, as Ginny pulled her pajamas off and spread her legs. 

“Let me taste you, love,” Ginny whispered, her breath falling in hot showers upon Susan’s knickers. 

The redhead witch purred in approval, giving Ginny the required assent. Nestling snugly between Susan’s spread legs, Ginny first brushed her lips with Susan’s, then trailed them down to her chin, her throat, her chest. She unbuttoned the lower half of Susan’s nightshirt and caressed the soft skin with her lips, making Susan hum under her breath. 

Suddenly, Ginny took hold of Susan’s knickers and literally tore the soft fabric apart with her bare fingers. 

“Gin!” Susan gasped, stunned and aroused. “That was one of my favorite pairs!” 

“I’m buying you new ones tomorrow,” Ginny growled, her eyes fixed on the target. “For now, please do me a favor and shut up and let me drink that delicious pussy of yours.” 

Susan obeyed. Her heart drummed inside her chest with anticipation, her left hand coming to rest on her sternum. 

Ginny first rubbed Susan’s delicate clit with a thumb, making small spirals to elicit pleasure of the highest order, before she gently spread Susan’s moist, excited lips apart and simply dove in. 

The hand resting on her chest flew over to her mouth to prevent her from screaming out loud. They hadn’t raised the muffling wards yet, and Susan didn’t wish to disturb anyone’s sleeping time. 

Ginny’s tongue expertly thrashed around and against Susan’s fleshy insides, exploring her depths that she already knew like the back of her own palm. Susan’s back arched as her orgasm approached at a threatening speed. She really hadn’t had a release in a while — since the battle inside the Ministry, in fact — 

Her heart rate bounced off the charts. It literally hurt. 

“Gin,” Susan moaned, not from pleasure. “Hold — hold on —” 

It took the younger witch a couple of seconds to realize what was happening. She pulled back instantaneously to check on her girlfriend. 

“Are you okay?” she asked worriedly, rising to Susan’s eye level. 

Susan barely nodded, her eyes scrunched close in pain. 

“I’m so sorry,” Ginny mumbled regretfully. “I should have —” 

“It’s okay — I’m okay —” Susan said, and although her voice was relatively thin and shaky, she still hadn’t fainted, so she was taking that as a positive. “If someone’s sorry, it’s me. I’m unable to give you what you want.” 

“Don’t be silly —” 

“I just don’t understand why I can’t have sex these days,” Susan said, hitting the mattress with a fist out of frustration. “I finished my medications. I’m supposed to be fine.” 

“I dunno, Sue, but we will visit Madam Pomfrey the first thing back at Hogwarts, okay?” 

“No choice, is there?” 

... 

Finally, it was time to go back home. Their things were packed; Zain had been fed only an hour ago, so he shouldn’t be hungry for another four hours or so. Sirius basked in the sight of their apartment for a moment, Amelia’s arm hooked with his, before he at last locked the door and pocketed the key. 

Daphne had chosen to return to her family home. She bid everyone a goodbye, thanking the Blacks for their hospitality. 

They were back in the Grangers Residence by late night. Emma and Dan were up to welcome them. Crookshanks scurried straight inside as soon as the main door opened. 

“Hey, welcome back, kiddos,” Emma greeted them at the door. “And look who it is. Honey, do you recognize these people?” she sarcastically asked her husband, gazing at the Blacks. 

At least Sirius had the gall to look embarrassed. 

“Oh, I recognize this handsome fella, Emma,” said Dan, taking Zain from Amelia’s arms. “How are you doing, my boy?” he playfully questioned the toddler. 

“I know I am a git,” Sirius said sincerely. “But I came to realize the right thing eventually, right?” 

“Eventually cannot be enough every time, Sirius,” said Emma. “You of all people should know that.” 

The father of a year old stood humbled. 

All in all, it was home sweet home. Hermione had been missing the comfort of her bed in New York. She stepped inside the bathroom and changed into something more appropriate for a steamy night ahead. Harry was talking quite animatedly to his own pet owl, Hedwig, when she returned. 

“Oh, Hermione, Hedwig was just telling me —” Harry stopped dead in mid-sentence as soon as he turned and saw her. His jaw literally hung open. 

She stood at the doorway with her weight shifted to the left, a confident smirk plastered on her lips, her left hand on her hip. This was the most risque lingerie she owned. Judging by Harry’s reaction, it was money well spent. 

“Hello, Harry,” Hermione said silkily, stepping forward while making sure her hips had a sway to them. “You were saying . . . ?” 

She raised a curious eyebrow at him at which he first shut his mouth and tried to collect himself. His hands let go of Hedwig; the snowy white owl swooped out of the open window, leaving Harry on his own against the force of nature that his girlfriend was. 

“Yes, I — er, right — I was saying —” he stuttered, at a loss for words. 

“Uh-huh, I’m all ears, Harry,” Hermione said in a velvety voice that made Harry shiver. The next moment he knew, she was straddling his lap. Her hands cupped his face, amused at the look of surprise in his bright emerald irises. “You look, dare I say, stunned.” 

“Confounded,” Harry corrected. “How lucky I am.” 

His hands slowly circled around Hermione’s midriff. She planted a soft kiss on his temple. 

“Did you enjoy New York?” she asked. 

“I did.” 

“Next time, we’re taking Zain as well, wherever we go, hm?” 

“Would like that. You know what else I would like?” 

His smile turned mischievous, his eyes dancing with glee. 

“This,” he added. 

The bra hook went undone at the mercy of his expert fingers; even she had spent more time hooking the damn thing. He pulled the straps down her shoulders while never losing eye contact with her. Gently tugging the exquisite piece of fabric away from her body, he took hold of her breasts as they breathed in open air again. With a deep inhale, he squeezed them in his palms and trailed his lips across her left shoulder. 

“They’ve become more than handfuls,” he whispered in a way that made his breath tickle her skin. “Still C?” 

“It’s a matter of days before I will be asking you to accompany me to the lingerie store in search of suitable D-sized bras for me,” she said casually. “You will take me lingerie shopping, won’t you?” 

“Can’t you ask Sue instead?” 

Hermione scowled and got off of Harry’s lap. 

“I should be sleeping with her too, shouldn’t I?” she said bitterly. 

Harry chuckled and pulled her back to him. 

“You’re the most adorable thing on this planet, do you know that?” 

“I’m not a thing,” she said, looking away, but pleased nonetheless. “I’m your girlfriend.” 

Harry grinned toothily. He swept Hermione around, making her shriek, and pinned her to the bed underneath his own weight. Catching her mouth in a steamy kiss, he ground against her, driving her crazy with his bare hands which were currently handling her ass. 

Yes, make me a moaning mess! 

She need not speak her mind aloud; their bond worked without words just as good as with them. They never needed verbal acclamation to know what the other had on their mind. 

Harry’s mouth shifted to take care of her shoulder, and she capitalized on this moment to capture his neck, leaving marks that would scream at the face of the world in the morning that he was hers. 

“Can I — I mean — I can’t hold back anymore,” Harry grunted, his hips continuously humping into Hermione’s pelvis. 

“Do it, Harry,” she mewled just as impatiently. “I want you inside me now!” 

Harry gave her a sloppy kiss before he leaned back to catch his breath. He unzipped his pants to let his rock-hard cock out. It was throbbing with need; Hermione felt herself become wet at the mere sight of it. 

“Harry,” she provided the necessary motivation, linking his hands with hers and planting a tiny kiss of affection on the back of his right hand. 

Harry gracefully pulled Hermione’s panties away, letting out a deep breath as his eyes fell on her cunt. Taking hold of his cock, he gave it a few languid strokes even if it was entirely unnecessary in Hermione’s opinion — the bobbing piece of meat was harder than steel. 

“Open up for me, love,” Harry said, bending over again. For some unfathomable reason, this one sentence struck a cord in Hermione’s heart unlike any other. 

Open up — how oddly sweet. 

Harry guided his shaft to her entrance and slowly pushed in. Hermione felt her lips spread apart to make space for him. 

Another inch, and another, and another. Slowly, very slowly, Harry pushed himself further inside her, taking what was rightfully his. 

Her. 

His large cock didn’t leave room for even air molecules, filling her depths to the brim, making her back arch and her eyes roll backwards with pleasure. 

“Fuck, baby,” she moaned, panting hard, her lips trembling. “You’re stretching me apart.” 

Harry was breathing raggedly himself. He pinned her wrists above her head and started pulling his length back out of her, making her moan. 

How dare he. 

She tried her best to resist by clenching his cock even harder. His brows were sweating, his mouth half open, his eyes hungry. 

“Do you wish to kill me or something?” he asked jokingly. 

“My boobs, Harry, how many times have I told you it’s a crime to leave them unattended?” 

“Pardon me, Your Honor,” he said, letting go of her wrists and instead attending her tits. “I shall do my utmost to rectify this mistake of mine.” 

“Yes, you shall.” 

Harry engulfed her breast in his mouth and released it with a loud pop. Then, he moved over to the other one and repeated the same thing. 

Meanwhile, Hermione pushed her hips back towards his, taking him more and more back inside. He caught cue in a moment and began moving again. 

It was a night of passion. 

... 

“Hermione, wake up.” 

“Can I refuse?” she mumbled in her sleep. 

“It’s eleven o’clock,” Harry’s voice fell in her ears. “And apparently, the Minister is here.” 

“What?” 

She jerked awake, the pillow falling off her face rather unceremoniously. 

They were both naked, having slept late last night after hours of indulging into each other’s bodies. They donned their nightwear and descended down the stairs. Everyone was there. Her parents, the Blacks, Susan, Ginny, her brother Percy — wait, Percy? — and of course, the Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour, his mane of graying hair and his black cloak flecked with snow. 

“Harry,” Scrimgeour greeted upon seeing him. 

“Minister,” Harry responded uncertainly. 

“You must forgive this intrusion,” Scrimgeour said, addressing Emma and Dan. “Percy and I were in the vicinity — working, you know — and we couldn’t resist dropping in and seeing Madam Bones.” 

But Percy showed no sign of wanting to greet any of them. He stood, poker-straight and awkward-looking, and stared over everybody else’s heads. 

“I’m flattered, Minister,” Amelia said. “Is there —” 

“That’s a charming garden you’ve got back there, Mrs. Granger,” Scrimgeour cut in. “Harry, why don’t you take a stroll with me?” 

The atmosphere in the hall changed perceptibly. Everybody looked from Scrimgeour to Harry. Hermione caught Amelia give Harry an almost non-existing nod of her head. 

“Yeah, all right,” said Harry into the silence. “It’s fine,” he said quietly, as Sirius half-raised his arm. 

“Wonderful!” said Scrimgeour, standing back to let Harry pass through the door ahead of him. “We’ll just take a turn around the garden, and Percy and I’ll be off. Carry on, everyone!” 

Harry walked across the yard toward the well-maintained, snow-covered garden, Scrimgeour limping slightly at his side. He had, Harry knew, been Head of the Auror office; he looked tough and battle-scarred, very different from portly Fudge in his bowler hat. 

“Charming,” said Scrimgeour, stopping at the garden fence and looking out over the snowy lawn and the perfectly trimmed plants. “Charming.” 

Harry said nothing. He could tell that Scrimgeour was watching him. 

“I’ve wanted to meet you for a very long time,” said Scrimgeour, after a few moments. “Did you know that?” 

“No,” said Harry truthfully. 

“Oh yes, for a very long time. But Dumbledore has been very protective of you,” said Scrimgeour. “Natural, of course, natural, after what you’ve been through. . . . Especially what happened at the Ministry . . .” 

He waited for Harry to say something, but Harry did not oblige, so he went on, “I have been hoping for an occasion to talk to you ever since I gained office, but Dumbledore has — most understandably, as I say — prevented this.” 

Still, Harry said nothing, waiting. 

“The rumors that have flown around!” said Scrimgeour. “Well, of course, we both know how these stories get distorted . . . all these whispers of a prophecy . . . of you being ‘the Chosen One’. . .” 

They were getting near it now, Harry thought, the reason Scrimgeour was here. 

“. . . I assume that Dumbledore has discussed these matters with you?” 

Harry deliberated, wondering whether he ought to lie or not. He looked at the flower bed he and Emma had built together this summer. Finally, he decided on the truth . . . or a bit of it. 

“Yeah, we’ve discussed it.” 

“Have you, have you . . .” said Scrimgeour. Harry could see, out of the corner of his eye, Scrimgeour squinting at him, so he pretended to be very interested in a blue flower near his feet. “And what has Dumbledore told you, Harry?” 

“Sorry, but that’s between us,” said Harry. 

He kept his voice as pleasant as he could, and Scrimgeour’s tone, too, was light and friendly as he said, “Oh, of course, if it’s a question of confidences, I wouldn’t want you to divulge . . . no, no . . . and in any case, does it really matter whether you are ‘the Chosen One’ or not?” 

Harry had to mull that one over for a few seconds before responding. 

“I don’t really know what you mean, Minister.” 

“Well, of course, to you it will matter enormously,” said Scrimgeour with a laugh. “But to the Wizarding community at large . . . it’s all perception, isn’t it? It’s what people believe that’s important.” 

Harry said nothing. He thought he saw, dimly, where they were heading, but he was not going to help Scrimgeour get there. Harry kept his eyes fixed upon the blue flower. 

“People believe you are ‘the Chosen One,’ you see,” said Scrimgeour. “They think you quite the hero — which, of course, you are, Harry, chosen or not! How many times have you faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named now? Well, anyway,” he pressed on, without waiting for a reply, “the point is, you are a symbol of hope for many, Harry. The idea that there is somebody out there who might be able, who might even be destined, to destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named — well, naturally, it gives people a lift. And I can’t help but feel that, once you realize this, you might consider it, well, almost a duty, to stand alongside the Ministry, and give everyone a boost.” 

Harry was silent so long that Scrimgeour said, looking from Harry to the flower, “Pretty, they are. But what say you, Harry?” 

“I don’t exactly understand what you want,” said Harry slowly. “ ‘Stand alongside the Ministry’ . . . What does that mean?” 

“Oh, well, nothing at all onerous, I assure you,” said Scrimgeour. “If you were to be seen popping in and out of the Ministry from time to time, for instance, that would give the right impression. And of course, while you were there, you would have ample opportunity to speak to Gawain Robards, my successor as Head of the Auror office. Dolores Umbridge has told me that you —” 

Harry felt anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach: So Dolores Umbridge was still at the Ministry, was she? 

“So basically,” he said, as though he just wanted to clarify a few points, “you’d like to give the impression that I’m working for the Ministry?” 

“It would give everyone a lift to think you were more involved, Harry,” said Scrimgeour, sounding relieved that Harry had cottoned on so quickly. “ ‘The Chosen One,’ you know . . . It’s all about giving people hope, the feeling that exciting things are happening. . . .” 

“But if I keep running in and out of the Ministry,” said Harry, still endeavoring to keep his voice friendly, “won’t that seem as though I approve of what the Ministry’s up to?” 

“Well,” said Scrimgeour, frowning slightly, “well, yes, that’s partly why we’d like —” 

“No, I don’t think that’ll work,” said Harry pleasantly. “You see, I don’t like some of the things the Ministry’s doing. Locking up Stan Shunpike, for instance.” 

Scrimgeour did not speak for a moment but his expression hardened instantly. 

“I would not expect you to understand,” he said, and he was not as successful at keeping anger out of his voice as Harry had been. “These are dangerous times, and certain measures need to be taken. You are sixteen years old —” 

“Dumbledore’s a lot older than sixteen, and he doesn’t think Stan should be in Azkaban either,” said Harry. “You’re making Stan a scapegoat, just like you want to make me a mascot.” 

They looked at each other, long and hard. Finally Scrimgeour said, with no pretense at warmth, “I see. You prefer — like your hero, Dumbledore — to disassociate yourself from the Ministry?” 

“I don’t want to be used,” said Harry. 

“Some would say it’s your duty to be used by the Ministry!” 

“Yeah, and others might say it’s your duty to check that people really are Death Eaters before you chuck them in prison,” said Harry, his temper rising now. “You’re doing what Barty Crouch did. You never get it right, you people, do you? Either we’ve got Fudge, pretending everything’s lovely while people get murdered right under his nose, or we’ve got you, chucking the wrong people into jail and trying to pretend you’ve got ‘the Chosen One’ working for you!” 

“So you’re not ‘the Chosen One’?” said Scrimgeour. 

“I thought you said it didn’t matter either way?” said Harry, with a bitter laugh. “Not to you anyway.” 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” said Scrimgeour quickly. “It was tactless —” 

“No, it was honest,” said Harry. “One of the only honest things you’ve said to me. You don’t care whether I live or die, but you do care that I help you convince everyone you’re winning the war against Voldemort. I haven’t forgotten, Minister. . . .” 

He raised his right fist. There, shining white on the back of his cold hand, were the scars which Dolores Umbridge had forced him to carve into his own flesh: I must not tell lies. 

“I don’t remember you rushing to my defense when I was trying to tell everyone Voldemort was back. The Ministry wasn’t so keen to be pals last year.” 

They stood in silence as icy as the ground beneath their feet. 

“What is Dumbledore up to?” said Scrimgeour brusquely. “Where does he go when he is absent from Hogwarts?” 

“No idea,” said Harry. 

“And you wouldn’t tell me if you knew,” said Scrimgeour, “would you?” 

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Harry. 

“Well, then, I shall have to see whether I can’t find out by other means.” 

“You can try,” said a voice from behind. They turned to see Hermione approaching them. “But you seem cleverer than Fudge, so I’d have thought you’d have learned from his mistakes. He tried interfering at Hogwarts. You might have noticed he’s not Minister anymore, but Dumbledore’s still headmaster. I’d leave Dumbledore alone, if I were you.” 

There was a long pause. Scrimgeour observed Harry and Hermione back and forth. 

“Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you,” said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Dumbledore’s people through and through, aren’t you, Potter?” 

“Yeah, we are,” said Harry, combing his hand with his girl’s. “Glad we straightened that out.” 

And turning their back on the Minister of Magic, they strode back toward the house. 

Scrimgeour and Percy departed without further ado, the former in a foul mood. As soon as they did, everyone turned to Harry with the same question on their tongues. 

“Way to go, Harry,” said Susan, thumping him on the back in appreciation when he had recited everything. “Even the Minister himself can’t get the Chosen One to dance on his tunes.” 

“Stop calling me that stupid name,” Harry said, annoyed. “I like my name just fine.” 

“He’s not going to take this lightly, Harry,” Amelia said worriedly. “You might have just hurt a man’s ego.” 

“Everyone, look!” Hermione suddenly screamed. 

They all turned to where she was pointing to have their breaths taken away. 

Zain was walking, albeit unstably, on his own two little feet. 

Chapter Text

Late in the afternoon, a few days after New Year, Hermione, Harry, and Susan lined up beside the fireplace in the hall of Grangers Residence to return to the castle of Hogwarts. The Ministry had arranged this one-off connection to the Floo Network to return students quickly and safely to the school. 

The new term started next morning with a pleasant surprise for the sixth-years: a large sign had been pinned to the common room notice boards overnight. 

APPARITION LESSONS 

If you are seventeen years of age, or will turn seventeen on or before the 31st August next, you are eligible for a twelve-week course of Apparition Lessons from a Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor. Please sign below if you would like to participate. Cost: 12 Galleons. 

Hermione and Harry joined the crowd that was jostling around the notice and taking it in turns to write their names at the bottom. 

“So — Apparition,” said Susan over breakfast. “Should be a laugh, eh?” 

“Maybe it’s better when you do it yourself,” said Harry. “I didn’t enjoy it much when either of Amelia, Sirius, or Dumbledore took me along for the ride.” 

“True,” Hermione agreed. 

“I’m sure it’s going to be way better when we do it ourselves,” Susan said confidently. 

“You’d better pass your test first time,” said Ginny, who had just joined the table. “Fred and George did.” 

“Charlie failed, though, didn’t he?” 

“Yeah, but Charlie’s bigger than anyone” — Ginny held her arms out from her body as though she was a gorilla — “so Fred and George didn’t go on about it much . . . not to his face anyway . . .” 

“When can we take the actual test?” Harry asked. 

“Soon as we’re seventeen,” said Susan. “That’s only March for me!” 

“And I already am seventeen,” said Hermione. 

“Does that mean I’m going to have to wait till August?” Harry pouted childishly. 

“I’m afraid it does, Harry,” said Hermione consolingly. “Anyway, how are your studies going on, Gin? It’s your O.W.L. year after all.” 

Ginny took a moment to say, “Pretty much okay.” 

“You know you can ask for help anytime you want, right?” Hermione offered kindly. 

“Yeah, you can definitely ask me for help, Ginny.” 

Daphne had arrived at the Gryffindor table. She smirked at Hermione while sitting down on Ginny’s other side. 

“Please, everyone knows who’s the brighter one here,” Hermione said boastily. 

“Quite cocky today, aren’t we?” Daphne said nastily. 

“Guys!” said Ginny, clapping to attract attention. “I am gonna need help from all of you. Harry can help me with the practical part, Susan with Herbology and History, Hermione with Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration, and Daphne with . . . er . . . the rest of it?” 

“Ginerva!” Daphne complained, as Hermione giggled triumphantly. “What on earth do you mean ‘the rest of it’? There’s nothing left for me, is there?” 

“No, no, surely there is,” Ginny said hastily. “Er, er, you can help me with Potions, you and Hermione both can. There’s a word flying around that you’re doing exceptionally well in the subject these days, and Slughorn of course keeps telling everyone about you and Harry, the two most prestigious members of his club.” 

Daphne’s smirk was one of victory. Hermione hmphed in irritation. 

“Only because she’s using that foul book!” Hermione accused the blonde Slytherin witch. 

“It’s not foul —” 

“Hang on — don’t tell me you’re still using that old book you found in Slughorn’s cupboard,” said Ginny, suddenly looking angry. 

“She is,” Hermione provided. “Despite my unending warnings.” 

“It’s not like that, Ginny,” Daphne said firmly. “It’s a book that’s been written on by an excellent potioneer. I assure you it’s absolutely harmless.” 

“You don’t know that —” 

“I do,” said Daphne, the conviction clear in her voice. “It’s only that you don’t like to come up short in a class, Granger.” 

“What?” Hermione gasped, turning redder every second. “It’s nothing like that. I’m not jealous or insecure, I’m only concerned for you.” 

“Don’t be,” Daphne’s voice cut Hermione’s like a sharp blade. “I am capable of taking care of myself.” 

“That’s not what I meant —” 

“I have a class.” Daphne rose to her feet abruptly. “Good day, all of you.” 

She swung her bag over her back and walked out of the Great Hall. 

“Hermione,” said Susan, sighing impatiently. “Can’t you please — ?” 

“It’s not — I didn’t — I don’t —” Hermione sputtered angrily. “Fuck. I have a class too.” 

She sprung to her feet and waited for Harry; he joined her obediently. 

“I’m sorry,” she mouthed at him, as they both left the Great Hall with half-filled tummies. 

All that day there was much talk about the forthcoming Apparition lessons; a great deal of store was set by being able to vanish and reappear at will. 

“How cool will it be when we can just —” Seamus clicked his fingers to indicate disappearance. “Me cousin Fergus does it just to annoy me, you wait till I can do it back . . . He’ll never have another peaceful moment. . . .” 

Lost in visions of this happy prospect, he flicked his wand a little too enthusiastically, so that instead of producing the fountain of pure water that was the object of today’s Charms lesson, he let out a hose-like jet that ricocheted off the ceiling and knocked Professor Flitwick flat on his face. 

“You’ve already Apparated, haven’t you?” Neville asked Harry and Hermione, while Professor Flitwick was drying himself off with a wave of his wand and set Seamus lines: “I am a wizard, not a baboon brandishing a stick.” 

“Yeah, we have,” said Hermione. 

“Whoa!” whispered Seamus, and he, Dean, Neville, and Ron put their heads a little closer to hear what Apparition felt like. For the rest of the day, Hermione and Harry were besieged with requests from the other sixth-years to describe the sensation of Apparition. All of them seemed awed, rather than put off, when they told them how uncomfortable it was, and they were still answering detailed questions at ten to eight that evening, when they were forced to lie and say that they needed to return a book to the library, so as to escape in time for their lesson with Dumbledore. 

The lamps in Dumbledore’s chamber were lit and the Pensieve was ready upon the desk once more. Dumbledore’s hands lay on either side of it, the right one as blackened and burnt-looking as ever. It did not seem to have healed at all and Hermione wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, what had caused such a distinctive injury, but did not ask; Dumbledore had said that they would know eventually and there was, in any case, another subject she wanted to discuss. But before she could say anything about Professor Snape and Malfoy, Dumbledore spoke. 

“I hear that you met the Minister of Magic over Christmas?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “He’s not very happy with me.” 

“No,” sighed Dumbledore. “He is not very happy with me either. We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, Harry, but battle on.” 

Harry grinned. 

“He wanted me to tell the Wizarding community that the Ministry’s doing a wonderful job.” 

Dumbledore smiled. 

“It was Fudge’s idea originally, you know. During his last days in office, when he was trying desperately to cling to his post, he sought a meeting with you, hoping that you would give him your support —” 

“After everything Fudge did last year?” said Hermione angrily. “After Umbridge?” 

“I told Cornelius there was no chance of it, but the idea did not die when he left office. Within hours of Scrimgeour’s appointment we met and he demanded that I arrange a meeting with you —” 

“So that’s why you argued!” Hermione blurted out. “It was in the Daily Prophet.” 

“The Prophet is bound to report the truth occasionally,” said Dumbledore, “if only accidentally. Yes, that was why we argued. Well, it appears that Rufus found a way to corner you at last.” 

“He accused Harry and I of being ‘Dumbledore’s people through and through.’ ” 

“How very rude of him.” 

“I told him we were.” 

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Behind Hermione and Harry, Fawkes the phoenix let out a low, soft, musical cry. To Hermione’s intense embarrassment, she suddenly realized that Dumbledore’s bright blue eyes looked rather watery, and stared hastily at her own knees. When Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was quite steady. 

“As always you touch me with your words, Hermione.” 

“Scrimgeour wanted to know where you go when you’re not at Hogwarts,” said Harry. 

“Yes, he is very nosy about that,” said Dumbledore, now sounding cheerful. “He has even attempted to have me followed. Amusing, really. He set Dawlish to tail me. It wasn’t kind. I have already been forced to jinx Dawlish once; I did it again with the greatest regret.” 

“So they still don’t know where you go?” asked Harry, hoping for more information on this intriguing subject, but Dumbledore merely smiled over the top of his half-moon spectacles. 

“No, they don’t, and the time is not quite right for you to know either. Now, I suggest we press on, unless there’s anything else — ?” 

“There is, actually, sir,” said Harry. “It’s about Malfoy and Professor Snape. We overheard them during Professor Slughorn’s party . . . well, we followed them, actually. . . .” 

Dumbledore listened to Harry’s story with an impassive face. When Harry had finished he did not speak for a few moments, then said, “Thank you for telling me this, Harry, but I suggest that you put it out of your mind. I do not think that it is of great importance.” 

“Not of great importance?” repeated Hermione incredulously. “Professor, did you understand — ?” 

“Yes, Hermione, blessed as I am with extraordinary brain-power, I understood everything you told me,” said Dumbledore, a little sharply. “I think you might even consider the possibility that I understood more than you did. Again, I am glad that you have confided in me, but let me reassure you that you have not told me anything that causes me disquiet.” 

Hermione sat in seething silence, glaring at Dumbledore. What was going on? Did this mean that Dumbledore had indeed ordered Professor Snape to find out what Malfoy was doing, in which case he had already heard everything they had just told him from Professor Snape? Or was he really worried by what he had heard, but pretending not to be? 

“And now, Hermione, Harry, I must insist that we press on. I have more important things to discuss with you this evening. I have two more memories to show you this evening, both obtained with enormous difficulty, and the second of them is, I think, the most important I have collected. 

“So,” said Dumbledore, in a ringing voice, “we meet this evening to continue the tale of Tom Riddle, whom we left last lesson poised on the threshold of his years at Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was to hear that he was a wizard, that he refused my company on a trip to Diagon Alley, and that I, in turn, warned him against continued thievery when he arrived at school. 

“Well, the start of the school year arrived and with it came Tom Riddle, a quiet boy in his second-hand robes, who lined up with the other first years to be sorted. He was placed in Slytherin House almost the moment that the Sorting Hat touched his head,” continued Dumbledore, waving his blackened hand toward the shelf over his head where the Sorting Hat sat, ancient and unmoving. “How soon Riddle learned that the famous founder of the House could talk to snakes, I do not know — perhaps that very evening. The knowledge can only have excited him and increased his sense of self-importance. 

“However, if he was frightening or impressing fellow Slytherins with displays of Parseltongue in their common room, no hint of it reached the staff. He showed no sign of outward arrogance or aggression at all. As an unusually talented and very good-looking orphan, he naturally drew attention and sympathy from the staff almost from the moment of his arrival. He seemed polite, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge. Nearly all were most favorably impressed by him.” 

“Didn’t you tell them, sir, what he’d been like when you met him at the orphanage?” asked Harry. 

“No, I did not. Though he had shown no hint of remorse, it was possible that he felt sorry for how he had behaved before and was resolved to turn over a fresh leaf. I chose to give him that chance.” 

Dumbledore paused and looked inquiringly at Hermione and Harry, the former one had opened her mouth to speak. Here, again, was Dumbledore’s tendency to trust people in spite of overwhelming evidence that they did not deserve it! But then Hermione remembered something. . . . 

“But you didn’t really trust him, sir, did you? He told Harry . . . the Riddle who came out of that diary said, ‘Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did.’ ” 

“Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he was trustworthy,” said Dumbledore. “I had, as I have already indicated, resolved to keep a close eye upon him, and so I did. I cannot pretend that I gleaned a great deal from my observations at first. He was very guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in the thrill of discovering his true identity he had told me a little too much. He was careful never to reveal as much again, but he could not take back what he had let slip in his excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in me. However, he had the sense never to try and charm me as he charmed so many of my colleagues. 

“As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want of a better term, although as I have already indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. This group had a kind of dark glamor within the castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts. 

“Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected in open wrong-doing, although their seven years at Hogwarts were marked by a number of nasty incidents to which they were never satisfactorily linked, the most serious of which was, of course, the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was wrongly accused of that crime. 

“I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle at Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore, placing his withered hand on the Pensieve. “Few who knew him then are prepared to talk about him; they are too terrified. What I know, I found out after he had left Hogwarts, after much painstaking effort, after tracing those few who could be tricked into speaking, after searching old records and questioning Muggle and wizard witnesses alike. 

“Those whom I could persuade to talk told me that Riddle was obsessed with his parentage. This is understandable, of course; he had grown up in an orphanage and naturally wished to know how he came to be there. It seems that he searched in vain for some trace of Tom Riddle senior on the shields in the trophy room, on the lists of prefects in the old school records, even in the books of Wizarding history. Finally he was forced to accept that his father had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe that it was then that he dropped the name forever, assumed the identity of Lord Voldemort, and began his investigations into his previously despised mother’s family — the woman whom, you will remember, he had thought could not be a witch if she had succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death. 

“All he had to go upon was the single name ‘Marvolo,’ which he knew from those who ran the orphanage had been his mother’s father’s name. Finally, after painstaking research through old books of Wizarding families, he discovered the existence of Slytherin’s surviving line. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he left the orphanage to which he returned annually and set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Harry, if you will stand . . .” 

Dumbledore rose, and Hermione saw that he was again holding a small crystal bottle filled with swirling, pearly memory. 

“I was very lucky to collect this,” he said, as he poured the gleaming mass into the Pensieve. “As you will understand when we have experienced it. Shall we?” 

Hermione and Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed obediently until their faces sank through the surface of the memory; Hermione felt the familiar sensation of falling through nothingness and then landed upon a dirty stone floor in almost total darkness. 

It took her several seconds to recognize the place, by which time Dumbledore had landed beside her and Harry. The Gaunts’ house was now more indescribably filthy than anywhere Hermione had ever seen. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only light came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown Hermione could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an armchair by the fire, and Hermione wondered for a moment whether he was dead. But then there came a loud knock on the door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his right hand and a short knife in his left. 

The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Hermione recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome — the teenage Voldemort. 

Voldemort’s eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor. 

“YOU!” he bellowed. “YOU!” 

And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft. 

“Stop.” 

Riddle spoke in Parseltongue; Harry was doing live-commentary for Hermione and Dumbledore. The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they contemplated each other. The man broke it. 

“You speak it?” 

“Yes, I speak it,” said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Hermione could not help but feel a resentful admiration for Voldemort’s complete lack of fear. His face merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment. 

“Where is Marvolo?” he asked. 

“Dead,” said the other. “Died years ago, didn’t he?” 

Riddle frowned. 

“Who are you, then?” 

“I’m Morfin, ain’t I?” 

“Marvolo’s son?” 

“ ’Course I am, then . . .” 

Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and Hermione saw that he wore Marvolo’s black-stoned ring on his right hand. 

“I thought you was that Muggle,” whispered Morfin. “You look mighty like that Muggle.” 

“What Muggle?” said Riddle sharply. 

“That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way,” said Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them. “You look right like him. Riddle. But he’s older now, in ’e? He’s older’n you, now I think on it. . . .” 

Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support. “He come back, see,” he added stupidly. 

Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities. Now he moved a little closer and said, “Riddle came back?” 

“Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!” said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. “Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where’s the locket, eh, where’s Slytherin’s locket?” 

Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, “Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who’re you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It’s over, innit. . . . It’s over. . . .” 

He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort’s lamp and Morfin’s candle, extinguishing everything. . . . 

Dumbledore’s fingers closed tightly around Hermione and Harry’s arms and they were soaring back into the present again. The soft golden light in Dumbledore’s office seemed to dazzle Hermione’s eyes after that impenetrable darkness. 

“Is that all?” she said at once. “Why did it go dark, what happened?” 

“Because Morfin could not remember anything from that point onward,” said Dumbledore, gesturing Hermione and Harry back into their seats. “When he awoke next morning, he was lying on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo’s ring had gone. 

“Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of the big house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and father. 

“The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I am aware, they do not know to this day how the Riddles died, for the Avada Kedavra curse does not usually leave any sign of damage. . . . The exception sits before me,” Dumbledore added, with a nod to Harry’s scar. “The Ministry, on the other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard’s murder. They also knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house, a Muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking one of the murdered people. 

“So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him, to use Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, giving details only the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over his wand, which was proved at once to have been used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight. All that disturbed him was the fact that his father’s ring had disappeared. ‘He’ll kill me for losing it,’ he told his captors over and over again. ‘He’ll kill me for losing his ring.’ And that, apparently, was all he ever said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo’s last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor souls who have expired within its walls.” 

“So Voldemort stole Morfin’s wand and used it?” said Harry, sitting up straight. 

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore. “We have no memories to show us this, but I think we can be fairly sure what happened. Voldemort Stupefied his uncle, took his wand, and proceeded across the valley to ‘the big house over the way’ There he murdered the Muggle man who had abandoned his witch mother, and, for good measure, his Muggle grandparents, thus obliterating the last of the unworthy Riddle line and revenging himself upon the father who never wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt hovel, performed the complex bit of magic that would implant a false memory in his uncle’s mind, laid Morfin’s wand beside its unconscious owner, pocketed the ancient ring he wore, and departed.” 

“And Morfin never realized he hadn’t done it?” 

“Never,” said Dumbledore. “He gave, as I say, a full and boastful confession.” 

“But he had this real memory in him all the time!” 

“Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax it out of him,” said Dumbledore, “and why should anybody delve further into Morfin’s mind when he had already confessed to the crime? However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting to discover as much as I could about Voldemort’s past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure Morfin’s release from Azkaban. Before the Ministry reached their decision, however, Morfin had died.” 

“But how come the Ministry didn’t realize that Voldemort had done all that to Morfin?” Hermione asked angrily. “He was underage at the time, wasn’t he? I thought they could detect underage magic!” 

“You are quite right — they can detect magic, but not the perpetrator: You will remember that you were blamed by the Ministry for the Hover Charm that was, in fact, cast by —” 

“Dobby,” growled Harry; this injustice still rankled. “So if you’re underage and you do magic inside an adult witch or wizard’s house, the Ministry won’t know?” 

“They will certainly be unable to tell who performed the magic,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly at the look of great indignation on their faces. “They rely on witch and wizard parents to enforce their offspring’s obedience while within their walls.” 

“Well, that’s rubbish,” snapped Hermione. “Look what happened here, look what happened to Morfin!” 

“I agree,” said Dumbledore. “Whatever Morfin was, he did not deserve to die as he did, blamed for murders he had not committed. But it is getting late, and I want you to see this other memory before we part. . . .” 

Dumbledore took from an inside pocket another crystal phial and Hermione and Harry fell silent at once, remembering that Dumbledore had said it was the most important one he had collected. Hermione noticed that the contents proved difficult to empty into the Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly; did memories go bad? 

“This will not take long,” said Dumbledore, when he had finally emptied the phial. “We shall be back before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then . . .” 

And Hermione and Harry fell again through the silver surface, landing this time right in front of a man they recognized at once. 

It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Hermione was so used to him bald that she found the sight of Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair quite disconcerting; it looked as though he had had his head thatched, though there was already a shiny Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, less massive than it was these days, was gingery-blond. He was not quite as rotund as the Slughorn Hermione knew, though the golden buttons on his richly embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount of strain. His little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, he was sitting well back in a comfortable winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the other searching through a box of crystalized pineapple. 

Hermione and Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside them and saw that they were standing in Slughorn’s office. Half a dozen boys were sitting around Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Hermione recognized Voldemort at once. His was the most handsome face and he looked the most relaxed of all the boys. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt, Hermione saw that he was wearing Marvolo’s gold-and-black ring; he had already killed his father. 

“Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?” he asked. 

“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn’t tell you,” said Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by winking. “I must say, I’d like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.” 

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks. 

“What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you’re quite right, it is my favorite —” 

As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but the face of Dumbledore, who was standing beside him. Then Slughorn’s voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly, “You’ll go wrong, boy, mark my words.” 

The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just happened. Bewildered, Hermione and Harry looked around as a small golden clock standing upon Slughorn’s desk chimed eleven o’clock. 

“Good gracious, is it that time already?” said Slughorn. “You’d better get going, boys, or we’ll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it’s detention. Same goes for you, Avery.” 

Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. Voldemort, however, stayed behind. Hermione could tell he had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room with Slughorn. 

“Look sharp, Tom,” said Slughorn, turning around and finding him still present. “You don’t want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect . . .” 

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away. . . .” 

“Sir, I wondered what you know about . . . about Horcruxes?” 

And it happened all over again: The dense fog filled the room so that Hermione could not see Slughorn or Voldemort at all; only Harry and Dumbledore, the latter smiling serenely. Then Slughorn’s voice boomed out again, just as it had done before. 

“I don’t know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn’t tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don’t let me catch you mentioning them again!” 

“Well, that’s that,” said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry. “Time to go.” 

And Hermione’s feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the rug in front of Dumbledore’s desk. 

“That’s all there is?” said Harry blankly. 

Dumbledore had said that this was the most important memory of all, but Hermione could hardly see what was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and the fact that nobody seemed to have noticed it, was odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have happened except that Voldemort had asked a question and failed to get an answer. 

“As you might have noticed,” said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk, “that memory has been tampered with.” 

“Tampered with?” repeated Hermione, sitting back down too. 

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Professor Slughorn has meddled with his own recollections.” 

“But why would he do that?” 

“Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he remembers,” said Dumbledore. “He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better light, obliterating those parts which he does not wish me to see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done, and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true memory is still there beneath the alterations. 

“And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework, Harry, Hermione. It will be your job to persuade Professor Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which will undoubtedly be our most crucial piece of information of all.” 

They both stared at him. 

“But surely, sir,” Harry said, keeping his voice as respectful as possible, “you don’t need us — you could use Legilimency . . . or Veritaserum. . . .” 

“Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who will be expecting both,” said Dumbledore. “He is much more accomplished at Occlumency than poor Morfin Gaunt, and I would be astonished if he has not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a recollection. 

“No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the truth from Professor Slughorn by force, and might do much more harm than good; I do not wish him to leave Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like the rest of us, and I believe that you are the one person who might be able to penetrate his defenses. It is most important that we secure the true memory, Harry. . . . How important, we will only know when we have seen the real thing. So, good luck . . . and good night.” 

A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Hermione and Harry got to their feet quickly. 

“Good night, sir.” 

As Harry closed the door behind him, he and Hermione distinctly heard Fawkes give another low, musical cry. 

Chapter Text

“He must be determined to hide what happened if Dumbledore couldn’t get it out of him,” Hermione said in a low voice, as she and Harry stood in the deserted, snowy courtyard at break the next day. “Horcruxes . . . Horcruxes . . . I’ve never even heard of them. . . .” 

“You haven’t?” said Harry. 

“They must be really advanced Dark Magic,” said Hermione, “or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it’s going to be difficult to get the information, Harry, we’ll have to be very careful about how we approach Slughorn, think out a strategy. . . .” 

“I wish Dumbledore had shown us that memory before Christmas,” said Harry bitterly. “He was really cheerful at his party, wasn’t he?” 

Before they knew anything, they had reached the dungeons for Potion’s lessons and Slughorn was calling for silence from the front of the room. 

“Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott’s Third Law . . . who can tell me — ? But Miss Granger can, of course!” 

“Golpalott’s-Third-Law-states-that-the-antidote-for-a-blended-poison-will-be-equal-to-more-than-the-sum-of-the-antidotes-for-each-of-the-separate-components,” Hermione recited at top speed. 

“Precisely!” beamed Slughorn. “Ten points for Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott’s Third Law as true . . .” 

Nobody apart from Hermione, Harry, and Daphne seemed to be following what Slughorn said next either. 

“. . . which means, of course, that assuming we have achieved correct identification of the potion’s ingredients by Scarpin’s Revelaspell, our primary aim is not the relatively simple one of selecting antidotes to those ingredients in and of themselves, but to find that added component that will, by an almost alchemical process, transform these disparate elements —” 

Ernie Macmillan was sitting opposite Harry with his mouth half open, doodling absently on his copy of Advanced Potion-Making. 

“. . . and so,” finished Slughorn, “I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don’t forget your protective gloves!” 

Hermione, Harry, and Daphne were halfway toward Slughorn’s desk before the rest of the class had realized it was time to move, and by the time Ernie returned to the table, Hermione, Harry, and Daphne had already tipped the contents of their phials into their respective cauldrons and were kindling fires underneath them. 

“It’s a shame that the Prince won’t be able to help you much with this, Daphne,” Hermione said brightly as she straightened up. “You have to understand the principles involved this time. No shortcuts or cheats!” 

Daphne pulled out her trusty copy of Advanced Potion-Making and turned to the chapter on antidotes. There was Golpalott’s Third Law, stated word for word as Hermione had recited it, but not a single illuminating note in the Prince’s hand to explain what it meant. Apparently the Prince had had no difficulty understanding it. 

It took Daphne only five minutes to realize that her reputation as the best potion-maker in the class was crashing around her ears. Slughorn had peered hopefully into her cauldron on his first circuit of the dungeon, preparing to exclaim in delight as he usually did, and instead had withdrawn his head hastily, coughing, as the smell of bad eggs overwhelmed him. Hermione’s expression could not have been any smugger; she had loathed being outperformed in every Potions class. She was now decanting the mysteriously separated ingredients of her poison into ten different crystal phials. More to avoid watching this irritating sight than anything else, Daphne bent over the Half-Blood Prince’s book and turned a few pages with unnecessary force. 

And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of antidotes: 

Just shove a bezoar down their throats. 

Daphne stared at these words for a moment. It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, but this was a moment for desperate measures. 

Daphne hastened toward the store cupboard and rummaged within it, pushing aside unicorn horns and tangles of dried herbs until she found, at the very back, a small cardboard box on which had been scribbled the word: 

Bezoars 

She opened the box just as Slughorn called, “Two minutes left, everyone!” Inside were half a dozen shriveled brown objects, looking more like dried-up kidneys than real stones. Daphne seized one, put the box back in the cupboard, and hurried back to her cauldron. 

“Time’s . . . UP!” called Slughorn genially. “Well, let’s see how you’ve done! Blaise . . . what have you got for me?” 

Slowly, Slughorn moved around the room, examining the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task, although Hermione was trying to cram a few more ingredients into her bottle before Slughorn reached her. Harry stood beside Hermione, waiting, something gripped in his left hand. Daphne stood in front of them, the bezoar clutched in a slightly sweaty hand. 

Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie’s potion and passed on to Harry’s with a grimace. 

“And you, Harry,” he said. “What have you got to show me?” 

“My antidote is in progress, sir, but thinking like a Healer, I might not have an hour to save a patient, so for emergencies —” 

Harry held out his hand, a bezoar sitting on his palm. 

Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. 

“You’ve got nerve, boy!” he boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so that the class could see it. “Oh, you’re like your mother. . . . Well, I can’t fault you. . . . A bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!” 

Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote, comprising fifty-two ingredients, including a chunk of her own hair, bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but Harry. 

“That’s the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!” said Slughorn happily. “Just like his mother, she had the same intuitive grasp of potion-making, it’s undoubtedly from Lily he gets it. . . . Yes, Harry, yes, if you’ve got a bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick . . . although as they don’t work on everything, and are pretty rare, it’s still worth knowing how to mix antidotes. . . .” 

Malfoy, who had spilled something that looked like cat-sick over himself, looked quite angry. Before he could express his fury, however, the bell rang. 

“Time to pack up!” said Slughorn. “And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!” 

Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the front of the dungeon. 

“You beat me this time, Potter,” Daphne said, presenting the bezoar of her own. “Well done.” 

This seemed to have a very positive effect on Hermione. She no longer looked livid. Instead, she loudly patted Harry on the back and said quite cheerfully, “That’s my boyfriend! The best in the class! Without cheating!” 

She added the last bit while watching Daphne from the corner of her eyes. Daphne only rolled her eyes. 

“Coming?” she asked the other two when she had packed her stuff. 

“Er, I was thinking . . .” Harry said hesitantly, watching Professor Slughorn picking his own stuff. “Maybe I can approach him right now. He looks very pleased with me, doesn’t he?” 

“I dunno, Harry, he might not appreciate the direct approach,” Hermione said apprehensively. 

“We gotta try though, right?” 

“I guess.” 

“Well, I’ll see you both later,” said Daphne. “Good luck.” 

Once Daphne left the room, Hermione, Harry, and Slughorn were the only three left. 

“Come on, now, Harry, Miss Granger, you’ll be late for your next lesson,” said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold clasps shut on his dragon-skin briefcase. 

“Sir,” said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of Voldemort, “I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away. . . .” 

“Sir, I wondered what you know about . . . about Horcruxes?” 

Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, “What did you say?” 

“I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see —” 

“Dumbledore put you up to this,” whispered Slughorn. His voice had changed completely. It was not genial anymore, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast-pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow. “Dumbledore’s shown you that — that memory. Well? Hasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie. 

“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. “Of course . . . well, if you’ve seen that memory, Harry, you’ll know that I don’t know anything — anything” — he repeated the word forcefully — “about Horcruxes.” 

He seized his dragon-skin briefcase, stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket, and marched to the dungeon door. 

“Sir,” said Harry desperately, “I just thought there might be a bit more to the memory —” 

“Did you?” said Slughorn. “Then you were wrong, weren’t you? WRONG!” 

He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say another word, slammed the dungeon door behind him and Hermione. 

“Well, we had to try,” said Hermione heavily as she and Harry climbed back up the stairs. “C’mon, let’s think it over that meal I’ve promised you. . . .” 

... 

Hermione and Harry put their heads together for the next few days over what to do next about Slughorn. They decided that, for the time being, they would let Slughorn think that they had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it seemed best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the attack. 

When Hermione and Harry did not question Slughorn again, the Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate treatment of them, and appeared to have put the matter out of his mind. Hermione and Harry awaited an invitation to one of Slughorn’s little evening parties. Unfortunately, however, no such invitation arrived. Hermione could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply determined to give them no additional opportunities to question him. 

Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione for the first time in living memory. She was so shocked she even dispensed a few carefully chosen, yet inappropriate words regarding her beloved library. 

“I haven’t found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!” she later told Harry. “Not a single one! I’ve been right through the restricted section and even in the most horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions — nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduction to Magick Moste Evile — listen — ‘Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction. . . .’ I mean, why mention it then?” she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut; it let out a ghostly wail. “Oh, shut up,” she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag. 

The snow melted around the school as February arrived, to be replaced by cold, dreary wetness. Purplish-gray clouds hung low over the castle and a constant fall of chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. The upshot of this was that the sixth-years’ first Apparition lesson, which was scheduled for a Saturday morning so that no normal lessons would be missed, took place in the Great Hall instead of in the grounds. 

When Harry and Hermione arrived in the Hall, they found that the tables had disappeared. Rain lashed against the high windows and the enchanted ceiling swirled darkly above them as they assembled in front of Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout — the Heads of Houses — and a small wizard whom Hermione took to be the Apparition instructor from the Ministry. He was oddly colorless, with transparent eyelashes, wispy hair, and an insubstantial air, as though a single gust of wind might blow him away. Hermione wondered whether constant disappearances and reappearances had somehow diminished his substance, or whether this frail build was ideal for anyone wishing to vanish. 

“Good morning,” said the Ministry wizard, when all the students had arrived and the Heads of Houses had called for quiet. “My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be your Ministry Apparition instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition Tests in this time —” 

“Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!” barked Professor McGonagall. 

Everybody looked around. Malfoy had flushed a dull pink; he looked furious as he stepped away from Crabbe, with whom he appeared to have been having a whispered argument. Hermione glanced quickly at Professor Snape, who also looked annoyed, though she strongly suspected that this was less because of Malfoy’s rudeness than the fact that Professor McGonagall had reprimanded one of his House. 

“— by which time, many of you may be ready to take your tests,” Twycross continued, as though there had been no interruption. “As you may know, it is usually impossible to Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts. The headmistress has lifted this enchantment, purely within the Great Hall, for one hour, so as to enable you to practice. May I emphasize that you will not be able to Apparate outside the walls of this Hall, and that you would be unwise to try. 

“I would like each of you to place yourselves now so that you have a clear five feet of space in front of you.” 

There was a great scrambling and jostling as people separated, banged into each other, and ordered others out of their space. The Heads of Houses moved among the students, marshaling them into position and breaking up arguments. 

“What — ?” said Hermione in surprise as Harry suddenly pulled her by her arm; they moved quickly through the crowd, past the place where Professor Flitwick was making squeaky attempts to position a few Ravenclaws, all of whom wanted to be near the front, past Professor Sprout, who was chivvying the Hufflepuffs into line, until, by dodging around Ernie Macmillan, they managed to position themselves right at the back of the crowd, directly behind Malfoy, who was taking advantage of the general upheaval to continue his argument with Crabbe, standing five feet away and looking mutinous. 

“I don’t know how much longer, all right?” Malfoy shot at him, oblivious to Hermione and Harry standing right behind him. “It’s taking longer than I thought it would.” 

Crabbe opened his mouth, but Malfoy appeared to second-guess what he was going to say. 

“Look, it’s none of your business what I’m doing, Crabbe, you and Goyle just do as you’re told and keep a lookout!” 

“I tell my friends what I’m up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me,” Harry said, just loud enough for Malfoy to hear him. 

Malfoy spun around on the spot, his hand flying to his wand, but at that precise moment the four Heads of House shouted, “Quiet!” and silence fell again. Malfoy turned slowly to face the front again. 

“Thank you,” said Twycross. “Now then . . .” 

He waved his wand. Old-fashioned wooden hoops instantly appeared on the floor in front of every student. 

“The important things to remember when Apparating are the three D’s!” said Twycross. “Destination, Determination, Deliberation! 

“Step one: Fix your mind firmly upon the desired destination,” said Twycross. “In this case, the interior of your hoop. Kindly concentrate upon that destination now.” 

Everybody looked around furtively to check that everyone else was staring into their hoop, then hastily did as they were told. Hermione gazed at the circular patch of dusty floor enclosed by her hoop and tried hard to think of nothing else. This proved quite difficult, as she couldn’t stop puzzling over what Malfoy was doing that needed lookouts. 

“Step two,” said Twycross, “focus your determination to occupy the visualized space! Let your yearning to enter it flood from your mind to every particle of your body!” 

A little way to their left, Ernie Macmillan was contemplating his hoop so hard that his face had turned pink; it looked as though he was straining to lay a Quaffle-sized egg. Hermione bit back a laugh and hastily returned her gaze to his own hoop. 

“Step three,” called Twycross, “and only when I give the command . . . Turn on the spot, feeling your way into nothingness, moving with deliberation! On my command, now . . . one —” 

Hermione glanced around again; lots of people were looking positively alarmed at being asked to Apparate so quickly. 

“— two —” 

Hermione tried to fix her thoughts on her hoop again; destination, determination, deliberation. . . . 

“— THREE!” 

Hermione spun on the spot, lost balance, and nearly fell over. She was not the only one. The whole Hall was suddenly full of staggering people; Neville was flat on his back; Ernie Macmillan, on the other hand, had done a kind of pirouetting leap into his hoop and looked momentarily thrilled, until he caught sight of Dean Thomas roaring with laughter at him. 

“Never mind, never mind,” said Twycross dryly, who did not seem to have expected anything better. “Adjust your hoops, please, and back to your original positions. . . .” 

“You okay?” Harry asked Hermione; he himself was caressing his left arm. 

“Yeah, I am . . .” 

The second attempt was no better than the first. The third was just as bad. Not until the fourth did anything exciting happen. There was a horrible screech of pain and everybody looked around, terrified, to see Eloise Midgen of Hufflepuff wobbling in her hoop with her left leg still standing five feet away where she had started. The Heads of House converged on her; there was a great bang and a puff of purple smoke, which cleared to reveal Eloise sobbing, reunited with her leg but looking horrified. 

“Splinching, or the separation of random body parts,” said Wilkie Twycross dispassionately, “occurs when the mind is insufficiently determined. You must concentrate continuously upon your destination, and move, without haste, but with deliberation . . . thus.” 

Twycross stepped forward, turned gracefully on the spot with his arms outstretched, and vanished in a swirl of robes, reappearing at the back of the Hall. 

“Remember the three D’s,” he said, “and try again . . . one — two — three —” 

But an hour later, Eloise’s Splinching was still the most interesting thing that had happened. Twycross did not seem discouraged. Fastening his cloak at his neck, he merely said, “Until next Saturday, everybody, and do not forget: Destination. Determination. Deliberation.” 

With that, he waved his wand, vanishing the hoops, and walked out of the Hall accompanied by Professor McGonagall. Talk broke out at once as people began moving toward the entrance hall. 

“How did you do?” Hermione asked Harry, turning toward him. “I think I felt something the last time I tried — a kind of tingling in my feet.” 

“I kind of felt something too,” said Harry quickly, glancing over his shoulder to see where Malfoy was, and speeding up as they came into the entrance hall. “Let’s hurry up, there’s something I want to do. . . .” 

Perplexed, Hermione followed Harry back to the Gryffindor Tower at a run. They were temporarily detained by Peeves, who had jammed a door on the fourth-floor shut and was refusing to let anyone pass until they set fire to their own pants, but Harry and Hermione simply turned back and took one of their trusted shortcuts. Within five minutes, they were climbing through the portrait hole. 

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing, then?” asked Hermione, panting slightly. 

“Up here,” said Harry, and he crossed the common room and led the way through the door to the boys’ staircase. 

The dormitory was empty. Harry flung open his trunk and began to rummage in it, while Hermione watched impatiently. 

“Harry . . .” 

“Malfoy’s using Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts, isn’t he? He was arguing with Crabbe just now. I want to know — aha.” 

He had found it, a folded square of apparently blank parchment, which he now smoothed out and tapped with the tip of his wand. 

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good . . . or Malfoy is anyway.” 

At once, the Marauder’s Map appeared on the parchment’s surface. Here was a detailed plan of every one of the castle’s floors and, moving around it, the tiny, labeled black dots that signified each of the castle’s occupants. 

“Help me find Malfoy,” said Harry urgently. He laid the map upon his bed, and he and Hermione leaned over it, searching. 

“There!” Hermione said, after a minute or so. “He’s in the Slytherin common room, look . . . with Parkinson and Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle . . .” 

Harry looked down at the map, disappointed, but rallied almost at once. 

“Well, I’m keeping an eye on him from now on,” he said firmly. “And the moment I see him lurking somewhere with Crabbe and Goyle keeping watch outside, it’ll be on with the old Invisibility Cloak and off to find out what he’s —” 

He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing with him a strong smell of singed material, and began rummaging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants. 

Despite their determination to catch Malfoy out, Hermione and Harry had no luck at all over the next couple of weeks. Although they consulted the map as often as they could, they did not once see Malfoy anywhere suspicious. Admittedly, they spotted Crabbe and Goyle moving around the castle on their own more often than usual, sometimes remaining stationary in deserted corridors, but at these times Malfoy was not only nowhere near them, but impossible to locate on the map at all. This was most mysterious. Hermione and Harry toyed with the possibility that Malfoy was actually leaving the school grounds, but could not see how he could be doing it, given the very high level of security now operating within the castle. They could only suppose that they were missing Malfoy amongst the hundreds of tiny black dots upon the map. 

February moved toward March with no change in the weather except that it became windy as well as wet. To general indignation, a sign went up on all common room notice boards that the next trip into Hogsmeade had been canceled. Ron was furious. 

“It was on my birthday!” he said. “I was looking forward to that!” 

“Not a big surprise, though, is it?” said Lavender consolingly. “Not after what happened to Katie.” 

Katie had still not returned from St. Mungo’s. What was more, further disappearances had been reported in the Daily Prophet, including several relatives of students at Hogwarts. 

“But now all I’ve got to look forward to is stupid Apparition!” said Ron grumpily. “Big birthday treat . . .” 

Three lessons on, Apparition was proving as difficult as ever, though a few more people had managed to Splinch themselves. Frustration was running high and there was a certain amount of ill-feeling toward Wilkie Twycross and his three D’s, which had inspired a number of nicknames for him, the politest of which were Dogbreath and Dunghead. 

On the first of March, Harry awoke Hermione in perhaps the best way possible. 

Hermione sighed happily, her dream of dallying with Harry amidst a field of vibrant wildflowers on a bright sunny day seemed deliciously real. She tingled with elation as Harry’s ministrations brought her to a peak. Just as Hermione thought it couldn’t get any better, the dream faded, and her eyes fluttered open. 

She squealed with delight to find her waking reality so much like the dream, Harry’s head between her thighs and his tongue wriggling inside her. Hermione’s toes curled; she ran her fingers through his messy black hair as she trembled blissfully a second time, her sheath contracting and releasing in rapid succession around the wet, warm appendage, as she burst and released a flood of nectar. 

Hermione’s thighs clamped tightly, trapping Harry’s head between them, as he continued to lave her vulva mercilessly without stopping. Gasping, Hermione shuddered ecstatically, her head spinning and stars forming before her eyes while she climaxed again and again. 

Finally, Hermione giddily slumped back against her pillow, dazed and panting, her breasts heaving. Harry’s grinning head emerged from between her legs; he wiped his face and crawled up the bed beside her to give her a gentle kiss. 

Hermione beamed at him. 

“That . . . that was amazing,” she gasped breathlessly. 

“Mhmm. . . .” 

Harry got off her with a smug smirk on his face. Pulling the curtains apart from their bed, he saw Ron getting off his own bed and said, “Happy birthday, Ron,” and threw a wrapped package across onto Ron’s bed, where it joined a small pile of them that must, Hermione assumed, have been delivered by house-elves in the night. 

“Cheers,” said Ron drowsily and, as he ripped off the paper, Harry pulled Hermione out of bed with a soft kiss on her mouth. He then opened his own trunk, and began rummaging in it for the Marauder’s Map, which he hid after every use. Hermione saw him turf out half the contents of his trunk before he found it hiding beneath the rolled-up socks in which he was still keeping his bottle of lucky potion, Felix Felicis. 

Hermione looked at the map as Harry brought it back to bed with him. He tapped it quietly and murmured, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” 

“Nice one, Harry!” said Ron enthusiastically, waving the new pair of Quidditch Keeper’s gloves Harry had given him. 

“Do try and win, Ron,” said Harry absentmindedly, as he searched the Slytherin dormitory closely for Malfoy. “Hey . . . I don’t think he’s in his bed. . . .” 

Hermione shrugged unknowingly. Ron, on the other hand, was too busy unwrapping presents, every now and then letting out an exclamation of pleasure. 

“Seriously good haul this year!” he announced, holding up a heavy gold watch with odd symbols around the edge and tiny moving stars instead of hands. “See what Mum and Dad got me? Blimey, I think I’ll come of age next year too. . . .” 

“Cool,” muttered Hermione, sparing the watch a glance before peering more closely at the map. 

Where was Malfoy? He did not seem to be at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, eating breakfast. . . . He was nowhere near Professor Snape, who was sitting in his study. . . . He wasn’t in any of the bathrooms or in the hospital wing. . . . 

“Want one?” said Ron thickly, holding out a box of Chocolate Cauldrons. “Harry? Hermione?” 

“No thanks,” said Hermione, looking up. 

“Malfoy’s gone again!” said Harry indignantly. 

“But how?” said Hermione, watching Ron stuffing a second Cauldron into his mouth as he slid out of bed to get dressed. 

“Come on, if you don’t hurry up,” said Ron, “you’ll have to Apparate on an empty stomach. . . . Might make it easier, I suppose . . .” 

Ron looked thoughtfully at the box of Chocolate Cauldrons, then shrugged and helped himself to a third. 

Harry tapped the map with his wand, muttered, “Mischief managed,” though it hadn’t been, and he and Hermione got dressed behind the curtains, thinking hard. There had to be an explanation for Malfoy’s periodic disappearances, but he simply could not think what it could be. The best way of finding out would be to tail him, but even with the Invisibility Cloak this was an impractical idea: they both had lessons, homework, and Apparition; they could not follow Malfoy around school all day without their absence being remarked upon. 

“Coming, Ron?” Harry said to Ron. 

Hermione and Harry were halfway to the dormitory door when they realized that Ron had not moved, but was leaning on his bedpost, staring out of the rain-washed window with a strangely unfocused look on his face. 

“Ron? Breakfast.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

Hermione and Harry stared at him. 

“I thought you just said — ?” Harry started. 

“Well, all right, I’ll come down with you,” sighed Ron, “but I don’t want to eat.” 

They scrutinized him suspiciously. 

“You’ve just eaten half a box of Chocolate Cauldrons, haven’t you?” said Hermione. 

“It’s not that,” Ron sighed again. “You . . . you wouldn’t understand.” 

“Fair enough,” said Harry, albeit puzzled, as he turned to open the door. 

“Harry!” said Ron suddenly. 

“What?” 

“Harry, I can’t stand it!” 

“You can’t stand what?” asked Harry, now starting to feel definitely alarmed. Ron was rather pale and looked as though he was about to be sick. 

“I can’t stop thinking about her!” said Ron hoarsely. 

Hermione frowned at him. Wasn’t it obvious Ron can’t stop thinking about his girlfriend, Lavender? They’ve been together for more than two years now. 

“Why does that stop you having breakfast?” Harry asked, trying to inject a note of common sense into the proceedings. 

“I don’t think she knows I exist,” said Ron with a desperate gesture. 

“She definitely knows you exist,” said Hermione, bewildered. “You’ve been together for two years now, haven’t you?” 

Ron blinked. 

“Who are you talking about?” 

“Who are you talking about?” said Harry, with an increasing sense that all reason had dropped out of the conversation. 

“Romilda Vane,” said Ron softly, and his whole face seemed to illuminate as he said it, as though hit by a ray of purest sunlight. 

They stared at each other for almost a whole minute, before Harry said, “This is a joke, right? You’re joking.” 

“I think . . . Harry, I think I love her,” said Ron in a strangled voice. 

“Okay,” said Harry, walking up to Ron to get a better look at the glazed eyes and the pallid complexion, “okay. . . Say that again with a straight face.” 

“I love her,” repeated Ron breathlessly. “Have you seen her hair, it’s all black and shiny and silky . . . and her eyes? Her big dark eyes? And her —” 

And then Hermione saw the box lying open on Ron’s bed, and the truth hit her with the force of a stampeding troll. 

“Where did you get those Chocolate Cauldrons?” she demanded urgently. 

“They were a birthday present!” shouted Ron. “I offered you one, didn’t I?” 

“You just picked them up off the floor, didn’t you?” 

“They’d fallen off my bed, all right? Let me go!” 

“They didn’t fall off your bed, you prat, don’t you understand? They were Harry’s, he chucked them out of his trunk when he was looking for the map, they’re the Chocolate Cauldrons Romilda gave him before Christmas, and they’re all spiked with love potion!” 

But only one word of this seemed to have registered with Ron. 

“Romilda?” he repeated. “Did you say Romilda? Hermione — do you know her? Can you introduce me?” 

Hermione and Harry shared a quick look with each other and nodded. Ron’s face now looked tremendously hopeful. Hermione barely bit back a laugh. A part of her was quite keen on the idea of letting Ron run amok until the effects of the potion wore off. . . . But on the other hand, Ron was not being himself, and Hermione thought it would devastate Lavender if they permitted Ron to declare undying love for Romilda Vane. 

“Yeah, I’ll introduce you,” said Hermione, thinking fast. 

Ron simply stepped forward, grinning. 

“She’ll be in Slughorn’s office,” said Hermione confidently, leading the way to the door. 

“Why will she be in there?” asked Ron anxiously, hurrying to keep up. 

“Oh, she has extra Potions lessons with him,” said Hermione, inventing wildly. 

“Maybe I could ask if I can have them with her?” said Ron eagerly. 

“Great idea,” said Hermione. 

Lavender was waiting beside the portrait hole, a complication Harry and Hermione had not foreseen. 

“You’re late, Won-Won!” she pouted. “I’ve got you a birthday —” 

“Leave me alone,” said Ron impatiently. “Harry and Hermione are going to introduce me to Romilda Vane.” 

And without another word to her, he pushed his way out of the portrait hole. Hermione turned and mouthed Love potion to Lavender. 

Hermione had been slightly worried that Professor Slughorn might be at breakfast, but he answered his office door at the first knock, wearing a green velvet dressing gown and matching nightcap and looking rather bleary-eyed. 

“Harry, Miss Granger,” he mumbled. “This is very early for a call. . . . I generally sleep late on a Saturday. . . .” 

“Professor, we’re really sorry to disturb you,” said Hermione as quietly as possible, while Ron stood on tiptoe, attempting to see past Slughorn into his room, “but our friend Ron’s swallowed a love potion by mistake. You couldn’t make him an antidote, could you? We’d take him to Madam Pomfrey, but we’re not supposed to have anything from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and, you know . . . awkward questions . . .” 

“I’d have thought you could have whipped him up a remedy, two expert potioneers like you?” asked Slughorn. 

“Er,” said Harry, somewhat distracted by the fact that Ron was now elbowing him in the ribs in an attempt to force his way into the room, “well, I’ve never mixed an antidote for a love potion, sir, and by the time I get it right, Ron might’ve done something serious —” 

Helpfully, Ron chose this moment to moan, “I can’t see her, Harry — is he hiding her?” 

“Was this potion within date?” asked Slughorn, now eyeing Ron with professional interest. “They can strengthen, you know, the longer they’re kept.” 

“That would explain a lot,” panted Harry, now positively wrestling with Ron to keep him from knocking Slughorn over. 

“It’s his birthday, Professor,” said Hermione imploringly. 

“Oh, all right, come in, then, come in,” said Slughorn, relenting. “I’ve got the necessary here in my bag, it’s not a difficult antidote. . . .” 

Ron burst through the door into Slughorn’s overheated, crowded study, tripped over a tasseled foot-stool, regained his balance by seizing Harry around the neck, and muttered, “She didn’t see that, did she?” 

“She’s not here yet,” said Harry, watching Slughorn opening his potion kit and adding a few pinches of this and that to a small crystal bottle. 

“That’s good,” said Ron fervently. “How do I look?” 

“Very handsome,” said Slughorn smoothly, handing Ron a glass of clear liquid. “Now drink that up, it’s a tonic for the nerves, keep you calm when she arrives, you know.” 

“Brilliant,” said Ron eagerly, and he gulped the antidote down noisily. 

Hermione, Harry, and Slughorn watched him. For a moment, Ron beamed at them. Then, very slowly, his grin sagged and vanished, to be replaced by an expression of utmost horror. 

“Back to normal, then?” said Harry, grinning. Slughorn chuckled. “Thanks a lot, Professor.” 

“Don’t mention it, m’boy, don’t mention it,” said Slughorn, as Ron collapsed into a nearby armchair, looking devastated. “Pick-me-up, that’s what he needs,” Slughorn continued, now bustling over to a table loaded with drinks. “I’ve got butterbeer, I’ve got wine, I’ve got one last bottle of this oak-matured mead . . . hmm . . . meant to give that to Dumbledore for Christmas . . . ah, well . . .” 

He shrugged. 

“He can’t miss what he’s never had! Why don’t we open it now and celebrate Mr. Weasley’s birthday? Nothing like a fine spirit to chase away the pangs of disappointed love. . . .” 

He chortled again, and Hermione and Harry joined in. This was the first time they had found themselves almost alone with Slughorn since their disastrous first attempt to extract the true memory from him. Perhaps, if they could just keep Slughorn in a good mood . . . perhaps if they got through enough of the oak-matured mead . . . 

“There you are then,” said Slughorn, handing Hermione, Harry, and Ron a glass of mead each before raising his own. “Well, a very happy birthday, Ralph —” 

“Ron —” whispered Harry. 

But Ron, who did not appear to be listening to the toast, had already thrown the mead into his mouth and swallowed it. There was one second, hardly more than a heartbeat, in which Hermione knew there was something terribly wrong and Slughorn, it seemed, did not. 

“— and may you have many more —” 

“Ron!” 

Ron had dropped his glass; he half-rose from his chair and then crumpled, his extremities jerking uncontrollably. Foam was dribbling from his mouth, and his eyes were bulging from their sockets. 

“Professor!” Hermione bellowed. “Do something!” 

But Slughorn seemed paralyzed by shock. Ron twitched and choked: His skin was turning blue. 

“What — but —” spluttered Slughorn. 

Harry leapt over a low table and sprinted toward Slughorn’s open potion kit, pulling out jars and pouches, while the terrible sound of Ron’s gargling breath filled the room. Then he found it — the shriveled kidney-like stone, the Bezoar, that he had shown Slughorn as an emergency cure for unrecognized poisons. 

He hurtled back to Ron’s side, wrenched open his jaw, and thrust the bezoar into his mouth. Ron gave a great shudder, a rattling gasp, and his body became limp and still. 

Chapter Text

“So, all in all, not one of Ron’s better birthdays?” said Fred. 

It was evening; the hospital wing was quiet, the windows curtained, the lamps lit. Ron’s was the only occupied bed. Lavender, Ginny, Harry, and Hermione were sitting around him; they had spent all day waiting outside the double doors, trying to see inside whenever somebody went in or out. Madam Pomfrey had only let them enter at eight o’clock. Fred and George had arrived at ten past. 

“This isn’t how we imagined handing over our present,” said George grimly, putting down a large wrapped gift on Ron’s bedside cabinet and sitting beside Ginny. 

“Yeah, when we pictured the scene, he was conscious,” said Fred. 

“There we were in Hogsmeade, waiting to surprise him —” said George. 

“You were in Hogsmeade?” asked Ginny, looking up. 

“We were thinking of buying Zonko’s,” said Fred gloomily. “A Hogsmeade branch, you know, but a fat lot of good it’ll do us if you lot aren’t allowed out at weekends to buy our stuff anymore. . . . But never mind that now.” 

He drew up a chair beside Harry and looked at Ron’s pale face. 

“How exactly did it happen, Harry?” 

Harry retold the story he had already recounted; it felt like a hundred times to Dumbledore, to McGonagall, to Madam Pomfrey, to Lavender, and to Ginny. 

“. . . and then I got the bezoar down his throat and his breathing eased up a bit, Slughorn ran for help, Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey turned up, and they brought Ron up here. They reckon he’ll be all right. Madam Pomfrey says he’ll have to stay here a week or so . . . keep taking the Essence of Rue . . .” 

“Blimey, it was lucky you thought of a bezoar,” said George in a low voice. 

“Lucky there was one in the room,” said Harry, who kept turning cold at the thought of what would have happened if he had not been able to lay hands on the little stone. 

Lavender gave an almost inaudible sniff. She had been exceptionally quiet all day. Having hurtled, white-faced, up to Hermione and Harry outside the hospital wing and demanded to know what had happened, she had taken almost no part in Hermione, Harry, and Ginny’s obsessive discussion about how Ron had been poisoned, but merely stood beside them, clench-jawed and frightened-looking, until at last they had been allowed in to see him. 

“Do Mum and Dad know?” Fred asked Ginny. 

“They’ve already seen him, they arrived an hour ago — they’re in Dumbledore’s office now, but they’ll be back soon. . . .” 

There was a pause while they all watched Ron mumble a little in his sleep. 

“So the poison was in the drink?” said Fred quietly. 

“Yes,” said Harry at once; he could think of nothing else and was glad for the opportunity to start discussing it again. “Slughorn poured it out —” 

“Would he have been able to slip something into Ron’s glass without you seeing?” 

“Probably,” said Harry, “but why would Slughorn want to poison Ron?” 

“No idea,” said Fred, frowning. “You don’t think he could have mixed up the glasses by mistake? Meaning to get you?” 

“Why would Slughorn want to poison Harry?” asked Ginny. 

“I dunno,” said Fred, “but there must be loads of people who’d like to poison Harry, mustn’t there? ‘The Chosen One’ and all that?” 

“So you think Slughorn’s a Death Eater?” said Ginny. 

“Anything’s possible,” said Fred darkly. 

“He could be under the Imperius Curse,” said George. 

“Or he could be innocent,” said Hermione. “The poison could have been in the bottle, in which case it was probably meant for Slughorn himself.” 

“Who’d want to kill Slughorn?” 

“Dumbledore reckons Voldemort wanted Slughorn on his side,” said Hermione. “Slughorn was in hiding for a year before he came to Hogwarts. And . . .” 

She thought of the memory Dumbledore had not yet been able to extract from Slughorn. 

“And maybe Voldemort wants him out of the way, maybe he thinks he could be valuable to Dumbledore.” 

“But you said Slughorn had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas,” Ginny reminded him. “So the poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore.” 

“Then the poisoner didn’t know Slughorn very well,” said Lavender; it was the first time she had spoken in a while. “Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he’d keep something that tasty for himself.” 

“La-one-der,” croaked Ron unexpectedly from between them. 

They all fell silent, watching him anxiously, but after muttering incomprehensibly for a moment he merely started snoring. 

The dormitory doors flew open, making them all jump: Hagrid came striding toward them, his hair rain-flecked, his bear-skin coat flapping behind him, a crossbow in his hand, leaving a trail of muddy dolphin-sized footprints all over the floor. 

“Bin in the forest all day!” he panted. “Aragog’s worse, I bin readin’ to him — didn’ get up ter dinner till jus’ now an’ then Professor Sprout told me abou’ Ron! How is he?” 

“Not bad,” said Harry. “They say he’ll be okay.” 

“No more than six visitors at a time!” said Madam Pomfrey, hurrying out of her office. 

“I’d be out,” said Lavender, rising to her feet, not meeting anyone’s eyes. She hurried off while Madam Pomfrey cleared up Hagrid’s muddy footprints with her wand. 

“I don’ believe this,” said Hagrid hoarsely, shaking his great shaggy head as he stared down at Ron. “Jus’ don’ believe it . . . Look at him lyin’ there. . . . Who’d want ter hurt him, eh?” 

“That’s just what we were discussing,” said Hermione. “We don’t know.” 

“Someone couldn’ have a grudge against the Gryffindor Quidditch team, could they?” said Hagrid anxiously. “Firs’ Katie, now Ron . . .” 

“I can’t see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch team,” said George. 

“Wood might’ve done the Slytherins if he could’ve got away with it,” said Fred fairly. 

“Well, I don’t think it’s Quidditch, but I think there’s a connection between the attacks,” said Hermione quietly. 

“How d’you work that out?” asked Fred. 

“Well, for one thing, they both ought to have been fatal and weren’t, although that was pure luck. And for another, neither the poison nor the necklace seems to have reached the person who was supposed to be killed. Of course,” she added broodingly, “that makes the person behind this even more dangerous in a way, because they don’t seem to care how many people they finish off before they actually reach their victim.” 

Before anybody could respond to this ominous pronouncement, the dormitory doors opened again and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley hurried up the ward. They had done no more than satisfy themselves that Ron would make a full recovery on their last visit to the ward; now Mrs. Weasley seized hold of Harry and hugged him very tightly. 

“Dumbledore’s told us how you saved him with the bezoar,” she sobbed. “Oh, Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny . . . you saved Arthur . . . now you’ve saved Ron . . .” 

“Don’t be . . . I didn’t . . .” muttered Harry awkwardly. 

“Half our family seems to owe you their lives, now I stop and think about it,” Mr. Weasley said in a constricted voice. 

Harry could not think of any reply to this and was almost glad when Madam Pomfrey reminded them that there were only supposed to be six visitors around Ron’s bed; he and Hermione rose at once to leave and Hagrid decided to go with them, leaving Ron with his family. 

“It’s terrible,” growled Hagrid into his beard, as the three of them walked back along the corridor to the marble staircase. “All this new security, an’ kids are still gettin’ hurt. . . . Dumbledore’s worried sick. . . . He don’ say much, but I can tell. . . .” 

“Hasn’t he got any ideas, Hagrid?” asked Hermione. 

“I ’spect he’s got hundreds of ideas, brain like his,” said Hagrid. “But he doesn’ know who sent that necklace nor put poison in that wine, or they’d’ve bin caught, wouldn’ they? Wha’ worries me,” said Hagrid, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder (Harry, for good measure, checked the ceiling for Peeves), “is how long Hogwarts can stay open if kids are bein’ attacked. Chamber o’ Secrets all over again, isn’ it? There’ll be panic, more parents takin’ their kids outta school, an’ nex’ thing yeh know the board o’ governors . . .” 

Hagrid stopped talking as the ghost of a long-haired woman drifted serenely past, then resumed in a hoarse whisper, “. . . the board o’ governors’ll be talkin’ about shuttin’ us up fer good.” 

“Surely not?” said Hermione in a worried voice. 

“Gotta see it from their point o’ view,” said Hagrid heavily. “I mean, it’s always bin a bit of a risk sendin’ a kid ter Hogwarts, hasn’ it? Yer expect accidents, don’ yeh, with hundreds of underage wizards all locked up tergether, but attempted murder, tha’s diff’rent. ’S’no wonder Dumbledore’s angry with Sn —” 

Hagrid stopped in his tracks, a familiar, guilty expression on what was visible of his face above his tangled black beard. 

“What?” said Harry quickly. “Dumbledore’s angry with Professor Snape?” 

“I never said tha’,” said Hagrid, though his look of panic could not have been a bigger giveaway. “Look at the time, it’s gettin’ on fer midnight, I need ter —” 

“Hagrid, why is Dumbledore angry with Professor Snape?” Harry asked loudly. 

“Shhhh!” said Hagrid, looking both nervous and angry. “Don’ shout stuff like that, Harry, d’yeh wan’ me ter lose me job?” 

“What’s Professor Snape done?” Harry asked forcefully. 

“I dunno, Harry, I shouldn’ta heard it at all! I — well, I was comin’ outta the forest the other evenin’ an’ I overheard ’em talking — well, arguin’. Didn’t like ter draw attention to meself, so I sorta skulked an’ tried not ter listen, but it was a — well, a heated discussion an’ it wasn’ easy ter block it out.” 

“Well?” Hermione urged him, as Hagrid shuffled his enormous feet uneasily. 

“Well — I jus’ heard Snape sayin’ Dumbledore took too much fer granted an’ maybe he — Snape — didn’ wan’ ter do it anymore —” 

“Do what?” 

“I dunno, Hermione, it sounded like Snape was feelin’ a bit overworked, tha’s all — anyway, Dumbledore told him flat out he’d agreed ter do it an’ that was all there was to it. Pretty firm with him. An’ then he said summat abou’ Snape makin’ investigations in his House, in Slytherin. Well, there’s nothin’ strange abou’ that!” Hagrid added hastily, as Harry and Hermione exchanged looks full of meaning. “All the Heads o’ Houses were asked ter look inter that necklace business —” 

“Look out,” said Hermione tersely. 

They turned just in time to see the shadow of Argus Filch looming over the wall behind them before the man himself turned the corner, hunchbacked, his jowls aquiver. 

“Oho!” he wheezed. “Out of bed so late, this’ll mean detention!” 

“No it won’, Filch,” said Hagrid shortly. “They’re with me, aren’ they?” 

“And what difference does that make?” asked Filch obnoxiously. 

“I’m a ruddy teacher, aren’ I, yeh sneakin’ Squib!” said Hagrid, firing up at once. 

There was a nasty hissing noise as Filch swelled with fury; Mrs. Norris had arrived, unseen, and was twisting herself sinuously around Filch’s skinny ankles. 

“Get goin’,” said Hagrid out of the corner of his mouth. 

Hermione did not need telling twice; she and Harry both hurried off; Hagrid’s and Filch’s raised voices echoed behind them as they ran. They passed Peeves near the turning into Gryffindor Tower, but he was streaking happily toward the source of the yelling, cackling and calling: 

When there’s strife and when there’s trouble 

Call on Peevsie, he’ll make double! 

The Fat Lady was snoozing and not pleased to be woken, but swung forward grumpily to allow Hermione and Harry to clamber into the mercifully peaceful and empty common room. It did not seem that people knew about Ron yet; Harry was very relieved: He had been interrogated enough that day. 

As Harry took a seat beside the fire, Hermione made her space in his lap and buried her head in his chest, breathing slowly, feeling his strong arms around her. 

... 

Hermione didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until Harry woke her up. Professor McGonagall was standing over them. 

“Professor!” Hermione exclaimed, jumping out of Harry’s lap, blushing profusely. 

Professor McGonagall, for once, seemed to ignore the indecency her favorite pupil had just displayed, as she asked the two of them, “How are you both?” 

“We’re — we’re good, Professor,” said Hermione, working through her embarrassment. “Ron just got saved.” 

Professor McGonagall nodded grimly. 

“This is the second mysteriously fatal attack on a student this year.” 

“It seems like the attacks are not targeted at me, not this time at least,” said Harry quietly. “It looks like whoever this attacker is, he’s focused on Professor Dumbledore.” 

“Katie was Imperiused,” spoke Hermione. “Her friend, Leanne, told us Katie was supposed to give that necklace to someone. Similarly, Slughorn was about to share that mead with Professor Dumbledore. It’s all connected.” 

“Yes . . . I’m afraid it does look like it,” said Professor McGonagall. “Anyway, I came here to give you this, Harry.” 

She pulled out the Quidditch Captain’s badge from inside her robes. 

“I want you to return to the team,” she said to a gaping Harry. “Katie and Ron are both out now. The team’s morale is pretty low at the moment, the lowest I daresay. They need a leader, and you’re perfect for it. You won them the Cup last time you played.” 

“But I retired after that,” Harry croaked. 

“Take it, Harry,” said Hermione unexpectedly; Harry looked around at her in surprise. “I know you like to fly, and you’ve been missing it, and besides, only two matches are left, right? You can manage that. And I’m kind of positive Ron and Katie will be up by the finals, so you might not have to play that one at all. Just one match. You should take it.” 

“Yeah?” said Harry, running a hand through his hair. “O-okay, I will, but what about my Prefect’s badge, then?” 

“One can keep both,” said Professor McGonagall rather easily. 

“No, that’s not right,” said Harry, shaking his head. “I think Neville can be a Prefect for the time being.” 

“Longbottom?” Professor McGonagall raised a doubtful eyebrow. 

“Yes,” said Harry firmly. “He can do it, I’m sure of it.” 

“I’m so proud of you,” Hermione whispered, planting her lips on his cheek and pulling back quickly when Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. 

“Good luck, Potter,” she said warmly. “Do win us the match.” 

... 

Neville choked on his porridge when Harry informed him about the changes in Prefectship over dinner. 

“Me?” Neville squeaked. “Why me?” 

“And why’re you even dropping your Prefect’s badge, Harry?” asked Ginny. 

“Because Professor McGonagall’s made him the Quidditch Captain until Katie and Ron are back,” said Hermione simply. 

It was Ginny’s turn to choke on her food. 

“You’re back in the team?” she squealed in joy. 

“Yes, yes, I am,” said Harry, unable to help grinning. “And, er, can I take your place as the Seeker?” 

“Holy Merlin, yes!” Ginny almost screamed. “I always wanted to be a Chaser, anyway!” 

“Then, I think Dean can be the interim Goalkeeper,” said Harry at once. 

“You’ll be with me, Nev, it’ll be all right,” Hermione reassured the anxious boy. 

The Gryffindor team was beyond itself to have Harry Potter as their Captain, which, Ginny said repeatedly, was an improvement over Ron. 

“I’ll get to play with Harry Potter!” Demelza Robins squealed in delight. “I can’t believe it!” 

“We’re starting practice with the new team tomorrow, okay?” said Harry modestly. 

As the rest of the team left the Quidditch pitch, talking excitedly among themselves, Hermione got up from the stands, from where she was adoring Harry, and strided over to him only to be swept off her feet and kissed passionately. 

“Excited, eh?” Hermione said cheekily as Harry finally let her back on her feet. “I feel like I’ve been —” 

“Shh — I retired on my own will,” he said firmly, placing a finger on her lips. “You had nothing to do with it.” 

“Alright. Let’s go back then?” 

“Hold on — you want a ride?” 

“Er . . . okay, but not too high,” said Hermione after a small pause of rumination; she was now quite okay with flying as long as Harry was there to hold her. 

Harry held out his hand and his Firebolt came flying from the locker rooms. 

“Nonverbal, wandless magic?” Hermione whispered, her eyes bulging in awe. “Have I ever told you how sexy you are when you display your power?” 

Harry smiled while he kissed her and said against her mouth, “You’re such a good influence on me, Miss Granger. Now, hop on.” 

Hermione gingerly put her legs around the Firebolt, slightly anxious, but relaxed when Harry climbed behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist. 

“Feels good?” he asked once they were around twenty feet high in the air, hovering around slowly and steadily. 

“Yes,” she said, relishing the feel of wind against her face. “You know what, we should do this more often.” 

She really was getting used to this soaring sensation in her pit whenever she flew with Harry. . . . 

“There you are, Potter!” 

Hermione and Harry had just landed back on the ground when Cormac McLaggen ran up to them. 

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Potter,” said McLaggen. “Look, I saw them taking Weasley up to the hospital wing earlier. Didn’t look like he’ll be fit for next week’s match.” 

It took Hermione a few moments to realize what McLaggen was talking about. Her mind was still up in the air with Harry on his broomstick. 

“Yeah, he might not make it,” Harry said, running a hand wearily through his hair. 

“Well, then, I’ll be playing Keeper, won’t I?” said McLaggen. 

“Er,” said Harry. “I asked Dean Thomas for that. . . .” 

“What?” McLaggen said angrily. “I was the runner-up for Keeper tryouts and you asked Thomas for it?” 

“Why don’t you and Dean have a match to decide who’s better?” Hermione suggested. 

McLaggen frowned at her but agreed. 

He won. 

“Sorry, Dean,” Harry said emphatically, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder; Dean had lost by two points to McLaggen. “Maybe next time.” 

“But Katie and Ron would be back by then, wouldn’t they?” said Dean grumpily. 

“Well . . .” 

Dean grunted and left the pitch gloomily. 

“Excellent,” said McLaggen in a satisfied voice. “So when’s practice?” 

“What? Oh . . . there’s one tomorrow evening.” 

“Good. Listen, Potter, we should have a talk beforehand. I’ve got some ideas on strategy you might find useful.” 

“Well, I’ll hear them tomorrow, then,” said Harry unenthusiastically. “I’m pretty tired now . . . see you . . .” 

The news that Ron had been poisoned had spread over the castle by now, but it did not cause the sensation that Katie’s attack had done. People seemed to think that it might have been an accident, given that he had been in the Potions master’s room at the time, and that as he had been given an antidote immediately there was no real harm done. In fact, the Gryffindors were generally much more interested in the upcoming Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, for many of them wanted to see Zacharias Smith, who played Chaser on the Hufflepuff team, punished soundly for his commentary during the opening match against Slytherin. 

Harry, despite being back in the team and even that as the Captain, however, had never been less interested in Quidditch; he was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy. Still checking the Marauder’s Map whenever he got a chance, he sometimes made detours to wherever Malfoy happened to be, but had not yet detected him doing anything out of the ordinary. And still there were those inexplicable times when Malfoy simply vanished from the map. . . . 

But Harry did not get a lot of time to consider the problem, what with Quidditch practice, homework, and the fact that he was now being dogged wherever he went by Cormac McLaggen. 

McLaggen kept up a constant stream of hints that he would make a better permanent Keeper for the team than Ron, and that now that Harry was seeing him play regularly he would surely come around to this way of thinking too; he was also keen to criticize the other players and provide Harry with detailed training schemes, so that more than once Harry was forced to remind him who was Captain. 

Meanwhile, Lavender kept sidling up to Hermione to discuss Ron. Lavender was becoming insecure that their love (her and Ron’s) was not strong enough to defer a love potion. 

“Look, Lavender,” said Hermione patiently. “It’s a love potion we’re talking about. And besides, didn’t you hear what Ron muttered in his sleep? He said your name, not Romilda Vane’s.” 

“Then why is he always asleep when I go and see him?” said Lavender fretfully. 

“Is he?” said Hermione, surprised, for she and Harry had found Ron perfectly alert every time they had been up to the hospital wing, quite keen to abuse McLaggen as much as possible. 

“Yes,” said Lavender forcefully. “I’m worried he’s thinking of breaking up with me.” 

“Lavender, I think you’re taking it all wrong,” 

“Am I?” 

“Yes, maybe he’s embarrassed of what happened, don’t you think? Maybe he’s ashamed of himself that he got enchanted by a love potion?” 

Lavender paled and gulped. 

“I should talk to him,” she whispered sadly. 

“Yes, you should . . .” 

Hermione watched Lavender leave the common room. 

“Giving relationship advice now, are we?” 

Hermione turned to find Harry coming down the boys’ dormitory with his Firebolt on his shoulder. He was grinning wickedly at her. 

“So, that’s how you kept me in your hooks, eh?” he said, approaching her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“I never had to do anything like that,” she said honestly. 

Their lips met for a kiss, and it was turning too fervent to be conducted in the common room that Ginny, who had just come down from her dormitory, yelled, “Oi! There are kids here!” 

Hermione and Harry pulled apart, laughing. 

That same evening, Lavender pulled Hermione aside to thank her. 

“He was embarrassed,” she told Hermione. “Thank you for talking to me.” 

“It’s all right,” said Hermione. “Always think before you speak, that’s my mantra for life.” 

On the morning of the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, Hermione woke up before Harry. He had been a bit anxious about the match till late night, worried his rustiness would cost the team. She closed her eyes and just paid attention to his gentle breathing next to hers, his chest rising and falling, his heart beating under the palm of her hand. 

Hermione pressed herself even closer to Harry and stroked his messy black hair with the back of her fingers. She smiled to herself; Harry always looked so peaceful when asleep. Unable to help herself, she tenderly pressed her lips against his, and he stirred. His eyelids flickered as he awoke to feel Hermione’s amorous affections. 

“ ’Morning, Hermione.” 

Harry grinned at her and reached out a hand to caress her bushy golden head. He returned her kiss humidly, his own passion rising. 

“Good morning, Harry,” murmured Hermione, bearing an expression of longing. Moments later, she was atop him, his hands wrapped around her waist, as they kissed even more vigorously. 

Harry gasped with pleasure as Hermione nestled her heated entrance against the tip of his erection. She rocked back and felt his shaft sliding inside her, letting out a moan at feeling Harry filling her completely, and began to ride him. Harry met the gyrations of her hips with thrusts of his own, burying himself within her. Her sheath tightly gripped his lance as he plummeted to her depths, the covers tumbling away. His lips encircled hers again, and he had both hands on her boobs, fingers tugging on her hardened nipples as they continued to writhe in unison. 

A current of bliss swept them both away, and they lost themselves. Hermione squealed as she peaked. The delicious sensation of her climax was too much for Harry as well. Groaning ecstatically, he burst, filling Hermione’s chamber with his seed. 

She fell back sweatily against his chest, both of them panting. She lay there purring serenely on top of Harry, his fingers tangled in her messy coils of hair. She didn’t want to move. It felt just nice to lie there peacefully in Harry’s arms with him still inside her. 

Harry’s head swirled with intoxication as he breathed in Hermione’s aroma. He couldn’t tell where he left off and Hermione began. He didn’t know how long the two of them lay like that, completely absorbed in one another, but after a while, Harry felt the eddies of ecstasy begin to move him again. 

Soon, the bed rocked once more as Harry and Hermione resumed their passions. This time, Hermione was underneath, her legs tightly wrapped around Harry’s backside as he plumbed her depths from above. Magic cracked when the pair of them merged in an explosion of euphoria for the second time. . . . 

Later that morning, Hermione was accompanying Harry down through the deserted corridors; the whole school was outside, either already seated in the stadium or heading down toward it. Harry was looking out of the windows he passed, trying to gauge how much wind they were facing, when a noise ahead made them glance up and they saw Malfoy walking toward them, accompanied by two girls, both of whom looked sulky and resentful. 

Malfoy stopped short at the sight of Harry and Hermione, then gave a short, humorless laugh and continued walking. 

“Where’re you going?” Hermione demanded. 

“Yeah, I’m really going to tell you, because it’s your business, Granger,” sneered Malfoy. “You’d better hurry up, Potter, they’ll be waiting for ‘the Chosen Captain’ — ‘the Boy Who Scored’ — whatever they call you these days.” 

One of the girls gave an unwilling giggle. Harry stared at her. She blushed. Malfoy pushed past Harry and the two girls followed at a trot, turning the corner and vanishing from view. 

Hermione and Harry stood rooted on the spot and watched them disappear. Where was Malfoy skulking off while the rest of the school was absent? 

“You’d be late for the match, Harry,” Hermione said urgently. “Let’s not think about Malfoy for a while, yeah?” 

Harry nodded, even if a bit grudgingly. 

While Hermione sat down with Susan and Daphne in the stands, Harry sprinted into the changing rooms. 

“Where have you been?” demanded Ginny. 

The whole team was changed and ready; Coote and Peakes, the Beaters, were both hitting their clubs nervously against their legs. 

“Sorry, I just . . . you know what, you don’t want to know the details,” Harry told her quietly, as he pulled his scarlet robes over his head, hoping Ginny would take it as something about him and Hermione snogging. Thankfully, Ginny didn’t ask any further questions. 

The team marched out onto the pitch to deafening cheers and boos. There was little wind; the clouds were patchy; every now and then there were dazzling flashes of bright sunlight. 

“Tricky conditions!” McLaggen said bracingly to the team. “Coote, Peakes, you’ll want to fly out of the sun, so they don’t see you coming —” 

“I’m the Captain, McLaggen, shut up giving them instructions,” said Harry angrily. “Just get up by the goal posts!” 

Once McLaggen had marched off, Harry turned to Coote and Peakes. 

“Make sure you do fly out of the sun,” he told them grudgingly. 

He shook hands with the Hufflepuff Captain, and then, on Madam Hooch’s whistle, kicked off and rose into the air, higher than the rest of his team, streaking around the pitch in search of the Snitch, like he always used to do. If he could catch it good and early, there might be a chance he could get back up to the castle, seize the Marauder’s Map, and find out what Malfoy was doing. There was no enjoying his return to the Quidditch pitch for him. . . . 

“This match is an out-of-retirement-for-one-last-match for Harry Potter, who keeps reminding me that we’re friends, I like that feeling, I must admit,” said a dreamy voice, echoing over the grounds. “Anyway, that’s Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle. He did the commentary last time, of course, and Ginny Weasley flew into him, I think probably on purpose, it looked like it. Smith was being quite rude about Gryffindor, I expect he regrets that now he’s playing them — oh, look, he’s lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I do like her, she’s very nice. . . .” 

Harry stared down at the commentator’s podium. Even from above there was no mistaking that long, dirty-blonde hair, nor the necklace of butterbeer corks. . . . Beside Luna, Professor McGonagall was looking slightly uncomfortable, as though she was indeed having second thoughts about this appointment. 

“. . . but now that big Hufflepuff player’s got the Quaffle from her, I can’t remember his name, it’s something like Bibble — no, Buggins —” 

“It’s Cadwallader!” said Professor McGonagall loudly from beside Luna. 

The crowd laughed. Harry stared around for the Snitch; there was no sign of it. Moments later, Cadwallader scored. McLaggen had been shouting criticism at Ginny for allowing the Quaffle out of her possession, with the result that he had not noticed the large red ball soaring past his right ear. 

“McLaggen, will you pay attention to what you’re supposed to be doing and leave everyone else alone!” bellowed Harry, wheeling around to face his Keeper. “You’re not setting a great example!” 

McLaggen shouted back, red-faced and furious. 

“And Harry Potter’s now having an argument with his Keeper,” said Luna serenely, while both Hufflepuffs and Slytherins below in the crowd cheered and jeered. “I don’t think that’ll help him find the Snitch, but maybe it’s a clever ruse. . . .” 

Swearing angrily, Harry spun around and set off around the pitch again, scanning the skies for some sign of the tiny, winged golden ball. 

Ginny and Demelza scored a goal apiece, giving the red-and-gold-clad supporters below something to cheer about. Then Cadwallader scored again, making things level, but Luna did not seem to have noticed; she appeared singularly uninterested in such mundane things as the score, and kept attempting to draw the crowd’s attention to such things as interestingly shaped clouds and the possibility that Zacharias Smith, who had so far failed to maintain possession of the Quaffle for longer than a minute, was suffering from something called “Loser’s Lurgy.” 

“Seventy-forty to Hufflepuff!” barked Professor McGonagall into Luna’s megaphone. 

“Is it, already?” said Luna vaguely. “Oh, look! The Gryffindor Keeper’s got hold of one of the Beater’s bats.” 

Harry spun around in midair. Sure enough, McLaggen, for reasons best known to himself, had pulled Peakes’s bat from him and appeared to be demonstrating how to hit a Bludger toward an oncoming Cadwallader. 

“Will you give him back his bat and get back to the goal posts!” roared Harry, pelting toward McLaggen just as McLaggen took a ferocious swipe at the Bludger and Harry barely dodged the blow. He heard distant screams, surely the crowd was scared and angry at McLaggen . . . 

“You’re the Keeper, so behave like that,” Harry warned McLaggen, who turned puce in rage. 

But Harry had no time for McLaggen. He had just spotted something glittering in the sky. 

“Step aside!” he bellowed at McLaggen. 

Everything was a blur. Harry had bolted upwards so fastly the wind blowing against him was making him deaf. The Golden Snitch was twittering fifty feet above the pitch. Harry could sense the Hufflepuff Seeker, Summerby, lagging behind him. 

Harry, gripping his broom tightly in his left hand, outstretched his right one . . . He was reaching . . . reaching . . . reaching . . . 

“YES!” 

The crowd jumped in joy. Harry held the Snitch in his right hand . . . But then there was an ear-piercing shriek . . . Harry felt a blinding, sickening pain . . . a flash of light . . . and the sensation of falling down a long tunnel . . . 

And the next thing Harry knew, he was lying in a remarkably warm and comfortable bed and looking up at a lamp that was throwing a circle of golden light onto a shadowy ceiling. He raised his head awkwardly. There on his left was a familiar-looking, bushy, brown-haired person. 

“Hermione?” 

“Harry!” 

Hermione flung herself upon him and shook terribly in his arms. 

“What happened? Where am I? Why does my head hurt so much?” 

“That loathsome cockroach McLaggen!” Hermione fumed in his arms. “He was mad at you for admonishing him. The moment you caught the Snitch, he shot a bludger at you, he wanted the glory which you stole from him! Professor McGonagall suspended him from the team and gave him detention for the rest of the year.” 

Harry was in the hospital wing. The sky outside was indigo streaked with crimson. The match must have finished hours ago . . . as had any hope of cornering Malfoy. Harry’s head felt strangely heavy; he raised a hand and felt a stiff turban of bandages. 

“What happened?” he asked, sitting up. 

“Cracked skull,” said Madam Pomfrey, bustling up and pushing him back against his pillows. “Nothing to worry about, I mended it at once, but I’m keeping you in overnight. You shouldn’t overexert yourself for a few hours.” 

She bustled back into her office, and Harry sank back into his pillows, sighing. 

“Lay down next to me.” 

Hermione obeyed and snuggled into his arms. Someone cleared their throat and Harry and Hermione looked around to find Ron in his bed. 

“I could hear the match commentary from here,” said Ron, his voice now shaking with laughter. “I hope Luna always commentates from now on. . . . Loser’s Lurgy . . . 

“Ginny came in to visit while you were unconscious,” he said, after a long pause. “She reckons you only just arrived on time for the match. How come? You’re the Captain, you should have been the first one to be there!” 

“How are things between you and Lavender?” said Hermione, not wanting to talk about Malfoy just yet. 

“Oh, we’re all right,” said Ron, blushing. “We talked and shared . . . things. We’re okay, yeah.” 

“Good,” said Hermione, nodding. 

“It’s official, then, isn’t it?” Harry said, looking amused. “Harry Potter can’t have a single match without visiting the hospital wing.” 

While Ron guffawed, Hermione wasn’t impressed a single bit. So she chose to extinguish her fumes by cuddling Harry. 

Susan, Ginny, Daphne, and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team (except McLaggen) all paid Harry a visit in the hospital wing by the time night fell. Hermione stayed in Harry’s bed all the time, promising Madam Pomfrey there would be no inappropriate behavior in her domain. 

“I want to know what Malfoy’s up to,” said Harry at sometime close to midnight. 

“Sometimes, Harry, I wonder,” said Hermione. “I mean, there’s no rule saying only one person at a time can be plotting anything in this place, you know. Are we getting a bit obsessed with Malfoy?” 

“Maybe . . .” Harry said slowly. “I just want to catch him at it! I mean, where’s he going when he disappears off the map?” 

“I dunno . . . Hogsmeade?” suggested Hermione. 

“We’ve never seen him going along any of the secret passageways on the map. They’re being watched now anyway, ain’t they?” 

Silence fell between them. Hermione stared up at the ceiling above them, thinking. . . . 

If only they had Rufus Scrimgeour’s power, they would have been able to set a tail upon Malfoy, but unfortunately they did not have an office full of Aurors at his command. . . . Hermione thought fleetingly of trying to set something up with the H.G., but there again was the problem that people would be missed from lessons; most of them, after all, still had full schedules. . . . 

There was a low, rumbling snore from Ron’s bed. This was, Hermione reflected in the darkness, the third time that Harry had been brought to the hospital wing because of a Quidditch injury. Last time he had fallen off his broom due to the presence of dementors around the pitch, and the time before that, all the bones had been removed from his arm by the incurably inept Professor Lockhart. . . . 

That had been his most painful injury by far . . . Hermione fumed at herself for ever fancying that stupid git as she remembered the agony Harry had to go through to regrow an armful of bones in one night, a discomfort not eased by the arrival of an unexpected visitor in the middle of the — 

Hermione sat bolt upright, her heart pounding. Harry, too, sat up in alarm, his bandage turban askew. 

“Harry, call Dobby!” Hermione whispered in excitement. 

They had the solution at last: There was a way to have Malfoy followed — how could they have forgotten, why hadn’t they thought of it before? 

“Dobby,” said Harry tentatively, speaking to nothing in particular. 

There was a very loud crack, and the sounds of scuffling and squeaks filled the silent room. 

“What’s going — ?” 

Hermione pointed her wand hastily at the door of Madam Pomfrey’s office and muttered, “Muffliato!” so that she would not come running. Then Hermione and Harry scrambled to the end of his bed for a better look at what was going on. 

Two house-elves were rolling around on the floor in the middle of the dormitory, one wearing a shrunken maroon jumper and several wooly hats, the other, a filthy old rag strung over his hips like a loincloth. Then there was another loud bang, and Peeves the Poltergeist appeared in midair above the wrestling elves. 

“I was watching that, Potty!” he told Harry indignantly, pointing at the fight below, before letting out a loud cackle. “Look at the ickle creatures squabbling, bitey bitey, punchy punchy —” 

“Kreacher will not insult Harry Potter in front of Dobby, no he won’t, or Dobby will shut Kreacher’s mouth for him!” cried Dobby in a high-pitched voice. 

“— kicky, scratchy!” cried Peeves happily, now pelting bits of chalk at the elves to enrage them further. “Tweaky, pokey!” 

“Kreacher will say what he likes about his master, oh yes, and what a master he is, filthy friend of Mudbloods, oh, what would poor Kreacher’s mistress say — ?” 

Exactly what Kreacher’s mistress would have said they did not find out, for at that moment Dobby sank his knobbly little fist into Kreacher’s mouth and knocked out half of his teeth. Hermione and Harry both leapt out of the bed and wrenched the two elves apart, though they continued to try and kick and punch each other, egged on by Peeves, who swooped around the lamp squealing, “Stick your fingers up his nosey, draw his cork and pull his earsies —” 

Harry aimed his wand at Peeves and said, “Langlock!” 

Peeves clutched at his throat, gulped, then swooped from the room making obscene gestures but unable to speak, owing to the fact that his tongue had just glued itself to the roof of his mouth. 

“Nice one,” said Hermione appreciatively, lifting Dobby into the air so that his flailing limbs no longer made contact with Kreacher. “That was another Prince hex, wasn’t it?” 

“Yeah, Daphne showed me once,” said Harry, twisting Kreacher’s wizened arm into a half nelson. “Right — I’m forbidding you to fight each other! Well, Kreacher, you’re forbidden to fight Dobby. Dobby, I know I’m not allowed to give you orders —” 

“Dobby is a free house-elf and he can obey anyone he likes and Dobby will do whatever Harry Potter wants him to do!” said Dobby, tears now streaming down his shriveled little face onto his jumper. 

“Okay then,” said Harry, and he and Hermione both released the elves, who fell to the floor but did not continue fighting. 

“Master called me?” croaked Kreacher, sinking into a bow even as he gave Harry a look that plainly wished him a painful death. 

“Yeah, I did,” said Harry, glancing toward Ron’s bed and Madam Pomfrey’s office door to check that the Muffliato spell was still working; there was no sign that either of them had heard any of the commotion. “I’ve got a job for you.” 

“Kreacher will do whatever Master wants,” said Kreacher, sinking so low that his lips almost touched his gnarled toes, “because Kreacher has no choice, but Kreacher is ashamed to have such a master, yes —” 

“Dobby will do it, Harry Potter!” squeaked Dobby, his tennis-ball-sized eyes still swimming in tears. “Dobby would be honored to help Harry Potter!” 

“Come to think of it, it would be good to have both of you,” said Hermione. “Okay then . . . We want you to tail Draco Malfoy.” Ignoring the look of surprise on Harry’s face, she went on, “We want to know where he’s going, who he’s meeting, and what he’s doing. We want you to follow him around the clock.” 

“Yes, Harry Potter’s Grangy!” said Dobby at once, his great eyes shining with excitement. “And if Dobby does it wrong, Dobby will throw himself off the topmost tower, Harry Potter’s Grangy!” 

“There won’t be any need for that,” said Hermione hastily. 

“Master wants me to follow the youngest of the Malfoys?” croaked Kreacher. “Master wants me to spy upon the pure-blood great-nephew of my old mistress?” 

“That’s the one,” said Harry, foreseeing a great danger and determining to prevent it immediately. “And you’re forbidden to tip him off, Kreacher, or to show him what you’re up to, or to talk to him at all, or to write him messages or . . . or to contact him in any way. Got it?” 

Hermione could see Kreacher struggling to see a loophole in the instructions they had just been given and waited. After a moment or two, and to Hermione’s great satisfaction, Kreacher bowed deeply again and said, with bitter resentment, “Master thinks of everything, and Kreacher must obey him even though Kreacher would much rather be the servant of the Malfoy boy, oh yes. . . .” 

“That’s settled, then,” said Harry. “I’ll want regular reports, but make sure I’m not surrounded by people when you turn up. Hermione and Susan are okay. And don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Just stick to Malfoy like a couple of wart plasters.” 

Chapter Text

Harry and Ron left the hospital wing the first thing on Monday morning, both restored to full health by the careful ministrations of Madam Pomfrey. Harry returned the Captain’s badge to Ron, but he was unsure of accepting it. 

“I dunno, Harry, they want you more than me,” Ron said awkwardly, even though it was quite clear he wasn’t particularly fond of this fact. 

“I returned for only until you were healthy again,” said Harry firmly. “It’s yours. Keep it.” 

Neville, on the other hand, returned the Prefect’s badge to Harry quite gladly, saying, “I never knew there are so many Gryffindors, rest aside so many students.” 

Professor McGonagall summoned Harry into her office and tried to convince him to stay in the team but he refused politely. He wasn’t offered any biscuits after that. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay in the team?” Hermione asked Harry as they went back upstairs. She stood by Professor McGonagall’s door the entire time. 

“Yes, because I seriously can’t afford another injury,” he said plainly. 

“By the way, I believe I’ve missed telling you that I had a row with McLaggen,” Hermione admitted in a small voice. 

“You had a row with McLaggen?” Harry repeated, amused. 

“He was being a jerk about him hitting that bludger at you, so I . . . er . . . on Sue and Gin’s provocative advice and Daphne’s presence when they were dispensing the said advice, I hexed him.” 

“You hexed him?” 

“Don’t be surprised if he keeps his face covered for a week or two,” said Hermione meekly. 

“Why? What did you do to it?” 

“The same that I did to Marietta Edgecombe last year. Loads of pimples.” 

“Hermione,” said Harry, astonished. “I’m going to have to have a talk with them.” 

“Harry!” 

“You can’t hex everyone that speaks ill of me, Hermione,” Harry said wisely. “Remember when Umbridge gave you detention last year because you hit Malfoy because he insulted my mother?” 

“Let that slimy ferret git try that again,” Hermione fumed through her nostrils. “I will do so much more than just hit him this time.” 

Harry let out a sigh. 

“You’re a Prefect, love,” he reminded her. “You’re supposed to be a role model, right?” 

“I am your girlfriend first, everything else comes later,” she said firmly. 

“I’d never know how I got this lucky,” 

“Well, you jumped on a troll’s back for me — what?” Hermione added urgently because Harry’s eyes had suddenly become as round as saucers. 

“I just had a crazy idea,” he whispered, his gaze fixed ahead of him, not really seeing anything. Hermione knew that look; he just had had a mind-bending thought which was as simple as it was complex. 

“What crazy idea?” asked Hermione, blinking at him. 

“What do you say about you and I becoming Animagi?” 

... 

Hermione’s answer was a resounding yes as she believed Animagi powers could prove really handy in a battle, which they both agreed was inevitable at this point. Animagus’s usefulness had been proved by James, Sirius, and Pettigrew becoming Animagi to help Remus when he turned into a werewolf every full moon; Pettigrew escaping everyone’s eyesight by turning into a rat when Sirius tried to catch him was another example. She also vouched for asking their friends about this, which surprisingly turned out to be a kind of mixed reaction. 

“Actually, no thank you,” Susan said, refusing to take part in their latest adventure. 

“But I thought you were jealous of Amelia for becoming an Animagus a couple of years ago,” Hermione argued. 

“I was,” Susan said truthfully. “But now I believe it’s more risky than it is rewarding.” 

“Count me out too,” said Daphne. “I’ve had my share of fiddling with strange powers. I’m just fine as I am.” 

Hermione opened her mouth but closed it when Harry squeezed her hand under the table. That’s right, they couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t spout something that wouldn’t infuriate the Slytherin witch. 

“I’m in!” yelled Ginny. She had been attempting to speak ever since Harry and Hermione posed the question in front of the three witches, but every time she would try, someone else would beat her at it. 

“NO!” All four of them exclaimed as one. 

“Why not?” Ginny asked angrily, crossing her arms at her generous chest. “Just because I’m only one year younger than you? Is it?” 

Exactly. 

But none of them dared say it aloud. 

“You’re a fifth-year, Gin,” Harry said cautiously, Hermione, Susan, and Daphne nodding their heads. “Unfortunately, that means you’re not of age yet.” 

Lame. 

“Yeah, stick that logic up your fucking ass, Potter!” Ginny burst, her eyes moist, as she slammed her hands on the table top and left the room completely silent in her wake. 

“She will cool down,” said Susan, once they all watched the youngest Weasley slam the door behind her. “In an hour or so. I guess.” 

She didn’t sound as certain as she should have. 

“Time,” Hermione whispered. 

“Yeah, let’s give her a little time to gather herself,” Susan said, nodding her head. “She’ll be back before we know it.” 

“No, I mean, yes, but I was not talking about that, Sue,” Hermione said. “The Animagus Potion requires time.” 

“Of course it does,” said Daphne in a matter-of-fact tone that could rival Hermione’s any time of the day. “The potion to turn the drinker into an animal is very difficult, complex, and time-consuming to brew correctly, with frightening consequences if done incorrectly. Moreover, it cannot be bought for someone else, as brewing it involves including a piece of one’s own hair and a Mandrake leaf soaked in the mouth of the person who was intended to drink it.” 

Susan looked at her in a way that for some reason flushed Daphne’s skin. 

“I warn you, Susan Andy Bones, if you said your thoughts aloud, I will gut you right here right now,” Daphne warned in no uncertain terms. 

The redhead raised her arms in peace, but the smirk didn’t leave her face. 

“So, how do you intend to keep a Mandrake leaf in your month?” Daphne asked the two Gryffindors. 

“Er . . . by keeping it in our mouths for a month?” said Harry. “Do you have a better option?” 

It was Daphne’s turn to smirk. 

“You owe me one for this,” she said and pulled her Time-Turner out of her shirt. Hermione was glad Harry had stopped her from angering their Slytherin friend earlier. 

Daphne’s excuse to still be in possession of the potentially dangerous magical artifact despite promising to return it to the place she stole it from was that she simply hadn’t been able to visit Gringotts yet. Unconvincing, really, but Hermione let the matter slip under the rug since she knew how big of a help the Time-Turner was going to be. 

And she was right. Like always. 

Harry and Hermione used Daphne’s Time-Turner to carry out the first, and perhaps the most difficult step, i.e. to keep a Mandrake leaf each in their mouths for an entire month (from full moon to full moon). The now saliva-soaked Mandrake leaves had to be placed in small crystal phials and struck directly by the moon’s poor light. To achieve this, the couple sneaked into the Astronomy Tower. Luckily, the sky was clear. If it wasn’t, the entire Mandrake leaf process would need to be repeated. 

A strand of their hair was added to their phials, followed by a silver teaspoon of dew taken from a place that had not been touched by sunlight or human feet for at least seven days. They chose the dew growing near the Boathouse. 

At last, one Death’s-head Hawk Moth chrysalis was added to each phial, after which the only step remaining was to place the phial in a dark, quiet place and leave it undisturbed until the next lightning storm, whenever that might be. 

A day prior to the Hogwarts Express leaving for London for Easter holidays. 

... 

“Are you ready?” Harry asked her with a bite of concern in his voice. 

They both had their own phial of blood-red potion in hand, the exact shade of color a perfectly brewed recipe was supposed to take. They had chosen the Room of Requirement for their misadventure; it felt like the safest option. 

“Yep.” 

“Are you sure you want to do this first?” 

“Yes, baby,” Hermione said with a confident grin. Her heart, on the other hand, was thumping rapidly against her sternum. “Alright, here it goes.” 

She stood at a fair distance away from Harry, just in case. Nodding at him, she pinched her nose shut and tipped her share of the Animagus Potion. Her taste buds cried and throat protested, coughing hoarse, at the absolutely repulsive taste of the liquid. 

“Is it . . . supposed to taste so . . . bitter?” 

Guess they should have asked Sirius or Amelia, but that would have put their task in jeopardy. 

She collapsed down to her fours. 

“Hermione!” Harry yelled, taking a couple of steps towards her. “Are you okay?” 

Hermione panted; her lungs were on fire. She was struggling hard to breathe. There was definitely something wrong with her. None of the archives they found in the library mentioned pain of this level. It was supposed to be a mild discomfort at its worst, not this insufferable sensation like her very marrow was being grated out of her bones. Harry’s voice calling her sounded distant, as if he was a mile away. 

But the potion was of the right color, she thought, grappling with her own mind to perceive any mistake they might have made, unbeknownst or not. 

She shut her eyes tightly, determined to live past the pain. She lost all other sensations of her body, genuinely not sure whether she was still breathing or not. 

“Holy moly!” 

Harry’s voice was clearer this time. She opened her eyes but all there was to see was darkness. 

... 

Holy Mother of all that is — oh, shit! 

Harry’s eyes widened as he saw Hermione transform. 

Her body was bulking up fast, gaining several feet of height and several tens of kilos of weight; muscles toning; layers and layers of golden hair occupying her skin; her mouth turning into a snout; a long tail sprouting behind her. 

Hermione’s Animagus was a terrifying nine-feet tall lioness. 

“Wow!” Harry gasped. “You’re a lioness, Hermione! A giant one!” 

She didn’t respond right away, rather shaking her head as if trying to bring her senses back to work. 

“Hermione?” Harry said, stepping forward. “How does it feel? Does it hurt somewhere?” 

But, when Hermione turned her head towards Harry, her eyes were not almond-brown anymore — the ones that always looked at him with the purest form of love — but darker than black, full of malice; she was growling at him, a thin strand of drool leaking down her jaw. She had sharp, pointed canines that looked even more dangerous amid her growling. 

“Hermione?” 

The way she was glaring at him worried him. It didn’t feel like her at all. 

Suddenly, Hermione took a step forward and roared at the top of her lungs — which he wasn’t expecting at all — and he fell backwards on the ground. 

Hermione roared again. Harry was having goosebumps all over his skin; he could feel it in the marrow of his bones that something was very, very wrong. Why was Hermione so angry? 

Then, out of blue, the beast pounced on Harry. He saw its wide mouth and sharp claws, up-close, reach for his head before he dodged and rolled away at just the nick of time. Hurrying back to his feet, he quickly searched his jeans pockets for his wand but didn’t pull it out. He was afraid he might hurt Hermione. 

The beast stood up, growling furiously, and glared at Harry. 

“Let me devour the flesh off your bones, human.” 

Harry blinked. Did I just imagine it talking to me? 

“You heard me, brat,” the voice growled. “Do not test my patience. Now, lay down and let me eat. I haven’t tasted flesh in centuries.” 

“Who are you?” Harry asked as soon as he overcame the initial shock. “And what happened to Hermione?” 

“Too many questions!” 

The beast pounced again, but Harry was alert enough to dodge. 

“You do not want to make me wait, human,” the beast said angrily, its eyes flickering with rage. “Patience is not one of my known virtues.” 

“Where is Hermione?” Harry stood his ground. “What did you do to her?” 

“Nothing yet. She’s safe. For now.” 

Harry’s blood went cold with fear. 

“Who are you?” 

“ENOUGH!” The beast roared. “You are going to let me eat your flesh right now!” 

The next second Harry knew, the beast had pounced again and successfully pinned him to the stone floor beneath its left front paw this time. Harry slammed back-first into the floor, his lungs getting robbed of air. He grunted with the effort he was making to escape free, thrashing against the paw that was three-fourth his size, giant nails keeping him down effortlessly, but all his efforts were futile. He was powerless against the monster that had taken over Hermione. 

“Finally, after centuries,” it whispered, lowering its head, saliva trickling down its jaw to pool on the floor on Harry’s right. “Nothing tastes as good as live human flesh.” 

“HERMIONE!” Harry cried aloud. “Wake up! I — I know you’re in there! You can do it!” 

Suddenly, the beast’s grip slackened, and Harry knew it had worked. 

“C’mon, Hermione! Wake up! It’s me — Harry!” 

“H-Harry?” 

It was Hermione’s voice that came out of the beast’s mouth this time. 

“NO!” The monster roared. Hermione was fighting it. 

“You can do it, Hermione!” Harry yelled from below. “I know you can! It’s me — Harry — your Harry!” 

“NOOOOOO!” 

The beast was gone. Harry knew because the eyes were almond-brown again. The paw lifted off of his chest, and he sucked in some precious oxygen for his mortified lungs. He hadn’t even stood up properly before Hermione had already changed back into her human-self. Tears were flowing down her cheeks without restraint as she turned around and ran out of the room. 

“Hermione!” 

Harry hurried after her. 

“Hermione, it’s okay!” he said loudly, stumbling after her, but his body hadn’t recovered yet. He watched Hermione disappear around the end of the corridor, her hair billowing after her. 

Peeves appeared from nowhere and began hollering: 

“Pottsy had a break-up! 

Pottsy had a break-up!” 

Harry paid him no mind. Hermione mattered more to him. He did not need the Marauder’s Map to know where she had flown off to, and it wasn’t the library. No, that place was quiet but not deserted. 

He reached the top of the Astronomy Tower as early as possible, his lungs protesting against the unreasonable amount of work he had put them to. But it mattered not. Only Hermione’s safety and well being did. 

She sat there at the end of the floor, her back against the parapet, hunched and hugging her knees, her face hidden behind the frame of her curly hair. 

“Hermione,” Harry spoke softly, approaching her at a pace that wouldn’t startle her. 

She didn’t respond. 

“Hermione, it’s okay, I swear,” he said once he reached her. Kneeling down in front of her, he gently placed his hands on her shoulders. 

She flinched, but Harry didn’t loosen his grip. 

“Calm down, love, calm down,” he whispered. 

“S-stay a-away, Harry,” she sobbed, her whole body trembling violently. “Stay a-away f-from me.” 

His heart ached at the fear in her voice. 

“Stay away from you? Do you want me to die or what?” 

“No!” she squealed. 

“Then shut up, okay?” Harry said firmly, embracing her. “I ain’t going anywhere.” 

“B-but I — I — I attacked you!” Hermione wailed, breaking down into another round of howling. 

Harry lifted her chin. 

“Look at me, Hermione.” 

Quivering, she timidly met his eyes, her face pale with guilt and remorse, tears streaming down her cheeks, eyes red, swollen, and fearful, and breaths coming in ragged gasps. 

“That wasn’t you,” Harry said calmly. “Trust me.” 

“How do you know?” Hermione asked sharply. “I mean — it was me, wasn’t it? I hurt you, Harry! I scared you!” 

“No, you didn’t scare me, love. It wasn’t you —” 

“Harry —” 

“Remember when I panicked because I thought I was the secret weapon Voldemort wanted before you convinced me that I wasn’t? Trust me on this, Hermione, it wasn’t you. It didn’t have your eyes.” 

“My — my eyes?” 

“Yes, your eyes.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Hermione seemed to have finally calmed down, at least up to the measure that she was able to listen to his reasoning. 

“It’s pretty simple,” he told her. “When you changed and became that great lioness, I was beyond amazed, but then I looked at your eyes and just knew you weren’t . . . you. I don’t understand what happened or where we went wrong with this, but right now, you’re back, and that’s all I need. So, let’s head back to the castle. You need a mug of coffee.” 

“It talked to me.” 

Harry blinked. 

“Er, who?” 

“That monster,” Hermione whispered shakily. “She talked to me, Harry, and she was so angry.” 

“Angry at what?” 

“Everything. She wants to destroy everything.” 

A fresh round of tears slipped down the corners of Hermione’s eyes. 

“I’m a monster, Harry,” she mumbled and initiated the hug this time, clinging desperately to him. 

“No, you’re not a monster, you’re Hermione Granger, the girl I love the most in this world, the girl I can’t live without.” 

Harry stayed there, embracing her for as long as she needed, letting her sob to her heart’s content, until the mental exhaustion caused her to collapse in his arms. 

... 

Darkness. All around her. 

She was standing in a dark abyss, alone. She looked around for Harry, even fretted over a few steps in random directions, but found no one. It was a dark unending, directionless void, and she was all alone and cold. Her heart was barely pumping. 

She heard the clanking of metals behind her. A gasp escaped her throat as she turned around and suddenly found the same beast in front of her, closer than she was comfortable with. Each of the lioness’s limbs was heavily chained along with an especially heavy boulder hanging down its neck. Somehow, the beast still had a smug look on its face. 

“You!” Hermione shouted angrily, pointing a finger at the beast. 

“Yes, me.” 

“Why did you do that to Harry?” 

“I barely touched your mate,” the beast said in a rather bored voice. “He’s soft, though. Smells nice too.” 

Goosebumps erupted on the back of Hermione’s neck when the monster maliciously licked its lips. 

“Stay away from him!” Hermione warned. 

“But I am a part of you now. The only way you can keep him away from me is by keeping him away from you.” 

“You are NOT a part of me!” Hermione yelled. 

“No amount of shouting can make the true untrue. It has been several centuries since I last bonded with a human. I am not going down without making up for the lost time. You and I are one.” 

“Nooooooooo!” 

Hermione had bolted upwards into the sitting position with a scream. No matter how much she gasped, her lungs seemed to be failing at accommodating any amount of oxygen inside them. Her whole body, every fiber in her being, was trembling. 

Until Harry’s face came into sight. 

“It’s alright,” he said quickly, cupping her face, “I’m right here, love, you’re alright.” 

“Harry!” 

She flung herself into his arms and broke into tears before she knew it, squeezing him tightly in her arms, making sure he was there, that she wasn’t alone again, finding solace in Harry’s body warmth. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she kept repeating under her breath like a mantra. 

“It’s okay, Hermione,” he whispered, rocking her in his arms. “Did you have a bad dream?” 

It wasn’t a dream. But she didn’t dare say it out loud or the pain of having hurt her Harry would come crashing down upon her soul again. 

“You need some rest,” he told her, attempting to disengage from her, but she only reaffirmed her grip around him. 

“I need you,” she mumbled against his chest. 

“You have me,” he assured her, gently rubbing her back. “Always and forever.” 

... 

“Good morning, Hermione.” 

“Morning, Neville,” Hermione replied blankly without looking back. 

“Heya, Neville,” said Harry, waving his hand. “Pardon me, gotta take a leak.” 

He scurried into the bathroom. Neville watched Hermione stare out of the window for another couple of minutes. 

“Weren’t you going home for Easter?” he asked for the sake of conversation. “I thought you were.” 

“Yes, we were, but now I don’t want to,” Hermione said sharply. “Not anymore.” 

She couldn’t face her parents or the Blacks right now. She was afraid she was going to break down with hysteria and disturb everyone’s peace of mind. 

Harry returned and raised his brows at Neville. 

“Is everything okay with her?” he asked Harry in a whisper. 

Unfortunately, Hermione had heard. Her head whipped around in Neville’s direction, her eyes glinting with rage. The poor boy swallowed thickly, his face flushing red. 

“Periods,” Harry lied. 

“Oh, sorry,” Neville mumbled and excused himself out of the dorm at a breakneck speed. 

Harry stepped up to Hermione and embraced her from behind. They watched the Forbidden Forest for a moment. Everything was so quiet, unlike the state of her mind. 

“How do you feel?” 

“Scared,” she admitted, looking around at his face. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her. The monster in me.” 

“There’s no mons —” 

“But there is, Harry,” she emphasized. “She is inside me, waiting for a chance to strike again. I almost killed you.” 

She said the last two words in a whisper, as if terrified even saying them might actually cause Harry to drop dead on the spot. He tightened his arms around her. 

“Aren’t you contradicting yourself? Either the monster tried to kill me or there isn’t any monster. How can there be a monster inside you but it was you who tried to kill me?” 

Hermione searched his eyes, willing to trust his words, but also scared of what they didn’t understand yet. 

“I talked to her,” Harry confessed for the first time. “Or she talked to me, actually. She’s hungry, is all. Been so for centuries, so she says.” 

I tried to EAT Harry? 

Nauseating bile rose in her gullet, threatening to empty her stomach of everything she ate yesterday. Her face turned green. Somehow, this was even worse than trying to kill Harry. It’s a miracle he didn’t get hurt at all. 

But he could have! 

“What d’you say, shall we go down to the kitchens and ask for food?” Harry suggested. “We haven’t been down there in ages.” 

“I am not hungry.” 

Harry’s face fell, and Hermione felt even more guilty. 

“No worries,” he recovered instantaneously. “Why go down there when we can call food here? Very clever, Miss Granger, I must say.” 

Hermione possessed neither the energy nor the heart to deny him. He called Dobby, who enthusiastically served them. Hermione didn’t notice what Harry asked their elf friend to bring, what he fed her, or what he said to her while he fed her. She wanted nothing more than to sit there in his presence and convince herself that it wasn’t her who harmed him, but a beast from the ancient times. 

Where did they go wrong with the Animagus Potion? As far as Hermione knew, they followed the rules word-to-word. Their potion had turned the exact shade of blood-red that it was supposed to become. Why, then? When did they make a mistake? And where? 

What was this beast, anyway? A magical sentient beast who could talk. Sounded like a fantasy, except where they were sitting right now was perhaps the grandest fantasy of them all, so Hermione let that argument slide under the rug. 

“Drink, Hermione.” 

Harry’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts. 

“Hm? Oh, okay,” she said, accepting the glass of juice from him. “Thank you.” 

“It’s grape juice,” he told her. “Good for mind and body.” 

Hermione nodded and brought the glass to her lips. 

He cares for me so much. I must do something for him — 

However, as soon as the foam of grape juice touched her lips, nausea took over her and she retched violently on the floor. 

“Hermione!” 

Harry was by her side in an instant as she slid off the bed and folded unto herself, emptying everything she had eaten only minutes ago, the glass of grape juice slipping off her hand and spilling on the floor. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Harry whispered soothingly, rubbing her back, holding her hair away from her head. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Hermione went through another spasm of retching, unloading more puke in front of her, before she stopped at last. Her nose was filled with the irritating stench of her own vomit; her throat burned; her lungs gasped for air. She was shaking terribly. Harry gathered her in his arms and held tight. 

“I can’t — I can’t stop shaking —” she stuttered. 

“Let’s go and see Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said at once. 

Hermione would have argued if not for the mess she had made. She let Harry place her back on his bed and wipe her face with a cloth before offering her water, which she swallowed without a second’s thought. 

“Dobby!” 

“No —” Hermione croaked. But the elf had already reappeared with a crack. 

“It bees Dobby’s lucky day for the great Harry Potter has called him twice today — what happened here, sir?” Dobby’s tone changed once he saw the mess on the floor. “And what happened to Harry Potter sir’s Grangy? Are you ill?” 

“I think she is, Dobby,” Harry said urgently. “I’m taking her to the hospital wing. Can you please clean this up? I won’t have asked if —” 

“Dobby will do it, sir!” Dobby said obediently. “You take your Grangy to the hospital wing, sir! That be necessary! She be suffering from allergy!” 

“You can tell?” Harry asked, pausing. 

“Dobby is a good elf, sir! Dobby knows basic human healthcare! Do you wants Dobby to treat your Grangy, sir?” Dobby offered. 

“No, but thanks, Dobby, I’d like her to get thoroughly examined,” said Harry. 

“I’m not that sick,” Hermione spoke through gritted teeth; everything, including her, was so cold, except him. 

“Yeah, right, and I am a girl,” said Harry, scoffing. “Don’t be hard on yourself. You need treatment and you will have it without any questions asked.” 

“F-f-f-fine.” 

She scoffed. But why? Why am I being so upfront about visiting the hospital? 

Harry scooped her in his strong arms, raising her bridal style, and carried her out of the dorm. Downstairs, in the common room, people stared and whispered among themselves. But Hermione couldn’t care less. Her body was so cold hell might have frozen over her. Her entire being was protesting against her will to live. But Harry was warm, his body radiating gentle heat like he was the center of her universe. He was, undoubtedly. She stayed tucked in his arms, zoning out everyone else, as he carried her out of the common room at a brisk pace. 

... 

“Didn’t know you have an allergy for grape juice,” Susan said with a tiny smile on her face, as she sat on the chair next to Hermione’s bed, her hands holding Hermione’s left in a tender grip. 

“Me neither,” said the brunette, shrugging. “Why didn’t you go home for the holidays? You love playing with Zain, and with Gin.” 

She added the last word with a suggestive wink. Susan chuckled but something was off. 

“It hurt again,” she told Hermione in a low voice. “In New York. Just like last time. When Gin and I were playing.” 

“You should have told me!” Hermione said angrily. 

“I didn’t want to disturb you, and besides, we stopped before the pain could reach intolerable levels, so I think —” 

“Fuck, Sue, Harry and I having sex is not more important than you! Never will be!” 

Everyone heard that. Madam Pomfrey, Harry, Daphne, and a fourth-year boy who was getting treated for insomnia. 

“Calm yourself, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey called strictly from near the boy. “Or shall I have to throw your friends out?” 

“I’m sorry, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione apologized. 

Harry and Daphne, who were both sitting in a corner, the Slytherin witch asking Harry what events entailed Hermione to get admitted into the hospital wing all of a sudden, approached the two witches. 

“Be calm, Granger,” said Daphne. “We all know you’ve a happy sex life. There’s no need advertising —” 

“I wasn’t advertising shit,” Hermione hissed. “Sue’s chest hurt back in New York and she’s telling me now!” 

“Your chest hurt?” Daphne asked the redhead, her eyes wide. 

“Oh fuck — great job, Granger —” Susan scoffed, rising to her feet. “Yes, for everyone to know, my chest bloody hurt when Ginny was licking my fucking cunt but we stopped before either of us could orgasm because my chest bloody hurt!” 

“Sue, I didn’t mean —” 

“Of course you didn’t,” Susan snapped at Hermione. Her eyes were moist; she wiped them furiously. “I just — I feel like I’m holding back Gin with me. She deserves better.” 

Tears still poured down her eyes. 

“Okay, the three of you,” said Madam Pomfrey, who was suddenly behind Harry; the fourth-year boy had left. “I must ask you to leave.” 

Susan was out before either of them realized she had moved. Daphne went after her. 

“Madam Pomfrey, why hasn’t Sue been cured yet?” Hermione asked the older woman. “It’s been months, more than half-a-year.” 

“There is a reason we call them the Dark Arts and teach students to defend from them,” Madam Pomfrey said grimly. “They leave their mark. People have been known to lose their minds, even their identities to dark magic. There’s no telling what effect a dark curse will leave on a person. Medicine can help you only so far.” 

“There must be something we could do to ease her pain, right?” Harry said hopefully. 

“She must keep her heart calm at all times. From what I’ve discerned, the curse she took on her chest has weakened her heart.” 

As Madam Pomfrey left, Hermione curled her fists, anger rolling off of her in waves. 

I’m going to make Dolohov pay for doing this to Sue. 

Harry sat on Hermione’s side and kissed her forehead. 

“Everything will be fine,” he spoke softly. “You, me, Sue, everyone — we will be okay.” 

She wrapped her arms around him and whispered, “Remind me to knit special socks for Dobby.” 

“I will.” 

... 

“Sue, stop,” Daphne panted. “I’m out of my breath, seriously.” 

“I didn’t ask you to follow me,” the redhead fumed, refusing to stop, until Daphne caught her arm and twisted her around. “Let me go!” 

“Come here,” Daphne said hastily, pulling her friend into an alcove below the staircase. “Sit down.” 

“What?” 

“Just sit down, girl.” 

Susan sighed as she lowered into the alcove. The two of them sat cross-legged inside the alcove; it was a tight squeeze but manageable. 

“I know Granger is a dunce,” said Daphne, “but she was concerned for you.” 

“Hermione Granger, a dunce? Yeah, right.” 

“Okay, maybe not a dunce, but emotionally insensitive, that she is, right?” 

“No, she’s one of the most caring and soft-hearted people in existence,” Susan whined. “What is your problem, Daph? Have you hit yourself in the head?” 

“Of course not.” Daphne smiled. Susan was easy to convince. “But I agree with her, Sue, you should have told us.” 

“Look who’s talking about sharing stuff,” Susan snapped. 

“Fine, be grumpy. It was my mistake to think you needed an ear, but of course you’re fine by yourself. Don’t let me disturb your tranquility.” 

She made to stand up when Susan grabbed her arm and pulled her right back in. 

“You can stay,” the redhead mumbled, looking away. 

Very easy to convince. But Daphne didn’t let it show on her face. 

“Promise me you won’t keep anything like this a secret again.” 

“You’re being so dramatic,” Susan complained. 

“Promise me, Sue,” Daphne said stoutly. “I need your word.” 

“Alright. I promise. Fuck, everyone is a goody-two-shoes these days.” 

Daphne took victory in whatever form she could. 

“Remind me why we broke up in the first place?” 

Daphne’s heart skipped a beat. 

“The world wasn’t ready for it, obviously,” Susan said wittily and laughed. 

Daphne laughed as well but in a forced manner. Every wall she had built around her heart to let go of Susan as anything more than a friend was crumbling into pieces. She must divert the topic of conversation or she was afraid she might do something she will come to regret later. 

“Yeah, it was nice though, as long as it was.” 

What, for Merlin’s heavenly gates, am I saying? 

“Hn, wasn’t it?” 

Was that longing in Susan’s voice? Daphne’s eyes darted over to Susan’s lips. It was a mistake. 

I must leave or I’m going to make a fool of myself. 

“Yes, it was.” 

What the fuck is wrong with my tongue? 

Her eyes met Susan’s and held the gaze for more than necessary. Neither of them was willing to pull away. Daphne’s heart had jumped into her throat, eager to break out of her body, and when Susan leaned closer, Daphne thought she was going to pass out from a heart attack. 

“You’re a great friend, Daph,” Susan whispered fondly, hugging her. “Thank you.” 

Daphne was both relieved and disappointed at the same time. She shook her head, quite vigorously, that Susan laughed at her antics. 

“Are you trying to break out of my hug, silly girl? Here you go, then!” 

She squeezed the breath out of Daphne’s lungs. 

That night, sleep didn’t knock on Daphne’s doorstep. 

... 

Hermione was released from the hospital wing by dinnertime. Susan joined her and Harry at the Gryffindor table and mumbled an apology as soon as their gazes met. 

“I’m sorry too,” said Hermione. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice either.” 

“Where’s Daphne?” asked Harry. 

Susan shrugged her shoulders. 

“No idea. Maybe she’s dieting. I wish she’d stop fretting about building her strength. I mean, she’s made her body rock hard. Have you touched her abs? Rock hard.” 

“And why, by any chance, were you touching her abs?” Hermione asked shrewdly. 

“Ever the cheesy one, ain’t you, Mione?” Susan said nonchalantly. “It was only a hug. Totally innocent.” 

“Of course.” 

“Look!” Harry suddenly said, pointing up at the high windows. 

A number of owls were swooping into the Great Hall, each carrying a bundle in their talons. One of them landed gracefully in front of Hermione and presented the bundle to her. 

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said, placing a coin in the sac hanging by the owl’s side. Unrolling the bundle, she spread the newspaper within. “Oh my God!” 

The headline of the front page of the Evening Prophet said in huge, bold letters: 

MADAM BONES MOVES TO WIZENGAMOT, ARGUES IN FAVOR OF A FAIR TRIAL FOR SIRIUS BLACK 

“The fuck?” Susan gasped. “What’s she playing at?” 

In a super exclusive piece of information from a confidential informant, the Daily Prophet has come to know that former Head of DMLE, who resigned from their office over a year ago in an alleged controversial argument with then Minister, Cornelius Fudge, has appealed in the court of Wizengamot to allow perhaps the most notorious criminal of this age, the man who broke out of Azkaban, the one who murdered no less than thirteen people in broad daylight laughing, the infamous Sirius Black, a fair trial, arguing that he was never trialed for his crimes in the first place. 

The Ministry is yet to officially respond to this shocking news. The Prophet tried to talk to a few Ministry employees but largely failed to do so. An employee of DMLE, in an unrecorded statement, even went to the lengths of claiming the information to be false and fabricated to distract everyone from the real threat that one and all should actually be talking about: the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

To read our latest article on the Ministry’s preparations in the face of this “real threat,” turn page 7. 

“How much do you bet this ‘confidential informant’ is none other than Amelia herself?” Harry said in a whisper, making sure only Hermione and Susan heard him. 

“But why would she do that?” said Susan, flabbergasted. “They’re finally together again. They have a boy now for Merlin’s sake. Why would she jeopardize all of that?” 

“Because she knows the war could break out at any moment,” said Hermione. “And there’s no telling what will happen when it finally does.” 

“But still . . .” Susan mumbled. “What if they find out Aunt’s been hiding him for years? Could totally ruin the case, can’t it?” 

The three of them called Amelia over the magical mirror after dinner. Both Harry and Hermione were right about her. She had moved to the court a couple of days ago and was also the one who sneaked the Prophet the information. Their case was listed to be heard in September. 

“But this is April,” said Hermione. 

“It’s a way to demotivate the applicant,” Amelia said calmly. “To tell us they’re not interested. Works for us, actually. Don’t want to attract any more attention than we already have. I’ve been receiving all sorts of mail since yesterday. Warnings, threats, and whatnots. 

“Siri was surprised when he found out what I wanted to do,” she added with a sigh. “I just don’t want Zain to be ashamed of his father for even a second. I don’t want him to think that his parents didn’t give it their best. Because he deserves nothing less from us.” 

But Hermione, and perhaps Harry and Susan as well, were also hearing what Amelia wasn’t saying. The war was about to happen and one could never tell who would get to see the end of it and who wouldn’t. She didn’t want to leave any regrets behind. 

Hermione and Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room only a few minutes before curfew. Neville was waiting for them. 

“I heard you were admitted to the hospital,” he said, holding a bowl of soup in his hands. “I made this for you before you were admitted. It relieves pain, and can be taken in periods. It contains Aconite and Fluxweed, although let’s not let Professor Sprout find out. She’s really fond of her Aconite —” 

Hermione had suddenly launched herself into Neville’s arms. The boy stiffened, his tongue halting at once. 

“I’m sorry for morning,” she mumbled, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “You didn’t deserve that from me.” 

Neville nodded humbly. 

Hermione thanked him for the soup and consumed it there in the common room itself. At last, her and Harry climbed the staircase to the boys’ dormitory. The mess she had made in the morning had been taken care of. She made a mental note to thank Dobby later. Her body hit the bed — her eyes drooped off — she was asleep by the time Harry tucked her in the blankets, feeling like she hadn’t taken a proper nap in weeks. 

Must be the soup, she thought. Must thank Neville in the morning. 

Chapter Text

“How those wretched things have still not devolved from existence is beyond my comprehension.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Grapes. They must be eradicated from the face of this planet.” 

“You are allergic to grape juice!” Hermione gasped. “And I paid the price with my body!” 

“You and I are one, fleshling.” 

“We will never be one!” 

But the beast was laughing as if it knew better. 

“Never . . . never . . . never . . .” 

Hermione thrashed in her sleep. 

“Babe, it’s okay — you’re okay —” 

Her eyes suddenly flew wide open, and she grabbed Harry by the arms and shook him hard. 

“We will never be one! Do you understand me, you ungrateful beast? NEVER!” 

She panted hard, her eyes unseeing, trying to make her point through. 

“And I thought you loved me,” he said with an off smile. 

She blinked. This was Harry. 

“Oh, oh no,” she said hastily, “I didn’t mean to — I’m sorry — that was a terrible thing to say —” 

“Hermione, stop —” 

“How could I say that to you?” She couldn’t stop talking. She must make sure Harry understood she didn’t mean to yell that at him. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m so pathetic and disgusting and irresponsible and —” 

“Stop, Hermione!” Harry said loud enough to get through to her. “You’re not pathetic, you’re not disgusting, and you’re definitely not irresponsible. You’re Hermione Granger, the brightest and the bravest witch ever. And don’t you ever be sorry for that.” 

She sobbed silently in his embrace while he held her in his arms, patting her head. 

“How do you even tolerate me?” she mumbled against his chest. 

“It has its perks,” he answered coyly. 

“I don’t deserve you.” 

“We’re well past that stage, silly.” 

“I love you.” 

He pulled back to look her in the eyes. Their lips met for a soft kiss. 

“That’s what I love to hear,” he whispered with a genuine smile this time. 

They never told Susan Or Daphne what happened with Hermione after taking the Animagus potion. Ginny was still cross with them. 

“A bit of a complication,” Harry told them awkwardly. “We will try again later.” 

Both Susan and Daphne gave him looks that told him they weren’t convinced at all. 

Easter holidays went by, and the entire Wizarding World now knew of Sirius Black’s impending trial in front of Wizengamot in September, which many people were calling the Trial of the Century. Ginny, returning a couple of days after Easter Sunday along with the rest of the students who had travelled home, asked about this as soon as she caught sight of her friends. There was nothing to explain since nobody knew how Amelia was going to defend her fugitive husband in court. 

One afternoon, Hermione and Harry were on patrol duties. They turned onto a seventh-floor corridor that was deserted but for a very small girl who had been examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus. She looked terrified at the sight of the approaching sixth-years and dropped the heavy brass scales she was carrying. 

“It’s all right!” said Hermione kindly, hurrying forward to help her. “Here . . .” 

She tapped the broken scales with her wand and said, “Reparo.” 

The girl did not say thank you, but remained rooted to the spot as Hermione and Harry passed and watched them out of sight. 

“Oh, hi, Luna.” 

“Hello,” said Luna, rummaging in her bag. 

She thrust what appeared to be a green onion, a large spotted toadstool, and a considerable amount of what looked like cat litter into Hermione’s hands, finally pulling out a rather grubby scroll of parchment that she handed to Harry. 

“. . . I’ve been told to give you this.” 

It was a small roll of parchment, which Harry recognized at once as another invitation to a lesson with Dumbledore. 

“Tonight,” he told Hermione, once he had unrolled it. 

“Nice commentary last match!” said Hermione to Luna as she took back the green onion, the toadstool, and the cat litter. 

Luna smiled vaguely. 

“You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?” she said. “Everyone says I was dreadful.” 

“No, I’m serious!” said Hermione earnestly. “I can’t remember enjoying commentary more! What is this, by the way?” she added, holding the onion-like object up to eye level. 

“Oh, it’s a Gurdyroot,” Luna said, stuffing the cat litter and the toadstool back into her bag. “You can keep it if you like, I’ve got a few of them. They’re really excellent for warding off Gulping Plimpies.” 

And she walked away, leaving Hermione chortling, still clutching the Gurdyroot. 

“She’s so . . . innocent,” Hermione said, as she and Harry set off again for the common room. 

They finished their Herbology essays and had only turned to Charms when Hermione glanced down at her watch and said to Harry, “It’s eight o’clock already, Harry, we’ve got to hurry or we’ll be late for Dumbledore. . . .” 

They hurried out through the portrait hole and off to the former headmaster’s chamber. The portrait of Godric Gryffindor swung forward at the mention of toffee éclairs, and Harry knocked on the door just as a clock within chimed eight. 

“Enter,” called Dumbledore, but as Harry put out a hand to push the door, it was wrenched open from inside. There stood Professor Trelawney. 

“Aha!” she cried, pointing dramatically at Harry as she blinked at him through her magnifying spectacles. “So this is the reason I am to be thrown unceremoniously from your chamber, Dumbledore!” 

“My dear Sybill,” said Dumbledore in a slightly exasperated voice, “there is no question of throwing you unceremoniously from anywhere, but Harry and Hermione do have an appointment, and I really don’t think there is any more to be said —” 

“Very well,” said Professor Trelawney, in a deeply wounded voice. “If you will not banish the usurping nag, so be it. . . . Perhaps I shall find a school where my talents are better appreciated. . . .” 

She pushed past Harry and Hermione and disappeared down the spiral staircase; they heard her stumble halfway down, and Hermione guessed that she had tripped over one of her trailing shawls. 

“Please close the door and sit down, Harry, Hermione,” said Dumbledore, sounding rather tired. 

Hermione and Harry obeyed, noticing as they took their usual seats in front of Dumbledore’s desk that the Pensieve lay between them once more, as did two more tiny crystal bottles full of swirling memory. 

“Professor Trelawney still isn’t happy Firenze is teaching, then?” asked Hermione. 

“No,” said Dumbledore, “Divination is turning out to be much more trouble than I could have foreseen, never having studied the subject myself. I have convinced Minerva to not ask Firenze to return to the forest, where he is now an outcast, nor can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave. Between ourselves, she has no idea of the danger she would be in outside the castle. She does not know — and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her — that she made the prophecy about you and Voldemort, you see.” 

Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, “But never mind the staffing problems at Hogwarts. We have much more important matters to discuss.” 

“Sir,” Hermione intervened. “I assume you know about Sirius’s trial in September.” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “And I shall not pass any comments regarding this matter, Hermione. I believe it’s Madam Bones’s personal decision.” 

He turned to Harry. 

“Have you managed the task I set you at the end of our previous lesson?” 

“Ah,” said Harry, brought up short. 

What with Apparition lessons and Quidditch and Ron being poisoned and getting his own skull cracked and his determination to find out what Draco Malfoy was up to, Harry (and Hermione) had almost forgotten about the memory Dumbledore had asked them to extract from Professor Slughorn. 

“Well, I asked Professor Slughorn about it at the end of Potions, sir, but, er, he wouldn’t give it to me.” 

There was a little silence. 

“I see,” said Dumbledore eventually, peering at Harry over the top of his half-moon spectacles and giving Harry the usual sensation that he was being X-rayed. “And you feel that you have exerted your very best efforts in this matter, do you? That you have exercised all of your considerable ingenuity? That you have left no depth of cunning unplumbed in your quest to retrieve the memory?” 

“Well,” Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next. His single attempt to get hold of the memory suddenly seemed embarrassingly feeble. “Well . . . the day Ron swallowed love potion by mistake we took him to Professor Slughorn. I thought maybe if I got Professor Slughorn in a good enough mood —” 

“And did that work?” asked Dumbledore. 

“Well, no, sir, because Ron got poisoned —” 

“— which, naturally, made you forget all about trying to retrieve the memory; I would have expected nothing else, while your friend was in danger. Once it became clear that Mr. Weasley was going to make a full recovery, however, I would have hoped that you returned to the task I set you. I thought I made it clear to you how very important that memory is. Indeed, I did my best to impress upon you that it is the most crucial memory of all and that we will be wasting our time without it.” 

A hot, prickly feeling of shame spread from the top of Hermione’s head all the way down her body. Dumbledore had not raised his voice, he did not even sound angry, but Hermione would have preferred him to yell; this cold disappointment was worse than anything. 

“Sir,” she said, a little desperately, “it isn’t that we weren’t bothered or anything, we’ve just had other — other things . . . We’re really sorry for that. We should have done more. . . . We should have realized you wouldn’t have asked us to do it if it wasn’t really important.” 

“Thank you for saying that, Hermione,” said Dumbledore quietly. “May I hope, then, that you will give this matter higher priority from now on? There will be little point in our meeting after tonight unless we have that memory.” 

“We’ll do it, sir, we’ll get it from him,” she said earnestly. 

“Then we shall say no more about it just now,” said Dumbledore more kindly, “but continue with our story where we left off. You remember where that was?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Harry. “Voldemort killed his father and grandparents and made it look as though his Uncle Morfin did it. Then he went back to Hogwarts and he asked . . . he asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes,” he mumbled shame-facedly. 

“Very good,” said Dumbledore. “Now, you will remember, I hope, that I told you at the very outset of these meetings of ours that we would be entering the realms of guess-work and speculation?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Thus far, as I hope you agree, I have shown you reasonably firm sources of fact for my deductions as to what Voldemort did until the age of seventeen?” 

Hermione and Harry nodded. 

“But now,” said Dumbledore, “now things become murkier and stranger. If it was difficult to find evidence about the boy Riddle, it has been almost impossible to find anyone prepared to reminisce about the man Voldemort. In fact, I doubt whether there is a soul alive, apart from himself, who could give us a full account of his life since he left Hogwarts. However, I have two last memories that I would like to share with you.” 

Dumbledore indicated the two little crystal bottles gleaming beside the Pensieve. 

“I shall then be glad of your opinion as to whether the conclusions I have drawn from them seem likely.” 

The idea that Dumbledore valued their opinion this highly made Hermione feel even more deeply ashamed that they had failed in the task of retrieving the Horcrux memory, and she shifted guiltily in her seat as Dumbledore raised the first of the two bottles to the light and examined it. 

“I hope you are not tired of diving into other people’s memories, for they are curious recollections, these two,” he said. “This first one came from a very old house-elf by the name of Hokey. Before we see what Hokey witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord Voldemort left Hogwarts. 

“He reached the seventh year of his schooling with, as you might have expected, top grades in every examination he had taken. All around him, his classmates were deciding which jobs they were to pursue once they had left Hogwarts. Nearly everybody expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle, Prefect, Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to the School. I know that several teachers, Professor Slughorn amongst them, suggested that he join the Ministry of Magic, offered to set up appointments, put him in touch with useful contacts. He refused all offers. The next thing the staff knew, Voldemort was working at Borgin and Burkes.” 

“At Borgin and Burkes?” Harry repeated, stunned. 

“At Borgin and Burkes,” repeated Dumbledore calmly. “I think you will see what attractions the place held for him when we have entered Hokey’s memory. But this was not Voldemort’s first choice of job. Hardly anyone knew of it at the time — I was one of the few in whom the then headmaster confided — but Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and asked whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a teacher.” 

“He wanted to stay here? Why?” asked Harry, more amazed still. 

“I believe he had several reasons, though he confided none of them to Professor Dippet,” said Dumbledore. “Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I believe, more attached to this school than he has ever been to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been happiest; the first and only place he had felt at home. 

“Secondly, the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic. Undoubtedly Voldemort had penetrated many more of its secrets than most of the students who pass through the place, but he may have felt that there were still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap. 

“And thirdly, as a teacher, he would have had great power and influence over young witches and wizards. Perhaps he had gained the idea from Professor Slughorn, the teacher with whom he was on best terms, who had demonstrated how influential a role a teacher can play. I do not imagine for an instant that Voldemort envisaged spending the rest of his life at Hogwarts, but I do think that he saw it as a useful recruiting ground, and a place where he might begin to build himself an army.” 

“But he didn’t get the job, sir?” asked Hermione. 

“No, he did not. Professor Dippet told him that he was too young at eighteen, but invited him to reapply in a few years, if he still wished to teach.” 

“How did you feel about that, sir?” asked Hermione hesitantly. 

“Deeply uneasy,” said Dumbledore. “I had advised Armando against the appointment — I did not give the reasons I have given you, for Professor Dippet was very fond of Voldemort and convinced of his honesty. But I did not want Lord Voldemort back at this school, and especially not in a position of power.” 

“Which job did he want, sir? What subject did he want to teach?” 

Somehow, Hermione and Harry both knew the answer even before Dumbledore gave it. 

“Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was being taught at the time by an old Professor by the name of Galatea Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years. 

“So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all the staff who had admired him said what a waste it was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given particular jobs of the type that only exist in a place like Borgin and Burkes, which specializes, as you know, in objects with unusual and powerful properties. Voldemort was sent to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this.” 

“I’ll bet he was,” said Harry, unable to contain himself. 

“Well, quite,” said Dumbledore, with a faint smile. “And now it is time to hear from Hokey the house-elf, who worked for a very old, very rich witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith.” 

Dumbledore tapped a bottle with his wand, the cork flew out, and he tipped the swirling memory into the Pensieve, saying as he did so, “After you.” 

Hermione and Harry got to their feet and bent once more over the rippling silver contents of the stone basin until theirs faces touched them. They tumbled through dark nothingness and landed in a sitting room in front of an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that flowed all around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake. She was looking into a small jeweled mirror and dabbing rouge onto her already scarlet cheeks with a large powder puff, while the tiniest and oldest house-elf Harry had ever seen laced her fleshy feet into tight satin slippers. 

“Hurry up, Hokey!” said Hepzibah imperiously. “He said he’d come at four, it’s only a couple of minutes to and he’s never been late yet!” 

She tucked away her powder puff as the house-elf straightened up. The top of the elf’s head barely reached the seat of Hepzibah’s chair, and her papery skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet she wore draped like a toga. 

“How do I look?” said Hepzibah, turning her head to admire the various angles of her face in the mirror. 

“Lovely, madam,” squeaked Hokey. 

Hermione could only assume that it was down in Hokey’s contract that she must lie through her teeth when asked this question, because Hepzibah Smith looked a long way from lovely in her opinion. 

A tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf jumped. 

“Quick, quick, he’s here, Hokey!” cried Hepzibah and the elf scurried out of the room, which was so crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how anybody could navigate their way across it without knocking over at least a dozen things: There were cabinets full of little lacquered boxes, cases full of gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial globes, and many flourishing potted plants in brass containers. In fact, the room looked like a cross between a magical antique shop and a conservatory. 

The house-elf returned within minutes, followed by a tall young man Hermione had no difficulty whatsoever in recognizing as Voldemort. He was plainly dressed in a black suit; his hair was a little longer than it had been at school and his cheeks were hollowed, but all of this suited him; he looked more handsome than ever. He picked his way through the cramped room with an air that showed he had visited many times before and bowed low over Hepzibah’s fat little hand, brushing it with his lips. 

“I brought you flowers,” he said quietly, producing a bunch of roses from nowhere. 

“You naughty boy, you shouldn’t have!” squealed old Hepzibah, though Hermione noticed that she had an empty vase standing ready on the nearest little table. “You do spoil this old lady, Tom. . . . Sit down, sit down. . . . Where’s Hokey? Ah . . .” 

The house-elf had come dashing back into the room carrying a tray of little cakes, which she set at her mistress’s elbow. 

“Help yourself, Tom,” said Hepzibah, “I know how you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I’ve said it a hundred times. . . .” 

Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah simpered. 

“Well, what’s your excuse for visiting this time?” she asked, batting her lashes. 

“Mr. Burke would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-made armor,” said Voldemort. “Five hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair —” 

“Now, now, not so fast, or I’ll think you’re only here for my trinkets!” pouted Hepzibah. 

“I am ordered here because of them,” said Voldemort quietly. “I am only a poor assistant, madam, who must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to inquire —” 

“Oh, Mr. Burke, phooey!” said Hepzibah, waving a little hand. “I’ve something to show you that I’ve never shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won’t tell Mr. Burke I’ve got it? He’d never let me rest if he knew I’d shown it to you, and I’m not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you’ll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it.” 

“I’d be glad to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me,” said Voldemort quietly, and Hepzibah gave another girlish giggle. 

“I had Hokey bring it out for me. . . . Hokey, where are you? I want to show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure. . . . In fact, bring both, while you’re at it. . . .” 

“Here, madam,” squeaked the house-elf, and Hermione saw two leather boxes, one on top of the other, moving across the room as if of their own volition, though she knew the tiny elf was holding them over her head as she wended her way between tables, pouffes, and footstools. 

“Now,” said Hepzibah happily, taking the boxes from the elf, laying them in her lap, and preparing to open the topmost one, “I think you’ll like this, Tom. . . . Oh, if my family knew I was showing you. . . . They can’t wait to get their hands on this!” 

She opened the lid. Hermione and Harry edged forward a little to get a better view and saw what looked like a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles. 

“I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it up, have a good look!” whispered Hepzibah, and Voldemort stretched out a long-fingered hand and lifted the cup by one handle out of its snug silken wrappings. Hermione thought she saw a red gleam in his dark eyes. His greedy expression was curiously mirrored on Hepzibah’s face, except that her tiny eyes were fixed upon Voldemort’s handsome features. 

“A badger,” murmured Voldemort, examining the engraving upon the cup. “Then this was . . . ?” 

“Helga Hufflepuff’s, as you very well know, you clever boy!” said Hepzibah, leaning forward with a loud creaking of corsets and actually pinching his hollow cheek. “Didn’t I tell you I was distantly descended? This has been handed down in the family for years and years. Lovely, isn’t it? And all sorts of powers it’s supposed to possess too, but I haven’t tested them thoroughly, I just keep it nice and safe in here. . . .” 

She hooked the cup back off Voldemort’s long forefinger and restored it gently to its box, too intent upon settling it carefully back into position to notice the shadow that crossed Voldemort’s face as the cup was taken away. 

“Now then,” said Hepzibah happily, “where’s Hokey? Oh yes, there you are — take that away now, Hokey.” 

The elf obediently took the boxed cup, and Hepzibah turned her attention to the much flatter box in her lap. 

“I think you’ll like this even more, Tom,” she whispered. “Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see. . . . Of course, Burke knows I’ve got this one, I bought it from him, and I daresay he’d love to get it back when I’m gone. . . .” 

She slid back the fine filigree clasp and flipped open the box. There upon the smooth crimson velvet lay a heavy golden locket. Voldemort reached out his hand, without invitation this time, and held it up to the light, staring at it. 

“Slytherin’s mark,” he said quietly, as the light played upon an ornate, serpentine S. 

“That’s right!” said Hepzibah, delighted, apparently, at the sight of Voldemort gazing at her locket, transfixed. “I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn’t let it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value —” 

There was no mistaking it this time: Voldemort’s eyes flashed scarlet at the words, and Hermione saw his knuckles whiten on the locket’s chain. 

“— I daresay Burke paid her a pittance but there you are. . . . Pretty, isn’t it? And again, all kinds of powers attributed to it, though I just keep it nice and safe. . . .” 

She reached out to take the locket back. For a moment, Hermione thought Voldemort was not going to let go of it, but then it had slid through his fingers and was back in its red velvet cushion. 

“So there you are, Tom, dear, and I hope you enjoyed that!” She looked him full in the face and for the first time, Harry saw her foolish smile falter. “Are you all right, dear?” 

“Oh yes,” said Voldemort quietly. “Yes, I’m very well. . . .” 

“I thought — but a trick of the light, I suppose —” said Hepzibah, looking unnerved, and Hermione guessed that she too had seen the momentary red gleam in Voldemort’s eyes. “Here, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again. . . . The usual enchantments . . .” 

“Time to leave, Harry, Hermione” said Dumbledore quietly, and as the little elf bobbed away bearing the boxes, Dumbledore grasped Harry and Hermione once again above the elbow and together they rose up through oblivion and back to Dumbledore’s office. 

“Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene,” said Dumbledore, resuming his seat and indicating that Hermione and Harry should do the same. “Hokey the house-elf was convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her mistress’s evening cocoa by accident.” 

“No way!” said Hermione angrily. 

“I see we are of one mind,” said Dumbledore. “Certainly, there are many similarities between this death and that of the Riddles. In both cases, somebody else took the blame, someone who had a clear memory of having caused the death —” 

“Hokey confessed?” 

“She remembered putting something in her mistress’s cocoa that turned out not to be sugar, but a lethal and little-known poison,” said Dumbledore. “It was concluded that she had not meant to do it, but being old and confused —” 

“Voldemort modified her memory, just like he did with Morfin!” 

“Yes, that is my conclusion too,” said Dumbledore. “And, just as with Morfin, the Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey —” 

“— because she was a house-elf,” said Hermione furiously. 

“Precisely,” said Dumbledore. “She was old, she admitted to having tampered with the drink, and nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As in the case of Morfin, by the time I traced her and managed to extract this memory, her life was almost over — but her memory, of course, proves nothing except that Voldemort knew of the existence of the cup and the locket. 

“By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah’s family had realized that two of her greatest treasures were missing. It took them a while to be sure of this, for she had many hiding places, having always guarded her collection most jealously. But before they were sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were both gone, the assistant who had worked at Borgin and Burkes, the young man who had visited Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had resigned his post and vanished. His superiors had no idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long time. 

“Now,” said Dumbledore, “if you don’t mind, Hermione, Harry, I want to pause once more to draw your attention to certain points of our story. Voldemort had committed another murder; whether it was his first since he killed the Riddles, I do not know, but I think it was. This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for revenge, but for gain. He wanted the two fabulous trophies that poor, besotted, old woman showed him. Just as he had once robbed the other children at his orphanage, just as he had stolen his Uncle Morfin’s ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibah’s cup and locket.” 

“But,” said Harry, frowning, “it seems mad. . . . Risking everything, throwing away his job, just for those . . .” 

“Mad to you, perhaps, but not to Voldemort,” said Dumbledore. “I hope you will understand in due course exactly what those objects meant to him, Harry, but you must admit that it is not difficult to imagine that he saw the locket, at least, as rightfully his.” 

“The locket maybe,” said Harry, “but why take the cup as well?” 

“It had belonged to another of Hogwarts’s founders,” said Dumbledore. “I think he still felt a great pull toward the school and that he could not resist an object so steeped in Hogwarts history. There were other reasons, I think. . . . I hope to be able to demonstrate them to you in due course. 

“And now for the very last recollection I have to show you, at least until you manage to retrieve Professor Slughorn’s memory for us. Ten years separates Hokey’s memory and this one, ten years during which we can only guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing. . . .” 

Hermione and Harry got to their feet once more as Dumbledore emptied the last memory into the Pensieve. 

“Whose memory is it, Professor?” Hermione asked. 

“Mine,” said Dumbledore. 

And Hermione and Harry dived after Dumbledore through the shifting silver mass, landing in the headmaster’s office. There was Fawkes slumbering happily on his perch, and there behind the desk was Dumbledore, who looked very similar to the Dumbledore standing beside Hermione and Harry, though both hands were whole and undamaged and his face was, perhaps, a little less lined. The one difference between the present-day office and this one was that it was snowing in the past; bluish flecks were drifting past the window in the dark and building up on the outside ledge. 

The younger Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for something, and sure enough, moments after their arrival, there was a knock on the door and he said, “Enter.” 

Hermione and Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp. Voldemort had entered the room. His features were not those they had seen emerge from the great stone cauldron almost two years ago: They were not as snake-like, the eyes were not yet scarlet, the face not yet mask-like, and yet he was no longer handsome Tom Riddle. It was as though his features had been burned and blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody look, though the pupils were not yet the slits that Hermione knew they would become. He was wearing a long black cloak, and his face was as pale as the snow glistening on his shoulders. 

The Dumbledore behind the desk showed no sign of surprise. Evidently this visit had been made by appointment. 

“Good evening, Tom,” said Dumbledore easily. “Won’t you sit down?” 

“Thank you,” said Voldemort, and he took the seat to which Dumbledore had gestured. “I heard that you had become headmaster,” he said, and his voice was slightly higher and colder than it had been. “A worthy choice.” 

“I am glad you approve,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “May I offer you a drink?” 

“That would be welcome,” said Voldemort. “I have come a long way.” 

Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet where he kept the Pensieve, but which then was full of bottles. Having handed Voldemort a goblet of wine and poured one for himself, he returned to the seat behind his desk. 

“So, Tom . . . to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped his wine. 

“They do not call me ‘Tom’ anymore,” he said. “These days, I am known as —” 

“I know what you are known as,” said Dumbledore, smiling pleasantly. “But to me, I’m afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite forget their charges’ youthful beginnings.” 

He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless, Hermione felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly: Dumbledore’s refusal to use Voldemort’s chosen name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Hermione could tell that Voldemort took it as such. 

“I am surprised you have remained here so long,” said Voldemort after a short pause. “I always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school.” 

“Well,” said Dumbledore, still smiling, “to a wizard such as myself, there can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills, helping hone young minds. If I remember correctly, you once saw the attraction of teaching too.” 

“I see it still,” said Voldemort. “I merely wondered why you — who are so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered the post of Minister —” 

“Three times at the last count, actually,” said Dumbledore. “But the Ministry never attracted me as a career. Again, something we have in common, I think.” 

Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and took another sip of wine. Dumbledore did not break the silence that stretched between them now, but waited, with a look of pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to talk first. 

“I have returned,” he said, after a little while, “later, perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected . . . but I have returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once told me I was too young to have. I have come to you to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I think you must know that I have seen and done much since I left this place. I could show and tell your students things they can gain from no other wizard.” 

Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his own goblet for a while before speaking. 

“Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen and done much since leaving us,” he said quietly. “Rumors of your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I should be sorry to believe half of them.” 

Voldemort’s expression remained impassive as he said, “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore.” 

“You call it ‘greatness,’ what you have been doing, do you?” asked Dumbledore delicately. 

“Certainly,” said Voldemort, and his eyes seemed to burn red. “I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed —” 

“Of some kinds of magic,” Dumbledore corrected him quietly. “Of some. Of others, you remain . . . forgive me . . . woefully ignorant.” 

For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage. 

“The old argument,” he said softly. “But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore.” 

“Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,” suggested Dumbledore. 

“Well, then, what better place to start my fresh researches than here, at Hogwarts?” said Voldemort. “Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with your students? I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command.” 

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “And what will become of those whom you command? What will happen to those who call themselves — or so rumor has it — the Death Eaters?” 

Hermione could tell that Voldemort had not expected Dumbledore to know this name; he saw Voldemort’s eyes flash red again and the slit-like nostrils flare. 

“My friends,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “will carry on without me, I am sure.” 

“I am glad to hear that you consider them friends,” said Dumbledore. “I was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants.” 

“You are mistaken,” said Voldemort. 

“Then if I were to go to the Hog’s Head tonight, I would not find a group of them — Nott, Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov — awaiting your return? Devoted friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post.” 

There could be no doubt that Dumbledore’s detailed knowledge of those with whom he was traveling was even less welcome to Voldemort; however, he rallied almost at once. 

“You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore.” 

“Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen,” said Dumbledore lightly. “Now, Tom . . .” 

Dumbledore set down his empty glass and drew himself up in his seat, the tips of his fingers together in a very characteristic gesture. 

“Let us speak openly. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?” 

Voldemort looked coldly surprised. 

“A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much.” 

“Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do not want to teach any more than you wanted to when you were eighteen. What is it you’re after, Tom? Why not try an open request for once?” 

Voldemort sneered. 

“If you do not want to give me a job —” 

“Of course I don’t,” said Dumbledore. “And I don’t think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose.” 

Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle than ever, his features thick with rage. 

“This is your final word?” 

“It is,” said Dumbledore, also standing. 

“Then we have nothing more to say to each other.” 

“No, nothing,” said Dumbledore, and a great sadness filled his face. “The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom. . . . I wish I could. . . .” 

For a second, Hermione was on the verge of shouting a pointless warning: She was sure that Voldemort’s hand had twitched toward his pocket and his wand; but then the moment had passed, Voldemort had turned away, the door was closing, and he was gone. 

Hermione felt Dumbledore’s hand close over her arm again and moments later, they were standing together on almost the same spot, but there was no snow building on the window ledge, and Dumbledore’s hand was blackened and dead-looking once more. 

“Why?” said Hermione at once, looking up into Dumbledore’s face. “Why did he come back? Did you ever find out?” 

“I have ideas,” said Dumbledore, “but no more than that.” 

“What ideas, sir?” 

“I shall tell you, Hermione, when you have retrieved that memory from Professor Slughorn,” said Dumbledore. “When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, everything will, I hope, be clear . . . to all three of us.” 

Hermione was still burning with curiosity and even though Dumbledore had walked to the door and was holding it open for them, she did not move at once, nor did Harry. 

“Was he after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again, sir? He didn’t say. . . .” 

“Oh, he definitely wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job,” said Dumbledore. “The aftermath of our little meeting proved that. You see, we have never been able to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post to Lord Voldemort.” 

Chapter Text

Both Hermione and Harry racked their brains over the next week as to how they were to persuade Slughorn to hand over the true memory, but nothing in the nature of a brain wave occurred. The two of them along with Susan were sitting hunched together on a bench in an empty classroom quite late at night. But all three of them were Prefects, so . . . 

There had been a certain amount of excitement earlier in the Gryffindor common room when Harry and Hermione had come back from dinner to find a new sign on the notice board that announced the date for their Apparition Test. Those who would be seventeen on or before the first test date, the twenty-first of April, had the option of signing up for additional practice sessions, which would take place (heavily supervised) in Hogsmeade. 

Susan had panicked on reading this notice; she had still not managed to Apparate and feared she would not be ready for the test. Hermione, who had now achieved Apparition twice, was a little more confident, but Harry, who would not be seventeen for another four months, could not take the test whether ready or not. 

Having wasted a lot of time worrying aloud about Apparition, Susan was now struggling to finish a viciously difficult essay for Professor Snape that Harry and Hermione had already completed. 

“There’s only one way to force someone to do what you want,” said Susan grimly, “and that’s the Imperius Curse, which is illegal —” 

“Yeah, we know that, thanks,” said Harry. “That’s why we’re looking for something different. Dumbledore says Veritaserum won’t do it, but there might be something else, a potion or a spell. . . .” 

“We’re going about it the wrong way,” said Hermione. “Only you can get the memory, Harry, Dumbledore says. That must mean you can persuade Slughorn where other people can’t. It’s not a question of slipping him a potion, anyone could do that —” 

“Oh, this is stupid, I can’t concentrate, that Apparition test keeps popping in my head!” Susan said in defeat, resting her quill down on her parchment. 

“Oh, give it to me,” said Hermione, sighing and pulling Susan’s parchment towards her. 

“I love you, Hermione,” said Susan, giving the brunette a quick peck on the cheek before sinking back in her chair, rubbing her eyes wearily. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and said, “A bit late for that, ain’t you?” 

The only sounds for a while were the crackling of the blue flames Hermione had conjured and her scratching out one last paragraph on dementors with a quill. Harry had just closed his copy of Manual M39h-z, yawning, when — 

Crack. 

Hermione let out a little shriek and spilled ink all over Susan’s freshly completed essay, and Harry said, “Kreacher!” 

The old house-elf bowed low and addressed his own gnarled toes. 

“Master said he wanted regular reports on what the Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give —” 

Crack. 

Dobby appeared alongside Kreacher, his tea-cozy hat askew. 

“Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!” he squeaked, casting Kreacher a resentful look. “And Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to see Harry Potter so they can make their reports together!” 

“What is this?” asked Susan, still looking shocked by these sudden appearances. “What’s going on?” 

Harry answered in a hushed voice, “Well . . . they’ve been following Malfoy for us.” 

“Night and day,” croaked Kreacher. 

“Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!” said Dobby proudly, swaying where he stood. 

Hermione was indignant. 

“You haven’t slept, Dobby? But we didn’t tell you not to —” 

“Dobby, you can sleep, all right?” said Harry quickly. “But have either of you found out anything?” 

“Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his pure blood,” croaked Kreacher at once. “His features recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners are those of —” 

“Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!” squeaked Dobby angrily. “A bad boy who — who —” 

He shuddered from the tassel of his tea cozy to the toes of his socks and then ran at the bench next to the one the three humans were occupying, as though about to crash head-first into it; Harry, to whom this was not entirely unexpected, caught him around the middle and held him fast. For a few seconds Dobby struggled, then went limp. 

“Thank you, Harry Potter,” he panted. “Dobby still finds it difficult to speak ill of his old masters. . . .” 

Harry released him; Dobby straightened his tea cozy and said defiantly to Kreacher, “But Kreacher should know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a house-elf!” 

“Yeah, we don’t need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy,” Harry told Kreacher. “Let’s fast forward to where he’s actually been going.” 

Kreacher bowed again, looking furious, and then said, “Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a dormitory in the dungeons, he attends his classes in a variety of —” 

“Dobby, you tell me,” said Harry, cutting across Kreacher. “Has he been going anywhere he shouldn’t have?” 

“Harry Potter, sir,” squeaked Dobby, his great orb-like eyes shining in the firelight, “the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still keen to avoid detection. He has been making regular visits to the seventh-floor with a variety of other students, who keep watch for him while he enters —” 

“The Room of Requirement!” said Harry, smacking himself hard on the forehead with Manual M39h-z. “That’s where he’s been sneaking off to! That’s where he’s doing whatever he’s doing! And I bet that’s why he’s been disappearing off the map — come to think of it, I’ve never seen the Room of Requirement on there!” 

“Maybe the Marauders never knew the room was there,” said Susan. 

“I think it’ll be part of the magic of the room,” said Hermione. “If you need it to be Unplottable, it will be.” 

“Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at what Malfoy’s doing?” said Harry eagerly. 

“No, Harry Potter, that is impossible,” said Dobby. 

“No, it’s not,” said Harry at once. “Malfoy got into our headquarters there last year, so I’ll be able to get in and spy on him, no problem.” 

“But I don’t think you will, Harry,” said Hermione slowly. “Malfoy already knew exactly how we were using the room, didn’t he, because that stupid Marietta had blabbed. He needed the room to become the headquarters of the H.G., so it did. But you don’t know what the room becomes when Malfoy goes in there, so you don’t know what to ask it to transform into.” 

“There’ll be a way around that,” said Harry at once. “You’ve done brilliantly, Dobby.” 

“Kreacher’s done well too,” said Hermione kindly; but far from looking grateful, Kreacher averted his huge, bloodshot eyes and croaked at the ceiling, “The Mudblood is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will pretend he cannot hear —” 

“Get out of it,” Harry snapped at him, and Kreacher made one last deep bow and Disapparated. “You’d better go and get some sleep too, Dobby.” 

“Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!” squeaked Dobby happily, and he too vanished. 

“Now we know where Malfoy’s going! We’ve got him cornered now!” 

“Yeah, it’s great,” said Susan glumly, who was attempting to mop up the sodden mass of ink that had recently been an almost completed essay. Hermione pulled it toward her and began siphoning the ink off with her wand. 

“But what’s all this about him going up there with a ‘variety of students’?” said Hermione. “How many people are in on it? You wouldn’t think he’d trust lots of them to know what he’s doing. . . .” 

“Yeah, that is weird,” said Harry, frowning. “We heard him telling Crabbe it wasn’t Crabbe’s business what he was doing, remember? So what’s he telling all these . . . all these . . .” 

Harry’s voice tailed away; he was staring at the blue flames over his head. 

“God, I’ve been stupid,” he said quietly. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? There was a great vat of it down in the dungeon. . . . He could’ve nicked some any time during that lesson. . . .” 

“Nicked what?” said Susan. 

“Polyjuice Potion. He stole some of the Polyjuice Potion Slughorn showed us in our first Potions lesson. . . . There aren’t a whole variety of students standing guard for Malfoy . . . it’s just Crabbe and Goyle as usual. . . . Yeah, it all fits!” said Harry, jumping up and starting to pace in front of the benches. “They’re stupid enough to do what they’re told even if he won’t tell them what he’s up to . . . but he doesn’t want them to be seen lurking around outside the Room of Requirement, so he’s got them taking Polyjuice to make them look like other people. . . . Those two girls we saw him with when he missed Quidditch — ha! Crabbe and Goyle!” 

“Do you mean to say,” said Hermione in a hushed voice, “that that little girl whose scales I repaired — ?” 

“Yeah, of course!” said Harry, staring at her. “Of course! Malfoy must’ve been inside the room at the time, so she — what am I talking about? — he dropped the scales to tell Malfoy not to come out, because there was someone there! And there was that girl who dropped the toad-spawn too! We’ve been walking past him all the time and not realizing it!” 

“He’s got Crabbe and Goyle transforming into girls?” guffawed Susan. “Blimey . . . No wonder they don’t look too happy these days. . . . I’m surprised they don’t tell him to stuff it. . . .” 

“Well, they wouldn’t, would they, if he’s shown them his Dark Mark?” said Harry. 

“But, Harry, before we get all excited,” said Hermione, “I still don’t think we’ll be able to get into the Room of Requirement without knowing what’s there first. And I don’t think we should forget that what we’re supposed to be concentrating on is getting that memory from Slughorn.” 

“Wish I could Disapparate like a house-elf,” said Susan, staring at the spot where Dobby had vanished. “I’d have that Apparition Test in the bag.” 

Hermione and Harry talked for hours that night, wondering how Malfoy was using the Room of Requirement and what they would see when they went in there the following day . . . what could it be? A meeting place? A hideout? A storeroom? A workshop? 

The next morning, over breakfast, Susan joined Hermione and Harry in telling Ginny and Daphne about their latest misadventure. 

“You’ve been tailing him?” said Daphne, looking disapproving. “Isn’t that quite far-fetched? Please don’t make me fight you after standing up for you against my own father.” 

“I know tailing someone is not the most ethical thing to do,” said Hermione. “And I’m not justifying it either, but if we are correct at what we think Malfoy’s been trying to do, I don’t see any other way around this.” 

A post owl landed before Hermione. While Harry fed the owl some milk from a bowl, Hermione removed the Daily Prophet and scanned the headlines. 

“Anyone we know — ?” Susan asked. 

“Yes!” said Hermione, causing both Susan and Ginny to gag on their breakfast. “But it’s all right, he’s not dead — it’s Mundungus, he’s been arrested and sent to Azkaban! Something to do with impersonating an Inferius during an attempted burglary . . . and someone called Octavius Pepper has vanished. . . . Oh, and how horrible, a nine-year-old boy has been arrested for trying to kill his grandparents, they think he was under the Imperius Curse. . . .” 

They finished their breakfast in silence. Harry and Hermione set off immediately for Ancient Runes and Susan for Astronomy. The three of them met again for Professor Snape’s class. 

“Before we start, I want your dementor essays,” said Professor Snape, waving his wand carelessly, so that twenty-five scrolls of parchment soared into the air and landed in a neat pile on his desk. “And I hope for your sakes they are better than the tripe I had to endure on resisting the Imperius Curse. Now, if you will all open your books to page — what is it, Mr. Finnigan?” 

“Sir,” said Seamus, “I’ve been wondering, how do you tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost? Because there was something in the paper about an Inferius —” 

“No, there wasn’t,” said Professor Snape in a bored voice. 

“But sir, I heard people talking —” 

“If you had actually read the article in question, Mr. Finnigan, you would have known that the so-called Inferius was nothing but a smelly sneak thief by the name of Mundungus Fletcher.” 

“I thought Snape and Mundungus were on the same side,” muttered Susan to Harry and Hermione. “Shouldn’t he be upset Mundungus has been arrest —” 

“But Miss Bones seems to have a lot to say on the subject,” said Professor Snape, pointing suddenly at the back of the room, his black eyes fixed on Susan. “Let us ask Miss Bones how we would tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost.” 

The whole class looked around at Susan, who stood up white-faced. 

“Er — well — ghosts are transparent —” she said. 

“Oh, very good,” interrupted Professor Snape, his lip curling. “Yes, it is easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on you, Miss Bones. ‘Ghosts are transparent.’ ” 

Pansy Parkinson let out a high-pitched giggle. Several other people were smirking. Susan took a deep breath and continued calmly, though her insides were surely boiling, “Yeah, ghosts are transparent, but Inferi are dead bodies, aren’t they? So they’d be solid —” 

“A five-year-old could have told us as much,” sneered Professor Snape. “The Inferius is a corpse that has been reanimated by a Dark wizard’s spells. It is not alive, it is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard’s bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth . . . and of course, as Miss Bones so wisely tells us, transparent.” 

“Well, what Susan said is the most useful if we’re trying to tell them apart!” said Ron. “When we come face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we’re going to be having a shufti to see if it’s solid, aren’t we, we’re not going to be asking, ‘Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?’ ” 

There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Professor Snape gave the class. 

“Ten points from Gryffindor,” said Professor Snape. “I would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an inch across a room.” 

“No!” Hermione heard Parvati whisper to Lavender as the latter one opened her mouth furiously. “There’s no point, you’ll just end up in detention, leave it!” 

“Now open your books to page two hundred and thirteen,” said Professor Snape, smirking a little, “and read the first two paragraphs on the Cruciatus Curse. . . .” 

Ron was very subdued all through the class. When the bell sounded at the end of the lesson, Lavender caught up with Ron and abused Professor Snape hotly for his jibe about Ron’s Apparition. 

Harry wanted to use the loo, so he bolted into the nearest boys’ bathroom, but for some reason, Hermione and Susan entered after him. Daphne was of the mind to wait outside but Susan swiftly pulled her inside by her arm. 

“It’s a boys’ bathroom,” Daphne said embarrassedly. 

“A vacant boys’ bathroom,” Susan pointed out. She stared into a cracked mirror for a minute or two before she spoke again. “I dunno whether it’s worth me taking the test. I just can’t get the hang of Apparition.” 

“I won’t be taking the test this time,” said Daphne. 

“Your birthday is in May, lucky you,” Susan pouted. 

“You might as well do the extra practice sessions in Hogsmeade and see where they get you,” said Hermione reasonably. “It’ll be more interesting than trying to get into a stupid hoop anyway. Then, if you’re still not — you know — as good as you’d like to be, you can postpone the test, do it with Harry over the summ — Myrtle, this is the boys’ bathroom!” 

The ghost of a girl had risen out of the toilet in a cubicle behind them and was now floating in midair, staring at them through thick, white, round glasses. 

“Oh,” she said glumly. “It’s you.” 

“Who were you expecting?” said Harry, looking at her in the mirror. 

“Nobody,” said Myrtle, picking moodily at a spot on her chin. “He said he’d come back and see me, but then you said you’d pop in and visit me too” — she gave Harry a reproachful look — “and I haven’t seen you for months and months. I’ve learned not to expect too much from boys.” 

“I thought you lived in that girls’ bathroom?” said Hermione, who had been careful to give the place a wide berth for some years now. 

“I do,” Myrtle said, with a sulky little shrug, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t visit other places. But I thought he liked me,” she added plaintively. “Maybe if you three left, he’d come back again. . . . We had lots in common. . . . I’m sure he felt it. . . .” 

And she looked hopefully toward the door. 

“When you say you had lots in common,” said Susan, sounding rather amused now, “d’you mean he lives in an S-bend too?” 

“No,” said Myrtle defiantly, her voice echoing loudly around the old tiled bathroom. “I mean he’s sensitive, people bully him too, and he feels lonely and hasn’t got anybody to talk to, and he’s not afraid to show his feelings and cry!” 

“There’s been a boy in here crying?” said Harry curiously. “A young boy?” 

“Never you mind!” said Myrtle, her small, leaky eyes fixed on Susan, who was now definitely grinning. “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I’ll take his secret to the —” 

“— not the grave, surely?” said Susan with a snort. “The sewers, maybe . . .” 

Myrtle gave a howl of rage and dived back into the toilet, causing water to slop over the sides and onto the floor. Goading Myrtle seemed to have put a fresh heart into Susan. 

“You’re right,” she said, swinging her school bag back over her shoulder, “I’ll do the practice sessions in Hogsmeade before I decide about taking the test.” 

“So that is Moaning Myrtle,” Daphne said ruminatively, as the four of them stepped out of the bathroom. “Never saw her before, and by the way, quite hypocritical of you, Granger, reminding Myrtle it’s a boys’ bathroom when you yourself are not one.” 

“You never know, Greengrass.” 

“What?” Daphne gasped in shock, making the rest of them laugh out loud. 

Hermione and Harry had a free period before lunch. So, they made for the corridor on the seventh-floor and the stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to do ballet. Harry slipped the Invisibility Cloak over their shoulders once they had found an empty passage, but they need not have bothered. When they reached their destination they found it deserted. 

Harry was not sure whether their chances of getting inside the room were better with Malfoy inside it or out, but at least their first attempt was not going to be complicated by the presence of Crabbe or Goyle pretending to be an eleven-year-old girl. Harry closed his eyes as they approached the place where the Room of Requirement’s door was concealed. He knew what he had to do; he had become most accomplished at it last year. 

Concentrating with all his might he thought, I need to see what Malfoy’s doing in here. . . . I need to see what Malfoy’s doing in here. . . . I need to see what Malfoy’s doing in here. . . . 

Three times he walked past the door; then, his heart pounding with excitement, he opened his eyes and faced it — 

But he was still looking at a stretch of mundanely blank wall. He moved forward and gave it an experimental push. The stone remained solid and unyielding. 

“Okay,” said Hermione. “Okay . . . Try something different. . . .” 

Harry pondered for a moment, then set off again, eyes closed, concentrating as hard as he could. 

I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly. . . . I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly. . . . I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly. . . . 

After three walks past, he opened his eyes expectantly. There was no door. 

“Oh, come off it,” he told the wall irritably. “That was a clear instruction. . . . Fine . . .” 

He thought hard for several minutes before striding off once more. 

I need you to become the place you become for Draco Malfoy. . . . I need you to become the place you become for Draco Malfoy. . . . I need you to become the place you become for Draco Malfoy. . . . 

He did not immediately open his eyes when he had finished his patrolling; he was listening hard, as though he might hear the door pop into existence. He heard nothing, however, except the distant twittering of birds outside. He opened his eyes. There was still no door. 

Harry swore. Someone screamed. They looked around to see a gaggle of first-years running back around the corner, apparently under the impression that they had just encountered a particularly foul-mouthed ghost. Harry tried every variation of “I need to see what Draco Malfoy is doing inside you” that he could think of for a whole hour, at the end of which he was forced to concede that Hermione had a point: The room simply did not want to open for them. 

... 

“I wish I could come with you . . .” 

“I want you to come with me, too, babe, but you can’t,” Hermione said, ruffling Harry’s hair soothingly and planting her lips there. 

It was the morning of the following Saturday and Harry was pouting about being unable to join Hermione, Susan, and the rest of the sixth-years who would turn seventeen in time to take the test in a fortnight, to take Apparition classes being held in Hogsmeade. 

“Besides, you’ll be with Ginny and Daphne,” Hermione consoled him. “You’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah, I know,” he said heavily. “It’s just . . . I don’t wanna be without you for even a second, and all this year, we’ve been sitting alone in some of our classes, I don’t like it, not even a little. . . .” 

He got up and sat at the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. Hermione whistled alluringly, and as he turned to look at her, his brooding look was replaced by a lopsided grin. He couldn’t resist the sight of Hermione undressed and felt a stiffness tenting his pajamas. He pounced back onto the bed eagerly between Hermione’s open legs, tugging off his own pajamas. He planted little kisses along her inner thighs until he reached her inflamed vulva. 

Hermione let out a little gasp of pleasure and wrapped her thighs around Harry’s head as his tongue darted between her pink folds, seeking out the fleshy pearl hidden within. Her humid sheath contracted when his wet tongue entered her. Harry’s tongue alternated between flicking Hermione’s little nubbin and delving inside her. 

“Oh . . . ah . . . oh!” Hermione squeaked, feeling the first tremors of ecstasy rippling through her. 

Harry, however, continued his ministrations without pausing to allow Hermione a little time to recover. She climaxed twice in rapid succession and as the third wave of bliss swept her away, she registered Harry trailing kisses up across her belly — up along her ribcage. She felt his hands on her boobs, kneading, his lips reaching and encircling the first one of her tender pink peaks and then the other. 

“Mommy,” Harry whispered, knowing full well what that would do to her, while he alternated between sucking each nipple, massaging Hermione’s firm globes. She trembled in joy and squealed when the fourth orgasm rocked her. Still lost in the throes of euphoria, she felt the crown of Harry’s erection nestled in her sopping erection. 

With one jerk of his loins, Harry was inside her. She felt his lance plunge to her depths, building up a steady rhythm. Her hips moved, meeting his thrusts as he continued to rock her. The cascading tide of ardor flooded Hermione again when she felt Harry stiffening, then convulsively erupting, filling her chamber with his essence in rapid pulses as he groaned. . . . 

Filch did his usual prodding act with the Secrecy Sensor at the short queue of people waiting to file past. Harry, Ginny, and Daphne dropped Hermione and Susan outside the Three Broomsticks and wished them both luck. 

“So, where to now?” Harry asked the two witches. 

“Zonko’s?” Ginny suggested. 

“That joke shop?” said Daphne apprehensively. 

“Yes, and now this is a bit of a secret, but I might as well tell you two,” Ginny said, speaking in a low voice in an attempt to not be heard by anyone apart from Harry and Daphne. “Fred and George told me over the holidays that they are considering buying the Zonko’s Joke Shop for, you know, expansion purposes.” 

“Great idea,” said Harry. “You would be able to buy their products on Hogsmeade weekends.” 

“A very bad news for Hogwarts,” said Daphne, looking genuinely concerned. 

“For Filch and his cat, yes,” Ginny quipped; her and Harry giggled. 

“Your brothers buying the Zonko’s would be a living nightmare for this school,” Daphne said disapprovingly. 

“Geez, Daphne, you’re no fun.” 

Ginny might have said those words in sarcasm, but Daphne’s face dropped as soon as she heard them. She looked away and rubbed the back of her neck and said quietly, “Let’s go to Zonko’s, I guess.” 

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that,” Ginny said truthfully. “You are fun. In your own way.” 

A tiny smile graced Daphne’s lips; she looked lively once again. 

“Where do we go then?” Harry asked again. “Zonko’s?” 

“On a second thought, I do need a new pair of Quidditch gloves,” Ginny said thoughtfully. “Let’s go to Spintwitches.” 

An Irish witch in her late thirties ran a shop by the name of Spintwitches Sporting Needs. After an hour’s worth of meticulous consideration, Ginny selected a brand new pair of Quidditch gloves that apparently provided the user an extra solid grip. However, when she began rummaging inside her pouch for money, Daphne unexpectedly placed the required coins on the counter. 

“No, no, I have the money —” Ginny began, but Daphne was smiling. 

“Consider it an early birthday gift,” the blonde said. 

“But —” 

“Here you go,” Daphne said, thrusting the gloves towards Ginny, unbothered by the ginger-head’s protest. “They look good on you, and I suppose they would help you score even better in the next match.” 

“Definitely,” said the shopkeeper. 

“Thanks, Daphne,” Ginny said, accepting the gift at last. “You’re really sweet.” 

“She doesn’t score, by the way,” Harry told Daphne wisely. “She catches the Snitch.” 

“Does that not earn you points?” said Daphne offhandedly. 

Harry blinked a few times, and Ginny chuckled at his expense. 

Hermione and Susan caught up with them a couple of hours after they left. 

“I did it — well, kind of!” Susan told them enthusiastically. “I was supposed to be Apparating to outside Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop and I overshot it a bit, ended up near Scrivenshaft’s, but at least I moved!” 

“Good one,” said Harry. “How’d you do, Hermione?” 

“Oh, she was perfect, obviously,” said Susan, before Hermione could answer. “Perfect deliberation, divination, and desperation or whatever the hell it is — we all had a quick drink in the Three Broomsticks after and you should’ve heard Twycross going on about her.” 

Hermione’s cheeks tinged pink at the praise and even more so at the proud smile on Harry’s face. 

“Did you buy something?” Susan asked, pointing at the packet in Ginny’s hands. 

“Ah, Quidditch gloves,” said Ginny. “It’s an early birthday present from Daphne.” 

“Oh, that’s nice,” said Hermione. “Good progress at socializing, Greengrass,” she added, smirking at the blonde witch. 

“Sod off, Granger,” said Daphne, scoffing. 

“Before me?” Susan said, looking disheartened. “I wanted to be the first one to give you a present.” 

“My birthday’s still three weeks away, Sue, this is a very early birthday present,” Ginny said complacently. 

“Geez, Daph, you’re no fun,” Susan pouted at her. 

Harry and Ginny stiffened; Daphne’s face dropped again. 

“Did you ever expect her to be?” Hermione said ruthlessly. “She’s like the most boring person out there.” 

“You’re no different though,” Susan pointed out. “No matter how much you decline it, girl, but you two are more alike than you think.” 

Hermione and Daphne glanced around at each other, more like glared, sparks flying off their razor-sharp gazes, before they both turned to Susan and said in unison, “I’m nothing like her!” 

“Case dismissed,” said Susan, smirking. 

It was around two o’clock when they climbed back to the castle. 

“Maybe now you could go and approach Slughorn,” said Susan, when the five of them had reached the Great Hall for lunch. “You haven’t got that memory from him yet, have you?” 

“We’ve been trying,” said Harry crossly, which was perfectly true. He and Hermione had lagged behind after every Potions lesson that week in an attempt to corner Slughorn, but the Potions master always left the dungeon so fast that they had not been able to catch him. Twice, they had gone to his office and knocked, but received no reply, though on the second occasion they were sure they had heard the quickly stifled sounds of an old gramophone. “He doesn’t want to talk to us. He can tell we’ve been trying to get him on his own again, and he’s not going to let it happen!” 

Once Hermione and Harry were out of sight of the Hall, Harry pulled the Marauder’s Map and the Invisibility Cloak from his bag. He tapped the map and murmured, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” and they scanned it carefully. 

As it was Sunday afternoon, nearly all the students were inside their various common rooms, the Gryffindors in one tower, the Ravenclaws in another, the Slytherins in the dungeons, and the Hufflepuffs in the basement near the kitchens. Here and there a stray person meandered around the library or up a corridor. . . . There were a few people out in the grounds . . . and there, alone in the seventh-floor corridor, was Gregory Goyle. There was no sign of the Room of Requirement, but Hermione and Harry were not worried about that; if Goyle was standing guard outside it, the room was open, whether the map was aware of it or not. They therefore sprinted up the stairs, slowing down only when they reached the corner into the corridor, when they began to creep, very slowly, toward the very same little girl, clutching her heavy brass scales, that Hermione had so kindly helped a fortnight before. They waited until they were right behind her before Hermione bent very low and whispered, “Hello . . . you’re very pretty, aren’t you?” 

Goyle gave a high-pitched scream of terror, threw the scales up into the air, and sprinted away, vanishing from sight long before the sound of the scales smashing had stopped echoing around the corridor. Laughing, Hermione and Harry turned to contemplate the blank wall behind which, they were sure, Draco Malfoy was now standing frozen, aware that someone unwelcome was out there, but not daring to make an appearance. 

Half an hour later, having tried many more variations of their request to see what Malfoy was up to, the wall was just as doorless as ever. Hermione felt frustrated beyond belief; Malfoy might be just feet away from them, and there was still not the tiniest shred of evidence as to what he was doing in there. 

Chapter Text

Patches of bright blue sky were beginning to appear over the castle turrets, but these signs of approaching summer did not lift Hermione’s mood. She and Harry had been thwarted, both in their attempts to find out what Malfoy was doing, and in their efforts to start a conversation with Slughorn that might lead, somehow, to Slughorn handing over the memory he had apparently suppressed for decades. 

The two of them were sitting with Susan and Daphne in a sunny corner of the courtyard after lunch; Ginny was in class. Hermione and Susan were both clutching a Ministry of Magic leaflet — Common Apparition Mistakes and How to Avoid Them — for they were taking their tests that very afternoon, but by and large the leaflets had not proved soothing to the nerves. 

A girl came around the corner and said, “Harry Potter? I was asked to give you this.” 

“Thanks . . .” 

Harry’s heart sank as he took the small scroll of parchment. Once the girl was out of earshot he said, “Dumbledore said we wouldn’t be having any more lessons until I got the memory!” 

“Maybe he wants to check on how you’re doing?” suggested Daphne. 

Harry unrolled the parchment; but rather than finding Dumbledore’s long, narrow, slanted writing he saw an untidy sprawl, very difficult to read due to the presence of large blotches on the parchment where the ink had run. 

Hermione looked over Harry’s shoulder to read: 

Dear Harry and Hermione, Aragog died last night. Harry, you met him, and you know how special he was. Hermione, I know you’d have liked him. It would mean a lot to me if you’d nip down for the burial later this evening. I’m planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favorite time of day. I know you’re not supposed to be out that late, but you can use the cloak. Wouldn’t ask, but I can’t face it alone. 

Hagrid 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Hermione said, passing it to Susan, who read it through looking increasingly incredulous. 

“He’s mental!” she said furiously. “That thing told its mates to eat Harry! Told them to help themselves! And now Hagrid expects you to go down there and cry over its horrible hairy body!” 

“It’s not just that,” said Hermione. “He’s asking us to leave the castle at night and he knows security’s a million times tighter and how much trouble we’d be in if we were caught.” 

“We’ve been down to see him by night before,” said Harry. 

“Yes, but for something like this?” said Hermione. “We’ve risked a lot to help Hagrid out, but after all — Aragog’s dead. If it were a question of saving him —” 

“— I’d want to go even less,” said Harry firmly. “You didn’t meet him, Hermione. Believe me, being dead will have improved him a lot.” 

Hermione took the note back and stared down at all the inky blotches all over it. Tears had clearly fallen thick and fast upon the parchment. 

“You two can’t be thinking of going,” said Daphne. “It’s such a pointless thing to get detention for.” 

Harry sighed. 

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I s’pose Hagrid’ll have to bury Aragog without us.” 

“Yes, he will,” said Susan, looking relieved. “Look, Potions will be almost empty this afternoon, with us all off doing our tests. . . . Try and soften Slughorn up a bit then!” 

“Fifty-seventh time lucky, you think?” said Harry bitterly. 

“Lucky,” said Daphne suddenly. “Harry, that’s it — get lucky!” 

“What d’you mean?” 

“Use the lucky potion!” 

“Daphne, that’s — that’s it!” said Hermione, sounding stunned. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of it?” 

“That’s a fantastic idea, Daph,” said Susan excitedly. 

Harry stared at the three of them. 

“Felix Felicis?” he said. “I dunno . . . I was sort of saving it. . . .” 

“What for?” demanded Susan incredulously. 

“What on earth is more important than this memory, Harry?” asked Hermione. 

“I, er, I was thinking of using it when I eventually face Voldemort,” he said grimly. “Might want some luck at that moment, no?” 

“Then just take a single sip, Harry,” said Hermione at once. “I don’t think you’d need twelve hours’ worth of the potion, one or two hours will do.” 

“Yes, that should be able to bring Slughorn to give you the damned memory,” said Daphne. 

“Okay,” said Harry. “If I can’t get Slughorn to talk this afternoon, I’ll take some Felix and have another go this evening.” 

“That’s decided, then,” said Hermione briskly, getting to her feet and performing a graceful pirouette. “Destination . . . determination . . . deliberation . . .” she murmured. 

“Oh, stop that,” Susan begged her, “I feel sick enough as it is.” 

Another couple of girls appeared in the courtyard. 

“Blimey, they don’t look happy, do they?” said Susan. 

“They’re the Montgomery sisters and of course they don’t look happy, didn’t you hear what happened to their little brother?” said Daphne. 

“I’m losing track of what’s happening to everyone’s relatives, to be honest,” said Susan. 

“Well, their brother was attacked by a werewolf. The rumor is that their mother refused to help the Death Eaters. Anyway, the boy was only five and he died in St. Mungo’s, they couldn’t save him.” 

“He died?” repeated Harry, shocked. “But surely werewolves don’t kill, they just turn you into one of them?” 

“They sometimes kill,” said Susan, who looked unusually grave now. “I’ve heard of it happening when the werewolf gets carried away.” 

“What was the werewolf’s name?” said Harry quickly. 

“Well, the rumor is that it was that Fenrir Greyback,” said Daphne. 

“I knew it — the maniac who likes attacking kids, the one Remus told us about!” said Harry angrily. 

Hermione looked at him bleakly. 

“Harry, we’ve got to get that memory,” she said. “It’s all about stopping Voldemort, isn’t it? These dreadful things that are happening are all down to him. . . .” 

The bell rang overhead in the castle and both Hermione and Susan jumped to their feet, looking terrified. 

“Don’t worry,” Daphne said soothingly, giving Susan a hug. 

“You’ll do fine,” Harry told them both, as they headed toward the entrance hall to meet the rest of the people taking their Apparition Test. “Good luck.” 

“And you too!” said Hermione with a significant look, as Harry and Daphne headed off to the dungeons. 

There were only four of them in Potions that afternoon: Harry, Daphne, Ernie, and Draco Malfoy. 

“All too young to Apparate just yet?” said Slughorn genially. “Not turned seventeen yet?” 

They shook their heads. 

“Ah well,” said Slughorn cheerily, “as we’re so few, we’ll do something fun. I want you all to brew me up something amusing!” 

“That sounds good, sir,” said Ernie sycophantically, rubbing his hands together. Malfoy, on the other hand, did not crack a smile. 

“What do you mean, ‘something amusing’?” he said irritably. 

“Oh, surprise me,” said Slughorn airily. 

Malfoy opened his copy of Advanced Potion-Making with a sulky expression. It could not have been plainer that he thought this lesson was a waste of time. Undoubtedly, Harry thought, watching him over the top of his own book, Malfoy was begrudging the time he could otherwise be spending in the Room of Requirement. 

Was it his imagination, or did Malfoy, look thinner? Certainly he looked paler; his skin still had that grayish tinge, probably because he so rarely saw daylight these days. But there was no air of smugness, excitement, or superiority; none of the swagger that he had had on the Hogwarts Express, when he had boasted openly of the mission he had been given by Voldemort. . . . There could be only one conclusion, in Harry’s opinion: The mission, whatever it was, was going badly. 

Somewhat cheered by this thought, Harry skimmed through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making and found “An Elixir to Induce Euphoria,” which seemed not only to meet Slughorn’s instructions, but which might (Harry’s heart leapt as the thought struck him) put Slughorn into such a good mood that he would be prepared to hand over that memory if Harry could persuade him to taste some. . . . 

“Well, now, this looks absolutely wonderful,” said Slughorn an hour and a half later, clapping his hands together as he stared down into the sunshine yellow contents of Harry’s cauldron. “Euphoria, I take it? And what’s that I smell? Mmmm . . . you’ve added just a sprig of peppermint, haven’t you? Unorthodox, but what a stroke of inspiration, Harry, of course, that would tend to counter-balance the occasional side effects of excessive singing and nose-tweaking. . . . I really don’t know where you get these brain waves, my boy . . . unless it’s just your mother’s genes coming out in you!” 

“Maybe,” said Harry impassively. 

Daphne gave him a furtive thumbs-up. Ernie was looking rather grumpy; determined to outshine Harry for once, he had most rashly invented his own potion, which had curdled and formed a kind of purple dumpling at the bottom of his cauldron. Malfoy was already packing up, sour-faced; Slughorn had pronounced his Hiccuping Solution merely “passable.” 

The bell rang and both Ernie and Malfoy left at once. 

“Sir,” Harry began, but Slughorn immediately glanced over his shoulder; when he saw that the room was empty but for himself and Harry, he hurried away as fast as he could. 

“Professor — Professor, don’t you want to taste my po — ?” called Harry desperately. 

But Slughorn had gone. 

Daphne placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and said, “No other choice, I see.” 

Disappointed, Harry emptied the cauldron, packed up his things, left the dungeon, and walked slowly back upstairs to the Great Hall. 

Hermione and Susan returned in the late afternoon. 

“Harry!” cried Hermione as she flew into his arms. “Harry, I passed!” 

“Well done!” he said cheerily. “And Sue?” 

“She — she just failed,” whispered Hermione, as Susan came slouching into the Hall looking most morose. “It was really unlucky, a tiny thing, the examiner just spotted that she’d left half an eyebrow behind. . . . How did it go with Slughorn?” 

“No joy,” said Harry, as Susan joined them. “Bad luck, Sue, but you’ll pass next time — we can take it together.” 

“Yeah, I s’pose,” said Susan grumpily. “But half an eyebrow! Like that matters!” 

“It does seem really harsh,” said Daphne soothingly. 

Ginny arrived a few minutes later and wasted no time asking Susan how her Apparition test was. Groaning, Susan slammed her face into the table top, making the ginger-head jump in alarm. She looked up at the rest of them, who were all shaking their heads sadly. 

“Do you remember I told you about my brother Charlie?” Ginny said to Susan. “He had to try thrice before he could finally get the license. It’s not really that big of a deal.” 

“You think?” Susan mumbled, raising her head. 

“Of course.” 

They spent most of their dinner roundly abusing the Apparition examiner, and Susan looked fractionally more cheerful by the time they set off back to the library, now discussing the continuing problem of Slughorn and the memory. 

“So, Harry — you going to use the Felix Felicis or what?” Susan demanded. 

“Yeah, I s’pose I’d better,” said Harry. “I’ll just take a mouthful. Two or three hours should do it.” 

As they had only just seen Slughorn enter the Great Hall and knew that he liked to take time over meals, they lingered for a while in the library, the plan being that Harry should go to Slughorn’s office once the teacher had had time to get back there. When the sun had sunk to the level of the treetops in the Forbidden Forest, they decided the moment had come. 

Hermione followed Harry back up to the boys’ dormitory. He took out the rolled-up socks at the bottom of his trunk and extracted the tiny, gleaming bottle. 

“Well, here goes,” said Harry, and he raised the little bottle and took a carefully measured gulp. 

“What does it feel like?” whispered Hermione. 

Harry did not answer for a moment. Then, slowly but surely, an exhilarating sense of infinite opportunity stole through him; he felt as though he could have done anything, anything at all . . . and getting the memory from Slughorn seemed suddenly not only possible, but positively easy. . . . 

He got to his feet, smiling, brimming with confidence. 

“Excellent,” he said. “Really excellent. Right . . . I’m going down to Hagrid’s.” 

“What?” said Hermione, looking aghast. “No, Harry — you’ve got to go and see Slughorn, remember?” 

“No,” said Harry confidently. “I’m going to Hagrid’s, I’ve got a good feeling about going to Hagrid’s.” 

“You’ve got a good feeling about burying a giant spider?” asked Hermione, looking stunned. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, pulling his Invisibility Cloak out of his bag. “I feel like it’s the place to be tonight, you know what I mean?” 

“No,” said Hermione, looking positively alarmed now. “This is Felix Felicis, I suppose?” she added anxiously, holding up the bottle to the light. 

“Hermione, come with me,” said Harry suddenly. 

“Me?” 

“Yes, my love, come with me,” he repeated firmly. “But stay under the Cloak until I say otherwise, you got that?” 

“Yeah . . . okay.” 

Harry swung the Cloak over their shoulders. 

“Trust me,” he said. “I know what I’m doing . . . or at least Felix does.” 

They set off down the stairs. Getting through the portrait hole was simple; as they approached it, Ron and Lavender came through it, and Hermione and Harry were able to slip between them. 

The portrait swung closed behind Harry. They strode off through the castle. They did not have to creep along, for they met nobody on his way, but this did not surprise Harry in the slightest: This evening, he was the luckiest person at Hogwarts. 

Why he knew that going to Hagrid’s was the right thing to do, he had no idea. It was as though the potion was illuminating a few steps of the path at a time: He could not see the final destination, he could not see where Slughorn came in, but he knew that he was going the right way to get that memory. When they reached the entrance hall they saw that Filch had forgotten to lock the front door. Beaming, Harry threw it open and breathed in the smell of clean air and grass for a moment before walking down the steps into the dusk with his gorgeous but slightly anxious girlfriend. 

It was when they reached the bottom step that it occurred to him how very pleasant it would be to pass the vegetable patch on his walk to Hagrid’s. It was not strictly on the way, but it seemed clear to Harry that this was a whim on which he should act, so he directed his feet immediately toward the vegetable patch. Hermione followed him and was surprised to find Professor Slughorn in conversation with Professor Sprout. 

Hermione and Harry lurked behind a low stone wall, the latter feeling at peace with the world. 

“I do thank you for taking the time, Pomona,” Slughorn was saying courteously, “most authorities agree that they are at their most efficacious if picked at twilight.” 

“Oh, I quite agree,” said Professor Sprout warmly. “That enough for you?” 

“Plenty, plenty,” said Slughorn, who, Hermione saw, was carrying an armful of leafy plants. “This should allow for a few leaves for each of my third-years, and some to spare if anybody over-stews them. . . . Well, good evening to you, and many thanks again!” 

Professor Sprout headed off into the gathering darkness in the direction of her greenhouses, and Slughorn directed his steps to the spot where Hermione and Harry stood, invisible. 

“Stay under the Cloak, love.” 

Then, without warning, as though seized with an immediate desire to reveal himself, Harry stepped out of the cloak with a flourish. 

“Good evening, Professor.” 

“Merlin’s beard, Harry, you made me jump,” said Slughorn, stopping dead in his tracks and looking wary. “How did you get out of the castle?” 

“I think Filch must’ve forgotten to lock the doors,” said Harry cheerfully, and was delighted to see Slughorn scowl. 

“I’ll be reporting that man, he’s more concerned about litter than proper security if you ask me. . . . But why are you out here, Harry?” 

“Well, sir, it’s Hagrid,” said Harry, who knew that the right thing to do just now was to tell the truth. “He’s pretty upset. . . . But you won’t tell anyone, Professor? I don’t want trouble for him. . . .” 

Slughorn’s curiosity was evidently aroused. 

“Well, I can’t promise that,” he said gruffly. “But I know that Dumbledore trusts Hagrid to the hilt, so I’m sure he can’t be up to anything very dreadful. . . .” 

“Well, it’s this giant spider, he’s had it for years. . . . It lived in the forest. . . . It could talk and everything —” 

“I heard rumors there were acromantulas in the forest,” said Slughorn softly, looking over at the mass of black trees. “It’s true, then?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “But this one, Aragog, the first one Hagrid ever got, died last night. He’s devastated. He wants company while he buries it and I said I’d go.” 

“Touching, touching,” said Slughorn absentmindedly, his large droopy eyes fixed upon the distant lights of Hagrid’s cabin. “But acromantula venom is very valuable . . . If the beast only just died, it might not yet have dried out. . . . Of course, I wouldn’t want to do anything insensitive if Hagrid is upset . . . but if there was any way to procure some . . . I mean, it’s almost impossible to get venom from an acromantula while it’s alive. . . .” 

Slughorn seemed to be talking more to himself than Harry now. 

“. . . seems an awful waste not to collect it . . . might get a hundred Galleons a pint. . . . To be frank, my salary is not large. . . .” 

And now Harry saw clearly what was to be done. 

“Well,” he said, with a most convincing hesitancy, “well, if you wanted to come, Professor, Hagrid would probably be really pleased. . . . Give Aragog a better send-off, you know . . .” 

“Yes, of course,” said Slughorn, his eyes now gleaming with enthusiasm. “I tell you what, Harry, I’ll meet you down there with a bottle or two. . . . We’ll drink the poor beast’s — well — not health — but we’ll send it off in style, anyway, once it’s buried. And I’ll change my tie, this one is a little exuberant for the occasion. . . .” 

He bustled back into the castle, and Harry sped off to Hagrid’s, delighted with himself, with Hermione following him closely. 

“Yeh came,” croaked Hagrid, when he opened the door and saw Harry emerging from the Invisibility Cloak in front of him. 

“Yeah, Hermione couldn’t, though,” said Harry. “She’s really sorry.” 

“Don’ — don’ need . . . He’d’ve bin touched yeh’re here, though, Harry. . . .” 

Hagrid gave a great sob. He had made himself a black armband out of what looked like a rag dipped in boot polish, and his eyes were puffy, red, and swollen. Harry patted him consolingly on the elbow, which was the highest point of Hagrid he could easily reach. 

“Where are we burying him?” he asked. “The forest?” 

“Blimey, no,” said Hagrid, wiping his streaming eyes on the bottom of his shirt. “The other spiders won’ let me anywhere near their webs now Aragog’s gone. Turns out it was on’y on his orders they didn’ eat me! Can yeh believe that, Harry?” 

The honest answer was “yes”; Harry recalled with painful ease the scene when he had come face-to-face with the acromantulas: It had been quite clear that Aragog was the only thing that stopped them from eating Hagrid. 

“Never bin an area o’ the forest I couldn’ go before!” said Hagrid, shaking his head. “It wasn’ easy, gettin’ Aragog’s body out o’ there, I can tell yeh — they usually eat their dead, see. . . . But I wanted ter give ’im a nice burial . . . a proper send-off . . .” 

He broke into sobs again and Harry resumed the patting of his elbow, saying as he did so (for the potion seemed to indicate that it was the right thing to do), “Professor Slughorn met me coming down here, Hagrid.” 

“Not in trouble, are yeh?” said Hagrid, looking up, alarmed. “Yeh shouldn’ be outta the castle in the evenin’, I know it, it’s my fault —” 

“No, no, when he heard what I was doing he said he’d like to come and pay his last respects to Aragog too,” said Harry. “He’s gone to change into something more suitable, I think . . . and he said he’d bring some bottles so we can drink to Aragog’s memory. . . .” 

“Did he?” said Hagrid, looking both astonished and touched. “Tha’s — tha’s righ’ nice of him, that is, an’ not turnin’ yeh in either. I’ve never really had a lot ter do with Horace Slughorn before. . . . Comin’ ter see old Aragog off, though, eh? Well . . . he’d’ve liked that, Aragog would. . . .” 

Harry thought privately that what Aragog would have liked most about Slughorn was the ample amount of edible flesh he provided, but he merely moved to the rear window of Hagrid’s hut, where he saw the rather horrible sight of the enormous dead spider lying on its back outside, its legs curled and tangled. 

Then, Harry felt a hand grip his own and knew that Hermione was standing right beside him. He felt more elated and confident than ever. 

“Are we going to bury him here, Hagrid, in your garden?” he asked. 

“Jus’ beyond the pumpkin patch, I thought,” said Hagrid in a choked voice. “I’ve already dug the — yeh know — grave. Jus’ thought we’d say a few nice things over him — happy memories, yeh know —” 

His voice quivered and broke. There was a knock on the door, and he turned to answer it, blowing his nose on his great spotted handkerchief as he did so. Slughorn hurried over the threshold, several bottles in his arms, and wearing a somber black cravat. 

“Hagrid,” he said, in a deep, grave voice. “So very sorry to hear of your loss.” 

“Tha’s very nice of yeh,” said Hagrid. “Thanks a lot. An’ thanks fer not givin’ Harry detention neither. . . .” 

“Wouldn’t have dreamed of it,” said Slughorn. “Sad night, sad night . . . Where is the poor creature?” 

“Out here,” said Hagrid in a shaking voice. “Shall we — shall we do it, then?” 

The three of them (with an invisible Hermione) stepped out into the back garden. The moon was glistening palely through the trees now, and its rays mingled with the light spilling from Hagrid’s window to illuminate Aragog’s body lying on the edge of a massive pit beside a ten-foot-high mound of freshly dug earth. 

“Magnificent,” said Slughorn, approaching the spider’s head, where eight milky eyes stared blankly at the sky and two huge, curved pincers shone, motionless, in the moonlight. 

Harry thought he heard the tinkle of bottles as Slughorn bent over the pincers, apparently examining the enormous hairy head. 

“It’s not ev’ryone appreciates how beau’iful they are,” said Hagrid to Slughorn’s back, tears leaking from the corners of his crinkled eyes. “I didn’ know yeh were int’rested in creatures like Aragog, Horace.” 

“Interested? My dear Hagrid, I revere them,” said Slughorn, stepping back from the body. Harry saw the glint of a bottle disappear beneath his cloak, though Hagrid, mopping his eyes once more, noticed nothing. “Now . . . shall we proceed to the burial?” 

Hagrid nodded and moved forward. He heaved the gigantic spider into his arms and, with an enormous grunt, rolled it into the dark pit. It hit the bottom with a rather horrible, crunchy thud. Hagrid started to cry again. 

“Of course, it’s difficult for you, who knew him best,” said Slughorn, who like Harry could reach no higher than Hagrid’s elbow, but patted it all the same. “Why don’t I say a few words?” 

He must have got a lot of good quality venom from Aragog, Harry thought, for Slughorn wore a satisfied smirk as he stepped up to the rim of the pit and said, in a slow, impressive voice, “Farewell, Aragog, king of arachnids, whose long and faithful friendship those who knew you won’t forget! Though your body will decay, your spirit lingers on in the quiet, web-spun places of your forest home. May your many-eyed descendants ever flourish and your human friends find solace for the loss they have sustained.” 

“Tha’ was . . . tha’ was . . . beau’iful!” howled Hagrid, and he collapsed onto the compost heap, crying harder than ever. 

“There, there,” said Slughorn, waving his wand so that the huge pile of earth rose up and then fell, with a muffled sort of crash, onto the dead spider, forming a smooth mound. “Let’s get inside and have a drink. Get on his other side, Harry. . . . That’s it. . . . Up you come, Hagrid . . . Well done . . .” 

They deposited Hagrid in a chair at the table. Fang, who had been skulking in his basket during the burial, now came padding softly across to them and put his heavy head into Harry’s lap as usual. Slughorn uncorked one of the bottles of wine he had brought. 

“I have had it all tested for poison,” he assured Harry, pouring most of the first bottle into one of Hagrid’s bucket-sized mugs and handing it to Hagrid. “Had a house-elf taste every bottle after what happened to your poor friend Rupert.” 

Harry turned to the spot where he knew Hermione stood, glaring at Slughorn for this abuse of house-elves, and slightly shook his head in alarm. 

“One for Harry . . .” said Slughorn, dividing a second bottle between two mugs, “. . . and one for me. Well” — he raised his mug high — “to Aragog.” 

“Aragog,” said Harry and Hagrid together. 

Both Slughorn and Hagrid drank deeply. Harry, however, with the way ahead illuminated for him by Felix Felicis, knew that he must not drink, so he merely pretended to take a gulp and then set the mug back on the table before him. 

“I had him from an egg, yeh know,” said Hagrid morosely. “Tiny little thing he was when he hatched. ’Bout the size of a Pekingese.” 

“Sweet,” said Slughorn. 

“Used ter keep him in a cupboard up at the school until . . . well . . .” 

Hagrid’s face darkened and Harry knew why: Tom Riddle had contrived to have Hagrid thrown out of school, blamed for opening the Chamber of Secrets. Slughorn, however, did not seem to be listening; he was looking up at the ceiling, from which a number of brass pots hung, and also a long, silky skein of bright white hair. 

“That’s never unicorn hair, Hagrid?” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Hagrid indifferently. “Gets pulled out of their tails, they catch it on branches an’ stuff in the forest, yeh know . . .” 

“But my dear chap, do you know how much that’s worth?” 

“I use it fer bindin’ on bandages an’ stuff if a creature gets injured,” said Hagrid, shrugging. “It’s dead useful . . . very strong, see.” 

Slughorn took another deep draught from his mug, his eyes moving carefully around the cabin now, looking, Harry knew, for more treasures that he might be able to convert into a plentiful supply of oak-matured mead, crystalized pineapple, and velvet smoking jackets. He refilled Hagrid’s mug and his own, and questioned him about the creatures that lived in the forest these days and how Hagrid was able to look after them all. Hagrid, becoming expansive under the influence of the drink and Slughorn’s flattering interest, stopped mopping his eyes and entered happily into a long explanation of bowtruckle husbandry. 

Felix Felicis gave Harry a little nudge at this point, and he noticed that the supply of drink that Slughorn had brought was running out fast. Harry had not yet managed to bring off the Refilling Charm without saying the incantation aloud, but the idea that he might not be able to do it tonight was laughable: Indeed, Harry grinned to himself as, unnoticed by either Hagrid or Slughorn (now swapping tales of the illegal trade in dragon eggs) he pointed his wand under the table at the emptying bottles and they immediately began to refill. 

After an hour or so, Hagrid and Slughorn began making extravagant toasts: to Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, to elf-made wine, and to — 

“Harry Potter!” bellowed Hagrid, slopping some of his fourteenth bucket of wine down his chin as he drained it. 

“Yes, indeed,” cried Slughorn a little thickly, “Parry Otter, the Chosen Boy Who — well — something of that sort,” he mumbled, and drained his mug too. 

Not long after this, Hagrid became tearful again and pressed the whole unicorn tail upon Slughorn, who pocketed it with cries of, “To friendship! To generosity! To ten Galleons a hair!” 

And for a while after that, Hagrid and Slughorn were sitting side by side, arms around each other, singing a slow sad song about a dying wizard called Odo. 

“Aaargh, the good die young,” muttered Hagrid, slumping low onto the table, a little cross-eyed, while Slughorn continued to warble the refrain. “Me dad was no age ter go . . . nor were yer mum an’ dad, Harry. . .” 

Great fat tears oozed out of the corners of Hagrid’s crinkled eyes again; he grasped Harry’s arm and shook it. 

“Bes’ wiz and witchard o’ their age I never knew . . . terrible thing . . . terrible thing . . .” 

Then, suddenly, Slughorn broke into a song: 

And Odo the hero, they bore him back home 

To the place that he’d known as a lad, 

They laid him to rest with his hat inside out 

And his wand snapped in two, which was sad. 

“. . . terrible,” Hagrid grunted, and his great shaggy head rolled sideways onto his arms and he fell asleep, snoring deeply. 

“Sorry,” said Slughorn with a hiccup. “Can’t carry a tune to save my life.” 

“Hagrid wasn’t talking about your singing,” said Harry quietly. “He was talking about my mum and dad dying.” 

“Oh,” said Slughorn, repressing a large belch. “Oh dear. Yes, that was — was terrible indeed. Terrible . . . terrible . . .” 

He looked quite at a loss for what to say, and resorted to refilling their mugs. 

“I don’t — don’t suppose you remember it, Harry?” he asked awkwardly. 

“No — well, I was only one when they died,” said Harry, his eyes on the flame of the candle flickering in Hagrid’s heavy snores. “But I’ve found out pretty much what happened since. My dad died first. Did you know that?” 

“I — I didn’t,” said Slughorn in a hushed voice. 

“Yeah . . . Voldemort murdered him and then stepped over his body toward my mum,” said Harry. 

Slughorn gave a great shudder, but he did not seem able to tear his horrified gaze away from Harry’s face. 

“He told her to get out of the way,” said Harry remorselessly. “He told me she needn’t have died. He only wanted me. She could have run.” 

“Oh dear,” breathed Slughorn. “She could have . . . she needn’t . . . That’s awful. . . .” 

“It is, isn’t it?” said Harry, in a voice barely more than a whisper. “But she didn’t move. Dad was already dead, but she didn’t want me to go, too. She tried to plead with Voldemort . . . but he just laughed. . . .” 

“That’s enough!” said Slughorn suddenly, raising a shaking hand. “Really, my dear boy, enough . . . I’m an old man . . . I don’t need to hear . . . I don’t want to hear . . .” 

“I forgot,” lied Harry, Felix Felicis leading him on. “You liked her, didn’t you?” 

“Liked her?” said Slughorn, his eyes brimming with tears once more. “I don’t imagine anyone who met her wouldn’t have liked her. . . . Very brave . . . Very funny . . . It was the most horrible thing. . . .” 

“But you won’t help her son,” said Harry. “She gave me her life, but you won’t give me a memory.” 

Hagrid’s rumbling snores filled the cabin. Harry looked steadily into Slughorn’s tear-filled eyes. The Potions master seemed unable to look away. 

“Don’t say that,” he whispered. “It isn’t a question . . . If it were to help you, of course . . . but no purpose can be served . . .” 

“It can,” said Harry clearly. “Dumbledore needs information. I need information.” 

He knew he was safe: Felix was telling him that Slughorn would remember nothing of this in the morning. Looking Slughorn straight in the eye, Harry leaned forward a little. 

“I am the Chosen One. I have to kill him. I need that memory.” 

Slughorn turned paler than ever; his shiny forehead gleamed with sweat. 

“You are the Chosen One?” 

“Of course I am,” said Harry calmly. 

“But then . . . my dear boy . . . you’re asking a great deal . . . you’re asking me, in fact, to aid you in your attempt to destroy —” 

“You don’t want to get rid of the wizard who killed Lily Evans?” 

“Harry, Harry, of course I do, but —” 

“You’re scared he’ll find out you helped me?” 

Slughorn said nothing; he looked terrified. 

“Be brave like my mother, Professor. . . .” 

Slughorn raised a pudgy hand and pressed his shaking fingers to his mouth; he looked for a moment like an enormously overgrown baby. 

“I am not proud . . .” he whispered through his fingers. “I am ashamed of what — of what that memory shows. . . . I think I may have done great damage that day. . . .” 

“You’d cancel out anything you did by giving me the memory,” said Harry. “It would be a very brave and noble thing to do.” 

Hagrid twitched in his sleep and snored on. Slughorn and Harry stared at each other over the guttering candle. There was a long, long silence, but Felix Felicis told Harry not to break it, to wait. 

Then, very slowly, Slughorn put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his wand. He put his other hand inside his cloak and took out a small, empty bottle. Still looking into Harry’s eyes, Slughorn touched the tip of his wand to his temple and withdrew it, so that a long, silver thread of memory came away too, clinging to the wand tip. Longer and longer the memory stretched until it broke and swung, silvery bright, from the wand. Slughorn lowered it into the bottle where it coiled, then spread, swirling like gas. He corked the bottle with a trembling hand and then passed it across the table to Harry. 

“Thank you very much, Professor.” 

“You’re a good boy,” said Professor Slughorn, tears trickling down his fat cheeks into his walrus mustache. “And you’ve got her eyes. . . . Just don’t think too badly of me once you’ve seen it. . . .” 

And he too put his head on his arms, gave a deep sigh, and fell asleep. 

Chapter Text

“You did it, Harry, you did it!” Hermione cried in joy once she and Harry were back inside the castle. 

“Yeah, blimey . . .” said Harry slowly, but definitely happily. “I can feel the lucky potion wearing off. . . .” 

By the time they got up to the portrait of the Fat Lady and pulled off his Invisibility Cloak, Hermione was not surprised to find her in a most unhelpful mood. 

“What sort of time do you call this?” 

“We’re really sorry — we had to go out for something important —” 

“Well, the password changed at midnight, so you’ll just have to sleep in the corridor, won’t you?” 

“You’re joking!” said Harry. “Why did it have to change at midnight?” 

“That’s the way it is,” said the Fat Lady. “If you’re angry, go and take it up with the headmaster, he’s the one who’s tightened security.” 

“Fantastic,” said Harry bitterly, looking around at the hard floor. “Really brilliant.” 

“Is Professor Dumbledore back yet or not?” Hermione asked the Fat Lady. 

“He is here,” said a voice behind them. “Professor Dumbledore returned to the school an hour ago.” 

Nearly Headless Nick was gliding toward them, his head wobbling as usual upon his ruff. 

“I had it from the Bloody Baron, who saw him arrive,” said Nick. “He appeared, according to the Baron, to be in good spirits, though a little tired, of course.” 

“Where is he?” said Hermione, her heart leaping. 

“Oh, groaning and clanking up on the Astronomy Tower, it’s a favorite pastime of his —” 

“Not the Bloody Baron — Dumbledore!” 

“Oh — in his chamber,” said Nick. “I believe, from what the Baron said, that he had business to attend to before turning in —” 

“Yeah, he has,” said Hermione, excitement blazing in her chest at the prospect of telling Dumbledore that Harry had secured the memory. She grabbed her boyfriend’s arm and sprinted off again, ignoring the Fat Lady who was calling after them. 

“Come back! All right, I lied! I was annoyed you woke me up! The password’s still ‘tapeworm’!” 

But Hermione and Harry were already hurtling back along the corridor and within minutes, they were saying “toffee éclairs” to Godric’s portrait, which swung forward, permitting them entrance onto the spiral staircase. 

“Enter,” said Dumbledore when Harry knocked. He sounded exhausted. 

Harry pushed open the door. There was Dumbledore’s chamber, looking the same as ever, but with black, star-strewn skies beyond the windows. 

“Good gracious, Harry, Hermione,” said Dumbledore in surprise. “To what do I owe this very late pleasure?” 

“Sir — we’ve got it!” Hermione cried ecstatically. “Harry’s got the memory from Professor Slughorn!” 

Harry pulled out the tiny glass bottle and showed it to Dumbledore. For a moment or two, the old wizard looked stunned. Then his face split in a wide smile. 

“This is spectacular news! Very well done indeed! I knew you could do it!” 

All thought of the lateness of the hour apparently forgotten, he hurried around his desk, took the bottle with Slughorn’s memory in his uninjured hand, and strode over to the cabinet where he kept the Pensieve. 

“And now,” said Dumbledore, placing the stone basin upon his desk and emptying the contents of the bottle into it. “Now, at last, we shall see. Harry, Hermione, quickly . . .” 

Hermione and Harry bowed obediently over the Pensieve and felt their feet leave the office floor. . . . Once again they fell through darkness and landed in Horace Slughorn’s office many years before. 

There was the much younger Slughorn, with his thick, shiny, straw-colored hair and his gingery-blond mustache, sitting again in the comfortable winged armchair in his office, his feet resting upon a velvet pouf, a small glass of wine in one hand, the other rummaging in a box of crystalized pineapple. And there were the half-dozen teenage boys sitting around Slughorn with Tom Riddle in the midst of them, Marvolo’s gold-and-black ring gleaming on his finger. 

Dumbledore landed beside Harry just as Riddle asked, “Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?” 

“Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn’t tell you,” said Slughorn, wagging his finger reprovingly at Riddle, though winking at the same time. “I must say, I’d like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.” 

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks. 

“What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who matter — thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you’re quite right, it is my favorite —” 

Several of the boys tittered again. 

“— I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts at the Ministry.” 

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again. Hermione noticed that he was by no means the eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed to look to him as their leader. 

“I don’t know that politics would suit me, sir,” he said when the laughter had died away. “I don’t have the right kind of background, for one thing.” 

A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. Hermione was sure they were enjoying a private joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or suspected, regarding their gang leader’s famous ancestor. 

“Nonsense,” said Slughorn briskly, “couldn’t be plainer you come from decent Wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you’ll go far, Tom, I’ve never been wrong about a student yet.” 

The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn’s desk chimed eleven o’clock behind him and he looked around. 

“Good gracious, is it that time already? You’d better get going, boys, or we’ll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it’s detention. Same goes for you, Avery.” 

One by one, the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. A movement behind him made him look around; Riddle was still standing there. 

“Look sharp, Tom, you don’t want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a Prefect . . .” 

“Sir, I wanted to ask you something.” 

“Ask away, then, m’boy, ask away. . . .” 

“Sir, I wondered what you know about . . . about Horcruxes?” 

Slughorn stared at him, his thick fingers absentmindedly caressing the stem of his wine glass. 

“Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?” 

But Hermione could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well that this was not schoolwork. 

“Not exactly, sir,” said Riddle. “I came across the term while reading and I didn’t fully understand it.” 

“No . . . well . . . you’d be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that’ll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom, that’s very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed,” said Slughorn. 

“But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you — sorry, I mean, if you can’t tell me, obviously — I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could — so I just thought I’d ask —” 

It was very well done, thought Hermione, the hesitancy, the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it overdone. She could tell that Riddle wanted the information very, very much; perhaps had been working toward this moment for weeks. 

“Well,” said Slughorn, not looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystalized pineapple, “well, it can’t hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.” 

“I don’t quite understand how that works, though, sir,” said Riddle. His voice was carefully controlled, but Hermione could sense his excitement. 

“Well, you split your soul, you see,” said Slughorn, “and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one’s body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form . . .” 

Slughorn’s face crumpled and Hermione found herself remembering words Harry had heard nearly two years before: “I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still, I was alive.” 

“. . . few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable.” 

But Riddle’s hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing. 

“How do you split your soul?” 

“Well,” said Slughorn uncomfortably, “you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature.” 

“But how do you do it?” 

“By an act of evil — the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn portion —” 

“Encase? But how — ?” 

“There is a spell, do not ask me, I don’t know!” said Slughorn, shaking his head like an old elephant bothered by mosquitoes. “Do I look as though I have tried it — do I look like a killer?” 

“No, sir, of course not,” said Riddle quickly. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to offend . . .” 

“Not at all, not at all, not offended,” said Slughorn gruffly. “It’s natural to feel some curiosity about these things. . . . Wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic. . . .” 

“Yes, sir,” said Riddle. “What I don’t understand, though — just out of curiosity — I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn’t seven — ?” 

“Merlin’s beard, Tom!” yelped Slughorn. “Seven! Isn’t it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case . . . bad enough to divide the soul . . . but to rip it into seven pieces . . .” 

Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: He was gazing at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly before, and Hermione could tell that he was regretting entering into the conversation at all. 

“Of course,” he muttered, “this is all hypothetical, what we’re discussing, isn’t it? All academic . . .” 

“Yes, sir, of course,” said Riddle quickly. 

“But all the same, Tom . . . keep it quiet, what I’ve told — that’s to say, what we’ve discussed. People wouldn’t like to think we’ve been chatting about Horcruxes. It’s a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know. . . . Dumbledore’s particularly fierce about it. . . .” 

“I won’t say a word, sir,” said Riddle, and he left, but not before Hermione had glimpsed his face, which was full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he had first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human. . . . 

“Thank you, Harry, Hermione,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Let us go. . . .” 

When Hermione and Harry landed back on the chamber floor Dumbledore was already sitting down behind his desk. Hermione and Harry sat too and waited for Dumbledore to speak. 

“I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a very long time,” said Dumbledore at last. “It confirms the theory on which I have been working, it tells me that I am right, and also how very far there is still to go. . . .

“Well, Harry, Hermione,” said Dumbledore, “I am sure you understood the significance of what we just heard. At the same age as you are now, give or take a few months, Tom Riddle was doing all he could to find out how to make himself immortal.” 

“You think he succeeded then, sir?” asked Harry. “He made a Horcrux? And that’s why he didn’t die when he attacked me? He had a Horcrux hidden somewhere? A bit of his soul was safe?” 

“A bit . . . or more,” said Dumbledore. “You heard Voldemort: What he particularly wanted from Horace was an opinion on what would happen to the wizard who created more than one Horcrux, what would happen to the wizard so determined to evade death that he would be prepared to murder many times, rip his soul repeatedly, so as to store it in many, separately concealed Horcruxes. No book would have given him that information. As far as I know — as far, I am sure, as Voldemort knew — no wizard had ever done more than tear his soul in two.” Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshaling his thoughts, and then said, “Four years ago, I received what I considered certain proof that Voldemort had split his soul.” 

“Where?” asked Harry “How?” 

“You handed it to me, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “The diary, Riddle’s diary, the one giving instructions on how to reopen the Chamber of Secrets.” 

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Harry. 

“Well, although I did not see the Riddle who came out of the diary, what you described to me was a phenomenon I had never witnessed. A mere memory starting to act and think for itself? A mere memory, sapping the life out of the girl into whose hands it had fallen? No, something much more sinister had lived inside that book. . . . a fragment of soul, I was almost sure of it. The diary had been a Horcrux. But this raised as many questions as it answered. 

“What intrigued and alarmed me most was that that diary had been intended as a weapon as much as a safeguard.” 

“I still don’t understand,” said Harry. 

“Well, it worked as a Horcrux is supposed to work — in other words, the fragment of soul concealed inside it was kept safe and had undoubtedly played its part in preventing the death of its owner. But there could be no doubt that Riddle really wanted that diary read, wanted the piece of his soul to inhabit or possess somebody else, so that Slytherin’s monster would be unleashed again.” 

“Well, he didn’t want his hard work to be wasted,” said Harry. “He wanted people to know he was Slytherin’s heir, because he couldn’t take credit at the time.” 

“Quite correct,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “But don’t you see, Harry, that if he intended the diary to be passed to, or planted on, some future Hogwarts student, he was being remarkably blasé about that precious fragment of his soul concealed within it. The point of a Horcrux is, as Professor Slughorn explained, to keep part of the self hidden and safe, not to fling it into somebody else’s path and run the risk that they might destroy it — as indeed happened: That particular fragment of soul is no more; you saw to that. 

“The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this Horcrux seemed most ominous to me. It suggested that he must have made — or been planning to make — more Horcruxes, so that the loss of his first would not be so detrimental. I did not wish to believe it, but nothing else seemed to make sense. 

“Then you told me, two years later, that on the night that Voldemort returned to his body, he made a most illuminating and alarming statement to his Death Eaters. ‘ I, who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality. ’ That was what you told me he said. ‘ Further than anybody. ’ And I thought I knew what that meant, though the Death Eaters did not. He was referring to his Horcruxes, Horcruxes in the plural, Harry, which I do not believe any other wizard has ever had. Yet it fitted: Lord Voldemort has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the transformation he has undergone seemed to me to be only explicable if his soul was mutilated beyond the realms of what we might call ‘usual evil’ . . .” 

“So he’s made himself impossible to kill by murdering other people?” said Hermione. “Why couldn’t he make a Sorcerer’s Stone, or steal one, if he was so interested in immortality?” 

“Well, we know that he tried to do just that, five years ago,” said Dumbledore. “But there are several reasons why, I think, a Sorcerer’s Stone would appeal less than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort. 

“While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it must be drunk regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker is to maintain their immortality. Therefore, Voldemort would be entirely dependent on the Elixir, and if it ran out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was stolen, he would die just like any other man. Voldemort likes to operate alone, remember. I believe that he would have found the thought of being dependent, even on the Elixir, intolerable. Of course he was prepared to drink it if it would take him out of the horrible part-life to which he was condemned after attacking you, but only to regain a body. Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to continue to rely on his Horcruxes: He would need nothing more, if only he could regain a human form. He was already immortal, you see . . . or as close to immortal as any man can be. 

“But now, Harry, Hermione, armed with this information, the crucial memory you have succeeded in procuring for us, we are closer to the secret of finishing Lord Voldemort than anyone has ever been before. You heard him, Harry: ‘ Wouldn’t it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces . . . isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number . . . ’ Isn’t seven the most powerfully magical number. Yes, I think the idea of a seven-part soul would greatly appeal to Lord Voldemort.” 

“He made seven Horcruxes?” said Hermione, horror-struck. “But they could be anywhere in the world — hidden — buried or invisible —” 

“I am glad to see you appreciate the magnitude of the problem,” said Dumbledore calmly “But firstly, no, Hermione, not seven Horcruxes: six. The seventh part of his soul, however maimed, resides inside his regenerated body. That was the part of him that lived a spectral existence for so many years during his exile; without that, he has no self at all. That seventh piece of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to kill Voldemort must attack — the piece that lives in his body.” 

“But the six Horcruxes, then,” said Harry, a little desperately, “how are we supposed to find them?” 

“You are forgetting . . . you have already destroyed one of them. And I have destroyed another.” 

“You have?” said Harry eagerly. 

“Yes indeed,” said Dumbledore, and he raised his blackened, burned-looking hand. “The ring, Harry. Marvolo’s ring. And a terrible curse there was upon it too. Had it not been — forgive me the lack of seemly modesty — for my own prodigious skill, and for Professor Snape’s timely action when I returned to Hogwarts, desperately injured, I might not have lived to tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not seem an unreasonable exchange for a seventh of Voldemort’s soul. The ring is no longer a Horcrux.” 

“But how did you find it?” 

“Well, as you now know, for many years I have made it my business to discover as much as I can about Voldemort’s past life. I have traveled widely, visiting those places he once knew. I stumbled across the ring hidden in the ruin of the Gaunts’ house. It seems that once Voldemort had succeeded in sealing a piece of his soul inside it, he did not want to wear it anymore. He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments, in the shack where his ancestors had once lived (Morfin having been carted off to Azkaban, of course), never guessing that I might one day take the trouble to visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye open for traces of magical concealment. 

“However, we should not congratulate ourselves too heartily. You destroyed the diary and I the ring, but if we are right in our theory of a seven-part soul, four Horcruxes remain.” 

“And they could be anything?” said Harry. “They could be old tin cans or, I dunno, empty potion bottles. . . .” 

“You are thinking of Portkeys, Harry, which must be ordinary objects, easy to overlook. But would Lord Voldemort use tin cans or old potion bottles to guard his own precious soul? You are forgetting what I have showed you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies, and he preferred objects with a powerful magical history. His pride, his belief in his own superiority, his determination to carve for himself a startling place in magical history; these things suggest to me that Voldemort would have chosen his Horcruxes with some care, favoring objects worthy of the honor.” 

“The diary wasn’t that special.” 

“The diary, as you have said yourself, was proof that he was the Heir of Slytherin; I am sure that Voldemort considered it of stupendous importance.” 

“So, the other Horcruxes?” said Hermione. “Do you think you know what they are, sir?” 

“I can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “For the reasons I have already given, I believe that Lord Voldemort would prefer objects that, in themselves, have a certain grandeur. I have therefore trawled back through Voldemort’s past to see if I can find evidence that such artifacts have disappeared around him.” 

“The locket!” said Harry loudly. “Hufflepuff’s cup!” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling, “I would be prepared to bet — perhaps not my other hand — but a couple of fingers, that they became Horcruxes three and four. The remaining two, assuming again that he created a total of six, are more of a problem, but I will hazard a guess that, having secured objects from Hufflepuff and Slytherin, he set out to track down objects owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four objects from the four founders would, I am sure, have exerted a powerful pull over Voldemort’s imagination. I cannot answer for whether he ever managed to find anything of Ravenclaw’s. I am confident, however, that the only known relic of Gryffindor remains safe in this office.” 

He was, Hermione and Harry realized, talking about the Sword of Godric Gryffindor. 

“Do you think that’s why he really wanted to come back to Hogwarts, sir?” said Hermione. “To try and find something from one of the other founders?” 

“My thoughts precisely,” said Dumbledore. “But unfortunately, that does not advance us much further, for he was turned away, or so I believe, without the chance to search the school. I am forced to conclude that he never fulfilled his ambition of collecting four founders’ objects. He definitely had two — he may have found three — that is the best we can do for now.” 

“Even if he got something of Ravenclaw’s or of Gryffindor’s, that leaves a sixth Horcrux,” said Harry, counting on his fingers. “Unless he got both?” 

“I don’t think so,” said Dumbledore. “I think I know what the sixth Horcrux is. I wonder what you will say when I confess that I have been curious for a while about the behavior of the snake, Nagini?” 

“The snake?” said Harry, startled. “You can use animals as Horcruxes?” 

“Well, it is inadvisable to do so,” said Dumbledore, “because to confide a part of your soul to something that can think and move for itself is obviously a very risky business. However, if my calculations are correct, Voldemort was still at least one Horcrux short of his goal of six when he entered your parents’ house with the intention of killing you. 

“He seems to have reserved the process of making Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths. You would certainly have been that. He believed that in killing you, he was destroying the danger the prophecy had outlined. He believed he was making himself invincible. I am sure that he was intending to make his final Horcrux with your death. 

“As we know, he failed. After an interval of some years, however, he used Nagini to kill an old Muggle man, and it might then have occurred to him to turn her into his last Horcrux. She underlines the Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord Voldemort’s mystique; I think he is perhaps as fond of her as he can be of anything; he certainly likes to keep her close, and he seems to have an unusual amount of control over her, even for a Parselmouth.” 

“So,” said Harry, “the diary’s gone, the ring’s gone. The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact, and you think there might be a Horcrux that was once Ravenclaw’s or Gryffindor’s?” 

“An admirably succinct and accurate summary, yes,” said Dumbledore, bowing his head. 

“So . . . are you still looking for them, sir? Is that where you’ve been going when you’ve been leaving the school?” 

“Correct,” said Dumbledore. “I have been looking for a very long time. I think . . . perhaps . . . I may be close to finding another one. There are hopeful signs.” 

“And if you do,” said Harry quickly, “can I come with you and help get rid of it?” 

“Me too?” Hermione interjected. 

Dumbledore looked at them very intently for a moment before saying, “Yes, I think so.” 

“We can?” said Harry, thoroughly taken aback. 

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore, smiling slightly. “I think you have earned that right.” 

Hermione felt her heart lift. It was very good not to hear words of caution and protection for once. 

“Does Voldemort know when a Horcrux is destroyed, sir? Can he feel it?” Harry asked. 

“A very interesting question, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “I believe not. I believe that Voldemort is now so immersed in evil, and these crucial parts of himself have been detached for so long, he does not feel as we do. Perhaps, at the point of death, he might be aware of his loss . . . but he was not aware, for instance, that the diary had been destroyed until he forced the truth out of Lucius Malfoy. When Voldemort discovered that the diary had been mutilated and robbed of all its powers, I am told that his anger was terrible to behold.” 

“But I thought he meant Mr. Malfoy to smuggle it into Hogwarts?” 

“Yes, he did, years ago, when he was sure he would be able to create more Horcruxes, but still Lucius was supposed to wait for Voldemort’s say-so, and he never received it, for Voldemort vanished shortly after giving him the diary. 

“No doubt he thought that Lucius would not dare do anything with the Horcrux other than guard it carefully, but he was counting too much upon Lucius’s fear of a master who had been gone for years and whom Lucius believed dead. Of course, Lucius did not know what the diary really was. I understand that Voldemort had told him the diary would cause the Chamber of Secrets to reopen because it was cleverly enchanted. Had Lucius known he held a portion of his master’s soul in his hands, he would undoubtedly have treated it with more reverence — but instead he went ahead and carried out the old plan for his own ends: By planting the diary upon Arthur Weasley’s daughter, he hoped to discredit Arthur and get rid of a highly incriminating magical object in one stroke. Ah, poor Lucius . . . what with Voldemort’s fury about the fact that he threw away the Horcrux for his own gain, and the fiasco at the Ministry last year, I would not be surprised if he is not secretly glad to be safe in Azkaban at the moment.” 

Hermione and Harry sat in thought for a moment, then the latter asked, “So if all of his Horcruxes are destroyed, Voldemort could be killed?” 

“Yes, I think so,” said Dumbledore. “Without his Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man with a maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though, that while his soul may be damaged beyond repair, his brain and his magical powers remain intact. It will take uncommon skill and power to kill a wizard like Voldemort even without his Horcruxes.” 

“But I haven’t got uncommon skill and power,” said Harry, before he could stop himself. 

“Yes, you have,” said Dumbledore firmly. “You have a power that Voldemort has never had. You can —” 

“I know!” said Harry impatiently. “I can love!” It was only with difficulty that he stopped himself adding, “Big deal!” 

“Yes, Harry, you can love,” said Dumbledore, who looked as though he knew perfectly well what Harry had just refrained from saying. “Which, given everything that has happened to you, is a great and remarkable thing. You are still too young to understand how unusual you are, Harry.” 

“So, when the prophecy says that I’ll have ‘power the Dark Lord knows not,’ it just means — love?” asked Harry, feeling a little let down. 

“Yes — just love,” said Dumbledore. “But Harry, never forget that what the prophecy says is only significant because Voldemort made it so. I told you this at the end of last year. Voldemort singled you out as the person who would be most dangerous to him — and in doing so, he made you the person who would be most dangerous to him!” 

“But it comes to the same —” 

“No, it doesn’t!” said Dumbledore, sounding impatient now. Pointing at Harry with his black, withered hand, he said, “You are setting too much store by the prophecy!” 

“But,” spluttered Harry, “but you said the prophecy means —” 

“If Voldemort had never heard of the prophecy, would it have been fulfilled? Would it have meant anything? Of course not! Do you think every prophecy in the Hall of Prophecy has been fulfilled?” 

“But,” said Harry, bewildered, “but last year, you said one of us would have to kill the other —” 

“Harry, Harry, only because Voldemort made a grave error, and acted on Professor Trelawney’s words! If Voldemort had never murdered your father, would he have imparted in you a furious desire for revenge? Of course not! If he had not forced your mother to die for you, would he have given you a magical protection he could not penetrate? Of course not, Harry! Don’t you see? Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just as tyrants everywhere do! Have you any idea how much tyrants fear the people they oppress? All of them realize that, one day, amongst their many victims, there is sure to be one who rises against them and strikes back! Voldemort is no different! Always he was on the lookout for the one who would challenge him. He heard the prophecy and he leapt into action, with the result that he not only handpicked the man most likely to finish him, he handed him uniquely deadly weapons!” 

“But —” 

“It is essential that you understand this!” said Dumbledore, standing up and striding about the room, his glittering robes swooshing in his wake; Hermione had never seen him so agitated. “By attempting to kill you, Voldemort himself singled out the remarkable person who sits here in front of me, and gave him the tools for the job! It is Voldemort’s fault that you were able to see into his thoughts, his ambitions, that you even understand the snake-like language in which he gives orders, and yet, Harry, despite your privileged insight into Voldemort’s world (which, incidentally, is a gift any Death Eater would kill to have), you have never been seduced by the Dark Arts, never, even for a second, shown the slightest desire to become one of Voldemort’s followers!” 

“Of course I haven’t!” said Harry indignantly. “He killed my mum and dad!” 

“You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!” said Dumbledore loudly. “The only protection that can possibly work against the lure of power like Voldemort’s! In spite of all the temptation you have endured, all the suffering, you remain pure of heart, just as pure as you were at the age of eleven, when you stared into a mirror that reflected your heart’s desire, and it showed you only the way to thwart Lord Voldemort, and not immortality or riches. Harry, have you any idea how few wizards could have seen what you saw in that mirror? Voldemort should have known then what he was dealing with, but he did not! 

“But he knows it now. You have flitted into Lord Voldemort’s mind without damage to yourself, but he cannot possess you without enduring mortal agony, as he discovered in the Ministry. I do not think he understands why, Harry, but then, he was in such a hurry to mutilate his own soul, he never paused to understand the incomparable power of a soul that is untarnished and whole.” 

“But, sir,” said Harry, making valiant efforts not to sound argumentative, “it all comes to the same thing, doesn’t it? I’ve got to try and kill him, or —” 

“Got to?” said Dumbledore. “Of course you’ve got to! But not because of the prophecy! Because you, yourself, will never rest until you’ve tried! We both know it! Imagine, please, just for a moment, that you had never heard that prophecy! How would you feel about Voldemort now? Think!” 

Harry watched Dumbledore striding up and down in front of him, then turned to look at the girl sitting beside him. He thought of all the terrible deeds he knew Lord Voldemort had done. A flame seemed to leap inside his chest, searing his throat. 

“I’d want him finished,” said Harry quietly. “And I’d want to do it.” 

“Of course you would!” cried Dumbledore. “You see, the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you as his equal. . . . In other words, you are free to choose your way, quite free to turn your back on the prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the prophecy. He will continue to hunt you . . . which makes it certain, really, that —” 

“That one of us is going to end up killing the other,” said Harry. 

“Yes.” 

But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. He felt Hermione grip his hand. 

“I’m with you, Harry,” she spoke gently but firmly. 

Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew — Hermione knew — and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents — that there was all the difference in the world.

Chapter Text

Exhausted but delighted with their night’s work, Hermione and Harry told Susan and Daphne (the young couple was certain Susan would tell Ginny later) everything that had happened during next morning’s Charms lesson (having first cast the Muffliato spell upon those nearest them). Daphne was satisfyingly impressed by the way Harry had wheedled the memory out of Slughorn and Susan positively awed about Voldemort’s Horcruxes and Dumbledore’s promise to take Harry and Hermione along, should he find another one. 

“It’s funny how Felix made you visit Hagrid,” Daphne said. “It’s almost like it can . . .” 

“See the future?” Harry finished for her. “Yeah, I’ve got the same feeling.” 

“Can’t you ever stop reading that thing?” Hermione asked the blonde witch, annoyed. “We’re sitting in the Charms class, not Potions.” 

“Says one who is currently sitting inside a muffled field,” Daphne countered smoothly, turning a page of the Prince’s copy of Advanced Potion-Making without even looking at Hermione. “Created by a spell mentioned in the very same book.” 

Hermione chewed her bottom lip anxiously. 

“I know I gave it back to you. I’m just afraid it’s going to get someone killed.” 

“You worry too much,” said Daphne, finally glancing up at her. “I’ve stopped using this to perform better in the Potions classes. I admit I was driven by scoring better than you and this book offered me that chance, but it’s not really worth it if you’re going to keep nagging me to death over it, after all, I guess.” 

Hermione couldn’t help the tiny smile that graced her lips. Daphne was more sensitive that most people would bet on. 

When Hermione and Harry climbed through the portrait hole into the sunny common room that afternoon, they found a small group of seventh-years clustered together there. Recognizing the center of the attention, Hermione cried, “Katie! You’re back! Are you okay?” 

It was indeed Katie Bell, looking completely healthy and surrounded by her jubilant friends. 

“I’m really well!” she said happily. “They let me out of St. Mungo’s on Monday, I had a couple of days at home with Mum and Dad and then came back here this morning. Leanne was just telling me about McLaggen and the last match, Harry. . . .” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “well, now you’re back and Ron’s fit, you’ll have more than a decent chance of thrashing Ravenclaw. Listen, Katie . . .” 

He had to put the question to her at once; he dropped his voice as Katie’s friends started gathering up their things; apparently they were late for Transfiguration. 

“. . . that necklace . . . can you remember who gave it to you now?” 

“No,” said Katie, ruefully shaking her head. “Everyone’s been asking me, but I haven’t got a clue. The last thing I remember was walking into the ladies’ in the Three Broomsticks.” 

“You definitely went into the bathroom, then?” said Hermione. 

“Well, I know I pushed open the door,” said Katie, “so I suppose whoever Imperiused me was standing just behind it. After that, my memory’s a blank until about two weeks ago in St. Mungo’s. Listen, I’d better go, I wouldn’t put it past McGonagall to give me lines even if it is my first day back. . . .” 

She caught up her bag and books and hurried after her friends, leaving Hermione and Harry to sit down at a window table and ponder what she had told them. 

“So it must have been a girl or a woman who gave Katie the necklace,” said Hermione, “to be in the ladies’ bathroom.” 

“Or someone who looked like a girl or a woman,” said Harry. “Don’t forget, there was a cauldron full of Polyjuice Potion at Hogwarts. We know some of it got stolen. . . .” 

In her mind’s eye, Hermione watched a parade of Crabbes and Goyles prance past, all transformed into girls. 

“I think I’m going to take another swig of Felix,” said Harry, “and have a go at the Room of Requirement again.” 

“That would be a complete waste of potion,” said Hermione flatly, putting down the copy of New Theory of Numerology she had just taken out of her bag. “Luck can only get us so far, Harry. The situation with Slughorn was different; you always had the ability to persuade him, you just needed to tweak the circumstances a bit. Luck isn’t enough to get us through a powerful enchantment, though. We ought not to go wasting the rest of that potion! We’ll need all the luck we can get if Dumbledore takes us along with him . . .” She dropped her voice to a whisper. 

“I don’t like the sound of you coming along with Dumbledore and I,” said Harry, frowning. 

“I wish we could concoct some more of it,” said Hermione, ignoring his comment altogether. “But Felix Felicis takes six months to brew. It’s seriously complicated. You’ve got to let it stew.” 

“Don’t ignore me,” said Harry quietly. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione sighed. “But I can’t let you go off alone with Dumbledore, can I? I love you and want to protect you just as much as you love me and want to protect me.” 

Harry exhaled deeply and nodded his head in resignation. 

“The best we can do is stay together,” Hermione whispered, leaning forward to plant a quick kiss on Harry’s lips. 

He hummed in agreement before suddenly pulling her into his lap. She barely held herself from shrieking as she sunk comfortably into his arms, her back resting on his wide chest. 

“Harry, everyone’s watching,” she mumbled, red-faced, quickly averting her eyes from the people in the room. Everyone really was watching. 

“They always do,” Harry said in a gruffy voice which fell in hot breaths upon Hermione’s ear, causing her core to heat up with desire. 

She looked around at him and was a little surprised to catch the intensity in his bright eyes. She had always adored his emerald orbs; you could literally drown in them and find salvation. Right now, however, they were slightly dark with want, which she realized was directed at her. 

“Did I turn you on, Mister?” she asked in a whisper quieter than air. 

He let out a deep guttural hum of agreement that vibrated her being. She was more turned on than him, to be honest. 

“We should find a room,” she suggested coyly, raising a hand to caress Harry’s cheekbone. “You’ve got my heart racing, you know.” 

His hand rose to rest on her chest. He felt her heart thumping against her rib cage and said, “A grain of truth there, I guess.” 

“It’s true, Mister,” Hermione said, frowning. “Why would I lie —” 

But her voice died as Harry suddenly claimed her mouth. She tuned out the noise of the common room, and her body set on fire with pure, primal desire to be one with Harry. Her skin was going to melt, she was afraid, considering the way her body was heating in his arms. Her skin was scorching everywhere he touched, and that meant everywhere. 

His hands trailed lower down her back, then gently caressed her thighs until they eventually slipped inside her skirt and reached her arse. She couldn’t really control the moan that escaped her chest the moment he squeezed her flesh. 

“God, Harry —” 

She froze, mummified with embarrassment, and attempted to pull back, but Harry didn’t let go. Instead, he reaffirmed his hold on the nape of her neck and somehow deepened the kiss even more. 

“Harry,” she managed to breathe against his hungry lips, barely suppressing her own starvation. “We need a room. Now.” 

He finally pulled back, his chest heaving and face pink. Hermione believed she couldn’t be in a better state herself. 

His eyes swept the common room, followed by hers. It was clear a lot of them had turned away only the second they had stopped kissing. 

“Let’s go,” Harry said, taking her hand, and she followed him with a happy bounce in her steps. 

Harry took her to the Room of Requirement, and Hermione had her breath taken away when she had a look inside. It looked nothing less than a five-star hotel’s best suite. She giggled freely this time when Harry picked her by her knees. 

“You liked it, didn’t you?” Harry asked her with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “When I kissed you in front of everyone.” 

Hermione blushed hard. 

“You did,” Harry went on, smirking. “You loved it when I claimed you like that, didn’t you?” 

She peered down into his eyes for a moment before confessing in a tiny voice, “Yes, I did.” 

“You’re mine, baby girl,” Harry let out a possessive growl. “And I am not shying away from letting everyone know that you are, you get that?” 

Hermione was a bit weak in the knees when Harry settled her on the edge of the incredibly soft king-sized bed. Suddenly he seemed a lot taller as he stood before her, taking off his shirt, followed by his pants. 

Hermione’s mouth went dry at the sight of the enticing bulge presented to her. She licked her lips and eagerly went for the prize. Harry let out an appreciative hiss under his breath as soon as her palm reached him. 

“You make me so hard,” he moaned, gripping her shoulders. “God, that feels so good.” 

Hermione had snaked her hand inside his boxers to touch him properly. 

God, it’s throbbing like a second heartbeat. 

She could pump him only a few times before Harry pushed her. She lay on her back, her eyes wide, her heart skipping a beat, when he crawled over her and took her mouth again. She didn’t know where this Harry had been hiding until now, but she was glad she was finally seeing him, feeling him feeling her. His hands were possessive, his movements eager, as they scraped over each and every inch of her skin. 

“Harry,” Hermione moaned the name that was the sole reason for every breath she took. “God, I need you so much.” 

“I need you too,” he whispered, lowered his lips to that sensitive point on her neck he knew always made her go crazy. 

“Take my clothes off,” she said desperately, arching her back upwards. 

Harry took her top off for her, taking a deep stabilizing breath at the sight of her bra. Grinning, while looking up at her in the eyes, he trailed his mouth to her chest and planted soft, little kisses on her skin, especially above the cups of her bra and in the valley of her cleavage. 

That won’t do, Hermione thought to herself. She caught Harry’s mouth with her own and folded her arms behind herself to unhook her bra. Pulling the straps down her shoulders, she threw it off somewhere behind her. Her belly fluttered with butterflies when she finally pressed her skin to his. 

“Hermione, oh . . .” Harry gasped when she took his right hand and thrust it inside her knickers while slithering her own hand back inside his boxers. She was glad to find him just as breathless and excited as her. 

Her eyes rolled back, her ears pounding thunderously, as Harry’s fingers circled on her clit. His touch was gentle but firm enough to make her pulse race. She tried to match his rhythm with strokes of her own but found herself severely outmatched. A moan tore its way out of her throat when he finally slipped a finger inside her, and she squeezed his cock a bit too tightly in return. 

Don’t stop! Hermione screamed in her head but found no breath in her lungs to speak out loud. 

Together, they continued to please each other while their mouths stayed in close contact, never separating for more than a couple of seconds, until Hermione eventually gave in to the absolute pleasure. Her entire body trembled, and she clasped Harry’s hand between her thighs as she rode out the intense orgasm. 

“Good girl,” Harry breathed with a grin on his face. “Cumming for Daddy like that.” 

Hermione squirmed under his weight, pleasure pooling deep in her nethers, as her senses slowly returned. 

“Fuck.” The word just slipped off her tongue without consent. 

“As you wish,” Harry answered rather simply. 

The next moment Hermione knew, he had taken off her skirt and knickers as well. She lay buck-naked beneath him, her thighs not exactly dry. Drool literally dribbled down the corner of her mouth when he stripped in front of her. His erection sprang to prominence like a mast, bobbing anticipatively, no doubt able to sense Hermione’s arousal. She wiped her lips and scooted closer to her boyfriend. 

“Daddy’s so hard,” she whispered, wrapping her palm around the base of his girth. “Is that because of me?” 

“It damn is,” Harry hissed and took her mouth once again, but she pushed him back unceremoniously, making him growl impatiently. Her heart skipped another beat at the delicious sound he made. 

“Let me ride you, Daddy,” she said, pushing him on his back and climbing into his lap. 

Harry let out another hiss when she rubbed her arse against his cock. He gripped her hips and thrust his own up to gain more of that fulfilling friction as his shaft ground against her wet lips. 

He slipped inside her with a familiar ease. 

“Oh, fuck,” Harry moaned, his grip becoming so tight it might bruise her in a few seconds. 

She wanted him to hold her even tighter. Her head fell backwards as the pleasure rolled through her in waves that swept her mind away. She whispered his name like a biblical verse and slowly impaled herself on his thick shaft that fit inside her perfectly as if designed that way. 

“You’re taking me so good, baby,” Harry told her, grinning up at her. His hands also travelled up to her tits and massaged them playfully. 

Placing her own hands on his chest for support, Hermione took a deep breath and lifted her hips before slamming them back upon his with a moan unlike any other. She gained a graceful rhythm that rocked them both. Her tits bounced with every rise and fall of her body, but his palms kept them in control. He rolled her stiff nipples between his fingers, mumbling words of appreciation and desire, while she rode him in cowgirl. 

“Is Daddy close?” Hermione asked a while later when she certainly was. 

Harry smirked devilishly. 

“Not even by a margin.” 

He raised himself and attacked her breasts with frantic kisses without prior notice, making her gasp and lose it all. She seized moving in his arms while he sucked repeatedly on her titflesh. It was another mind-blowing orgasm that shook her to the core, her juices gushing out of her and upon Harry’s thighs in a torrent. 

This was when he chose to start moving himself. He lay her on her back while never disengaging from her, then plunged deep inside her with powerful thrusts that made stars appear before her eyes. She was rendered breathless and tending to her breasts by herself as Harry took her by the storm, thrusting inside her deep and hard, slamming his hips into hers like a well-oiled jackhammer. 

His lips found hers for a languid kiss, and the plumbing resumed for a few moments, only until he as well succumbed to the great pleasure, flooding her insides with his seed. 

He lay down next to her, panting, and she immediately embraced him. 

“Daddy, eh?” 

“Yep,” he chuckled. “Let’s not let Dan find out though.” 

She couldn’t help giggling. 

“Is Daddy already tired?” she asked slyly, caressing Harry’s cheek with the tip of her index finger. 

“For my favorite girl? Never.” 

Hermione couldn’t help squealing and giggling when he pulled her back upon himself until he took her breath away with a kiss as feverish and as passionate as ever. 

... 

A few days later, Hermione found herself walking down to dinner alone from the common room, Harry having being held back by Luna an hour ago when him and Hermione were strolling by the lake. Luna looked uncharacteristically fidgety and Hermione thought it better to let Harry deal with it, for he understood the girl better than she did. More out of habit than anything, Hermione made a detour along the seventh-floor corridor, checking the Marauder’s Map as she went. For a moment she could not find Malfoy anywhere and assumed he must indeed be inside the Room of Requirement again, but then she saw Malfoy’s tiny, labeled dot standing in a boys’ bathroom on the floor below, accompanied, not by Crabbe or Goyle, but by Moaning Myrtle. 

Hermione only stopped staring at this unlikely coupling when she walked right into a suit of armor. The loud crash brought her out of her reverie; hurrying from the scene lest Filch turn up, she dashed down the marble staircase and along the passageway below. Outside the bathroom, she pressed her ear against the door. She could not hear anything. She very quietly pushed the door open. 

Draco Malfoy was standing with his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the sink, his white-blond head bowed. 

“Don’t,” crooned Moaning Myrtle’s voice from one of the cubicles. “Don’t . . . tell me what’s wrong . . . I can help you. . . .” 

“No one can help me,” said Malfoy. His whole body was shaking. “I can’t do it. . . . I can’t. . . . It won’t work . . . and unless I do it soon . . . he says he’ll kill her. . . .” 

And Hermione realized, with a shock so huge it seemed to root her to the spot, that Malfoy was crying — actually crying — tears streaming down his pale face into the grimy basin. Malfoy gasped and gulped and then, with a great shudder, looked up into the cracked mirror and saw Hermione staring at him over his shoulder. 

Malfoy wheeled around, drawing his wand. Instinctively, Hermione pulled out her own. Malfoy’s hex missed her by inches, shattering the lamp on the wall beside her; Hermione threw herself sideways, thought Levicorpus! and flicked her wand, but Malfoy blocked the jinx and raised his wand for another — 

“No! No! Stop it!” squealed Moaning Myrtle, her voice echoing loudly around the tiled room. “Stop! STOP!” 

There was a loud bang and the bin behind Hermione exploded; she attempted a Leg-Locker Curse that backfired off the wall behind Malfoy’s ear and smashed the cistern beneath Moaning Myrtle, who screamed loudly; water poured everywhere. Hermione had only uttered “Expelli —” but she slipped and Malfoy, his face contorted, cried, waving his wand wildly, “SECTUMSEMPRA!” 

A cry escaped Hermione’s throat as though she had been slashed with an invisible sword. She saw Malfoy’s eyes widen, looking close to terrified, as he watched her crumble. Blood spurted from her face and chest. Her vision blurred, and she heard Malfoy collapse onto the water-logged floor with a great splash, his wand falling from his right hand. Moaning Myrtle let out a deafening scream: “MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDER!” 

The door banged open behind Hermione and she looked up with relief: Professor Snape had burst into the room, his face livid. He knelt over Hermione, drew his wand, and traced it over the deep wounds Malfoy’s curse had made, muttering an incantation that sounded almost like a song to Hermione. She realized every natural and recently created orifice in her body was gushing out blood at a frightening pace. However, as soon as Professor Snape’s voice fell unto her ears, the flow of blood seemed to ease; he wiped the residue from Hermione’s face and repeated his spell. Now the wounds seemed to be knitting. 

She clutched the edge of Professor Snape’s robes in her hand and tried to get up, but a crucial amount of blood had already been lost, and she fainted in his arms. 

Chapter Text

“You can tell me anything, Luna,” Harry said softly. 

The two of them were sitting by the lake, side by side, but quietly. Harry had been here for the last three hours; first two with Hermione, and the last one with Luna. The young blonde witch had seen Harry and Hermione strolling around, talking to each other, and had appeared from behind a giant tree that would have completely obscured her until she decided to step up. She looked fidgety in an uncharacteristic way. Usually, she was more sturdy and even dreamy, but to see her fidget with her hands and open and close her mouth twice as if trying and failing to say something was disconcerting. 

“I think she wants to talk to me,” Harry had told Hermione in a low voice. She had pouted but agreed nonetheless and walked back to the castle alone. 

In the beginning, as Luna and Harry sat down facing the lake, she talked about random things like her upcoming O.W.L. exams and her father’s recently thriving magazine and such, but when Harry asked her what she really wanted to talk about, she became rather quiet. 

“There’s something I never told you,” she finally spoke up, gazing ahead at the calm water surface. “You or anyone else, in fact. Not even my father.” 

“And . . . now you want to tell me?” Harry added hopefully. 

Luna nodded her head. 

“It’s getting out of my hand lately,” she said in a voice with a hint of remorse. “I should have let someone know sooner. It’s all my fault.” 

“Has something happened, Luna? You’re worrying me now,” Harry said anxiously. 

Luna took a deep breath and turned her large, silvery eyes upon Harry. He could see the storm of conflict raging behind them, as if she wasn’t entirely sure she should still be telling him whatever it was. 

“It’s that — he’s not a bad guy, Harry — he’s just alone and scared —” 

“Who?” Harry asked. “Who’s not a bad guy?” 

But Luna grabbed his hands in her own and stared him in the eyes. 

“Promise me, Harry. You have to promise me. You’ll hear me through and that too only after expelling out of your mind whatever presumed discrimination you might have for him.” 

“Yes,” Harry agreed without thinking. “Just tell me.” 

But she couldn’t, for Ginny had turned up out of nowhere, looking totally out of breath, and doubled on her knees before them, panting hard. 

“Gin?” said Harry, turning towards her. “What’s the matter?” 

“Hermione — she — she —” 

“What happened to Hermione?” Harry asked urgently, bolting up to his feet in a blink. 

“Injured,” Ginny gasped, finally straightening up again. “She had a fight with Malfoy in a bathroom. He hit her with a serious spell, Harry. She’s admitted to the Hospital Wing. Sue’s with her right now.” 

The whole place seemed to zoom out around him as Ginny’s voice fell unto his ears. Then, suddenly, all by themselves, his feet kickstarted, and he was running at top speed towards the castle. 

A fight with Malfoy? he thought, his heart pounding in his chest, as his feet carried the rest of him. A serious spell? The fuck that means? 

Madam Pomfrey tried to keep him out, but failed to do so. 

“This is not a joke shop, Mr. Potter!” she said exasperatedly, but he entered the curtains around Hermione’s bed anyway. 

Susan was in there already, sat in a chair by Hermione’s bed. 

“Harry,” she said, jumping to her feet, as soon as she saw him. Her arms came around him for an embrace but he didn’t — couldn’t — return it properly. His eyes, his mind, his whole being were fixed on Hermione. 

Her entire body was covered in bandages. He could barely see her eyes and mouth. He walked around her bed and leaned over her, his right hand coming up to caress her cheek. She was unconscious, sleeping quite peacefully. Attached so intimately that she was to him, she had always been concerned with things no witch of her age should be concerned with. She seldom slept so peacefully, with no crease lines on her forehead or her hands not clenched around thin air. 

He planted a soft kiss on her temple and whispered quietly, “You wake up quickly, okay? I can’t see you like this for too long.” 

“That slimy bastard,” he heard Ginny’s voice behind him. “He’s really crossed the line this time. And do you know what Snape did when he found out Malfoy did this to Hermione? Fucking asked him to pack his things and shift to his own dormitory. He’s fucking protecting that son of a bitch.” 

“It doesn’t matter, Gin —” 

“But, Harry —” Ginny protested. 

“It doesn’t matter, Gin,” Harry repeated firmly. “All that matters right now is that Hermione gets well soon. That’s it.” 

“Yes,” said Susan, nodding. “You should stay here, Harry. We don’t know what might happen next.” 

Harry took the chair she was occupying and pulled it close to Hermione’s head. 

“Have you seen Daphne?” Susan asked Ginny, who shook her head for an answer. “Let’s go and find her.” 

As the two of them stepped out of the curtains, Harry finally let out a breath. He held Hermione’s hand in his own and kneeled down on the floor, pressing his forehead on the back of her palm. 

“I’m here, okay?” he whispered. “You just wake up, and it’ll be all right.” 

“She should be waking up anytime soon,” Madam Pomfrey told him a few minutes later. 

Harry didn’t even hum in recognition. He wanted him to be the first face she saw when she woke up. 

It happened around half an hour later. Susan and Ginny had found Daphne as well, and the three were waiting outside the curtains. Eventually, Hermione’s eyes blinked open with a little groan falling out of her lips. 

“Hermione,” Harry said softly, holding her cheeks, as she locked gazes with him. 

“Hey,” she said with a tiny smile. “My throat’s so dry,” she remarked and coughed, her hand reaching at her throat. 

Harry quickly poured her water in a glass and helped her rise so that she could sit with her back against the bed stand. 

“Thanks,” she said, accepting the glass and draining it. “I’m hungry,” she told Harry, caressing her belly. “Really, really hungry. I could eat a lamb right now.” 

Harry chuckled, and without his permission, a tear slipped down his eye, and he flung himself into her arms. 

“Oof — easy, Harry —” 

“You’re okay?” was the only thing he whispered in her ear as he hugged her tightly, letting the truth sink in his bones that she was up again. 

“I’m okay,” she reassured him. 

“Okay.” 

“I remember Malfoy hitting me with a spell,” she narrated, as he let go of her. 

“It’s okay, love, you don’t need to remember that right now,” Harry resisted, but she was on a roll. 

“Sectumsempra,” she told him. “Why do I feel like I’ve heard that somewhere? Why can’t I remember? Argh, did I hit my head while falling down? Or are my cerebral arteries not aptly vascularized yet?” 

“Shut up,” Harry mumbled, unable to help another dry chuckle, as he gave his girlfriend a soft peck on the lips. 

“What did you say?” 

Harry and Hermione turned to find Daphne stepping inside the curtains with Susan and Ginny in tow. 

“What did you just say, Hermione? That spell was — ?” Daphne asked urgently. 

“Sectumsempra?” Hermione repeated. “Why? Do you know — Wait, wait, wait,” she changed tracks, her eyes going wide like Galleons, “isn’t that a spell from the Prince’s book?” 

Harry, Susan, and Ginny turned to Daphne with stunned looks. She gulped thickly and said, “It is. I didn’t know it was so serious. I’m so sorry.” 

And without waiting for a response, she left. 

“Daph — !” Ginny called after her, but she was already out of the Hospital Wing. 

“Hang on,” Susan spoke up, frowning out of concentration. “I think I’ve heard that name. It’s written in the Prince’s book, Daphne showed me once. It had a tag too: ‘For enemies.’ ” 

She looked around at her friends, her face etched with anxiety. 

“A fucking killing curse,” Ginny hissed. “Hermione was right, that book is a curse.” 

“But Malfoy knew that spell,” said Hermione thoughtfully. “That means it’s either not an original one or he heard it from the inventor, which narrows down our suspected list of the potential Half-Blood Princes to quite a useful margin.” 

She said this very happily, but Harry was none the wiser. 

“Can we please talk about this later?” he said moodily. 

“Sure,” said Susan swiftly, coming around to hug her brunette friend. “Get well soon, Mione.” 

Hermione nodded. 

“Yeah, get well soon, Hermione,” said Ginny, hugging her too. “We’ll bring you food.” 

“Bring loads, please,” Hermione requested. “I’m starving.” 

Ginny chortled and said, “Definitely.” 

Her and Susan left after another get-well-soon. 

“Climb in, Harry,” Hermione said, extending her arms for him. “It’s cold and lonely here.” 

He did as asked and lay in her arms, careful to not put pressure anywhere on her body, afraid of hurting her. But she was quite enthusiastic and began to wrap her arms around him and kiss him passionately. 

“Hermione,” Harry said half-heartedly, reluctant to put his own around her again. It had been a reflex to hug her when she had woken up, but now that his mind had caught up to everything, he couldn’t bear being the reason for her pain. 

“I’m okay, Harry,” she told him firmly, letting out a disgruntled moan against his neck. “You won’t break me, so please.” 

“Sorry, I’m just — I dunno what to do — it’s usually me in the bandages, you know —” 

Hermione snickered. 

“True, isn’t it? I don’t know how to react either. I mean, I’ve never woken up wrapped in bandages like this. Even after the Battle in the Ministry last year, it wasn’t this bad, and why am I so hungry? It’s like I haven’t eaten in weeks.” 

“Your body has just recovered from the shock, Miss Granger, that’s why,” said Madam Pomfrey, appearing from behind the curtains. Harry made to sit up, but Hermione kept him tucked by her side. “You lost a full litre of blood, so it’s natural you’re feeling hungry. That shows your body is catching up.” 

“That sounds good, I think,” Hermione mumbled. “And I lost a litre? God, that’s a lot, isn’t it?” 

“I’m afraid it is,” said Madam Pomfrey. “I’m also afraid you’re going to have to stay here for at least a few days.” 

Hermione let out a moan of discomfort. 

“But I’m okay. I mean, I definitely feel so,” she insisted. 

“Because your sympathetic system is hyperactive at the moment, keeping you awake and aware. As soon as it calms down, you’ll start feeling the aftereffects.” 

Hermione grimaced. 

“And there will be medicines, of course.” 

Hermione glanced around at her boyfriend, a silent request to help her out of this situation, but he only nodded his head and turned back to face Madam Pomfrey. 

“I’ll make sure she

 takes them on time, Madam Pomfrey.” 

“Oh right, here we go,” Hermione scoffed sarcastically while Madam Pomfrey nodded in approval. 

... 

“I can’t believe this,” Daphne murmured gravely, holding her head in her hands. “How could he do something like this?” 

“Are you serious?” Ginny cut in. “It’s Malfoy we’re talking about. He hates the likes of Hermione, remember?” 

“She’s right, Daph,” said Susan. “I seriously doubt Malfoy would even blink before doing it all over again.” 

Daphne jerked her head out of her hands and said hotly, “You’re saying that because you don’t know him like I do. He’s — he’s —” 

She gulped. She could confidently claim Draco’s innocence until last year but ever since the Dark Lord procured the Malfoys’ place as his headquarters, Draco had changed. He didn’t talk to her anymore, didn’t share things. She barely saw him this year. 

“I can’t believe you’re defending him,” said Ginny, scowling at her. “Have your eyes not taken Hermione’s state properly? She was about to bleed to death!” 

“I know,” Daphne mumbled with anguish on her face. “I know, I know. It’s just — I’ve spent a big part of my life with him, alright? I just can’t believe he would do something like that.” 

“But he did, didn’t he?” 

When Hermione regained consciousness and said that Malfoy used the Sectumsempra spell on her, Daphne’s world crashed around her ears. She immediately hurried out of the Hospital Wing and shot off towards the Slytherin Basement, where, as she reached panting heavily, she found Pansy circling the common room, throwing a fit. 

“How could he do that? How could he take him away from me — us?” she added the last word quickly. 

“What’s the matter, Pansy?” Daphne asked anxiously; she had been feeling really jumpy to the core of her bones ever since she heard of the attack on Hermione. 

“Oh, you returned! Snape took away Draco, Daphne,” Pansy said angrily, stomping towards her. “Can you believe it? It’s as if he thinks Draco is in the wrong here. Granger had no business sneaking up on him from behind, did she? In a bathroom no less! What a pervert —” 

Daphne remembered hearing the word ‘pervert,’ and her hand moved automatically, making contact with Pansy’s cheek with a thunderous slap. Pansy stumbled backwards with the impact, her eyes wide from the suddenness of the action. Her cheek reddened in an instant — a couple of Daphne’s fingers had left a clear imprint — Pansy caressed her cheek with her hand, a stunned expression on her face — 

“Why you —” 

“Shut up!” bellowed the blonde witch. 

Pansy’s eyes widened even more, and she forgot to argue amid the initial shock. 

“He almost killed her, okay?” Daphne said, the burden of the situation weighing down on her chest. “Is that such a little thing for you, Pansy? Someone’s death?” 

“Well, she didn’t die, did she?” Pansy mumbled. 

“Are you even hearing yourself right now?” Daphne cried, making Pansy flinch. “Would you have said the same thing if it was me instead of her? Would you have still taken it so lightly?” 

“But it isn’t you —” 

Daphne groaned in frustration. 

“There’s no making you see some fucking sense!” 

She pushed a stunned Pansy aside and stomped her way towards the girls’ dormitories. She retrieved the Prince’s book from her study table and thumbed through its pages in a haste until she reached the page at the margin of which was written, Sectumsempra: For Enemies. 

She closed the book with a loud shut and climbed back down to the common room to find Pansy at the same spot she left her at. 

“Listen, Daph —” 

“Save your breath, Pansy,” Daphne said abruptly, raising a hand before Pansy’s face. “I‘m not in the right state to listen to you right now.” 

Pansy’s face fell, but Daphne couldn’t bring herself to care at all, not after what Pansy had just spouted out of her mouth without using even a single brain cell of hers. She carried the Prince’s copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of the common room and climbed several sets of stairs before she eventually reached the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy on the seventh-floor. She had decided to do this a long time but never found the heart to. Well, here she was. 

I need a place to hide this book forever . . . I need a place to hide this book forever . . . I need a place to hide this book forever . . . 

The giant brass door appeared on the wall opposite the portrait. Daphne stepped inside to find herself in a sort of a store house where rows and rows of shelves occupied the space, filled with all kinds of things and artefacts. Without thinking, she ran to the back of the room, passing shelf after shelf, until she found an appropriate spot to put the book and left it there forever. 

... 

Susan and Ginny seeked elves’ help in bringing Hermione lots of food. The brunette witch would have resisted any other day, but right now she was starving, so she proceeded to devour it all in less time than anyone would expect from her. The predicament even made her realize how wide her mouth could actually open if made to. 

“Thanks,” she said to Susan and Ginny once she had finished; the two of them had been watching her with great amusement. 

“I think you surpassed Ron,” Ginny joked. “I’ve never seen him eat like that.” 

But Hermione paid no heed and let out a burp that made the two witches blink before they all fell into a fit of laughter, but that caused Madam Pomfrey to approach them with an air of disapproval around her. 

“I’ll have to see you out if you make another noise,” she released a stern warning; Susan and Ginny could only agree quietly. 

Hermione let out a sigh and leaned back comfortably on her pillow. 

“Harry’s late,” she said, looking in the direction of the entrance of the Hospital Wing. She had asked Harry to bring her something to read. 

“He just left,” said Susan, rolling her eyes. “You’re so hard on him sometimes.” 

“I’m not hard on him,” Hermione pouted. Am I? 

“Just because he never complains —” Susan began but was cut off abruptly by the arrival of Daphne. 

She avoided everyone’s eye for a moment before Ginny raised her brows at her and she sighed heavily. 

“We haven’t seen you in a while, Daph,” Susan said shrewdly. “Where have you been?” 

“Just taking a walk,” Daphne said, unnecessarily waving a hand. “You know my workout schedule.” 

Harry arrived at this moment with a book Hermione had never seen before, but she let out a gasp when she saw the title. 

“It by Stephen King!” she said disbelievingly, feeling the cover under the tips of her bandaged fingers. “We have this book? I’ve wanted to give it a read for so long!” 

“I know,” Harry said with a smile. “I wanted to give it to you as a present on a later date, but now’s a good time, I guess.” 

“It is! Thank you so much, Harry! You’re the best!” Hermione said excitedly. However, as soon as she pulled open the esteemed novel, Susan shut it down. “What?” Hermione hissed up at her angrily. 

“We’re all talking, aren’t we?” Susan said firmly. “So, Miss Greengrass, where have you been taking a walk?” 

Daphne took a little step back as Susan focused her gaze up on her. She glanced around at the rest of them, chuckling anxiously. 

“I don’t understand,” she mumbled helplessly. 

“You left us without a word, Daph,” Susan stated coldly. “That’s not acceptable around here.” 

“I’m sorry,” the blonde whispered. 

“Where did you go, Daph?” 

There was no space for evasion in Susan’s stern voice. 

“The Room of Requirement,” Daphne finally admitted. “I threw the Prince’s book in there. I’m sorry for everything, okay? I know all of you warned me about the potential danger of possessing that wretched thing, and trust me, I would change the past if I could. I feel so guilty about it all, but I still kept it with me, didn’t I? It was, I dunno, my moment of glory, I guess. My best shot at being the top student for once. 

“Even when I offered to give it up, I didn’t mean it with all my heart. Of course I wouldn’t have objected if it had been destroyed then and there, but I still felt so happy when I got it back, like a missing piece had been handed back to me. 

“But now, considering everything that’s happened, I can’t help but feel like at least a part of it was my own fault too. I mean, what if Draco caught that spell when I was reading that book? I don’t know what I’d do if that turns out to be the truth. It’s just — I’m so sorry. I never wanted anyone to get hurt.” 

“We know,” Susan said with a soft smile. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? I bet it feels nice to have that off your chest, eh? What do you think, Hermione?” 

But as they all turned towards the injured witch and found her completely engrossed in the novel in her hands, Susan let out a groan while Ginny giggled. 

“You insufferable brat,” Susan cursed and slammed a hand on the open book, making Hermione jerk in alarm. 

“What?” she demanded furiously. “You might have torn it! Do you know how precious this book is?” 

“Tell me the last thing Daph said,” Susan snapped. 

Hermione blinked up at her in a way that was supposed to prove her innocence, but when Susan didn’t deter, she looked around at the rest of them. Harry shrugged unhelpfully. Frowning, she turned to the blonde witch and scowled at her. 

“What?” Daphne asked, amused. 

“You said something?” 

Ginny giggled again, even Harry and Daphne couldn’t help a snigger, but Susan was furious. 

“You are unbelievable,” she said, holding her own head in her hands. “Daph said paragraphs about her feelings and you didn’t hear a word? That’s disrespectful, Hermione. Disrespectful and unexpected from you.” 

“It’s okay,” Daphne said gently. 

“See? It’s okay,” said Hermione. “Why do you have your knickers in a twist?” 

Harry and Daphne caught each other’s eye and looked away. Ginny was having a much harder time; she had to stuff her fist into her mouth to prevent herself from laughing out loud. 

Susan was seething. 

“You’re not getting this back,” she finally declared and snatched the book out of Hermione’s hands before she could do anything about it. 

“No, Sue, give it back! Please!” Hermione begged, unable to chase the redhead, who went around their friends to stand the farthest from her. “Please, I’m sorry, please give it back!” 

“No.” 

And Susan disappeared with the novel. 

“Sue, come back! Harry, please, I need that book,” Hermione begged her boyfriend. 

When the curtains moved again, she thought it was Susan and was utterly gutted when it turned out to be Madam Pomfrey. The older witch looked displeased to the highest level. 

“Miss Granger, keep your voice down,” she said sternly and disappeared. 

“My book,” Hermione crooned, sniffing as she rubbed her nose with the back of her sleeves. “Harry, my book.” 

“You lost it yourself, love,” he said with a sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” 

“I’ll try and ask her to give it back to you.” 

“Thank you.” 

Even a few hours later, Hermione still didn’t have the book back. She almost tore down into sobs when Harry turned up empty-handed, but he pulled her into his arms and soothed her. 

“Why did she even take it?” she complained, nuzzling his neck. “Such a bitch move.” 

“But, Hermione, you were being bitchy back then,” Harry said clearly. “You don’t hear Daphne open up to others like that everyday. You should have been more respectful.” 

“I’m sorry. I’ll apologize to her when I see her again,” Hermione promised. “And I’ll apologize to Sue too.” 

“Hn, you do that, and it should be all right,” Harry whispered, pulling back a bit to plant his lips on her temple. “Because good girls are forgiven, remember?” 

Hermione only snuggled deeper into his chest. 

“Pathetic.” 

“Shut up,” Hermione said crossly. 

“Don’t you talk back to me like that, brat,” Hera sneered. 

“Then don’t call him pathetic!” Hermione yelled. 

“Him?” Hera gave a scoff that sounded suspiciously close to a sarcastic chuckle. “Not him, brat. You. You are pathetic. Your mate, on the other hand, is adorable. I will actually enjoy feasting on him some day. Limb by limb, muscle by muscle.” 

“SHUT. UP.” Hermione bellowed at the top of her lungs, staring daggers at the great beast before her. 

Hera growled viciously and stepped closer to her, lowering her head until her wide mouth was on the same level as Hermione’s entire face. 

“You think I’m scared of you?” Hermione screamed, unfazed. “I’m not scared of you at all, Hera! So, fuck off!” 

“You ungrateful cretin,” Hera growled before letting out a deafening roar, showering Hermione’s upper half with spit and a wave pressure. “Don’t forget if you’re alive today, I am the reason. I saved you when you so easily poisoned yourself with a potion you were not even supposed to consume and I saved you when you lost a battle to an adversary. You’re breathing today because of me and I refuse to let you shout at me.” 

“Wait.” Hermione’s tone was more civilized, even curious this time. “I wasn’t supposed to take that potion? The Animagus potion? Why not?” 

Hera scoffed again and stepped back until she was a few feet away from Hermione, the chains clanging with every step of hers. She settled down on the floor and closed her eyes. 

“Hey, I asked you something!” Hermione yelled, approaching the beast at a run. However, as her steps rang loudly, Hera opened one eye that made her stop dead in the tracks. 

“You asking me anything does not compel me to answer you. Now, go back to your mate. He’s worried for you.” 

... 

Hermione awoke with a gasp. 

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Harry’s voice fell softly in her ears, as he stopped her from thrashing her limbs in every direction. 

“Harry — Harry —” she panted like she had been running for days at an end. “Oh Harry, I’m so sorry —” 

“It’s alright,” he whispered, pulling her into his arms. 

For a while, she sobbed against his frame, letting his soothing words consume her mind until it was ready to work again. Eventually, she told Harry everything about talking to Hera. The truth was she had been talking to the ancient beast for a while now but never found the courage to tell Harry because she herself couldn’t tell what was dream and what was real. It was a while ago when the beast told her name one night. 

Hera. The warrior. 

“What’s your name?” Hermione had asked bluntly one time. 

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, facing the giant lioness, who pretended to be sleeping. Hermione had been talking for minutes on end, but the beast continued to avoid her like a plague. 

“You’re so boring,” Hermione drawled. “How did your last master even tolerate you?” 

“You’re no master of mine, brat,” the beast growled, no longer able to pretend. 

“Pride is a sin, you know,” Hermione said with a triumphant grin. 

“Keeps you going, doesn’t it?” the beast scoffed. 

“Makes a fool of you too though,” Hermione pointed out. 

“You say that because you have no pride in yourself. You’re too reliable on others. That mate of yours, especially.” 

“And what’s wrong in relying on your mate, huh?” Hermione asked with a frown. “That’s why you love someone, right? Because they care for you and you care for them.” 

“How drastically the meaning of love has changed over centuries.” 

“What do you know about love?” Hermione couldn’t help asking. 

The beast growled maliciously and snapped her jaws at Hermione, but the brunette witch was no longer fazed by such superficial tricks. 

“Hera.” 

“Sorry?” 

“My name,” the beast growled angrily. “It’s Hera. The warrior.” 

Before Hermione could say anything else, Hera closed her eyes once again, and Hermione knew that she had been dismissed. 

Chapter Text

“Look at this picture,” Hermione said, producing a very old piece of newsprint out of her pocket. 

Harry picked up the crumbling piece of paper and stared at the moving photograph, yellowed with age; Susan, Ginny, and Daphne leaned over for a look too. The picture showed a skinny girl of around fifteen. She was not pretty; she looked simultaneously cross and sullen, with heavy brows and a long, pallid face. Underneath the photograph was the caption: Eileen Prince, Captain of the Hogwarts Gobstones Team. 

“So?” said Ginny, scanning the short news item to which the picture belonged; it was a rather dull story about interschool competitions. 

“Her name was Eileen Prince. Prince.” 

They all looked at each other, then Susan burst out laughing. 

“No way.” 

“What?” 

“You think she was the Half-Blood . . . ? Oh, come on.” 

“Well, why not? Sue, there aren’t any real princes in the Wizarding world, you know that! It’s either a nickname, a made-up title somebody’s given themselves, or it could be their actual name, couldn’t it? No, listen! If, say, her father was a wizard whose surname was Prince, and her mother was a Muggle, then that would make her a ‘half-blood Prince’! Maybe she was proud of being half a Prince!” 

“Listen, Hermione,” said Susan, sighing. “Daph’s showed the book to me more times than I can remember. I can tell it’s not a girl. I can just tell.” 

“Why not?” said Hermione angrily. “Why can’t it be a girl? It’s like you don’t believe a girl would have been clever enough.” 

“Honestly?” said Susan, visibly stung. “You two are the most clever people I’ve ever met in my life, and you think I don’t think girls are clever?” 

“That’s right, Hermione,” said Ginny. “It’s the way he writes, I just know the Prince was a bloke, I can tell. This girl hasn’t got anything to do with it. Where did you get this anyway?” 

“The library,” said Hermione predictably. “There’s a whole collection of old Prophets up there. Well, I’m going to find out more about Eileen Prince if I can.” 

“Come on,” Susan said exasperatedly. 

But Hermione pretended not to hear. 

“And the first place I’ll look is records of old Potions awards!” 

She snatched the piece of paper from Harry’s hands, pocketed it while scowling at Susan and Ginny, and shot out of the classroom, saying, “I’ll see you all at dinner with evidence.” 

“She’s just never got over you outperforming her in Potions,” said Ginny, glancing around at Daphne, who exhaled heavily, the memory of seeing Hermione wrapped in bandages from head to toe all too fresh in her mind. “She’s been obsessed with finding out who the Prince was or is ever since Malfoy hit her. And isn’t the library about to shut down within minutes?” 

“She has her way with Madam Pince,” said Susan, chuckling. “A sharp tongue like hers? Yeah, don’t surprise me at all.” 

Daphne was shaken from her bitter reflections by the appearance of Jimmy Peakes, who was holding out a scroll of parchment for Harry. 

“Thanks, Jimmy . . . It’s from Dumbledore!” said Harry, unrolling the parchment and scanning it. “He wants me to go to his office as quick as I can!” 

He stood up, looking conflicted. 

“I know she’ll be mad at me, but I think it’s better I attend this meeting alone,” he told the three witches. “She hasn’t fully recovered yet. Tell her I’m sorry for not telling her about this.” 

“You’re too sweet, Harry,” said Susan, smiling at him. “But, yes, we’ll let her know. You should go now.” 

Nodding gratefully, Harry hurried out of the classroom and along the seventh-floor as fast as he could, passing nobody but Peeves, who swooped past in the opposite direction, throwing bits of chalk at Harry in a routine sort of way and cackling loudly as he dodged Harry’s defensive jinx. Once Peeves had vanished, there was silence in the corridors; with only fifteen minutes left until curfew, most people had already returned to their common rooms. 

And then Harry heard a scream and a crash. He stopped in his tracks, listening. 

“How — dare — you — aaaaargh!” 

The noise was coming from a corridor nearby; Harry sprinted toward it, his wand at the ready, hurtled around another corner, and saw Professor Trelawney sprawled upon the floor, her head covered in one of her many shawls, several sherry bottles lying beside her, one broken. 

“Professor —” 

Harry hurried forward and helped Professor Trelawney to her feet. Some of her glittering beads had become entangled with her glasses. She hiccuped loudly, patted her hair, and pulled herself up on Harry’s helping arm. 

“What happened, Professor?” 

“You may well ask!” she said shrilly. “I was strolling along, brooding upon certain dark portents I happen to have glimpsed . . .” 

But Harry was not paying much attention. He had just noticed where they were standing: There on the right was the tapestry of dancing trolls, and on the left, that smoothly impenetrable stretch of stone wall that concealed — 

“Professor, were you trying to get into the Room of Requirement?” 

“. . . omens I have been vouchsafed — what?” 

She looked suddenly shifty. 

“The Room of Requirement,” repeated Harry. “Were you trying to get in there?” 

“I — well — I didn’t know students knew about —” 

“Not all of them do,” said Harry. “But what happened? You screamed. . . . It sounded as though you were hurt. . . .” 

“I — well,” said Professor Trelawney, drawing her shawls around her defensively and staring down at him with her vastly magnified eyes. “I wished to — ah — deposit certain — um — personal items in the room. . . .” And she muttered something about “nasty accusations.” 

“Right,” said Harry, glancing down at the sherry bottles. “But you couldn’t get in and hide them?” 

He found this very odd; the room had opened for Daphne, after all, when she had wanted to hide the Half-Blood Prince’s book. 

“Oh, I got in all right,” said Professor Trelawney, glaring at the wall. “But there was somebody already in there.” 

“Somebody in — ? Who?” demanded Harry. “Who was in there?” 

“I have no idea,” said Professor Trelawney, looking slightly taken aback at the urgency in Harry’s voice. “I walked into the room and I heard a voice, which has never happened before in all my years of hiding — of using the room, I mean.” 

“A voice? Saying what?” 

“I don’t know that it was saying anything,” said Professor Trelawney. “It was . . . whooping.” 

“Whooping?” 

“Gleefully,” she said, nodding. 

Harry stared at her. 

“Was it male or female?” 

“I would hazard a guess at male,” said Professor Trelawney. 

“And it sounded happy?” 

“Very happy,” said Professor Trelawney sniffily. “As though it was celebrating? Most definitely.” 

“And then — ?” 

“And then I called out ‘Who’s there?’ ” 

“You couldn’t have found out who it was without asking?” Harry asked her, slightly frustrated. 

“The Inner Eye,” said Professor Trelawney with dignity, straightening her shawls and many strands of glittering beads, “was fixed upon matters well outside the mundane realms of whooping voices.” 

“Right,” said Harry hastily; he had heard about Professor Trelawney’s Inner Eye all too often before for Ginny always emerged more than exhausted out of the Divination classroom every week. 

“And did the voice say who was there?” 

“No, it did not,” she said. “Everything went pitch-black and the next thing I knew, I was being hurled head-first out of the room!” 

“And you didn’t see that coming?” said Harry, unable to help himself. 

“No, I did not, as I say, it was pitch —” She stopped and glared at him suspiciously. 

“I think you’d better tell Professor Dumbledore,” said Harry. “He ought to know Malfoy’s celebrating — I mean, that someone threw you out of the room.” 

To his surprise, Professor Trelawney drew herself up at this suggestion, looking haughty. 

“The headmaster has intimated that he would prefer fewer visits from me,” she said coldly. “I am not one to press my company upon those who do not value it. If Dumbledore chooses to ignore the warnings the cards show —” Her bony hand closed suddenly around Harry’s wrist. “Again and again, no matter how I lay them out —” And she pulled a card dramatically from underneath her shawls. “— the lightning-struck tower,” she whispered. “Calamity. Disaster. Coming nearer all the time . . .” 

“Right,” said Harry again. “Well . . . I still think you should tell Dumbledore about this voice, and everything going dark and being thrown out of the room. . . .” 

“You think so?” Professor Trelawney seemed to consider the matter for a moment, but Harry could tell that she liked the idea of retelling her little adventure. 

“I’m going to see him right now,” said Harry. “I’ve got a meeting with him. We could go together.” 

“Oh, well, in that case,” said Professor Trelawney with a smile. She bent down, scooped up her sherry bottles, and dumped them unceremoniously in a large blue-and-white vase standing in a nearby niche. 

“You don’t seem much of a Seer, Harry,” she said soulfully as they set off together. “but you could be a wonderful Object . . .” 

Harry did not reply. 

“I am afraid,” she went on, “that the nag — I’m sorry, the centaur — knows nothing of cartomancy. I asked him — one Seer to another — had he not, too, sensed the distant vibrations of coming catastrophe? But he seemed to find me almost comical. Yes, comical!” 

Her voice rose rather hysterically, and Harry caught a powerful whiff of sherry even though the bottles had been left behind. 

“Perhaps the horse has heard people say that I have not inherited my great-great-grandmother’s gift. Those rumors have been bandied about by the jealous for years. You know what I say to such people, Harry? Would Dumbledore have let me teach at this great school, put so much trust in me all these years, had I not proved myself to him?” 

Harry mumbled something indistinct. 

“I well remember my first interview with Dumbledore,” went on Professor Trelawney, in throaty tones. “He was deeply impressed, of course, deeply impressed. . . . I was staying at the Hog’s Head, which I do not advise, incidentally — bedbugs, dear boy — but funds were low. Dumbledore did me the courtesy of calling upon me in my room. He questioned me. . . . I must confess that, at first, I thought he seemed ill-disposed toward Divination . . . and I remember I was starting to feel a little odd, I had not eaten much that day . . . but then . . .” 

And now Harry was paying attention properly for the first time, for he knew what had happened then: Professor Trelawney had made the prophecy that had altered the course of his whole life, the prophecy about him and Voldemort. 

“. . . but then we were rudely interrupted by Severus Snape!” 

“What?” 

“Yes, there was a commotion outside the door and it flew open, and there was that rather uncouth barman standing with Snape, who was waffling about having come the wrong way up the stairs, although I’m afraid that I myself rather thought he had been apprehended eavesdropping on my interview with Dumbledore — you see, he himself was seeking a job at the time, and no doubt hoped to pick up tips! Well, after that, you know, Dumbledore seemed much more disposed to give me a job, and I could not help thinking, Harry, that it was because he appreciated the stark contrast between my own unassuming manners and quiet talent, compared to the pushing, thrusting young man who was prepared to listen at keyholes — Harry, dear?” 

She looked back over her shoulder, having only just realized that Harry was no longer with her; he had stopped walking and they were now ten feet from each other. 

“Harry?” she repeated uncertainly. 

Perhaps his face was white to make her look so concerned and frightened. Harry was standing stock-still as waves of shock crashed over him, wave after wave, obliterating everything except the information that had been kept from him for so long. . . . 

It was Professor Snape who had overheard the prophecy. It was Professor Snape who had carried the news of the prophecy to Voldemort. Professor Snape and Peter Pettigrew together had sent Voldemort hunting after Lily and James and their son. . . . 

Nothing else mattered to Harry just now. 

“Harry?” said Professor Trelawney again. “Harry — I thought we were going to see the headmaster together?” 

“You stay here,” said Harry through numb lips. 

“But dear . . . I was going to tell him how I was assaulted in the Room of —” 

“You stay here!” Harry repeated angrily. 

She looked alarmed as he ran past her, around the corner into Dumbledore’s corridor, where the lone gargoyle stood sentry. Harry shouted the password at the gargoyle and ran up the moving spiral staircase three steps at a time. He did not knock upon Dumbledore’s door, he hammered; and the calm voice answered, “Enter” after Harry had already flung himself into the room. Fawkes the phoenix looked around, his bright black eyes gleaming with reflected gold from the sunset beyond the windows. Dumbledore was standing at the window looking out at the grounds, a long, black traveling cloak in his arms. 

“I’m surprised Hermione hasn’t joined us. Well, Harry, I promised that you could come with me.” 

For a moment or two, Harry did not understand; the conversation with Trelawney had driven everything else out of his head and his brain seemed to be moving very slowly. 

“Come . . . with you . . . ?” 

“Only if you wish it, of course.” 

“If I . . .” 

And then Harry remembered why he had been eager to come to Dumbledore’s office in the first place. 

“You’ve found one? You’ve found a Horcrux?” 

“I believe so.” 

Rage and resentment fought shock and excitement: For several moments, Harry could not speak. 

“It is natural to be afraid,” said Dumbledore. 

“I’m not scared!” said Harry at once, and it was perfectly true; fear was one emotion he was not feeling at all. “Which Horcrux is it? Where is it?” 

“I am not sure which it is — though I think we can rule out the snake — but I believe it to be hidden in a cave on the coast many miles from here, a cave I have been trying to locate for a very long time: the cave in which Tom Riddle once terrorized two children from his orphanage on their annual trip; you remember?” 

“Yes,” said Harry. “How is it protected?” 

“I do not know; I have suspicions that may be entirely wrong.” Dumbledore hesitated, then said, “Harry, I promised you that you could come with me, and I stand by that promise, but it would be very wrong of me not to warn you that this will be exceedingly dangerous.” 

“I’m coming,” said Harry, almost before Dumbledore had finished speaking. Boiling with anger at Snape, his desire to do something desperate and risky had increased tenfold in the last few minutes. This seemed to show on Harry’s face, for Dumbledore moved away from the window and looked more closely at Harry, a slight crease between his silver eyebrows. 

“What has happened to you?” 

“Nothing,” lied Harry promptly. 

“What has upset you?” 

“I’m not upset.” 

“Harry, you were never a good Occlumens —” 

The word was the spark that ignited Harry’s fury. 

“Snape!” he said, very loudly, and Fawkes gave a soft squawk behind them. “Snape’s what’s happened! He told Voldemort about the prophecy, it was him, he listened outside the door, Trelawney told me!” 

Dumbledore’s expression did not change, but Harry thought his face whitened under the bloody tinge cast by the setting sun. For a long moment, Dumbledore said nothing. 

“When did you find out about this?” he asked at last. 

“Just now!” said Harry, who was refraining from yelling with enormous difficulty. And then, suddenly, he could not stop himself. “AND YOU LET HIM TEACH HERE AND HE TOLD VOLDEMORT TO GO AFTER MY MUM AND DAD!” 

Breathing hard as though he was fighting, Harry turned away from Dumbledore, who still had not moved a muscle, and paced up and down the study, rubbing his knuckles in his hand and exercising every last bit of restraint to prevent himself knocking things over. He wanted to rage and storm at Dumbledore, but he also wanted to go with him to try and destroy the Horcrux; he wanted to tell him that he was a foolish old man for trusting Snape, but he was terrified that Dumbledore would not take him along unless he mastered his anger. . . . 

“Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Please listen to me.” 

It was as difficult to stop his relentless pacing as to refrain from shouting. Harry paused, biting his lip, and looked into Dumbledore’s lined face. 

“Professor Snape made a terrible —” 

“Don’t tell me it was a mistake, sir, he was listening at the door!” 

“Please let me finish.” Dumbledore waited until Harry had nodded curtly, then went on. “Professor Snape made a terrible mistake. He was still in Lord Voldemort’s employ on the night he heard the first half of Professor Trelawney’s prophecy. Naturally, he hastened to tell his master what he had heard, for it concerned his master most deeply. But he did not know — he had no possible way of knowing — which boy Voldemort would hunt from then onward, or that the parents he would destroy in his murderous quest were people that Professor Snape knew, that they were your mother and father —” 

Harry let out a yell of mirthless laughter. 

“He hated my dad like he hated Sirius! Haven’t you noticed, Professor, how the people Snape hates tend to end up dead?” 

“You have no idea of the remorse Professor Snape felt when he realized how Lord Voldemort had interpreted the prophecy, Harry. I believe it to be the greatest regret of his life and the reason that he returned —” 

“But he’s a very good Occlumens, isn’t he, sir?” said Harry, whose voice was shaking with the effort of keeping it steady. “And isn’t Voldemort convinced that Snape’s on his side, even now? Professor . . . how can you be sure Snape’s on our side?” 

Dumbledore did not speak for a moment; he looked as though he was trying to make up his mind about something. At last he said, “I am sure. I trust Severus Snape completely.” 

Harry breathed deeply for a few moments in an effort to steady himself. It did not work. 

“Well, I don’t!” he said, as loudly as before. “He’s up to something with Draco Malfoy right now, right under your nose, and you still —” 

“We have discussed this, Harry,” said Dumbledore, and now he sounded stern again. “I have told you my views.” 

“You’re leaving the school tonight, and I’ll bet you haven’t even considered that Snape and Malfoy might decide to —” 

“To what?” asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows raised. “What is it that you suspect them of doing, precisely?” 

“I . . . they’re up to something!” said Harry, and his hands curled into fists as he said it. “Professor Trelawney was just in the Room of Requirement, trying to hide her sherry bottles, and she heard Malfoy whooping, celebrating! He’s trying to mend something dangerous in there and if you ask me, he’s fixed it at last and you’re about to just walk out of school without —” 

“Enough,” said Dumbledore. He said it quite calmly, and yet Harry fell silent at once; he knew that he had finally crossed some invisible line. “Do you think that I have once left the school unprotected during my absences this year? I have not. Tonight, when I leave, there will again be additional protection in place. Please do not suggest that I do not take the safety of my students seriously, Harry.” 

“I didn’t —” mumbled Harry, a little abashed, but Dumbledore cut across him. 

“I do not wish to discuss the matter any further.” 

Harry bit back his retort, scared that he had gone too far, that he had ruined his chance of accompanying Dumbledore, but Dumbledore went on, “Do you wish to come with me tonight?” 

“Yes,” said Harry at once. 

“Very well, then: Listen.” Dumbledore drew himself up to his full height. “I take you with me on one condition: that you obey any command I might give you at once, and without question.” 

“Of course.” 

“Be sure to understand me, Harry. I mean that you must follow even such orders as ‘run,’ ‘hide,’ or ‘go back.’ Do I have your word?” 

“I — yes, of course.” 

“If I tell you to hide, you will do so?” 

“Yes.” 

“If I tell you to flee, you will obey?” 

“Yes.” 

“If I tell you to leave me and save yourself, you will do as I tell you?” 

“I —” 

“Harry?” 

They looked at each other for a moment. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very good. Then I wish you to go and fetch your Invisibility Cloak and meet me in the entrance hall in five minutes’ time.” 

Dumbledore turned back to look out of the fiery window; the sun was now a ruby red glare along the horizon. Harry walked quickly from the office and down the spiral staircase. His mind was oddly clear all of a sudden. He knew what to do. 

Ginny was sitting in the common room when he climbed through the portrait hole. 

“What does he want?” she said at once. “Harry, are you okay?” she added anxiously. 

“I’m fine,” said Harry shortly, racing past her. 

He dashed up the stairs and into his dormitory, where he flung open his trunk and pulled out the Marauder’s Map and a pair of balled-up socks. Then he sped back down the stairs and into the common room, skidding to a halt where Ginny sat, looking stunned. 

“I’ve got to be quick,” Harry panted. “Dumbledore thinks I’m getting my Invisibility Cloak. Listen. . . .” 

Quickly he told Ginny where he was going and why. He did not pause either for her gasps of horror or for her hasty questions; she could work out the finer details later. 

“. . . so you see what this means?” Harry finished at a gallop. “Dumbledore won’t be here tonight, so Malfoy’s going to have another clear shot at whatever he’s up to. No, listen to me!” he hissed angrily, as Ginny showed every sign of interrupting. “I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement. Here —” 

He shoved the Marauder’s Map into her hands. 

“You all’ve got to watch him and you’ve got to watch Snape too. Use anyone else who you can rustle up from the H.G. I hope those contact Galleons of Hermione’s still work. Dumbledore says he’s put extra protection in the school, but if Snape’s involved, he’ll know what Dumbledore’s protection is, and how to avoid it — but he won’t be expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?” 

“Harry —” began Ginny, her eyes huge with fear. 

“I haven’t got time to argue,” said Harry curtly. “Ask Daphne to share the Felix Felicis with you. I’d better go, Dumbledore’s waiting —” 

“No!” said Ginny. “We don’t want it, you take it, Harry, who knows what you’re going to be facing?” 

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be with Dumbledore,” said Harry. “I want to know you lot are okay. . . . Don’t look like that, Gin, I’ll see you later. . . .” 

And he was off, hurrying back through the portrait hole and toward the entrance hall. Dumbledore was waiting beside the oaken front doors. He turned as Harry came skidding out onto the topmost stone step, panting hard, a searing stitch in his side. 

“I would like you to wear your cloak, please,” said Dumbledore, and he waited until Harry had thrown it on before saying, “Very good. Shall we go?” 

Dumbledore set off at once down the stone steps, his own traveling cloak barely stirring in the still summer air. Harry hurried alongside him under the Invisibility Cloak, still panting and sweating rather a lot. 

“But what will people think when they see you leaving, Professor?” Harry asked, his mind on Malfoy and Snape. 

“That I am off into Hogsmeade for a drink,” said Dumbledore lightly. “I sometimes offer Rosmerta my custom, or else visit the Hog’s Head . . . or I appear to. It is as good a way as any of disguising one’s true destination.” 

They made their way down the drive in the gathering twilight. The air was full of the smells of warm grass, lake water, and wood smoke from Hagrid’s cabin. It was difficult to believe that they were heading for anything dangerous or frightening. 

“Professor,” said Harry quietly, as the gates at the bottom of the drive came into view, “will we be Apparating?” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “You can Apparate now, I believe?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, “but I haven’t got a license.” 

He felt it best to be honest; what if he spoiled everything by turning up a hundred miles from where he was supposed to go? 

“No matter,” said Dumbledore, “I can assist you again.” 

They turned out of the gates into the twilit, deserted lane to Hogsmeade. Darkness descended fast as they walked, and by the time they reached the High Street night was falling in earnest. Lights twinkled from windows over shops and as they neared the Three Broomsticks they heard raucous shouting. 

“— and stay out!” shouted Madam Rosmerta, forcibly ejecting a grubby-looking wizard. “Oh, hello, Albus . . . You’re out late . . .” 

“Good evening, Rosmerta, good evening . . . forgive me, I’m off to the Hog’s Head. . . . No offense, but I feel like a quieter atmosphere tonight. . . .” 

A minute later they turned the corner into the side street where the Hog’s Head’s sign creaked a little, though there was no breeze. In contrast to the Three Broomsticks, the pub appeared to be completely empty. 

“It will not be necessary for us to enter,” muttered Dumbledore, glancing around. “As long as nobody sees us go . . . now place your hand upon my arm, Harry. There is no need to grip too hard, I am merely guiding you. On the count of three . . . One . . . two . . . three . . .” 

Harry turned. At once, there was that horrible sensation that he was being squeezed through a thick rubber tube; he could not draw breath, every part of him was being compressed almost past endurance and then, just when he thought he must suffocate, the invisible bands seemed to burst open, and he was standing in cool darkness, breathing in lungfuls of fresh, salty air with only one thought on his mind: Hermione was going to be so mad at him.

Chapter Text

Harry could smell salt and hear rushing waves; a light, chilly breeze ruffled his hair as he looked out at the moon-lit sea and star-strewn sky. He was standing upon a high outcrop of dark rock, water foaming and churning below him. He glanced over his shoulder. A towering cliff stood behind them, a sheer drop, black and faceless. A few large chunks of rock, such as the one upon which Harry and Dumbledore were standing, looked as though they had broken away from the cliff face at some point in the past. It was a bleak, harsh view, the sea and the rock unrelieved by any tree or sweep of grass or sand. 

“What do you think?” asked Dumbledore. He might have been asking Harry’s opinion on whether it was a good site for a picnic. 

“They brought the kids from the orphanage here?” asked Harry, who could not imagine a less cozy spot for a day trip. 

“Not here, precisely,” said Dumbledore. “There is a village of sorts about halfway along the cliffs behind us. I believe the orphans were taken there for a little sea air and a view of the waves. No, I think it was only ever Tom Riddle and his youthful victims who visited this spot. No Muggle could reach this rock unless they were uncommonly good mountaineers, and boats cannot approach the cliffs, the waters around them are too dangerous. I imagine that Riddle climbed down; magic would have served better than ropes. And he brought two small children with him, probably for the pleasure of terrorizing them. I think the journey alone would have done it, don’t you?” 

Harry looked up at the cliff again and felt goose bumps. 

“But his final destination — and ours — lies a little farther on. Come.” 

Dumbledore beckoned Harry to the very edge of the rock where a series of jagged niches made footholds leading down to boulders that lay half-submerged in water and closer to the cliff. It was a treacherous descent and Dumbledore, hampered slightly by his withered hand, moved slowly. The lower rocks were slippery with seawater. Harry could feel flecks of cold salt spray hitting his face. 

“Lumos,” said Dumbledore, as he reached the boulder closest to the cliff face. A thousand flecks of golden light sparkled upon the dark surface of the water a few feet below where he crouched; the black wall of rock beside him was illuminated too. 

“You see?” said Dumbledore quietly, holding his wand a little higher. Harry saw a fissure in the cliff into which dark water was swirling. “You will not object to getting a little wet?” 

“No,” said Harry. 

“Then take off your Invisibility Cloak — there is no need for it now — and let us take the plunge.” 

And with the sudden agility of a much younger man, Dumbledore slid from the boulder, landed in the sea, and began to swim, with a perfect breaststroke, toward the dark slit in the rock face, his lit wand held in his teeth. Harry pulled off his cloak, stuffed it into his pocket, and followed. 

The water was icy; Harry’s water-logged clothes billowed around him and weighed him down. Taking deep breaths that filled his nostrils with the tang of salt and seaweed, he struck out for the shimmering, shrinking light now moving deeper into the cliff. The fissure soon opened into a dark tunnel that Harry could tell would be filled with water at high tide. The slimy walls were barely three feet apart and glimmered like wet tar in the passing light of Dumbledore’s wand. A little way in, the passageway curved to the left, and Harry saw that it extended far into the cliff. He continued to swim in Dumbledore’s wake, the tips of his benumbed fingers brushing the rough, wet rock. 

Then he saw Dumbledore rising out of the water ahead, his silver hair and dark robes gleaming. When Harry reached the spot he found steps that led into a large cave. He clambered up them, water streaming from his soaking clothes, and emerged, shivering uncontrollably, into the still and freezing air. 

Dumbledore was standing in the middle of the cave, his wand held high as he turned slowly on the spot, examining the walls and ceiling. 

“Yes, this is the place,” said Dumbledore. 

“How can you tell?” Harry spoke in a whisper. 

“It has known magic,” said Dumbledore simply. 

Harry could not tell whether the shivers he was experiencing were due to his spine-deep coldness or to the same awareness of enchantments. He watched as Dumbledore continued to revolve on the spot, evidently concentrating on things Harry could not see. 

“This is merely the antechamber, the entrance hall,” said Dumbledore after a moment or two. “We need to penetrate the inner place. . . . Now it is Lord Voldemort’s obstacles that stand in our way, rather than those nature made. . . .” 

Dumbledore approached the wall of the cave and caressed it with his blackened fingertips, murmuring words in a strange tongue that Harry did not understand. Twice Dumbledore walked right around the cave, touching as much of the rough rock as he could, occasionally pausing, running his fingers backward and forward over a particular spot, until finally he stopped, his hand pressed flat against the wall. 

“Here,” he said. “We go on through here. The entrance is concealed.” 

Harry did not ask how Dumbledore knew. He had never seen a wizard work things out like this, simply by looking and touching; but Harry had long since learned that bangs and smoke were more often the marks of ineptitude than expertise. 

Dumbledore stepped back from the cave wall and pointed his wand at the rock. For a moment, an arched outline appeared there, blazing white as though there was a powerful light behind the crack. 

“You’ve d-done it!” said Harry through chattering teeth, but before the words had left his lips the outline had gone, leaving the rock as bare and solid as ever. Dumbledore looked around. 

“Harry, I’m so sorry, I forgot,” he said; he now pointed his wand at Harry and at once, Harry’s clothes were as warm and dry as if they had been hanging in front of a blazing fire. 

“Thank you,” said Harry gratefully, but Dumbledore had already turned his attention back to the solid cave wall. He did not try any more magic, but simply stood there staring at it intently, as though something extremely interesting was written on it. 

Harry stayed quite still; he did not want to break Dumbledore’s concentration. Then, after two solid minutes, Dumbledore said quietly, “Oh, surely not. So crude.” 

“What is it, Professor?” 

“I rather think,” said Dumbledore, putting his uninjured hand inside his robes and drawing out a short silver knife of the kind Harry used to chop potion ingredients, “that we are required to make payment to pass.” 

“Payment?” said Harry. “You’ve got to give the door something?” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “Blood, if I am not much mistaken.” 

“Blood?” 

“I said it was crude,” said Dumbledore, who sounded disdainful, even disappointed, as though Voldemort had fallen short of the standards Dumbledore expected. “The idea, as I am sure you will have gathered, is that your enemy must weaken him- or herself to enter. Once again, Lord Voldemort fails to grasp that there are much more terrible things than physical injury.” 

“Yeah, but still, if you can avoid it . . .” said Harry, who had experienced enough pain not to be keen for more. 

“Sometimes, however, it is unavoidable,” said Dumbledore, shaking back the sleeve of his robes and exposing the forearm of his injured hand. 

“Professor!” protested Harry, hurrying forward as Dumbledore raised his knife. “I’ll do it, I’m —” 

He did not know what he was going to say — younger, fitter? 

But Dumbledore merely smiled. There was a flash of silver, and a spurt of scarlet; the rock face was peppered with dark, glistening drops. 

“You are very kind, Harry,” said Dumbledore, now passing the tip of his wand over the deep cut he had made in his own arm, so that it healed instantly, just as Snape had healed Malfoy’s wounds. “But your blood is worth more than mine. Ah, that seems to have done the trick, doesn’t it?” 

The blazing silver outline of an arch had appeared in the wall once more, and this time it did not fade away: The blood-spattered rock within it simply vanished, leaving an opening into what seemed total darkness. 

“After me, I think,” said Dumbledore, and he walked through the archway with Harry on his heels, lighting his own wand hastily as he went. 

An eerie sight met their eyes: They were standing on the edge of a great black lake, so vast that Harry could not make out the distant banks, in a cavern so high that the ceiling too was out of sight. 

A misty greenish light shone far away in what looked like the middle of the lake; it was reflected in the completely still water below. 

The greenish glow and the light from the two wands were the only things that broke the otherwise velvety blackness, though their rays did not penetrate as far as Harry would have expected. The darkness was somehow denser than normal darkness. 

“Let us walk,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Be very careful not to step into the water. Stay close to me.” 

He set off around the edge of the lake, and Harry followed close behind him. Their footsteps made echoing, slapping sounds on the narrow rim of rock that surrounded the water. On and on they walked, but the view did not vary: on one side of them, the rough cavern wall, on the other, the boundless expanse of smooth, glassy blackness, in the very middle of which was that mysterious greenish glow. Harry found the place and the silence oppressive, unnerving. 

“Professor?” he said finally. “Do you think the Horcrux is here?” 

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore. “Yes, I’m sure it is. The question is, how do we get to it?” 

“We couldn’t . . . we couldn’t just try a Summoning Charm?” 

Harry said, sure that it was a stupid suggestion. But he was much keener than he was prepared to admit on getting out of this place as soon as possible. 

“Certainly we could,” said Dumbledore, stopping so suddenly that Harry almost walked into him. “Why don’t you do it?” 

“Me? Oh . . . okay . . .” 

Harry had not expected this, but cleared his throat and said loudly, wand aloft, “Accio Horcrux!” 

With a noise like an explosion, something very large and pale erupted out of the dark water some twenty feet away; before Harry could see what it was, it had vanished again with a crashing splash that made great, deep ripples on the mirrored surface. Harry leapt backward in shock and hit the wall; his heart was still thundering as he turned to Dumbledore. 

“What was that?” 

“Something, I think, that is ready to respond should we attempt to seize the Horcrux.” 

Harry looked back at the water. The surface of the lake was once more shining black glass: The ripples had vanished unnaturally fast; Harry’s heart, however, was still pounding. 

“Did you think that would happen, sir?” 

“I thought something would happen if we made an obvious attempt to get our hands on the Horcrux. That was a very good idea, Harry; much the simplest way of finding out what we are facing.” 

“But we don’t know what the thing was,” said Harry, looking at the sinisterly smooth water. 

“What the things are, you mean,” said Dumbledore. “I doubt very much that there is only one of them. Shall we walk on?” 

“Professor?” 

“Yes, Harry?” 

“Do you think we’re going to have to go into the lake?” 

“Into it? Only if we are very unfortunate.” 

“You don’t think the Horcrux is at the bottom?” 

“Oh no . . . I think the Horcrux is in the middle.” 

And Dumbledore pointed toward the misty green light in the center of the lake. 

“So we’re going to have to cross the lake to get to it?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

Harry did not say anything. His thoughts were all of water monsters, of giant serpents, of demons, kelpies, and sprites. . . . 

“Aha,” said Dumbledore, and he stopped again; this time, Harry really did walk into him; for a moment he toppled on the edge of the dark water, and Dumbledore’s uninjured hand closed tightly around his upper arm, pulling him back. “So sorry, Harry, I should have given warning. Stand back against the wall, please; I think I have found the place.” 

Harry had no idea what Dumbledore meant; this patch of dark bank was exactly like every other bit as far as he could tell, but Dumbledore seemed to have detected something special about it. 

This time he was running his hand, not over the rocky wall, but through the thin air, as though expecting to find and grip something invisible. 

“Oho,” said Dumbledore happily, seconds later. 

His hand had closed in midair upon something Harry could not see. Dumbledore moved closer to the water; Harry watched nervously as the tips of Dumbledore’s buckled shoes found the utmost edge of the rock rim. Keeping his hand clenched in midair, Dumbledore raised his wand with the other and tapped his fist with the point. 

Immediately a thick coppery green chain appeared out of thin air, extending from the depths of the water into Dumbledore’s clenched hand. Dumbledore tapped the chain, which began to slide through his fist like a snake, coiling itself on the ground with a clinking sound that echoed noisily off the rocky walls, pulling something from the depths of the black water. Harry gasped as the ghostly prow of a tiny boat broke the surface, glowing as green as the chain, and floated, with barely a ripple, toward the place on the bank where Harry and Dumbledore stood. 

“How did you know that was there?” Harry asked in astonishment. 

“Magic always leaves traces,” said Dumbledore, as the boat hit the bank with a gentle bump, “sometimes very distinctive traces. I taught Tom Riddle. I know his style.” 

“Is . . . is this boat safe?” 

“Oh yes, I think so. Voldemort needed to create a means to cross the lake without attracting the wrath of those creatures he had placed within it in case he ever wanted to visit or remove his Horcrux.” 

“So the things in the water won’t do anything to us if we cross in Voldemort’s boat?” 

“I think we must resign ourselves to the fact that they will, at some point, realize we are not Lord Voldemort. Thus far, however, we have done well. They have allowed us to raise the boat.” 

“But why have they let us?” asked Harry, who could not shake off the vision of tentacles rising out of the dark water the moment they were out of sight of the bank. 

“Voldemort would have been reasonably confident that none but a very great wizard would have been able to find the boat,” said Dumbledore. “I think he would have been prepared to risk what was, to his mind, the most unlikely possibility that somebody else would find it, knowing that he had set other obstacles ahead that only he would be able to penetrate. We shall see whether he is right.” 

Harry looked down into the boat. It really was very small. 

“It doesn’t look like it was built for two people. Will it hold both of us? Will we be too heavy together?” 

Dumbledore chuckled. 

“Voldemort will not have cared about the weight, but about the amount of magical power that crossed his lake. I rather think an enchantment will have been placed upon this boat so that only one wizard at a time will be able to sail in it.” 

“But then — ?” 

“I do not think you will count, Harry: You are underage and unqualified. Voldemort would never have expected a sixteen-year-old to reach this place: I think it unlikely that your powers will register compared to mine.” 

These words did nothing to raise Harry’s morale; perhaps Dumbledore knew it, for he added, “Voldemort’s mistake, Harry, Voldemort’s mistake . . . Age is foolish and forgetful when it underestimates youth. . . . Now, you first this time, and be careful not to touch the water.” 

Dumbledore stood aside and Harry climbed carefully into the boat. Dumbledore stepped in too, coiling the chain onto the floor. They were crammed in together; Harry could not comfortably sit, but crouched, his knees jutting over the edge of the boat, which began to move at once. There was no sound other than the silken rustle of the boat’s prow cleaving the water; it moved without their help, as though an invisible rope was pulling it onward toward the light in the center. Soon they could no longer see the walls of the cavern; they might have been at sea except that there were no waves. 

Harry looked down and saw the reflected gold of his wandlight sparkling and glittering on the black water as they passed. The boat was carving deep ripples upon the glassy surface, grooves in the dark mirror. . . . 

And then Harry saw it, marble white, floating inches below the surface. 

“Professor!” he said, and his startled voice echoed loudly over the silent water. 

“Harry?” 

“I think I saw a hand in the water — a human hand!” 

“Yes, I am sure you did,” said Dumbledore calmly. 

Harry stared down into the water, looking for the vanished hand, and a sick feeling rose in his throat. 

“So that thing that jumped out of the water — ?” 

But Harry had his answer before Dumbledore could reply; the wand-light had slid over a fresh patch of water and showed him, this time, a dead man lying face-up inches beneath the surface, his open eyes misted as though with cobwebs, his hair and his robes swirling around him like smoke. 

“There are bodies in here!” said Harry, and his voice sounded much higher than usual and most unlike his own. 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore placidly, “but we do not need to worry about them at the moment.” 

“At the moment?” Harry repeated, tearing his gaze from the water to look at Dumbledore. 

“Not while they are merely drifting peacefully below us,” said Dumbledore. “There is nothing to be feared from a body, Harry, any more than there is anything to be feared from the darkness. Lord Voldemort, who of course secretly fears both, disagrees. But once again he reveals his own lack of wisdom. It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness, nothing more.” 

Harry said nothing; he did not want to argue, but he found the idea that there were bodies floating around them and beneath them horrible and, what was more, he did not believe that they were not dangerous. 

“But one of them jumped,” he said, trying to make his voice as level and calm as Dumbledore’s. “When I tried to Summon the Horcrux, a body leapt out of the lake.” 

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I am sure that once we take the Horcrux, we shall find them less peaceable. However, like many creatures that dwell in cold and darkness, they fear light and warmth, which we shall therefore call to our aid should the need arise. Fire, Harry,” Dumbledore added with a smile, in response to Harry’s bewildered expression. 

“Oh . . . right . . .” said Harry quickly. 

He turned his head to look at the greenish glow toward which the boat was still inexorably sailing. He could not pretend now that he was not scared. The great black lake, teeming with the dead . . . It seemed hours and hours ago that he had met Professor Trelawney, that he had given Ginny Felix Felicis. . . . He suddenly wished he had said a better good-bye to his friends . . . and he hadn’t seen Hermione at all. . . 

The moment compelled him to remember one time in their fourth year when Hermione had once brought up the topic of not sharing things with each other after confessing their profound feelings. 

“We will share everything with each other,” she had said firmly, caressing his cheek while gazing deep into his soul. “Everything.” 

“But what if I can’t?” Harry had asked quietly. “What if something unfortunate happens and not telling you straightaway is a temporarily better option?” 

She had sighed quite dramatically, as if she had predicted him asking so because of course she had. 

“While I would religiously oppose the idea of not sharing everything between us, I wouldn’t deny the conflicting nature of such matters and spare you a chance every once in a while. But trust me, when I find out you’ve hidden something from you, which I eventually would, I would be really mad at you, Harry. Might not be talking to you for days. Do you want that?” 

“Of course not,” Harry had said, quite honestly. 

Hermione embraced him tenderly and whispered in a much softer voice, “Who are we to trust if not each other?” 

“Nearly there,” said Dumbledore cheerfully. 

Sure enough, the greenish light seemed to be growing larger at last, and within minutes, the boat had come to a halt, bumping gently into something that Harry could not see at first, but when he raised his illuminated wand he saw that they had reached a small island of smooth rock in the center of the lake. 

“Careful not to touch the water,” said Dumbledore again as Harry climbed out of the boat. 

The island was no larger than Dumbledore’s office, an expanse of flat dark stone on which stood nothing but the source of that greenish light, which looked much brighter when viewed close to. 

Harry squinted at it; at first, he thought it was a lamp of some kind, but then he saw that the light was coming from a stone basin rather like the Pensieve, which was set on top of a pedestal. 

Dumbledore approached the basin and Harry followed. Side by side, they looked down into it. The basin was full of an emerald liquid emitting that phosphorescent glow. 

“What is it?” asked Harry quietly. 

“I am not sure,” said Dumbledore. “Something more worrisome than blood and bodies, however.” 

Dumbledore pushed back the sleeve of his robe over his blackened hand, and stretched out the tips of his burned fingers toward the surface of the potion. 

“Sir, no, don’t touch — !” 

“I cannot touch,” said Dumbledore, smiling faintly. “See? I cannot approach any nearer than this. You try.” 

Staring, Harry put his hand into the basin and attempted to touch the potion. He met an invisible barrier that prevented him coming within an inch of it. No matter how hard he pushed, his fingers encountered nothing but what seemed to be solid and inflexible air. 

“Out of the way, please, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He raised his wand and made complicated movements over the surface of the potion, murmuring soundlessly. 

Nothing happened, except perhaps that the potion glowed a little brighter. Harry remained silent while Dumbledore worked, but after a while Dumbledore withdrew his wand, and Harry felt it was safe to talk again. 

“You think the Horcrux is in there, sir?” 

“Oh yes.” 

Dumbledore peered more closely into the basin. Harry saw his face reflected, upside down, in the smooth surface of the green potion. 

“But how to reach it? This potion cannot be penetrated by hand, Vanished, parted, scooped up, or siphoned away, nor can it be Transfigured, Charmed, or otherwise made to change its nature.” 

Almost absentmindedly, Dumbledore raised his wand again, twirled it once in midair, and then caught the crystal goblet that he had conjured out of nowhere. 

“I can only conclude that this potion is supposed to be drunk.” 

“What?” said Harry. “No!” 

“Yes, I think so: Only by drinking it can I empty the basin and see what lies in its depths.” 

“But what if — what if it kills you?” 

“Oh, I doubt that it would work like that,” said Dumbledore easily. “Lord Voldemort would not want to kill the person who reached this island.” 

Harry couldn’t believe it. Was this more of Dumbledore’s insane determination to see good in everyone? 

“Sir,” said Harry, trying to keep his voice reasonable, “sir, this is Voldemort we’re —” 

“I’m sorry, Harry; I should have said, he would not want to immediately kill the person who reached this island,” Dumbledore corrected himself. “He would want to keep them alive long enough to find out how they managed to penetrate so far through his defenses and, most importantly of all, why they were so intent upon emptying the basin. Do not forget that Lord Voldemort believes that he alone knows about his Horcruxes.” 

Harry made to speak again, but this time Dumbledore raised his hand for silence, frowning slightly at the emerald liquid, evidently thinking hard. 

“Undoubtedly,” he said, finally, “this potion must act in a way that will prevent me taking the Horcrux. It might paralyze me, cause me to forget what I am here for, create so much pain I am distracted, or render me incapable in some other way. This being the case, Harry, it will be your job to make sure I keep drinking, even if you have to tip the potion into my protesting mouth. You understand?” 

Their eyes met over the basin, each pale face lit with that strange, green light. Harry did not speak. Was this why he had been invited along — so that he could force-feed Dumbledore a potion that might cause him unendurable pain? 

“You remember,” said Dumbledore, “the condition on which I brought you with me?” 

Harry hesitated, looking into the blue eyes that had turned green in the reflected light of the basin. 

“But what if — ?” 

“You swore, did you not, to follow any command I gave you?” 

“Yes, but —” 

“I warned you, did I not, that there might be danger?” 

“Yes,” said Harry, “but —” 

“Well, then,” said Dumbledore, shaking back his sleeves once more and raising the empty goblet, “you have my orders.” 

“Why can’t I drink the potion instead?” asked Harry desperately. 

“Because I am much older, much cleverer, and much less valuable,” said Dumbledore. “Once and for all, Harry, do I have your word that you will do all in your power to make me keep drinking?” 

“Couldn’t — ?” 

“Do I have it?” 

“But —” 

“Your word, Harry.” 

“I — all right, but —” 

Before Harry could make any further protest, Dumbledore lowered the crystal goblet into the potion. For a split second, Harry hoped that he would not be able to touch the potion with the goblet, but the crystal sank into the surface as nothing else had; when the glass was full to the brim, Dumbledore lifted it to his mouth. 

“Your good health, Harry.” 

And he drained the goblet. Harry watched, terrified, his hands gripping the rim of the basin so hard that his fingertips were numb. 

“Professor?” he said anxiously, as Dumbledore lowered the empty glass. “How do you feel?” 

Dumbledore shook his head, his eyes closed. Harry wondered whether he was in pain. Dumbledore plunged the glass blindly back into the basin, refilled it, and drank once more. 

In silence, Dumbledore drank three gobletsful of the potion. 

Then, halfway through the fourth goblet, he staggered and fell forward against the basin. His eyes were still closed, his breathing heavy. 

“Professor Dumbledore?” said Harry, his voice strained. “Can you hear me?” 

Dumbledore did not answer. His face was twitching as though he was deeply asleep, but dreaming a horrible dream. His grip on the goblet was slackening; the potion was about to spill from it. Harry reached forward and grasped the crystal cup, holding it steady. 

“Professor, can you hear me?” he repeated loudly, his voice echoing around the cavern. 

Dumbledore panted and then spoke in a voice Harry did not recognize, for he had never heard Dumbledore frightened like this. 

“I don’t want . . . Don’t make me . . .” 

Harry stared into the whitened face he knew so well, at the crooked nose and half-moon spectacles, and did not know what to do. 

“. . . don’t like . . . want to stop . . .” moaned Dumbledore. 

“You . . . you can’t stop, Professor,” said Harry. “You’ve got to keep drinking, remember? You told me you had to keep drinking. Here . . .” 

Hating himself, repulsed by what he was doing, Harry forced the goblet back toward Dumbledore’s mouth and tipped it, so that Dumbledore drank the remainder of the potion inside. 

“No . . .” he groaned, as Harry lowered the goblet back into the basin and refilled it for him. “I don’t want to. . . . I don’t want to. . . . Let me go. . . .” 

“It’s all right, Professor,” said Harry, his hand shaking. “It’s all right, I’m here —” 

“Make it stop, make it stop,” moaned Dumbledore. 

“Yes . . . yes, this’ll make it stop,” lied Harry. 

He tipped the contents of the goblet into Dumbledore’s open mouth. Dumbledore screamed; the noise echoed all around the vast chamber, across the dead black water. 

“No, no, no, no, I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me, I don’t want to. . . .” 

“It’s all right, Professor, it’s all right!” said Harry loudly, his hands shaking so badly he could hardly scoop up the sixth gobletful of potion; the basin was now half empty. “Nothing’s happening to you, you’re safe, it isn’t real, I swear it isn’t real — take this, now, take this. . . .” 

And obediently, Dumbledore drank, as though it was an antidote Harry offered him, but upon draining the goblet, he sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably. 

“It’s all my fault, all my fault,” he sobbed. “Please make it stop, I know I did wrong, oh please make it stop and I’ll never, never again . . .” 

“This will make it stop, Professor,” Harry said, his voice cracking as he tipped the seventh glass of potion into Dumbledore’s mouth. 

Dumbledore began to cower as though invisible torturers surrounded him; his flailing hand almost knocked the refilled goblet from Harry’s trembling hands as he moaned, “Don’t hurt them, don’t hurt them, please, please, it’s my fault, hurt me instead . . .” 

“Here, drink this, drink this, you’ll be all right,” said Harry desperately, and once again Dumbledore obeyed him, opening his mouth even as he kept his eyes tight shut and shook from head to foot. 

And now he fell forward, screaming again, hammering his fists upon the ground, while Harry filled the ninth goblet. 

“Please, please, please, no . . . not that, not that, I’ll do anything . . .” 

“Just drink, Professor, just drink . . .” 

Dumbledore drank like a child dying of thirst, but when he had finished, he yelled again as though his insides were on fire. 

“No more, please, no more . . .” 

Harry scooped up a tenth gobletful of potion and felt the crystal scrape the bottom of the basin. 

“We’re nearly there, Professor. Drink this, drink it. . . .” 

He supported Dumbledore’s shoulders and again, Dumbledore drained the glass; then Harry was on his feet once more, refilling the goblet as Dumbledore began to scream in more anguish than ever, “I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!” 

“Drink this, Professor. Drink this. . . .” 

Dumbledore drank, and no sooner had he finished than he yelled, “KILL ME!” 

“This — this one will!” gasped Harry. “Just drink this . . . It’ll be over . . . all over!” 

Dumbledore gulped at the goblet, drained every last drop, and then, with a great, rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face. 

“No!” shouted Harry, who had stood to refill the goblet again; instead he dropped the cup into the basin, flung himself down beside Dumbledore, and heaved him over onto his back; Dumbledore’s glasses were askew, his mouth agape, his eyes closed. “No,” said Harry, shaking Dumbledore, “no, you’re not dead, you said it wasn’t poison, wake up, wake up — Rennervate!” he cried, his wand pointing at Dumbledore’s chest; there was a flash of red light but nothing happened. “Rennervate — sir — please —” 

Dumbledore’s eyelids flickered; Harry’s heart leapt. 

“Sir, are you — ?” 

“Water,” croaked Dumbledore. 

“Water,” panted Harry. “Yes —” 

He leapt to his feet and seized the goblet he had dropped in the basin; he barely registered the golden locket lying curled beneath it. 

“Aguamenti!” he shouted, jabbing the goblet with his wand. 

The goblet filled with clear water; Harry dropped to his knees beside Dumbledore, raised his head, and brought the glass to his lips — but it was empty. Dumbledore groaned and began to pant. 

“But I had some — wait — Aguamenti!” said Harry again, pointing his wand at the goblet. Once more, for a second, clear water gleamed within it, but as he approached Dumbledore’s mouth, the water vanished again. 

“Sir, I’m trying, I’m trying!” said Harry desperately, but he did not think that Dumbledore could hear him; he had rolled onto his side and was drawing great, rattling breaths that sounded agonizing. “Aguamenti — Aguamenti — AGUAMENTI!” 

The goblet filled and emptied once more. And now Dumbledore’s breathing was fading. His brain whirling in panic, Harry knew, instinctively, the only way left to get water, because Voldemort had planned it so . . . 

He flung himself over to the edge of the rock and plunged the goblet into the lake, bringing it up full to the brim of icy water that did not vanish. 

“Sir — here!” Harry yelled, and lunging forward, he tipped the water clumsily over Dumbledore’s face. 

It was the best he could do, for the icy feeling on his arm not holding the cup was not the lingering chill of the water. A slimy white hand had gripped his wrist, and the creature to whom it belonged was pulling him, slowly, backward across the rock. The surface of the lake was no longer mirror-smooth; it was churning, and everywhere Harry looked, white heads and hands were emerging from the dark water, men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes were moving toward the rock: an army of the dead rising from the black water. 

“Petrificus Totalus!” yelled Harry, struggling to cling to the smooth, soaked surface of the island as he pointed his wand at the Inferius that had his arm: It released him, falling backward into the water with a splash; he scrambled to his feet, but many more Inferi were already climbing onto the rock, their bony hands clawing at its slippery surface, their blank, frosted eyes upon him, trailing water-logged rags, sunken faces leering. 

“Petrificus Totalus!” Harry bellowed again, backing away as he swiped his wand through the air; six or seven of them crumpled, but more were coming toward him. “Impedimenta! Incarcerous!” 

A few of them stumbled, one or two of them bound in ropes, but those climbing onto the rock behind them merely stepped over or on the fallen bodies. Still slashing at the air with his wand, Harry remembered a recently learned spell and yelled, “Sectumsempra! SECTUMSEMPRA!” 

But though gashes appeared in their sodden rags and their icy skin, they had no blood to spill: They walked on, unfeeling, their shrunken hands outstretched toward him, and as he backed away still farther, he felt arms enclose him from behind, thin, fleshless arms cold as death, and his feet left the ground as they lifted him and began to carry him, slowly and surely, back to the water, and he knew there would be no release, that he would be drowned, and become one more dead guardian of a fragment of Voldemort’s shattered soul. . . . 

But then, through the darkness, fire erupted: crimson and gold, a ring of fire that surrounded the rock so that the Inferi holding Harry so tightly stumbled and faltered; they did not dare pass through the flames to get to the water. They dropped Harry; he hit the ground, slipped on the rock, and fell, grazing his arms, but scrambled back up, raising his wand and staring around. 

Dumbledore was on his feet again, pale as any of the surrounding Inferi, but taller than any too, the fire dancing in his eyes; his wand was raised like a torch and from its tip emanated the flames, like a vast lasso, encircling them all with warmth. 

The Inferi bumped into each other, attempting, blindly, to escape the fire in which they were enclosed. . . . 

Dumbledore scooped the locket from the bottom of the stone basin and stowed it inside his robes. Wordlessly, he gestured to Harry to come to his side. Distracted by the flames, the Inferi seemed unaware that their quarry was leaving as Dumbledore led Harry back to the boat, the ring of fire moving with them, around them, the bewildered Inferi accompanying them to the water’s edge, where they slipped gratefully back into their dark waters. 

Harry, who was shaking all over, thought for a moment that Dumbledore might not be able to climb into the boat; he staggered a little as he attempted it; all his efforts seemed to be going into maintaining the ring of protective flame around them. Harry seized him and helped him back to his seat. Once they were both safely jammed inside again, the boat began to move back across the black water, away from the rock, still encircled by that ring of fire, and it seemed that the Inferi swarming below them did not dare resurface. 

“Sir,” panted Harry, “sir, I forgot — about fire — they were coming at me and I panicked —” 

“Quite understandable,” murmured Dumbledore. Harry was alarmed to hear how faint his voice was. 

They reached the bank with a little bump and Harry leapt out, then turned quickly to help Dumbledore. The moment that Dumbledore reached the bank he let his wand hand fall; the ring of fire vanished, but the Inferi did not emerge again from the water. The little boat sank into the water once more; clanking and tinkling, its chain slithered back into the lake too. Dumbledore gave a great sigh and leaned against the cavern wall. 

“I am weak. . . .” he said. 

“Don’t worry, sir,” said Harry at once, anxious about Dumbledore’s extreme pallor and by his air of exhaustion. “Don’t worry, I’ll get us back. . . . Lean on me, sir. . . .” 

And pulling Dumbledore’s uninjured arm around his shoulders, Harry guided his headmaster back around the lake, bearing most of his weight. 

“The protection was . . . after all . . . well-designed,” said Dumbledore faintly. “One alone could not have done it. . . . You did well, very well, Harry. . . .” 

“Don’t talk now,” said Harry, fearing how slurred Dumbledore’s voice had become, how much his feet dragged. “Save your energy, sir. . . . We’ll soon be out of here. . . .” 

“The archway will have sealed again. . . . My knife . . .” 

“There’s no need, I got cut on the rock,” said Harry firmly. “Just tell me where. . . .” 

“Here . . .” 

Harry wiped his grazed forearm upon the stone: Having received its tribute of blood, the archway reopened instantly. They crossed the outer cave, and Harry helped Dumbledore back into the icy seawater that filled the crevice in the cliff. 

“It’s going to be all right, sir,” Harry said over and over again, more worried by Dumbledore’s silence than he had been by his weakened voice. “We’re nearly there. . . . I can Apparate us both back. . . . Don’t worry. . . .” 

“I am not worried, Harry,” said Dumbledore, his voice a little stronger despite the freezing water. “I am with you.”