Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Making The Last Move

ONE
Making the Last Move

July 3, 1998      South Shields, Northumbria, England

Harry Potter spent two minutes and thirty seconds inside the Royal Mail delivery office.  There were perhaps a few dozen people in the north of England who might recognise him, and none would sully themselves with a half-shuttered High Street in a dying Northumbrian town unless they were Muggle hunting for pleasure.  It was relatively simple to hide from the wizards who remained in Britain.  It was their house-elves that he worried about, but he hadn’t encountered any for months.  Still, there was no sense tempting the fates.  He slung his knapsack over his left shoulder, climbed onto an old motorbike and went on his way in thoroughly mundane fashion.

The motorbike shuddered to a stop at a boarding house on a shabby, half-forgotten lane.  Like the bike, the boarding house was a tattered affair.  Harry slowly climbed the side stairs.  He moved with a wary posture that made him seem far older than he appeared. 

There was only one room in the garret; it was long and narrow and low, with a single bed, worn furnishings, and light from a single exposed bulb that dangled from the ceiling.  Meals were taken on metal chairs at a folding table from a questionable hot plate.  Hermione Granger lay atop the bed; she was curled tight in restless sleep, her long hair strewn every which way.  He sat at the folding table and opened the envelope as quietly as he could manage.  Inside was a single sheet of coarse brown paper covered on both sides with crisply inked text.

He had finished reading one side of it when Hermione stirred.  “What does Remus have to say?” she croaked.

He set down the paper, walked to the sink, and drew a glass of cool water for her.  “They’re restless – tired of waiting for us to come up with the last one,” he said.

She sipped at the water and cleared her throat.  “Understandable,” she said.  “Any news of Ron?”

He returned to the table and resumed reading.  “A little better each day,” he said.

Her face was like a mask with a painted-on smile.  “Remus says that every week,” she said.

“They’ve moved again,” he said.

She sighed, “I think they’re moving almost as often as we do.  Surely they don’t give a location?”

“Not one that Voldemort’s men would understand,” he said.  He set the opened envelope beside her and gave an off-handed wave toward the cancellation. It had been mailed from the Orkneys.

“They’re coming closer: Iceland, then Norway, and now… well, they’re very nearly home, aren’t they?” she said. 

Iceland had been the first to come through for them; it was the only place outside of Britain that Voldemort had ravaged during the First War, and the Icelandic mages had long and bitter memories.  The rest of Europe had closed their eyes to two wars now, but Iceland and the Scandinavian countries chose to support the resistance against Voldemort and his puppet Ministry.  Collectively they had taken in thousands of refugees.  Harry had left his quest twice to visit Iceland and Norway so he could personally show his appreciation, and that had paid unexpected dividends.  Dawlish, the British Minister-in-Exile, had begrudgingly admitted that Harry raised hundreds of thousands of Galleons with little more than a few handshakes.

A note of determination entered his voice.  “They won’t be moving again, not until we finish it.”

“You’re ready to talk, then?  Are you ready to be straight with me?” she asked.

She was using that tone, the one that made him instantly wary.  “What do you mean?” he returned.

“There’s nothing left to find.  It’s not Nagini.  It’s you, Harry; I know that you’re the last one,” she said.  She sounded resigned to the idea, almost matter of fact about it, but the words cut through the room like a sword.  He wished he were lying down. He could have feigned sleep then.  It wasn’t something he had ever planned to discuss. He’d simply planned to do something about it; he just didn’t know what that should be. 

“How long have you known?” he asked; “Was it after we took the Cup?”

Hermione’s knapsack sat in the corner of the room; Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup made a notable bulge in one side.  Voldemort had nested the true cup amidst a score of others, each filled with dark potions.  The cups were cursed; once raised, the holder was compelled to drink from it.  It was reminiscent of Voldemort's trap for the faux locket, or Snape's trial to reach the Philosopher's Stone. Hermione had thought to analyse the potions by sampling their vapours, and the two of them had painstakingly identified each.  Unlike Snape’s trial, there was no safe alternative; all twenty-one cups had been filled with deadly poison.  However, one had a unique property that made it useful for assassins: it was deadly only for the first drinker.  Harry had decided that this particular poison was surely placed in the true Cup, because it required the ultimate act of sacrifice – or disloyalty – for the Cup to be retrieved.

She had offered to drink first and he had immediately and steadfastly refused her.  Knowing what he was – or what he believed he was, at any rate – he was prepared to down the poison.  In the end, he had been saved and the Cup retrieved by an artful dodge: as he lifted the cup, she had jostled his arms to spill some of the poison and had then spat into the cup.  It was the first drinker’s saliva and the agitation of the cup that neutralised the poison, and the solution had been there for the taking in Snape’s accursed Potions textbook.  He remembered spewing up for three days and he still became sweat-soaked with little effort, but he survived.  She still wouldn’t acknowledge that she’d needed help from the Half-Blood Prince to save him.  He enjoyed the irony but it didn’t dampen his desire to roast sodding Snape on a skewer, not in the least.

“I’d already guessed it by then, but I didn’t know that you knew – not for certain,” Hermione said.  “When you were so ready to drink from the Cup… well, I suppose I had my answer.”

She was calm when she wouldn’t ordinarily be calm and it began to make him uncomfortable. “Why didn’t you say something straight away?” Harry asked.

“There wasn’t time to feel,” she said, and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to say in return.

After a long uncomfortable silence he wondered aloud, “Was it after the Grimoire, then?”

“Yes, after that,” she said quietly.  He knew she didn’t like to allow thoughts of the Grimoire of Rowena Ravenclaw for a host of reasons.  It sat tightly bound inside one of his bags, warded against temptation a dozen different ways.  In a cave at the centre of a maze of rough-hewn tunnels, Voldemort had laid a diabolical trap.  It was based on a traditional wizarding game that was unfamiliar to Harry and unfathomable to Hermione; thankfully Ron had understood how the game was played.  Thirty minutes later, they had discovered that Ron was more skilled at games than Voldemort. 

Five minutes after that, they had also learned that Voldemort was the ultimate cheat.  Apparently the Grimoire was supposed to be his last beachhead of protection against death.  Hermione figured out too late that winning the game wasn't enough.  No one, not even Voldemort himself, could ever take the horcrux from its lectern without triggering a deadly trap.  Apparently he thought that making one horcrux unrecoverable, even though it could not be used to produce a body for him, would assure his bid for immortality.

They were suddenly surrounded by a set of wards unlike anything they had ever seen; Hermione had later described them as 'alien'.  Each movement they made toward the tunnels set off a different rune set, and eventually all but one tunnel collapsed.  When one of the rune sets began to draw the air out of the cave, they had no choice but to run for it. 

Ron insisted on going first.  A rock slide crushed one of his feet, and a rune-triggered spell nearly tore him in half.  Harry freed Ron and and draped him over his shoulder.  With Hermione casting shields so powerful that they radiated heat, they raced through the seemingly endless tunnel as it caved in around them. In the end, the three of them barely escaped with their lives.  As it was, Ron only survived because Harry had pulled both of his friends into a  double side-along apparation.  Somehow, all three of them made it from the tunnel's mouth on the Isle of Skye to the living room of the resistance's safe-house in the Shetland Islands – nearly three hundred miles – without splinching so much as a toenail. 

When Ron had been so badly wounded, Harry had expected that Hermione would stand down.  She had never shown any inclination to remain behind; in fact, she had left Ron behind more easily than Harry had let go of Ginny.  Harry was shocked at the time, but he had known that he wasn’t ready to go forward alone.

She had very nearly opened the Grimoire afterward, hoping to drown her sorrow in knowledge, before he reminded her of what it had become.  Voldemort had wickedly perverted the Ravenclaw ideal: to destroy him, Harry had to destroy the grimoire of the brightest of the Founders.  The priceless tome was no more useful now than a back copy of the traitorous Daily Prophet .

Hermione launched into an elaborate explanation of why Voldemort’s giant snake Nagini couldn’t be a horcrux. It made no sense to voluntarily choose a living creature to serve as a vessel, on account of the prospects for injury or death or free will or any manner of other unpredictable events.  She went on about how Harry had likely become an accidental horcrux, piling on detail after detail about the collision between Harry’s protections and Voldemort’s curse and how advanced arithmancy could be used to predict the intersecting effects and half a dozen other things that he barely understood.  She didn't realise that he was smiling at her at first, but then came to an abrupt stop and snapped, “This is nothing to smile about!  Don’t tell me you’re going ‘round the twist now?”

“I’ve known since Dumbledore explained the horcruxes to me, I think,” he said, “so I’ve had time for it to sink in.”  He suppressed a snort and added, “Your idea’s great – honestly it is – but… erm… I just figured that Dumbledore had the number of horcruxes wrong.”

She blinked hard and for a moment took on a look of surprise worthy of Luna Lovegood.  “There is that, I suppose,” she said uncertainly, then added, “and the proper plural is horcruces , Harry, not horcruxes… honestly!”  Harry started to laugh.

Hermione crossed her arms and pouted, “Fine!  See if I help you anymore!” which only made him laugh harder and louder.  She cracked a smile at last, and eventually joined in the laughter. She was still laughing when he put his arm around her to steady himself.  He didn’t hear the hollowness in it until he took in her face.  She looked so tired. 

“Hermione…” he began.

“W-we need to talk it through,” she cut in.  “We can get around this - there has to be a way – but I don’t think it can wait much longer…”

Harry realised that she’d been thinking on the problem for nearly five months and she had nothing, which meant that they had nothing.  “I’ve been over it again and again.  I can’t see how it’s supposed to work out,” he conceded.  “All of them have to be destroyed before he can be killed.  Do you think that’s what ‘at the hand of the other’ means, then?  Do I make it possible for someone else to kill him…?”

He trailed off as she paled.  “Please tell me you haven’t given up?” she asked.

Harry couldn’t look at her anymore.  “No, no… but no matter what happens, we still need to know how to completely destroy a horcrux, and how Voldemort’s to be killed if I’m… you know… gone,” he said.

Hermione seized his hands.  She was too thin now, hardened by a year on the road – a good part of it on the run – but her grip was unexpectedly strong.  “We need to know how to expel a piece of Voldemort without killing you, Harry – that’s what we need to know!” she insisted.

“Dumbledore smashed the ring, and it nearly killed him!  Sometimes I wonder if he wanted to die, all right?  Do you think that maybe the pain was so bad that he welcomed it?” Harry shot back.  “What we need is a way to destroy the rest of them –”

“No!” Hermione shouted. 

Harry clapped his hand over her mouth, and hoped that there wouldn’t be a knock at the door.  “– and then we settle the rest,” he ploughed on even as she began to struggle.  “I don’t even know what sort of fight we can muster.  It’s time to meet with Remus and Mr. Weasley –”  Hermione nipped at his fingers and he made a show of pulling his hand away. 

“Only if they come to us,” she insisted.

“They’d have to move too many people,” Harry pointed out.  “Do you think all of them could all pass as Muggles long enough to reach us?  Moody doesn’t exactly blend, you know?”

“It’s time they learn, then,” she snapped.

“What’s this about?” he asked her.

Her voice was growing shrill.  “We’re not ready yet!  We need to talk it through – starting today, Harry – and have the options in hand before... before you go telling anyone else that… that…” 

Months of restless nights welled up in her eyes, and he wished he could take away the pain but he didn’t know how.  “Look… it’s nice that you want to, you know, protect me but I’m ready to stop pretending,” he said quietly.  “I just needed a little time before –”

Her eyebrows rose even as the rest of her face fell.  “No!  Oh, Harry, I wasn’t implying… they owe you as much time as you want to take – they owe you that, we all do!”

“Every day someone else dies,” Harry said.

She didn’t have anything to counter that, he knew.  He could tell she was thinking intently about what to say next.  “I suppose we’ll get to see Ron,” she said at last; “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Harry summoned a smile.  “Yes, that’s good,” he agreed.

“And Ginny,” Hermione went on, “you’ll get to see her as well.”

“I suppose I will,” Harry said.  He didn’t know how to feel about that, in truth.  He’d seen her four times in the last year.  Each time she seemed younger to him – or perhaps he felt older – and each time there was a little less of whatever he’d felt for her in Dumbledore’s waning days. 

Hermione drew herself up and began, “Did you know that the Orkneys are farther north than parts of Norway?  It can be right cold there even in July.  I don’t think either of us is kitted for a cold sea breeze, especially on the bike.  We need to do something about the right-side saddlebag, by the way – it has a tear along one of the seams. I suspect it could be flooded by a heavy downpour…” She positively babbled on, and Harry let her do it; she needed to talk herself into silence, he knew.

She went on incessantly even as she moved from chair to bed.  She sat and he sat beside her.  He put his arm around her and she leaned into him until she wore herself out.  Her eyes were heavy; she was just conscious enough to respond when he nudged.  She dragged her legs over the edge of the mattress, and then rolled onto her side.  He arranged her hair away from her face, though he knew it would find its way back.  She started to thrash as soon as he pulled away so he kicked off his trainers and remained on the bed.

He pulled a bit of stretchy, squishy something-or-another from one of the pockets of his denims – sometimes it was best not to know the materials involved in a Weasley Wizard Wheezes creation.  The twins had made the Sleepy-Time Wand Holder expressly for Harry, Ron and Hermione.  Properly wrapped around wrist and fingers, it kept a sleeper’s wand in the ready position.  Harry lay down on his back with his head elevated, feet pointed at the door and wand arm angled toward the shuttered window. 

Hermione settled against his left side after a bit more rolling and turning, with her face against his collarbone and her hair strewn everywhere.  She hadn’t slept for more than a half hour without him since they had set off in search of Hufflepuff’s Cup, and she needed to sleep before they could even think of setting out on the motorbike toward the Orkneys.  He knew it was his best chance for rest as well, but someone had to keep watch.

July 8, 1998      John O’ Groats, Caithness, Scotland

“Harry, this must have cost a fortune to let!” Hermione whispered urgently.

“It’s £1000 for a week,” Harry reassured her, “and I’ve only let it for two weeks with option on a third.”

“A thousand per week?  Have you –?” she snapped.  He motioned for her to be quiet; thankfully, the owner’s agent didn’t hear her.  She continued quietly but with just as much indignation.  “Have you lost your senses?  We’re supposed to be inconspicuous!”

He motioned out the large windows that overlooked Pentland Firth; the nearest of the Orkneys was visible on the horizon.  “Look around you,” he said.  “This place is littered with cottages and rooms.  We’re not exactly strolling starkers down the lane, right?”

“But Harry… two thousand pounds…?” she began.

Harry waved her off.  “We've earned a little comfort, right? We’ll not run short, I can promise you,” he said.

“We had fifteen thousand at the start of the year…” Hermione did some mental calculations, and concluded, “We can’t possibly have more than three thousand remaining.”

Harry hesitated for a moment.  He didn’t like to discuss his finances, even with his best friend, but he supposed it was inevitable.  “My parents left me in good stead,” he said slowly.  “I took along fifteen thousand in case we couldn’t come out of hiding.  Hermione… er… that was pocket money, really.  I had Remus exchange the lot, you see?  Even with an extra commission to the goblins…”

Hermione’s eyes widened, but she quickly said, “You don’t have to tell me.  I don’t need to know any more.”

“When this is all over, you’ll never want for anything, nor will the Weasleys – that much I can promise,” Harry assured her.

“Stop saying things like that, Harry,” Hermione said in a tone that brooked no argument.  “We’re not finished yet.”

“Soon, though,” Harry said.

Mrs. McLaren, the owner’s agent, sat on one of the stool at the kitchen counter.  She tended to rattle on at a great rate in a soft singsong lilt – it was the voice of someone who felt no need to hurry along, of someone who told stories.  “Will yeh be havin’ the funds, Mr. Black?” she asked.

Harry took a seat beside her.  “Right here, yes.”

“I’ll be on the veranda, if that’s all right?  It’s been a pleasure, Mrs. McLaren,” Hermione said; she walked slowly and unsteadily toward the door and Harry forced himself to remain seated.

“Be seeing you, dearie,” Mrs. McLaren called out.  When the door closed behind Hermione, she cleared her throat.  “It’s not that I’m the pryin’ sort, but… er… there’s no doubtin’ yeh’ve been through an ordeal…”

Harry withdrew a cashier’s cheque from within his anorak.  “War does that to people,” he said flatly.

“The War…” Mrs. McLaren trailed off, and then her eyes widened.  “The Balkans... or have you been down ta London way?” she asked. 

Harry gave a curt nod and said, “Both.  We were given a month's leave,” sticking to the cover story he and Hermione had used for the last three months.

“A month, you say?  In the thick of it yeh were, then. Yeh said 'we'...‘twas the both of yeh...?” she asked quietly. 

There was something of Molly Weasley’s gossiping nature about the woman, so Harry thought to keep his answers brief.  “She was a heal… erm… a medic.  We're in the same unit.  She’s seen most of what I have.”

“That’s so?” Mrs. McLaren said.

Something in the way she looked at him left him on edge, but he also saw something protective there and decided to go after it.  “We’re just looking for quiet, ma'am,” he said.  “We don’t sleep all that well anymore and we don’t do with crowds and such.  We’ll have few visitors, if any, and you’ll get back the cottage just as it is now –”

The woman’s eyebrows rocketed upward.  “Och, lad!  I wasn’t meaning to have yeh think…” She patted his hands with hers in the way that Molly would, and then took hold.  She said, “My brother, he served in the Falklands… he were on the Argent ,” and then her eyes took on the misty quality that Harry had seen on Order members when they talked about the First War; “Took him five years fer going back to sea, works the ferries now.  Never quite the same, yeh know?”

Harry wasn’t fond of being touched by a stranger, but she held his hands fast well after he told her, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Mrs. McLaren sat still for a moment and then let out a deep breath.  “Well … sign here, here, here and here, and scratch yer initials there,” she said, and she clipped the cashier’s cheque to the lease.  “Two keys… number to the office, for questions or just for chattin’… number to the caretaker… I pinned up some scribbles next to the cold cabinet for most things that come up.  I’ll be stopping in at three o’clock on the twenty-second, eh?” 

Harry nodded, pocketed the keys and walked her to the front entry.  She stopped in the open threshold and looked to the sky.  “It’s greyin’ up,” she said.  “Wait ‘til it rimes a bit afore yeh walk the beach, see?”  She reached out to shake his hand and add gravely, “Yeh’ll not be bothered here, my word to yeh.  Best yeh go look after the young lady now.  If… if she’s wanting to do somethin’ with tha' hair – spot of colour, mayhaps – yeh give a shout.”

“Erm… thank you,” Harry managed; he wasn’t quite certain what the woman was getting at, but it was obvious that she meant well.

“Yer amongst friends here. We take care of those what be deservin’ it, lad,” she said and left him standing there, confused and oddly pleased all at once.

Hermione sat in one of the two rocking chairs on the veranda, slowly moving back and forth and back again.  Her hair cascaded over the back of the chair and Harry now understood what Mrs. McLaren had been trying to say.  He couldn’t imagine how he could possibly have missed it, in fact.

“She seems quite nice and very nosy,” Hermione said.  “Did you charm her?”

“I would never do that, especially to a Muggle!” Harry protested.

Hermione laughed; it turned into a half-cough, which was happening far too often for his liking.  “I know you didn’t charm her, Harry – honestly!  Did you turn on the charm?  Did you bat your eyes and bring on the puppy-dog pout?”

“I haven’t got a puppy-dog pout,” Harry fumed.  “I scowl, and I’m quite good at it.”

“Just as long as you don’t sneer,” Hermione teased; the thought of a sneer made his world seem ever-so-slightly darker. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry said adamantly.  He ran his hand slowly through the length of Hermione’s hair.  She tensed for an instant, eyes wide, but settled in by the time he reached the bottom. 

“I know I can be thick, but your hair wasn’t this colour before,” he said, and she went positively rigid.

He’d noticed white strands for months and had written it off to stress; he had a few himself, running out from the temples.  There were far more than a few strands in her hair now; there were enough to leave a faint grey tone throughout.  She was brushing her bangs differently, he realised.  He traced his fingers from one side to the other and unearthed a shock of white. 

“That wasn’t there a few weeks ago,” he said.

“A lot has changed,” she returned. 

She wouldn’t look at him.  She was too pale and too thin and too grey and far too tired, and he couldn’t keep his hands away from her hair.  He was so glad that he'd asked Remus to bring along a healer. 
“You look like you need a lie-down,” he said.

She closed her eyes and settled deep into the chair.  “All I do is sleep,” she said.  “You don’t have to do that… makes me feel like a cat…”

“Time for a rest,” Harry said.

“They might be here anytime now,” she said without opening her eyes.

“The next ferry doesn’t come until just before six,” Harry told her, “and if you’re still asleep, then they’ll be here when you wake.”  He scooped her up from the chair, and was startled by how light she was.  She would pitch a fit when Madam Pomfrey arrived with the rest, he knew, but he was willing to weather it.

“Ron coming?” she asked between yawns.

“Remus didn’t say,” he answered.  He carried her to the oversized bedroom that opened to the veranda and laid her atop the bedcovers.

“You take this one, put my things upstairs,” she managed.

“Not a chance, Hermione.  You’ll never sleep a wink,” he said.

Her eyes opened wide for a moment and she weakly protested,  “Can’t be serious… Molly… kittens… Ron… spare… Ginny…”

“It isn’t their concern - I’ll deal with them.  Just rest, would you?” he said.

“Glad you’re… feeling better at last,” she slurred.

“I am, actually,” he admitted as he spread a blanket over her.

Her eyes fluttered and she croaked, “Good… didn’t know… if…” At last her breathing evened and she relaxed. 

His eyes were drawn to the knapsacks on the floor next to the armoire, and he felt a familiar tug toward them.  It grew stronger each time they acquired another horcrux, and he began to ask himself questions that he’d tried hard to avoid: why is she always tired, and why does it seem to be getting worse instead of better, and what can fix it?  Three-sevenths of Voldemort is sitting there – are the horcruxes doing this to her?  he wondered. 

Harry collected the knapsacks and took them to the cellar.  He thrust them as deeply as he could reach into a crawlspace, which left the horcruxes as far from Hermione as he could reasonably put them.  “All except one,” he said to himself.

He sat on the veranda for a good long time.  Mrs. McLaren had been right: the skies turned grey and the wind whipped from the northeast for a few minutes.  Then the sun came out almost as abruptly.  The weather at the top of Britain was raw and peculiar, and he felt quite at home for some reason that he couldn’t fathom.  He sat there until he heard stirring and then thrashing and he knew that he couldn’t stay away.  He found an old wind-up alarm clock in one of the cabinets; when he was satisfied that it kept time, he set it for five o’clock. 

His shoes were left at the bedside.  He carefully climbed into the bed, slid under the blanket, and then gave up all pretence.  He held her close, closer than he’d ever dared in any of the hundred-odd nights that they’d spent together.  Her eyes drifted open for a moment and he thought that she smiled before she buried her head against him.  He said a silent prayer to anyone inclined to listen in hopes that the one-seventh of Voldemort buried within him wasn’t killing Hermione, because Merlin help him, he couldn’t leave her behind.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
The Last House

TWO
The Last House

July 8, 1998      John O’ Groats, Caithness, Scotland

He woke ten minutes before the alarm clock was set to ring, and it took him half that time to free himself from Hermione’s grasp without waking her.  She was sleeping as peacefully as he’d seen in a long time – even had a touch of colour back in her cheeks – and he wasn’t about to cock up a good thing.  She seemed to sleep best when he was asleep as well, and feel her best when he was at ease.  He used an Occlumency exercise that he’d picked up from the side notes in Snape’s bloody book to quiet his mind and body, even as he gathered up his trainers and anorak.

Remus’s advance guard had arrived while he was asleep and had taken up stations around the cottage rather than enter the house.  They offered the proper recognitions when Harry asked for them.  To a man, they were tall and broad at the shoulders, and they wore the sort of expression that was welcoming yet not at all warm.  He didn’t make for the path that led up to the A836 until he felt certain about them. 

It was a brisk ten-minute walk to where the A836 and the A99 met and concluded: the End of the Road, it was called, and it certainly was that.  Other than a clutch of shops for the holidaymakers and a house-turned-museum – the Last House, it was called – there was nowhere else to go save out to sea.  The pier extended from there, on the other side of the car park, and he could see the white and black ferry drawing near.  He knew it was three-quarters of an hour from Burwick across to John O’ Groats, but he had no idea what was required to travel from Burwick to wherever the current version of the Order – the ‘new crowd’, he’d taken to calling them on his last visit – was now working and living.  For all he knew, they had to fly in from another one of the Orkneys, or the Shetlands, or who knew where.

Harry had taken an interest in the sea each time that their journeys had drawn near it.  Other than one thoroughly unpleasant primary school outing to Blackpool and his Uncle Vernon’s mad flight from Privet Drive in hopes of evading Hogwarts owls, Harry had never been on the water or even seen the coast before coming of age.  The waters that surrounded Britain were uniformly cold, he’d long since found, but they took on many different colours and textures.  Here, at the end, the waters reminded him of the contents of a pensieve – thick quicksilver that undulated and glittered in the bits of sun that peeked through the clouds.

Remus Lupin was neither first nor last to leave the Orkney Ferry.  He was as grey as the world around him – sandy hair feathered with white, washed-out face, charcoal overcoat.  Harry stood in the shadows beyond the pier.  His former professor looked straight at him but continued as though he wouldn't stop.  It was best to remain in the background, Harry knew, and for each to be sure that the other was authentic.

Lupin slowed his pace when he came to within a dozen steps.  “Your happy memory?” he asked casual.

“It used to be my parents – not a memory, really,” Harry returned.  “How do you open the Map?”

Lupin allowed a wan smile.  “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” he said.  Harry stepped forward to shake Lupin’s hand and found himself in a very unexpected and rather fatherly embrace.

“So much for staying unnoticed,” Tonks said.  Harry hadn’t seen her come off the ferry.  She had familiar dark hair and patrician features – an unmistakeable Black.  Her eyes widened and the moistened with unshed tears as they looked at each other.  She wrapped her arms around the both of them as though all three might blow away.  Harry glanced over her shoulder and saw that they weren’t so out of place as all that; a father greeted his small daughters here, an older woman held close a grown son there.

Lupin let go after what seemed like a very long time.  “Did our people do as they were asked?” he said to Harry.

Harry nodded.  “The recognitions were proper.  Either they’re all right or all of them are dodgy.  I wasn’t comfortable leaving Hermione there, but you did vouch for them.”

“I would trust them with my life,” Lupin said.

“I hope so, because we’re trusting them with Hermione’s life,” Harry said flatly.

“It’s reasonably safe here now,” Lupin assured him; “I would have insisted on you coming to us if it were otherwise.  We’ve made some strategic advances in recent days, and we’re getting ample assistance at last.  There’s much to discuss.”

“What’s keeping them?” Tonks grumbled.  She didn’t seem nearly as comfortable in the open as Lupin, and Harry felt the same.

Harry asked, “You did bring Madam Pomfrey, right?  I wasn’t joking when I said – ”

Lupin cut him off.  “When you ask for a healer, Harry, no one takes it lightly – rest assured of that.  We didn’t do Poppy any favours in the last three days.  She’s quite busy…”

Before Harry could bristle, Lupin held up a hand.  “I’ve brought someone with greater qualifications, as well as more direct experience with major curses and rituals.”

Harry’s hand coiled around the end of his wand.  “I never mentioned curses,” he said evenly.

“Considering what the two of you have been doing, and in speaking with Ron, I thought it reasonable…” Lupin began.  Harry didn’t hear the rest.  His eyes were glued to the gangplank from the ferry to the pier.

Ron Weasley had always been long, even gangly, but he had never before been gaunt.  His hair had grown long enough to pull back.  He caught sight of Harry and slowly broke into a broad smile.  That was when Harry spotted the cane.  Ron leaned into it heavily while a woman who Harry didn’t recognise held on to his free arm.  He realised that her other hand was grasping the back of his belt.  She was somewhere around Tonks’s age, Harry thought, with short brownish hair and a genuine smile.  Her cheeks were pinked and she had a slight squint as though she’d spent her life facing into the wind. 

Harry had always thought of Ron as a fast moving sort – sometimes too fast for his own good – so it seemed like he and the woman were approaching in a crawl.  Ron was one to raise an arm and call out but he did nothing of the sort; he just smiled.  Considering what happened, he looks good , Harry decided.

They stopped arm’s length from Harry.  Ron looked Harry up and down, then tugged his arm free from the woman and thrust it forward.  Harry moved to take his hand, but Ron continued forward and took in Harry’s entire forearm – not in a handshake but in the sort of grasp made for oaths. 

Ron’s voice seemed as thin as he was; “You look like shite,” he said.  The corners of Harry’s mouth twitched and Ron broke into a hoarse laugh that ended with a wince.

Harry fought to keep an even expression.  “Back at you, mate,” he said;  “You… you can’t know how glad I am to see you… you just can’t…”

“I think I can,” Ron returned; “How’s Hermione holding up?”

“She’s not good,” Harry admitted.

Ron scowled and said, “She’s gone and done something stupid, Harry – I’m sure of it.”  He shifted unsteadily and the woman deftly took his arm again; then he smiled faintly, and added, “This is Gudrun, by the way… Gudrun Stefánsdóttir.  She’s the reason I’m alive.”

Her cheeks pinked a bit more.  “Ronald says more than is true.  I am honoured to meet you, Mr. Potter,” she said.  Her accent was unusual, with more of a trill than a lilt to it.  Harry recalled similar accents from earlier in the year. 

He said, “I didn’t know any Icelanders had actually joined our group, Miss… erm…”

She said, “Gudrun will do, Mr. Potter.  Ronald was brought to the Healing Order along with other fighters.  When your people were ready to leave, the Althing asked that we continue to assist.  I came to your people as one from a group of fourteen.  I am a physician.  The others give different assistance.  Still more of us have come to aid your people now.”

Harry’s eyes swept the pier and the car park.  There were too many people lingering for his taste.  "I’m afraid it’s not a short walk,” he said.  “ Someone didn’t mention that you were coming, Ron.”

“I’ll manage,” Ron returned.  The look on Stefánsdóttir’s face suggested otherwise.

“Go in the museum – in that house over there,” Harry said.  “If anything happens, you might be able to defend it.  I’ll come back with the motorbike –”

Ron’s eyes widened.  “Motorbike?  You’ve been getting around on one of those?”

“Someone spotted the car,” Harry said; “We left it in Wales.”

“Ronald can tolerate a ride,” Stefánsdóttir said.  Harry briskly walked away.  He knew he’d feel much more comfortable when they all reached the cottage.

ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´

Hermione had risen while Harry was out.  He found her on the veranda again, settled into one of the rocking chairs.  One of Lupin’s advance guard could be seen pacing the shoreline. She startled when Harry put his hand on her shoulder. 

“They’re here,” he said.

“Oh…” she said, “I’ll just… I’ll just…” She tried and failed to raise herself from the chair.

“No need to get up,” Lupin called from behind Harry.  He approached with a broad smile on his face that froze as soon as he faced Hermione.

“Hello, Professor Lupin,” Hermione said quietly, almost apologetically.

Lupin sighed, “When will you learn to call me Remus?”

“Perhaps when it’s all over…” Hermione mused.

Lupin thoughtfully stroked his chin.  It was a less dramatic gesture when one lacked a beard.  “When did you last eat?” he asked Hermione.

“I had a spot of lunch,” Hermione returned; “You’re doubling as a healer now?”

“As feisty as ever, I see.  You look to have lost a stone or more, and you didn’t have a stone to give,” Lupin said.

Harry heard the tap-tap-tapping of Ron’s cane in the hall and said, “Someone else is here to see you.”

Hermione pushed off firmly this time and made it to her feet.  She spotted Ron at the doorway and started to shudder.  “Ron… oh, God… Ron… y-you’re here…” she stammered.

Ron strolled forward and gathered her into a hug.  It was slow and cautious, like all his movements.  Harry waited for him to draw her into a kiss, but it didn’t happen.  She didn’t hug him in return so much as she collapsed into him, racked with sobbing.

“I wish I’d been here,” Ron said tightly; “If I’d been here, maybe I could have stopped you.”

Hermione went rigid in his grasp.  “Stopped me… from what?” she sniffed.

Ron pushed back from her, but continued to hold her at arm’s length. He said, “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, Hermione.  I promised to keep quiet before, but this is different.  What else did you do?  Did you find a way to make it more powerful?  Did you find something else, something stronger?”

“I’ve spoken to Ron,” Lupin said, “and I’ve brought an expert on energetic curses and rituals.”

A chill ran through Harry as he began to realise what was happening.  “Hermione… what have you done?” he whispered.

Hermione pulled free from Ron’s grasp but the effort drove her back into the chair.  She sat there for a time with her head in her hands before she let out a hollow laugh.  “I think it’s too late for an intervention,” she said.

“Harry requested a healer, so I’ve brought one,” Lupin said firmly.  “You’re going to see this healer and you’re going to cooperate or else I’ll have to separate you from Harry.”

Hermione went ashen.  “ What? ” she shrieked.

Harry’s face flushed.  “You can’t do that,” he insisted.

“Until I have evidence otherwise, I have to assume that whatever you’ve done is potentially harmful to the both of you,” Lupin said; “In any case, Hermione, you’re clearly not up to walking across this house, let alone anything else that might be required.” 

Hermione and Lupin silently faced off, and Ron watched without saying a word, and Harry didn’t know what to make of any of it – of his former professor’s resolve, his best friend’s reserve, or of whatever it was that Hermione had done.  He only knew that it all filled him with dread.

Hermione was the one who gave way.  “I’ll see your healer,” she said curtly.

“Tell Gudrun the truth.  It's the only way she'll be able to help,” Ron insisted.

Hermione crooked an eyebrow.  “Gudrun?  That’s a Norse name, isn’t it?  You’re on a first-name basis with this healer…?”  She stopped cold, then added quietly, “Oh… of course you are…”

“She’s unimpeachable.  Tell her everything, Hermione.  It’s not too late to fix this, whatever you may think,” Lupin said.

“What the bloody hell is this ?  Hermione, what’s happened?” Harry growled.  Hermione closed her eyes and began to rock.

“I’ll send in Doctor Stefánsdóttir in a few moments,” Lupin said.  He tried to draw Ron out of the room along with him, but Ron wouldn't have it.

Hermione reached out a hand to Harry, who took it.  “Ron’s probably going to tell you what he thinks he knows,” she said; “I want to be sure that you understand this –” Her grip tightened and her eyes positively blazed.  “I did what needed to be done.  Almost no one could have done it for you, and no one else would have – not any of the Order… not Ron, I honestly don’t think so… and not Ginny.  I honestly don't think she'd have done it.  No matter what you think of me from now on, I want you to understand that.  I did this for you, and I’d do it again without a second thought.”

“Hermione, you’re… you’re scaring me!” Harry blurted out.  He didn’t realise how tightly that he gripped her hand until she winced.

He let go immediately, and Hermione said with clear resignation, “Send her in, then.”

Ron let Lupin lead him out.  Stefánsdóttir sidestepped them both and clapped Harry’s shoulder with surprising strength.  “Greetings, Miss Granger,” she said.  “Ronald and many others speak fondly of you.  Would you permit me to examine you?”

Hermione gave a nervous nod.  Stefánsdóttir took a small stone from one of her pockets, rubbed it between her hands, said a guttural incantation, and threw the stone to the floor at the centre of the room.  The stone bounced once and became a very soft-looking examination table.  The healer waved her wand at the windows, and each went from clear to a soft white. 

“Would you please leave us, Mr. Potter?” Stefánsdóttir asked.

Harry nodded, and backed out of the room.  The door closed of its own accord.  There was a faint pop and a squelch, and Harry instinctively moved toward the door handle.  He felt magic of the rawest sort – and then he went weak in the knees. 

“Harry!” Ron shouted. 

Lupin caught Harry before he fell to the floor.  “What the devil…?”

Harry felt a painful stirring in his chest, and he was certain that something terrible was happening – that Hermione was being taken from him.  “Help her, Remus!” he hollered.  His stomach roiled and he felt the urge to spew up but nothing came of it.

Lupin cradled Harry and Ron slowly lowered himself to the floor.  “This is a lot worse than she said it would be,” Ron said.

“I know,” Lupin said nervously; “Gudrun, Harry’s in a very bad way out here,” he shouted. 

Harry could hear Hermione’s voice through the door; even filled with worry, he found it comforting.  “What have you done to him?” she demanded.

He strained to hear Stefánsdóttir’s reply: “I’ve set a null ward around you, Miss Granger – a bit of ancient spell work that I can only maintain for a short time.  It dampens any magical connections between the contents of this room and the outside.  This is very useful for making a sound curse-related diagnosis.”

“ No!  You’ll kill him! ” Hermione shouted.

The ward dropped almost instantly.  Harry felt instant relief, and a piercing scream came from the veranda.  He scrambled free of Lupin and nearly broke down the door.  Hermione was writhing on the examination table as if the Cruciatus Curse had struck her.  Harry gathered her awkwardly in his arms; he would have dropped her if Stefánsdóttir hadn’t cast a quick feather-light charm.

It was obvious that she was bound to him in some way.  At some level, he supposed that he’d known that for some time.  It was just as obvious that the binding – whatever it was – was hurting her badly, if not killing her. 

She stopped keening and her breathing steadied; she looked at him with unsteady eyes, and whispered, “I’d do it again, Harry… I’d do it again…”  Harry looked away from her, because he had to look away or risk falling apart.

“Fix this,” he demanded of the healer; “I don’t care what it takes.  I don’t care what it does to me.  Fix this. ”

Stefánsdóttir sighed.  “There is surely a long story that lies just beneath the surface,” she said, “and no one person possesses all of it.  First we shall have the story told and then we shall find the solution.”

“There isn’t a solution,” Hermione said distantly; “Harry should be dead, you see.” 

Ron gave a strangled cry and Lupin let forth with a colourful string of cursing, whilst Stefánsdóttir said evenly, “It seems that you should begin the telling, Miss Granger.” 

Hermione’s eyes closed and she slumped against Harry’s chest before she could manage a single word. 

ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´

Harry stalked back and forth across the kitchen.  The monster inside him wanted to tear the place apart, but enough of his own mind remained to know that not only wasn’t the house his own to demolish, but also that magic couldn’t be used to repair it – a display of magic that great would surely attract Voldemort’s men and it wasn’t the time or place for that, not yet.  He contented himself with crumpling an empty Muggle fizzy drink can in his hands.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he railed at Ron.

“What were you going to do – leave her behind?” Ron asked.

Harry gave the can another squeeze.  “ Yes!  I would have locked her in a bloody room if I’d had to!  She… she had no right to do this!  She had no right! ”

Ron shifted uncomfortably on one of the stools at the counter and said, “If I’d been able – if I’d been going out there again – I would have done the same thing, Harry.  We both would have cast protections on you.  The thing of it is, what she did – or what I found out she was going to do, at any rate – it wouldn’t have done this.  It would have given you the strength to go on in a fight, you know?  It had a, a thingy in it… er… I can’t remember what she called it.  The thing, it would have cancelled the spell if the drain got really bad.”

Harry leaned against the counter next to the cold cabinet.  “A failsafe,” he said without looking up; “I would have just died, then.  She had to mean Hufflepuff’s Cup, Ron.  It’s the only time I’ve been close to dying this year.  I thought she’d saved me with the spit – ”

“ Spit?   I think that one needs explaining, mate!” said Ron.

Harry explained what had happened with the Cup as best as he could.  Ron nodded thoughtfully as he went along, and Harry couldn’t help but to be surprised by the changes in his best friend.  He seemed more like his older brothers Bill and Charlie now – quieter but somehow stronger.

“What I know about potions, I could write on a single sheet of parchment,” Ron said at length, “but I do know that it takes time for an antidote to work.  Hermione knows that.  Do you figure she meant to take the edge off?”

“Dunno,” Harry said.  “Maybe she was just hoping?”

“She didn’t have anything better, you mean?”  Ron nodded.  “Yeah, she wouldn’t have just stood by... doesn’t have it in her, really.  She actually got that from the greasy bastard’s book?  I’m surprised you kept it.”

Harry’s jaw tightened; he said, “Don’t start in on that.  The book’s been useful.  He’s smart.  I won’t pretend otherwise.”

Ron sipped at a glass of water, and each swallow looked uncomfortable.  “Right, then… so we know she did something else,” he said.  “She must have added to it, or taken off the failsafe thingy somehow.  How long were you out?”

Something tugged at the back of Harry’s mind.  “Sorry?” he said absently.

“How long were you out?” Ron repeated; “You said that the stuff in the Cup knocked you out.”

“Hadn’t thought about it, really,” Harry admitted and he decided that he should think about it then and there.  He thought for quite a while before he realised, “A day... I lost a whole day.”

There were stirrings of magic in the house and Harry was no longer wholly accustomed to the feeling after months amongst the Muggles.  Some of it came from the master bedroom, where the Icelandic woman was attending to Hermione.  Some of it surely came from Lupin, which couldn’t be helped.  The rest came from the cellar.  He’d only felt a sort of hum before from the horcruxes, or horcruces, or whatever they were supposed to be called.  Now there was something stronger.  He felt the pull deep inside, rumbling within his chest.  He made for the stairs and the clunking of Ron’s cane followed closely him.

The Cup and the locket still rested inside Hermione’s knapsack, jammed into the tight crawlspace.  They were still tightly swaddled in cloth and spells.  The Grimoire was inside Harry’s knapsack, which was the source of the insistent pull.  Harry wasn’t surprised though he wished that he were.  He carefully peeled open the cloth wrapping and grazed his fingertips across the cover.

Ron peered over his shoulder.  “That’s it?” he asked.

“This is Ravenclaw’s Grimoire,” Harry returned.  He was no curse-breaker, no expert in any particular kind of magic really, but over the last few months he had developed an uncanny sense of touch where enchanted or spelled objects were concerned.  He could easily tell the difference between his own spell work and the spell work of others. Harry rudely shoved the Grimoire back into the knapsack.  He was angry, disappointed and frustrated, but above all else, he was worried – deeply worried.  He was certain of at least one thing that Hermione had done. 

“Those weren’t my seals.  It's someone else's magic,” he said.

Ron let out a deep sigh; “Couldn’t let it alone, could she?”

“I told her to not touch it.  I sealed it, spelled the bloody thing until it was glowing.  She knew what Riddle’s diary did to Ginny, she knew! ”  Harry growled.  He threw the knapsack as hard as he could.  Ron snatched it from the air and fell roughly in the process.  He gasped for breath.  Harry rushed to him. 

“What are you thinking?” Ron hissed; “You can't just throw them around, can you?  That thing could have blown up or cursed the whole house or something!”

The image of Dumbledore’s ruined arm unbidden to Harry and he winced.  “I wasn’t thinking at all,” he admitted; “Are you all right?”

“Brilliant, Harry.  I’m smashing,” Ron groaned as he let the knapsack slide to the floor beside him.  It took several minutes for Harry to help him to his feet.  He moved to help Ron up the stairs but was shrugged him off. 

“What are we going to do with it?” Ron asked Harry, with a nod toward the Grimoire.

“Show it to Lupin, for a start,” Harry said; “Can we trust this healer of yours?  Are you absolutely sure?  I mean, Lupin, Tonks and McGonagall are the only ones who know what we’ve been after – ”

“And my Mum and Dad... and Bill, which means Fleur probably knows... which means everyone probably knows,” Ron added.

Harry grumbled, “Can’t we keep one sodding secret?  It’s a wonder any of us are alive.”

Ron instantly turned crimson and snapped, “Don’t get shirty with me, I won't have it!  You try moving a few hundred people from one place in the middle of effin’ nowhere to another every couple of weeks.  Think we can’t keep secrets, do you?  If we couldn't, we'd all be dead.”  He stopped to take a few heavy breaths, and then added, “And you can trust Gudrun – you can trust all of them.  Not only that, but she’s smart as Hermione, mate.”

Harry followed Ron up the stairs.  “She’s as smart as that?” he said lightly.

“You know, actually, she’s smarter,” Ron said from the top step.

“Really?” Harry said.  He was surprised; it wasn’t the sort of thing that Ron would say lightly, not as much as he obviously cared for Hermione.

“Really,” Ron said darkly.  “I know she wouldn’t have opened that book.” 

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
The Price Paid

THREE

The Price Paid

July 13, 1998      John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

Another rock flew from Harry's hand into the sea. There was little to do other than to throw rocks. A handful of refugees from the Department of Mysteries were into their third day of examining Ravenclaw's Grimoire – they called it an examination, at any rate. He knew that they were frightened of it, and Hermione was getting weaker. A sort of fog roiled along the ground and across the top of the water - the locals called it hoar or something like that. He drew his anorak closer against the mid-summer chill.

Ron's healer strolled from the veranda through the tall grasses and to the edge of the shore. Harry knew that if he spent more than an hour watching the water, she would come to the veranda to check on him. The fact that she was walking his way probably meant that he'd been out considerably longer than that, he figured, unless...

He called out nervously, "Is she all right? She hasn't...?"

"I would not say that Miss Granger is 'all right', but nothing has changed," Stefánsdóttir returned. She looked to the sea and added, "The fog is slow to lift this morning."

"There's been a lot of fog," Harry said.  "I don't mind though. I like it here, actually. Does it remind you of home?"

"This reminds me of parts of Iceland," she said, "but my home is not on the sea. How are you feeling today, Mr. Potter?"

"How do you think I'm feeling? Hermione's in a bad way, and I can't change that. She did this to herself for me, for Merlin's sake - what was she thinking?" he snapped. "I suppose I could kill myself. Do you think that would make it stop?"

Stefánsdóttir's brow rose for a moment, but she said calmly, "That would not help matters." She then looked at him in a way that for a moment left him feeling like a specimen. "Do you feel any weakness or physical pain?" she asked.

"I feel fine," Harry said dejectedly, "just bloody great."

Stefánsdóttir thrust her hands into her pockets. She was in shirtsleeves and seemed unaffected by the ill wind. "Why do they not ask for your help?" she said. " These men know nothing more, but cannot admit that they know nothing."

Harry caught the prompting in her eyes, and began to tell her in general terms what Dumbledore had told him. Ron trusted this woman and Harry had watched her care for Hermione. This was no Death Eater - he was certain of that – and she wouldn’t have opportunity to convey any messages; Lupin had the perimeter secured with a series of subtle but deadly wards.  Not even a beetle was likely to get through intact without permission.  Stefánsdóttir nodded frequently, asked questions on occasion, and let her brow crease in thought a time or two.

"This diary, the one that you destroyed, it was draining the life from Ronald's sister?" she confirmed. "It was feeding on her?"

Harry nodded. "Riddle was using her to bring himself back... bloody hell! "

Stefánsdóttir nodded fervently. "We are having similar thoughts," she said. "If it was known what spell she obtained from the Grimoire, then it could be known whether the spell was altered. The flow of energy from her exceeds your needs, Mr. Potter."

Panic rose within Harry. "It's draining her... that book's sucking the life out of her!"

Stefánsdóttir ran her fingers through her fringe, her brow once again creased. "This would be easily tested," she said. "A null field cast around the Grimoire should have an effect on Miss Granger –"

"Hermione," Harry said quickly. "Her name is Hermione. Mine is Harry. If you're going to use Ron's name, then use ours."

A smile played at the corner of Stefánsdóttir's mouth, and she said, "Ronald chooses his friends well."

Harry thought about the healer's suggested test. "When you cast that field before, she started screaming. Would it... would it do that to her again?" Stefánsdóttir nodded.

He shuddered, but was resolved. "We have to know," he said. "Then I can destroy the damn thing. She'll be better then, right?"

"I do not know," Stefánsdóttir admitted. "It could be that she is feeding both you and this horcrux? If this is the case, destroying the book will reduce the drain... she is more likely to recover."

Harry took in a sharp breath. "More likely... is she dying, then?

"Mr. Lupin has sent word to her parents, in the event that it proves so," Stefánsdóttir said softly.  The words barely carried through the wind, but they were sharp enough to tear through Harry.  He felt something that he hadn't felt since the Department of Mysteries, despite all the danger that they had since faced.

"Do you know how to destroy it, Mr.... Harry?" Stefánsdóttir asked. "The men inside, they do not."

He shook his head. "That's why we kept them as we found them," he said.

"Yet some have been destroyed, you say. How was this done?" she wondered.

"Well, Dumbledore smashed the ring. It cost him his arm, and maybe more. Now with the diary, I..." Harry stopped. A grim smile emerged. "It might still be there, if Voldemort hasn't been inside."

"I do not follow," Stefánsdóttir said. "What might still be where?"  Harry didn’t answer; instead, he strode briskly toward the cottage.

Ron met him at the door to the veranda.  “I was wondering when you’d come in.  I don’t know how you’re going to feel –”

Harry cut him off without breaking stride.  “Where’s Remus?”

“There’s a meeting in the front room,” Ron answered.  “Harry, I swear that I didn’t –”

“Remus!” Harry called out as he proceeded through the kitchen and into the hall.  “I need something of you; it’s really important!”  Someone dashed out of the front room and he quickened his pace.

“HARRY!” a familiar voice called out.  He found himself pinned in an embrace, his face awash in a mass of flower-scented red hair.

“G-Ginny!” Harry managed.  “I don’t… what are you doing here?  How did you get here?”

“I was with Dad in Oslo – we’ve secured people this time, not just money – when we heard that Remus was on his way to meet you, and that he was bringing the healer,” she said breathlessly.  “After what happened to Ron…” Harry began to pull away at that, but she wouldn’t release him.  “I didn’t mean it that way,” she insisted.  There was a hitch in her voice when she went on, “I wanted to be here for Hermione… I’m told… erm… her parents are coming?” 

“That’s why I need to talk to Remus right now – it’s about Hermione,” Harry said.

“Remus is upstairs arguing with a couple of ex-Ministry boffins.  Shacklebolt’s here, so is Dawlish… wait, have you come up with something that might –?”  She stopped, her eyes looking over his shoulder.  “Oh… hello, Gudrun…” 

Stefánsdóttir responded from behind Harry.  “Hello, Miss Weasley,” she said.  The healer always spoke with an even tone; nonetheless, Harry thought he heard a flicker of something less than friendly in the greeting. 

The look on Ginny’s face wasn’t especially welcoming either, he noticed.  “Remus is upstairs.  Fetch him for Harry, would you?” she said to Stefánsdóttir.  The healer headed for the stairs without a word.

Harry frowned.  “What was that all about?”

Ginny sighed.  “It’s not her fault, I suppose.  I guess she hasn’t been stringing him along… and she did save his life – Ron’s, I mean.”  She looked over his shoulder again, toward the door to the master bedroom.  “Hermione needs Ron badly right now, and he’s carrying on about some healer that’s much too old for him, for a start.  The woman’s too smart not to see it, and the last thing Hermione needs is to be hurt any worse than she already has been.”

“I… I don’t think Hermione’s feeling hurt by anything to do with Ron,” Harry offered hesitantly.  “Um… it’s not as though they were, you know, seeing each other.”

Ginny laughed.  “What are you talking about?  Of course they were seeing each other!  Didn’t you see them at the wedding, or when you came back before the trip to Iceland, or when you…” Her laughter quickly faded away.  “Or when you brought Ron back?” she went on.  “The look in his eye… of course they were seeing each other!”

Harry kept silent, so that he wouldn’t be snappish.  There was still a hitch in his chest when he looked at her, along with a dull roar from the monster inside.  That wasn’t exactly comforting, knowing now that the monster was one-seventh of Voldemort.  She didn’t know that, of course.  They had been chasing after artefacts needed to bring down Voldemort, as far as Ginny knew – if she knew the first thing about a horcrux, it had come from someone other than Harry. 

“You don’t know,” he said at last.  “You haven’t been with us.”

“I should have been,” Ginny shot back.  “When you and Hermione left again, I should have come with you.”

“There were three of us when Ron was hurt,” Harry said.  “If you’d been there, it might not have made a difference at all.”

“You make it sound like I would have been in the way.  I wouldn’t have been a distraction, no matter what you think,” Ginny said.  “I can take care of myself – you know that.”

“Ron had his guts torn out of him, and you’ve seen Hermione,” Harry barked.

Ginny paled but wouldn’t relent.  “Ron gets careless and Hermione gets in over her head, and you know it.  I’m more capable in terms of Defence than either of them, Harry –”

Harry reached out and squeezed her hands to stop her.  I will not shout, he told himself.  “This hasn’t been the D.A.,” he said evenly.  “This hasn’t been like the Department of Mysteries, or the Death Eater attack at Hogwarts.  It isn’t a game, Ginny.  Hermione’s in more danger than Ron was, and she put herself in that position.”

She didn’t flinch.  “We haven’t exactly been on holiday.  I’ve been in a half-dozen battles this year – battles , Harry.  I could have handled skulking about.  I could have helped you.  I should have been there.”  She had the same fiery pout that he remembered from sixth year – from a hundred years before, it seemed.  It had made his heart pound then.  Knowing what he knew, living the life he’d lived for a year, it seemed rather silly.   

He tried not to glare, but knew that he probably failed.  “It’s easy to say that now, when it’s almost over,” he snapped. 

Lupin appeared in the hall just then, with Stefánsdóttir at his heels, and Harry felt a spot of gratitude.  For his part, Lupin seemed rather irritated.  “Ah, Harry – back inside at last!  I didn’t know that Ginny would be accompanying Arthur… seems that someone coerced Shacklebolt into changing up the travelling plans, despite the stringent arrangements I had established – or thought I had established…”

Ginny cast her eyes downward.  “I’m sorry, Remus, really I am.  Kingsley didn’t raise a fuss, and I shouldn’t have let Mum talk him into letting me…” She shuddered and crossed her arms.  “It’s cold in here.”

“No colder than Oslo, I should think,” Arthur Weasley called out.  He strode jauntily from the front room to shake Harry’s hand.  To Harry’s great surprise, Mr. Weasley was dressed in thoroughly conventional Muggle clothing; he looked like a well-to-do banker on holiday in herringbone and tweed.

“You don’t think that it’s cold?” Ginny said.

Mr. Weasley shook his head.  “I’m quite comfortable,” he said, “but I’m rather more heavily clothed than you.”  He slipped off his blazer and draped it over her shoulders and she rolled her eyes.  For his part, Harry agreed with her that it was a brisk day, inside and out.

Lupin frowned, “Arthur, you’ve put your foot in it.  The news from Oslo could have waited.  Is Shacklebolt in the front room?”

“Yes, yes, he is,” Mr. Weasley said quickly, “and Dawlish as well.”

“Send Dawlish out, and I’ll brief you along with Shacklebolt.  I imagine he needs to get back to Ten Downing soon,” Lupin said.

“If this is regarding protocol, you know that Ginny should –” Mr. Weasley began.

“Under the circumstances, Ginny has no business being here at all,” Lupin snapped.  “Let’s finish this and then we’ll decide what to do with the two of you.  You may not be able to leave for a few days.”

By the time Lupin budged past them and stomped into the front room with Stefánsdóttir in tow, Ginny came undone.  “Harry… I didn’t mean… I just wanted to see Hermione before… she’s my friend, and I just… I missed her, Harry, and if they’re sending for her parents in the middle of all this… and… and they let Ron come, and Dad didn’t see any harm… I didn’t know…”

“You’re right.  You didn’t know,” Harry said.

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Harry didn’t like to see her that way.  “I’m sorry,” she said, and he knew that she meant it.

“No harm done, I expect,” he said.  “We won’t be here much longer, anyway.”

She buried her face in her hands.  “I know better… gods, I know better!  I shouldn’t have let Mum budge Dad into –”

He laughed.  “I don’t think Voldemort could stop your Mum from talking your Dad into something.”

“Too true,” she admitted.  

“Look… I am glad to see you,” Harry said.  “I didn’t think I would before it’s over, all of this.”

She seemed energized by that.  “We’ll have all the forces we need really soon,” she told him.  “Iceland’s come through, of course, and now Norway… the Danes are lining up, and the Swedes – well, if we can keep them from fighting with the Norwegians.  The point is, we’re not alone anymore.  We’ll come through with our part of the plan – I promise you that.”

“Right… the plan ,” Harry said.  “It’s great, what you and your Dad and the Macmillans have been doing.  We’ll need all the help we can get.”  Other than Harry himself, Hermione, Ron, Lupin, Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt were the only people alive who knew that there was no plan, save that Harry had to kill Voldemort.  Still, if he was successful, he knew that his friends would have to face the challenge of rebuilding wizarding Britain.  Everything Ginny and the rest had been doing would be quite important later.  “I’m proud of you,” he added.  “It’s… it’s all really something.”

Her eyes were shining.  “Thank you, Harry,” she whispered, which left him feeling a bit fluttery, and then she pulled him into an all-encompassing hug.  It seemed as though she was pressed against him everywhere, and it was wonderful – it made him think of being back at the Burrow.  The monster within stirred though it didn’t roar.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said absently, and gave her a loving kiss on the cheek.  When he pulled back, she had the oddest look on her face and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“I can’t believe how cold you keep it in here!” she complained.  Harry’s attention was already drawn to the stairs.  Two of the former Unspeakables were entering the corridor, one with Ravenclaw’s Grimoire in hand. 

Ginny loosed her grip on Harry.  He noticed the absence and turned.  Her arms crossed tight and she shivered.  “W-what is t-that?” she chattered.

“Something you don’t need to know about,” Harry said flatly, even as he moved to warm her.

“Harry, I’ve f-felt this b-before,” she said, her voice rising. 

“There aren’t any Dementors around – believe me, I’d know,” he assured her.

“N-not D-Dementors,” she managed.  The Unspeakables had stopped, and were watching Ginny in a way that Harry didn’t like at all.  The one with the book moved toward them, and Ginny whimpered.

“Is this Arthur Weasley’s daughter?” the other asked.

“Fascinating,” the holder of the book said.

“Stand aside,” Harry demanded.  “We’re going out.”

“There was more than one d-diary?” she croaked.  “Oh God, Harry, is this what you’ve b-been chasing after?”  Her eyes saucered.  “Hermione!  She didn’t… NO!  Harry, please tell me…!”

One of the Unspeakables began, “This phenomenon may help us understand how the book is able to maintain a hold –”

“ Like hell! ” Harry snapped.  He snatched the Grimoire away from the startled scholar, and made for the veranda.

Behind him, Ginny was saying over and over, “I didn’t know… I didn’t know…”

Lupin chased after him.  “ Harry!  Wait!  I know it seems hopeless,” he called out, “but… Ginny?  Ginny, what’s happened?  Stop, Harry!”

Harry stopped halfway across the veranda, eyes on the sea, and shook.  Lupin’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he barked, “Ginny can’t leave, Remus.  She knows.  She can feel it – she can feel him in there .  I have to get rid of it!”  The shaking grew worse.  “Thank Merlin I left her behind…”

“Gudrun was just explaining her theory,” Lupin said.  “It sounds more likely than anything the Unspeakables have come up with, and… you know that Hermione’s running out of time.”

“I need to get into Hogwarts,” Harry blurted out.  “Has Voldemort been inside?  Do we know that?”

“He hasn’t been inside,” Lupin said with certainty.  “McGonagall’s still there.”

Harry nearly fell to the decking.  “McGonagall?  But…?”

“She’s still there,” Lupin said.  “She had unfinished business, apparently.  For whatever reason, the wards still recognise her as Headmistress.  Voldemort hasn’t been inside, not yet.”

“Will she let me in?” Harry asked.

Lupin gave a wry smile.  “Do you think she’d refuse one of her two favourite students, come to help the other?”  He withdrew his wand, pointed it southward, and muttered, “ Expecto patronum .”  A silvery shape rushed off before Harry could clearly make it out.  “Now let’s get you fed,” he told Harry.  “There’ll be nothing to eat at Hogwarts, surely.”

ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´

Harry waited until Stefánsdóttir ushered everyone else out of the bedroom and left herself, before he cast an Imperturbable charm on the door and lit into Hermione.  “I’m tired of playing games!” he growled.  “Tell me the name of the spell!”  He waved the Grimoire at her.  “Tell me or I’ll start looking for myself!”

Hermione didn’t lift her head from her pillow but her eyes widened.  “Don’t you… don’t you even think of opening that book…” she croaked.

Harry forcibly held down his voice.  “Do you understand what you’ve done to yourself?” he scolded.  “You didn’t just give me energy – the horcrux is feeding on you, just like Riddle’s diary did to Ginny.”

She tried to sit up and failed miserably; she barely budged the thick blanket wrapped around her.  “Just have to figure out how to get rid of them without… killing you,” she mumbled.  “I need paper and a biro… have to start figuring out –”

Harry grabbed her by the forearms.  “No!  There’ll be no figuring it out!  Hermione… Remus sent for your parents – you know that, right?  We don’t even know Voldemort’s location; I can’t go after him yet.  I don’t even know if I can destroy the book before… before…” The room swam before his eyes, and he knew that it surely did Hermione no good for him to become upset or angry, but he couldn’t help himself.  “ Tell me the name of the effin’ spell! ” he roared.

The door shook with a whump! and Stefánsdóttir burst into the room.  “Harry, I will ask you to keep your voice down and to keep yourself calm,” she said.

Harry threw open the cover of the Grimoire and began to turn the pages.  The room seemed colder, just as Ginny had described, and there was a humming – almost a vibration – in his head.  He ignored all of it, and struggled to recall a translation charm.  “It had to be in Latin, didn’t it?” he grumbled.

“No, Harry… please… I won’t… I won’t let you… I know what you’ll do…” As she trailed off, Hermione curled into a ball and began to cry – it wasn’t weeping or blubbering, but full-on crying, and Harry made himself press on though it cut at him like a sword.  Stefánsdóttir was at Hermione’s side – he could see her from the corner of his eye, holding one of Hermione’s hands and stroking her arm and whispering something to her. 

The Grimoire was resisting his efforts at translation – the text would appear as plain English, then abruptly shift to Latin or a crazy-quilt mixture of the two languages.  Worse, he suspected that the spell he sought was fleeing from him, shifting from one page to the next.  He cursed a blue streak at the book even as he sped his pace through the pages.

He heard the uncomfortable thump of Ron’s cane passing through the threshold, and Ron joined Stefánsdóttir at the bedside.  He couldn’t take the time to look up, not when he needed to find the spell responsible for this – he hoped Ron could pry it from her, but he couldn’t watch.

Ron took Hermione’s hand and spoke very quietly in a very level tone; it was so unlike him that it bothered Harry.  “He’s going to fight for you, you know?” he said.  “I know because I’ll fight for you, too.  You’ve done something foolish – stupid, actually, and that’s not like you – and he’ll do something just as stupid if you let him.  I’ll help him do it, Hermione.  We’re going to go off and do something stupid.  What happens when you set forth unprepared, Hermione?  What happens?”  When she said nothing, he added, “Come on, it’s your line – what happens when you set forth unprepared?”

“Nothing good will come of it,” Hermione sniffed.

“He’s over there rubbing elbows with that thing,” Ron said.  “It doesn’t get much more stupid than that.  Why don’t you tell us what you’ve done?  Tell us, and maybe our next move won’t be completely cocked up?”

“Can’t do any worse than I have,” Hermione said quietly. 

“You took a spell from the book, and it tricked you,” Ron said.  “You knew it would probably trick you, and you did it anyway because you couldn’t let Harry die.  I understand that much.  I don’t understand why you won’t help us undo it.”

“H-Harry… please…” Hermione began.

Harry looked to her – she was trying again to raise her head, but she couldn’t seem to manage it.  He tried to sound commanding but managed little more than despair.  “The spell, Hermione, we need the spell… I need it.  What do you want from me?  Do you want me to beg?”

“Not a spell… magus convalere ,” she whispered.  “It was supposed to be magus convalere .”  Stefánsdóttir gasped something in her native tongue; Harry had no illusions that it was anything good. 

“The Grimoire transformed it into theurgus valere ,” Hermione continued.  “I knew it, but it was too late.  He was d-d-d…”

She began to shudder and couldn’t say any more.  Stefánsdóttir let out an angry string of something that confirmed for Harry exactly how bad this was.  He happened to glance at the open Grimoire.  It displayed the very thing that Hermione had just named. 

“ Petrificus totalis! ” Harry shouted with the tip of his wand jammed against the book, for it was the first and only thing he thought of that might hold the words in place.  The book froze with the pages half-flipped and the text still visible.  “Quill!  Parchment!  Now!” he shouted.

He set the Grimoire on the floor; someone handed him what he’d asked for, and he began to write down the words.  He wanted to rapidly scribble, but he forced himself to painstakingly write each letter of each word.  He couldn’t allow himself to read what he was writing, not by the time he’d made it halfway through what was obviously a dark and complicated ritual.

He handed off the parchment, in hopes that someone else would blow the ink dry.  Stefánsdóttir was shouting at Lupin, Lupin was shouting at one of the Unspeakables, Mr. Weasley was shouting at someone else entirely, Ginny was softly weeping in the corner, Ron sat next to Hermione’s bed in mute shock, and Harry rose to his knees and looked at his frail friend who had willingly set out to trade her life for his. 

She was shaking as though the noise around her was an assault, staring up at the ceiling because she could manage little else.  He half-crawled to the side of the bed opposite Ron, climbed atop it, slid inside the blanket, and pulled her to him.

“Why?” he whispered in her ear.

She lightly cleared her throat, and whispered into his ear in return.  “If you had died, it would have been the end.  If I die, it doesn’t matter –”

“It matters!” he hissed into her ear.

She flinched but never missed a beat.  “– in the grand scheme of things,” she finished.

“We need to buy some time,” he said, “enough time to destroy the book and figure what to do next.”

“Do you… know how to get rid of it?” she asked.  He could almost feel her weakening in his arms.  He pulled back, and saw that she looked as if she was going to fall asleep. 

“I think I do, yeah,” he said.

The argument around them came into focus in bits and pieces.  Most of it was over his head – the Unspeakable was going on excitedly about changes in wording from the normal ritual, something about datio versus devolvo and convalescere versus contabescere or the like, and Stefánsdóttir was snapping back – and little of it seemed pointed toward keeping his best friend alive.

This was surely as bad as watching her writhe under the Cruciatus Curse and being able to do nothing about it, except that there actually was something to do about that – Hermione had unearthed the proper spell, after all.  In the direst of circumstances, one person could willingly share the pain of the curse with another in hopes that both would remain sufficiently intact to escape the situation.

This wasn’t exactly a curse, he reasoned – it was technically a ritual and it had been self-inflicted – but then again, the horcrux had changed the rules.  The ritual Hermione thought she had been performing was supposed to give her energy to him, not to the bloody book.  Of course she’s cursed , he decided.

“You’re going to hate me for this,” he said.  “I wonder, did you say that to me when you did this in the first place?”  Nearly everyone else in the room seemed to be arguing.  Ron looked catatonic.  Only Ginny was watching when Harry drew his wand and placed it at Hermione’s temple.  She stood and pointed and screamed, but not before Harry said, “ Excratio pensare ,” with more certainty than he had ever applied to a spell in his life.

He knew instantly that it wasn’t pain etched on her face – it was fatigue, it was bone-crushing weakness.  It was the heaviness he’d felt after carrying Ron nearly a mile on his back through passages so narrow that he’d had to pull him sideways at times.  It was part and parcel with pain, though; he’d also felt it when Voldemort had possessed him at the Ministry.  He could feel the energy flow out of him, like it had flowed from Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets or from Ron as his blood had poured out or from Hermione as her life had been drawn into him.  He could feel a magical tug of war afoot – the horcrux was confused, he figured, if it was capable of confusion.  Now there were three of them connected – four actually, counting the horcrux within his scar – and a new balance had to be struck.  He tried to focus on the next move, on getting to Hogwarts, but it was hard to focus on anything other than the desire to sleep.  The weakness changed from a wall into waves, and he let himself feel the waves in hopes that he could learn to ride them.  He felt Hermione stir and the movement caught his attention.  His eyes opened slowly and heavily.

She was awake and her colour was already improving, except for the dark rings under her eyes – eyes that were wide and appalled.  “Harry… you… I can’t believe… what were you thinking? ” she demanded.

The room was very quiet, he realised – uncomfortably so.  Hermione wasn’t the only one looking for an answer to that question, he supposed.  “I couldn’t let you go,” he said, because it was the first and truest answer that came to mind.

Hermione was hugging him, Lupin was on about Strengthening Potions, the Unspeakables were eyeing both Harry and Hermione like they were prime candidates for their own room in the once and future Department of Mysteries, Stefánsdóttir was helping Ron to his feet, Ron was twirling her around in glee, and Ginny was saying something to Hermione that sounded civil even though her eyes told a different story.  Harry felt like he should listen to Lupin, and berate the Unspeakables, and thank Ron for prying the information out of Hermione, and say something comforting to Ginny about whatever it was that needed comforting, and, most importantly, set off for Hogwarts with the bloody wretched book, but he succumbed to the hugging and let the waves of weakness carry him out into the grey sea and then into darkness.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Surfacing

FOUR
Surfacing

July 15, 1998      John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

Flickers of light and sound broke the darkness.  The heaviness fell away and he was borne on the waves to the shore, to the softness of a bed and the quiet voice of his oldest and closest friend.

“…it’s not like I’d ever say anything.  She’d think I’m mad… no, you know what would be worse?  She’d think I was a child – ickle Ronniekins, you know? I don’t think I could stand it, Harry.  I know I couldn’t,” Ron sighed.

Harry squinted against the sunlight streaming into the bedroom.  He could see Ron sprawled in a chintz armchair at the bedside, staring intently at the footboard.  He tried to open his eyes wider but it was too bright.  He thought of saying something but it was too difficult.

“She’s perfect, you know?  Well… perfect to me, at least,” Ron said to the footboard; “I’ll admit – and don’t you ever breathe a word of it! – she’s the reason I’m past Hermione.  I know, I know, if I weren’t a gormless prat, I’d have managed that on my own a long time ago.”  Harry couldn’t recall ever hearing Ron sigh twice in a day; he wanted to tell Ron that, but his throat felt as if it were full of lead. 

Ron faced him with a wry grin and went on, “You don’t have to tell me… but it’s hard to let go of her.  Hermione’s just so… so… argh!   She’s that, Harry!” He closed his eyes; “She tied me in knots and she never let me forget that I could do better, that I could be better, you know?  She made me somebody worth knowing… so did you, you bloody twit!  Thing is, I never wanted to kiss you .”  He let out a barking laugh but quickly quieted himself,  glanced to the door, and then continued, “Timing is everything, eh?  If you’d have left us all behind, I expect I’d be with her now.  I’m glad you didn’t... leave us behind, I mean.  I hope you know that.”  He sat back in the chair, and sighed a third time; “We need you back, mate – all of us.  Gudrun says you’re going to wake up soon, so just get it over with, right?”

The door opened slowly and quietly.  Harry felt as though he should be able to move, but the strength was flowing out of him as fast as he could gather it.  The familiar floral scent wafted to him before he could see her.

“Has he said anything?  Has he moved?  Anything?” Ginny asked.

“He was thrashing around something fierce earlier,” Ron said, “but I figure a nightmare’s a good sign.”

She reached out and brushed back Harry’s fringe.  “Ron Weasley, what a horrible thing to say!” she snapped, but her heart clearly wasn’t in it; “It’s true, isn’t it?  That’s the most horrible thing of all,” she added.

Ron shifted in his chair and said,  “I have to move around a bit.  You'll sit with him?”

“Until Hermione comes, I guess,” she said.

“Ginny… you don’t –” Ron began.

Ginny cut him off.  “ I don’t know ,” she said; “That’s become awfully clear the last two days, hasn’t it?”  She didn’t sound angry, Harry thought – it was more like sadness in her voice, and he didn’t like the sound of it.

“He’s been trying to protect you from the start,” Ron returned.

Ginny said, “All of Hermione’s things are in here.  She doesn’t have a bedroom of her own.  I don’t suppose you noticed that?”

Through a tight squint and without his glasses, Harry could still see the redness overtake Ron’s face.  “Seeing as she’s not my girlfriend, it isn’t my business, is it?  Why is it yours?” he demanded.

Harry couldn’t see her, but he was sure that Ginny was equally red as she said.  “We parted because of Voldemort – that’s what he told me!  He’s never said anything different... Ron, if you know something…?”

“This is the first I’ve seen him in four months!  We haven't really had the time to waste talking about you!” Ron fumed.

“All right – I get it! ” Ginny snarled back; “I get it!  I just…” Harry could almost feel her deflate.  “I just wanted him to come home when it’s all over,” she went on quietly, “and… and I could take care of him if he was hurt, you know?  I could be there for him, Ron, I could – you know I could!  I could be his .  That was the plan, right?  I thought that was the plan…”

“If there was a plan, it was to keep you from getting yourself killed,” Ron said.

“Did he even fancy me?” Ginny croaked.  “Do you know that, at least?  I thought he did – he said that he did.  When… when he kissed me, I know that he did.  He had to fancy me, at least… didn’t he?”

Ron used his cane to pull himself up.  He stood beside his sister, just at the edge of Harry’s view, and put his hand on her shoulder.  “He more than fancied you last year,” Ron said, “and he really liked it when we would see you again – I know he did.”

Ginny said, “He wanted me to let him go, so I let him go.  What else was I supposed to do?  If I’d have stood my ground, if I had demanded that I come along, what do you think he’d have thought?  I’d have been a stupid little girl then, and you know it.”

“Harry knew what Riddle’s diary was,” Ron said.  “He was protecting you.”

“I’ve done everything asked of me,” Ginny went on; “I’ve given him up.  I’ve helped move refugees.  I’ve fought – did you know I was one of the last people out of Hogwarts, at the end?  I’ve become a diplomat – madness, isn’t it? – and I’m not even of age yet.  I’ve done things I never thought I’d do, and I’m still not good enough, am I?”

“He’s proud of you, Gin.  So am I, you know?  Just don’t go telling that to anyone,” Ron said.

“He did say that he was proud of me…” Ginny recalled.

“Then he meant it,” Ron said.

“It’s not enough, though.  Ron… what am I supposed to do now?,” Ginny said, and Harry felt a dull roar inside.

“You're asking me?  I thought a break-up meant that two people broke up – shows you what I know,” Ron snapped; “Why don’t you talk to him about all of this instead of bending my ear over it?”

“I couldn't possibly... I let him go and I can't go back on that, it wouldn't be right,” Ginny sniffed.

“Oh, for the love of…” Ron snorted.  He leant over Harry until his mouth was inches from Harry’s eyes.  “ HARRY!  My sister’s here and she’s mooning over you!  Will you wake up and sort this before my head explodes? ”

“Ron!” Ginny shouted; “Get out of here this instant!”

“Oi, if it wakes him up…?” Ron smirked.

“OUT!” Ginny demanded.

She moved closer to Harry and he squeezed his eyes shut.  She brushed at his fringe again and murmured, “Leave it to my dim-witted brother to give you another nightmare.  So what am I supposed to do, Harry?  Did you mean for me to wait, or did you think you were letting me down gently?  Did you always intend for me to move on?”  He didn’t know what to think, but he was certainly going to feign sleep with everything he had.  Something feather-light brushed across his scar, and left a tingling sensation behind. 

She kept on with an increasingly shaky voice, “I love you, Harry, and I always will.  There, it’s been said.  After all that's happened, I'm not... the thing is, I'm not certain that I'm still in love with you.  I mean, I haven't done anything, I swear!  There's... there's someone I've been working with, and we've been getting on well... but everyone's so tied up in the war... nothing's going to come of it, anyway.  He's a bit older, he's just as clueless as you are, and Mum would fight it at every step.  Look... no matter what happens next, I'll be here for you. Too much invested in you to let you get yourself killed, right?  I'll still be here, even if you... well... even if you're sleeping with Hermione...”  The pressure against his scar was more solid this time, more obviously a kiss. 

“...but don't expect me to like it... and promise that you'll be careful?  Ron's completely lost the plot; Hermione's been his for years, and she had it just as bad for him.  There's no way they've completely quit on that, not a chance.  When he finally gets a clue and stops chasing that... that... healer ... well, you know how bloody minded Ron can be when he's pushed.  Just... just be sure you think about what you're doing.  Wake up soon, Harry.  We need you... I need you to be okay,” she added as she left the room.

He waited until the door was solidly closed before he tested his eyes against the light.  The sun didn’t sear them this time; he blinked rapidly and let them water and then they were fine.  He reached up and rubbed at his scar until the tingling stopped.  The monster within settled quickly.  If Ginny knew what that monster-in-the-chest actually was, she'd be a thousand miles from here , he thought. 

He felt badly for her, but her confusion was mostly her own – he was sure of it.  He thought back to each time they’d been together since he’d broken off with her.  Despite what Ron had said, he couldn’t think of a time when he’d actually led Ginny on; he hadn't offered himself as anything more than a friend since leaving her behind. If she needed to believe that there had been a plan, he was fine with it.  I doubt it’ll matter much in a few days , he figured.  He just needed her to believe in a plan somewhere else, somewhere that wouldn’t interfere with the things that mattered now, the things that had to happen.

Movement came slowly – first fingers, then hands, then feet, and then legs, and finally a room-spinning attempt at sitting up.  He fumbled for his glasses and his watch.  It was the fifteenth, he saw.  Two days had been lost; he idly wondered how many people had died in that time.  He put together a mental list: first, get everyone but Ron and Hermione and Lupin and maybe the healer to shove off; second, eat something; third, find out if there was any new useful information; and fourth, get the bloody sodding Grimoire to Hogwarts and be rid of it.

July 16, 1998     John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland  HH

Harry waited until there was a lull and then tugged Hermione aside.  He thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers because something had to be done with them.  “Um… you’re honestly not angry?” he asked.

“It’s hard to be angry with someone when he’s saved your life,” Hermione said; “How many times is that, now?”

“I’m serious, Hermione. You know I don’t regret doing what I did.  I just don’t want you to be angry with me,” he said.

Hermione crossed her arm and groused, “I’m not angry, but I’d like it if you stopped asking me whether I’m angry.  If you keep this up, you’re going to make me… angry, actually!”  Her mouth twitched and she ended up grinning at him.

“I suppose your parents were confused, eh?  They came and went quickly enough,” Harry said.

Hermione flipped through a sheaf of notes on the dining table.  “I had Remus make contact again.  Mrs. Weasley met them in Kirkwall and took them you-know-where,” she said absently.

“What?  Why did you do that?” Harry asked.

“I don’t have time to see them now,” she returned, never looking up from the notes; “We can’t afford the distraction – too much to be done, you know.”

“But they came all this way… what if…?” Harry began.

Hermione glanced up at him with hard eyes.  “I’ll see them afterward.  If there isn’t an afterward, then I won’t.  You don’t get to see your parents, so why should I?” she said.

“Don’t use me as an excuse to avoid them,” Harry grumbled.

“Well, aren’t you full of yourself?” Hermione snapped.

Ron wandered back to the table, his mouth half-filled with something or another, and started to talk.  Hermione covered her notes as though they might be sprayed with food.

“You know how I said I missed you?  I didn’t miss that ,” Harry teased.

Ron shrugged, then slowly swallowed whatever it was.  “I was only saying that you’re poaching, mate.  Getting in rows with the Great Swot here is my job, not yours.  I have more experience with it, and I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself,” he said.

“The Great Swot, am I?” Hermione laughed.

Ron smiled broadly; “See, Harry?  Fifteen seconds and she’s already barking at me!  It’s taken you hours!  Shameful, actually – you’ll have to do better.”

Lupin set an open Butterbeer in front of Ron and particularly horrid-looking potions in front of Harry and Hermione.  “Drink up,” he said.

Hermione wrinkled her nose.  “I know these are helping, but… she really said to drink nothing but water?” she whinged.

“I’ve better things to do than deprive you of Butterbeer, Hermione,” Lupin assured her.

Harry picked up a steaming goblet and Hermione hesitantly did the same.  “On three?” he said.  She frowned but nodded.  When Harry reached the end of the count, he downed the potion in a single swallow.  Hermione tried to take it in sips; Harry knew better, but let her do as she chose.  When she was finished at last, she wiped her mouth with a paper serviette; the paper began to smoke as she set it down and Lupin hurriedly dipped it into a glass of water.

“Oi, that can’t be good,” Ron said under his breath.

Smoke poured from Hermione’s ears; “That is the most horrible thing I’ve ever tasted in my life,” she said.

The smoke at last stopped wafting from Harry’s ears.  “You’ve never had Skele-Gro,” he returned.

Lupin set an envelope on the table; “I’ve arranged for the motorcar you wanted.  Are you sure about this?”

Harry took the envelope and flipped through the papers inside.  “They can detect Portkeys and apparition, and it’s too far for a broom.  There’s a carriageway that runs about five miles from the far side of the Forbidden Forest.  I’ll leave the motorcar somewhere secluded and use a broom from there,” he said.

“You know I’d rather go with you,” Hermione said, “but it would be foolish.  Until the Grimoire is destroyed…”

“I know, I know, we have to be careful about draining each other’s energy, because the Grimoire is already draining us through you,” Harry finished;   “What will you do with yourself?”

“What, you think that I don’t exist when the two of you aren’t around?” Hermione sniffed.

“I don’t think that,” Harry insisted, “and Ron will still be here, anyway.”  Ron took a particularly long swig from his Butterbeer.

“I expect I’ll sleep most of the time, honestly,” Hermione admitted; “I know I need it, and it’s probably safer for you if I rest.”

“Go and visit with your parents,” Harry countered.

“Harry, I already said that – ” Hermione began.

Harry stopped her by placing his hand atop hers; “You said that you plan to rest.  Do that with your parents.”

“Surely they’re worried sick.  They were told that they might never see you again if they didn’t rush here, and suddenly they’re warned off – what would you think in their place?” Lupin offered.

“Don’t forget that they’re with my Mum,” Ron chimed in; “Not exactly calming, is she?”

“I’ll meet you there, right?  We can leave the cottage empty for now; I’ll leave the car in the area and then ride the ferry,” Harry said.

“That’s even better,” Lupin decided.

“I don’t think…” Hermione trailed off, and Harry knew that she was looking for a way to counter his idea.

He intertwined her fingers with his; “I wish I could see my parents,” he said, “but I can’t, not yet at least.”

“Don’t say that.  I d-don’t want to hear that,” Hermione said.

“Be with them,” Harry said, “and with Luna and Neville and Seamus and everyone else.”  He gave her hand a squeeze. 

Her jaw tightened with resolve and she said, “Don’t do anything completely stupid.”

“I’ll do my best, but sometimes I just can't avoid it,” he smirked.

She chuckled but it was only a sound.  “I don’t doubt that.  If you leave now, you’ll be nearly there by nightfall,” she said.  “Just… just be safe.”  Her grip on his hand was so tight that his fingers went pale except at the tips.

“Will you be able to sleep?” he asked.

“I think so, with my Mum and Dad there.  It’s a good idea… you’re right about seeing them,” she admitted.

“I want you to be safe as well,” he said.

“She’ll be with Tonks for the entire trip,” Lupin promised.

Harry moved to kiss her on the cheek but she moved to do the same at the same moment.  Each caught the corner of the other’s mouth.  His first instinct was to recoil but he went with his second instinct, which was to press harder.  He didn’t want to pull away, in part because he wasn’t looking forward to her reaction.  She was the one to pull away and he stayed quiet.  She bit on her lower lip and then broke into the smirk that was unmistakeably hers, the quirk of one corner of her mouth that he and Ron took to mean a hidden readiness for mischief.  It wasn’t at all what he had expected and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to say, so he gave her a broad smile, she bit on her lip again, and he walked out to the driveway.

Ron was sitting in the left hand seat of the motorcar.  “Are you ready, then?  I was starting to wonder if packing elevenses would be enough for you, or if I should get Lupin to put together a lunch.  Then again I know you and your chip shops, so I figured we’d be stopping anyway,”  he said with a grin worthy of his twin brothers plastered across his face.

Harry glowered at him; “Oh, for the love of… what in the bloody hell is this ?  Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t drag you out and throw you on the lawn?”

“She can’t go with you, and you’d be a pillock for going alone,” Ron said;   “Besides, you’d be afraid of hurting me if you dragged me out – which you wouldn’t, but you won’t take the chance.”

Harry said. “I won’t have you slow me down.”

Ron glared at him; he said, “I don’t want you to protect me and I can still take care of myself.  Keeping up is my problem.  So which is it – the gimp at your back, or no one at all?”

Harry piled into the driver’s seat and slammed shut the door.  “If you sing, I’ll hurt you,” he grumbled.

“Then don’t turn on the wireless,” Ron shot back.  He fumbled with a map of the Muggle roadways before he added, “You’re going down this one marked 99, right?  I don’t see any other way to go south.  There must be a chip shop for you in Wick?”

“That’s not even a half hour’s drive!” Harry protested, and they were off.  

July 17, 1998      Hogwarts Castle and environs, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

Mounds of stone and rotting wood lay where the Quidditch pitch had been.  Hagrid’s hut was gone.  The boathouse was gone.  The ceiling of the Great Hall was collapsed – perhaps the magic in it had died, Harry thought.  The edge of the Forbidden Forest was closer to the walls than he had remembered it.  There were no encampments of Death Eaters, there was no siege afoot – there wasn’t any sign of Voldemort’s men at all.  It looked as if Hogwarts had been left for dead.  He gleaned that much from a quick broom flight across the grounds in the last embers of the day prior.

So it was that Harry and Ron had found themselves sleeping on the wide bench seats of the rusting Vauxhall Cresta that Lupin had rescued from a long-overdue death.  Between Ron’s percussive snores and some odd creaking in the boot and the occasional rushing-by of a lonely lorry, Harry managed very little sleep.

Harry considered leaving Ron behind – ensuring that he stayed asleep and carefully hiding and warding the Cresta.  It would have left Ron protected, but he couldn’t do that to his friend.  Besides, the situation looked safe enough.  Then again, he admitted to himself, this wouldn’t be the first time that a situation had looked safe. 

Instead, he left Ron to his rolling and muttering and sat atop the boot, eating scones they had purchased the evening prior at a roadside stop.  They had held up surprisingly well – not at all worthy of a Hogwarts breakfast, but more than adequate for starting the day.

Ron’s morning routine was nothing like it had once been.  He awoke without prompting, in the midst of Harry’s second scone.  There was nearly a half hour of stretching and exercises before he let his leg bear him.  There were a half-dozen potions, each meticulously measured out and consumed in order.  For all of his joking about food, Harry had actually seen him eat very little – a rushed mouthful of food at the cottage, a single portion of fish and a scattering of chips the evening prior, and only a scone and a half following the potions.

“There won’t be a luncheon waiting for us, you know,” Harry pointed out.

Ron shrugged, and slid the balance of the bag of scones into his pack.  “Best to spread it out,” he said.

“It’s no wonder you’re so thin now,” Harry said.

“Can’t eat a lot at one sitting anymore,” Ron told him.  “I’m… well, you know I’m missing some important bits.  If I eat too much you’ll have me spewing up, and we don’t want that, either of us.”

“Merlin…” Harry breathed.

Ron waved him off before he could say more.  “It’s not so bad,” he said gamely.  “Just because I can’t eat it doesn’t mean I can’t think about it, right?  I still appreciate a good bit of treacle.”

Having a fair idea of what – or who – Ron appreciated, Harry couldn’t resist teasing.  “Maybe you’re cut out for a different kind of sweet?” he suggested.

Ron turned violently red.  “What…?  Erm… don’t know where you’re going with that… I mean, I don’t fancy Hermione now, you know that… it isn’t like… um…”

Harry couldn’t resist tightening the noose.  “I never said anything about Hermione.”

Ron blurted out, “Buh… buh… but I swear, mate – anything between you and Hermione now, it’s your business, and I’d never let it stand in the way of
friends, see – you and me and her, we’re friends, we’re best mates, all of us, and that’s more important than –”

Ron’s reaction was so sharp that Harry felt a flutter of worry inside his chest; he stammered, “Er… if you did feel that way about her, of course… I couldn’t stand in the way of that… once we set this right, she can be safe and you can be safe and…”

“If she makes it back and you don’t, she’ll be well looked after,” Ron offered.  “Count on that, mate – not just from me, but everyone.  ‘Course I don’t see that happening.”

“I think you have more faith in me than I have,” Harry muttered.

“Didn’t mean that,” Ron said quietly; “She won’t come back without you.”

Harry wanted to deny that but it was hard in the face of everything that had happened.  “I…” He took a moment to gather himself, and decided to say, “I’ll do my best.”  After a long quiet spell, he added impishly, “I still think you’re cut out for sweets… maybe the healing kind?”

The red drained out of Ron’s face.  “Gudrun?” he squeaked.  “What makes you say that?”

“Nothing,” Harry laughed, “nothing at all.”

Ron tore into his pack, snatched up his half-scone and shoved it in his mouth.  “Wouldn’t matter if you were right,” he said as he chewed.  “She’s a lot older than us – I don’t mean a year or two or three.  I tried to figure it – I mean, it’s not like I’d ask her that sort of thing – and she has to be twenty-seven, at least.  Can you imagine?”

Harry rather liked tweaking Ron, who wouldn’t stop leaving opportunities.  He took his broom from the boot and said nonchalantly, “When Tonks was eighteen, Remus would have been past thirty, right?  Bill… he must be near to ten years older than Fleur…”

“But that’s them ,” Ron protested.  “I’m something like ten years younger than her , and she’s my healer besides.  There has to be something wrong with that, isn’t there?  Even if I was daft enough to say something and she was daft enough to listen, it wouldn’t matter.”  He gave a small smile.  “Doesn’t keep me from looking at her, though.  She’s awfully nice to look at… not that looks are everything!  Hermione would claw my eyes out if I said that, wouldn’t she?  Gudrun wouldn’t do that, she’d just give me a look, and she’d be right, because she’s nearly always right…”

Harry shook his head.  “You’ve got it bad, mate.  We should be on the move,” he said.

Ron didn’t rise to the bait; he only nodded and then mounted a Nimbus 2001.  “Haven’t done this in a while,” he admitted.

“Then we’ll take it slow,” Harry said.  “Let’s follow the edge of the Forest to the lake, then cross to where the boathouse was –”

“Where it 'was', you say?  It's that bad?” Ron asked.

“It’s not how you remember it,” Harry said.

They took one long slow circle around; Ron described what he saw while Harry kept his eyes and ears focused for signs of the enemy.  Ron seemed to issue another “bloody hell” or “Merlin!” with each spot of damage that he spied.  Still, in the morning light, it appeared that the bulk of the castle proper was intact.

“They took the entire grounds,” Ron said.  “Ginny said they were well inside the castle at one point.  Why couldn’t they take it, I wonder?”

Harry pointed his broom toward the great oaken doors that led into the entrance hall.  “Remus said no one knows for certain and McGonagall hasn’t been willing to say.  He said it’s kept more than a few people tied in knots trying to figure out why.”

“So no one’s been inside since…?” Ron asked.

“No one from our side, anyway,” Harry said.

Harry landed at the top of the steps and Ron followed suit.  He slung his broom over his shoulder.  Ron withdrew his wand and gave it a complicated waggle.  His broom contracted and the bristles rolled into the shaft and a brass knob appeared at one end.  He grabbed the transfigured cane by the knob and leaned into it.

“Very nice,” Harry said.  “Did Gudrun teach you that?”

Ron’s shoulders rose.  “Bill did,” he snapped;  “She’s not the only person I listen to, you know?”

“Easy, mate,” Harry laughed. He pointed his wand and cast a gentle knocking charm.

It was one thing to know that something horrible had happened, and something else entirely to be confronted by it.  So it was that both Harry and Ron were struck dumb when Minerva McGonagall, the last Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft, passed through the closed oaken doors and came to a halt before them, her shimmering shoes fully a foot above the ground.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Illusions Lost, Not Wisdom Gained

FIVE
Illusions Lost, Not Wisdom Gained

“Good morning, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley.  The passwords, if you please?” McGonagall said.

She must have died on the weekend , he thought. His former Professor wore modest but well-tailored dress robes with a tartan sash, and her hair fell loose about her shoulders. She was free of the sort of gaping wounds or deadly infirmities that visited many of the ghosts he had seen. Her expression was firm but lacked the sternness that Harry associated with her. He would never admit that she looked younger and more alive as a ghost than she had as his teacher.

“F-fortune favours the brave, Professor,” Ron stammered.

“Veni, vidi, vici,” Harry managed to say.

McGonagall gave a beneficent smile, both welcome and unexpected, and he could hear the whirring and clicking and grinding and pounding of the complex bars and locks turning on the other side of the doors. “You look well, Mr. Potter.  Mr. Weasley, you do not,” she said.

“I suppose I don’t,” Ron said, and Harry had to admit that he was looking even paler than only a few minutes prior.

“We do receive word of ongoing events from time to time,” McGonagall said to Ron. “I am well aware of what happened to you – worth a Special Services Award, were we in session, I should say.  You're worthy of some degree of the Order of Merlin, in truth. Such things must wait until a proper Ministry is restored, of course.”  Her sigh had an oddly metallic undertone to it.

A tinge of red returned to Ron’s cheeks. “Thank you, Professor,” he said.

McGonagall gave an approving nod; she said, “You’ve become well-mannered in the bargain… Miss Granger has worked wonders on you, it would appear.”

Ron fidgeted; “Erm… sure… great girl, Hermione is…”

“Professor, um, we were looking over the grounds and we were trying to figure out what could have driven off the Death Eaters…” Harry began. The doors swung open a foot at a time, stopping and starting again with each turn of the great gears. They had only opened a crack when Harry saw the answer.

A sea of house-elves waited on the other side of the doors. A particularly familiar house-elf stood near the front and didn’t wait for the doors to stop before he burst through and encircled Harry’s legs in an unabashed hug. “Harry Potter has returned! Dobby is not breathing, he is so happy!” Dobby squealed. “And Harry Potter’s Wheezy! Oh, Harry Potter’s Wheezy is needing a proper meal! Where is Harry Potter’s Miss Wheezy, and Harry Potter’s Miss Granger?” When the doors finished opening, the other house-elves moved forward as a unit to encircle Harry and Ron with mutterings about “the Chosen One” and such things.

McGonagall let Dobby babble on for a short time before she clapped her hands. The house-elves stopped as one. “We are all pleased to welcome Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley back to Hogwarts, but Mr. Potter has important business to which he must attend. If you would be so kind as to prepare a modest luncheon, to be taken in Professor Dumbledore’s office?” she ordered.

Dobby’s head bobbed wildly. “Of course, Headmistress! We will be preparing all of Harry Potter’s favourites!” The rest of the house-elves shuddered in wide-eyed anticipation, and both Ron and Harry tried not to laugh.

McGonagall led them to the second floor. As they approached the girls’ bathroom, she asked, “How is Miss Granger faring?”

Harry looked to the knapsack that dangled from his shoulder. “She’ll be better soon,” he said.

Ron stopped, turned and leaned against the wall. “You’re really out of puff,” Harry said; “We can wait a bit.”

Ron said sheepishly, “I was about to mind the door, you know, in case any girls came along... don’t know what I was thinking.”

McGonagall gave a wry smile. “You were thinking like a proper gentleman, Mr. Weasley.  Ten points to Gryffindor,” she said.

Ron returned the smile. “Points?”

McGonagall said, “Hogwarts seems to believe that I remain its Headmistress, for whatever reason.  As you remain listed as a student in the last official record, ten points it is.”

Harry drew his wand and carefully opened the bathroom door. He entered and immediately scanned the room for anything out of sorts. “I hope you’ve docked Malfoy, then,” he said after he was sure that no one else was there.

“There are not enough points in the world, Potter,” McGonagall said flatly.

Harry stopped, satisfied that the bathroom was clear.  “Um… Professor… how much do you know about what Ron and Hermione and me have been doing this year?” he asked.

“I have a very good idea,” McGonagall said; “Remus has shared what he can, and Albus has been forthcoming when he is able.”

“Wait!” Harry cried.  “You mean Dumbledore is here, too?  But… he could never become…!”

“I refer to the Headmaster’s portrait, not a spirit or spectre,” McGonagall said; “At any rate, I am aware of the essentials of your activities and of the results thus far.  Your secrets are safe within these walls, Potter – it is true that the dead tell no tales.”

One of the toilet doors rattled. Harry and Ron’s simultaneous blasting curses reduced the door to dust and ash before it could open. A great splash of water erupted from the exposed toilet and cascaded across the floor.

Harry winced; “Erm… sorry, Myrtle…”

Moaning Myrtle’s head popped up from the bowl. “You’re not sorry,” she said sullenly; “No one’s ever sorry. No one comes to see me, not even that boy with the slick hair... no wicked girls to call me names anymore...”

“You know very well that no one is living in the castle now, Miss Bartleby, save the house elves,” McGonagall scolded.

Myrtle scowled. “Oh, look, it’s the Head Girl!  Fat lot of good you were when those girls kept stealing my things.  'Buck up, Bartleby', you said.  Ha!  I  hope you're miserable as I am!” The last came as a half-gurgle as she plunged into the water and disappeared.

A certain chill began to fill the air, and a voice called out from behind Harry, “I wondered if we would ever see you at Hogwarts again, and now you are here!  Welcome to you, Harry Potter!” 

Harry turned to see the smiling face of Sir Nicholas Mimsy-de Porpington, who added,“And welcome to you, young Mr. Weasley!  Minerva has regaled us each time she has received post and I must say, you are truly a credit to your House.”

Ron took a sudden interest in his feet.  “Thank you, Sir Nick,” he managed.

The mounting coldness was nothing like the coldness of Dementors, Harry thought; he was reminded of the Deathday party he and Ron and Hermione had attended.  It was only then that he noticed the sheer number of ghosts who had descended upon the bathroom: all four House ghosts and many others that Harry had seen but never known, including a fair share of the Headless Hunting party it seemed.

“Sir Nicholas speaks the truth,” the Fat Friar chimed in; “You and Mr. Potter have been exemplars not just of Gryffindor House, but of the whole of Hogwarts.”  He added with a hearty laugh, “Only a true Hufflepuff would have done as you did, Mr. Weasley.  You’re one of us, like it or not!”

“I very nearly ended up being one of you,” Ron said quietly.

“Stuff and nonsense,” Sir Nicholas said; “You’re too brave to become one of us.”

“What about you, Professor McGonagall?” Harry blurted out; “I wouldn’t have thought you to be afraid of anything, not at all.”

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said, “although it isn’t true.  One can suffer an ample amount of fear – even a strong fear of death – without becoming a spirit.  Surely you know that there are other reasons –”

“– like unfinished business,” Harry remembered.

McGonagall said, “Yes, exactly so.  I suppose that every professor who  ever served a lengthy tenure here has developed a certain kinship with Hogwarts.  As for me, Potter, I spent all but eighteen years of my life in these halls.  Hogwarts has given me everything, and I simply couldn’t leave it, not in its hour of need: students needed saving, the library had to be preserved, there were the house elves to consider.  I couldn’t leave, Mr. Potter, but I do admit that I didn’t expect Hogwarts to agree with me.  Honestly, I don’t understand how or why the remaining wards continue to respond to me, or why the house elves still report to me.  I am deceased, after all – there’s no disputing the fact.”

“May I remind you that the Sorting Hat also maintains you are the rightful Headmistress of Hogwarts?” Sir Nicholas said playfully.

“Indeed!” the Fat Friar chimed in.

“Headmistress, a house elf has informed me of corporeal visitors,” a bored voice intoned from the threshold.  Professor Binns drifted forward slowly and squinted at Harry and Ron through his luminescent spectacles as he greeted them,   “Plodder and… Westlake, is it?  Yes, yes, the Headmistress is forever going on about the two of you and Miss… ahem… Gresham, I believe?”

“Professor Binns?  Um… do you know that you’re…?” Harry ventured.

“Deceased?  Yes, there is simply too much evidence to the contrary.  You might say that I… woke up to the fact,” Binns said, punctuated by a tired laugh.

“Good morning, Professor Binns,” McGonagall said wearily.  “Mr. Potter is here to dispose of an item belonging to Voldemort; he and Mr. Weasley will be off again before evening comes.”

“An item… Voldemort…” Binns mused; “The Dark Lord Voldemort was known to have a fascination with relics of the Four Founders, of course.  It was that fascination that led me to suspect that Voldemort was actually one of the former Heads… Riddle, I believe his name was.  You must have known him, Headmistress – he fell around your time, I’m almost certain.  Mad for dark history, the boy was, and anything pertaining to Hogwarts itself and the Founders.”

McGonagall’s eyebrows rocketed upward.  “Did you ever share this particular conclusion with Albus?”

“With Headmaster Dumbledore?  Why, of course,” Binns returned; “He told me that the matter was in hand.  I never gave it another thought until just now.” 

Harry pushed aside fallen masonry with his foot.  “Oh, sure, looks like everything was in hand to me,” he muttered.

“Potter...” McGonagall said sharply.

Binns glanced slowly around the bathroom and told them all,  “Did you know that this bathroom is one of five places reputed to house the entrance to Salazar Slytherin’s secret chambers?”

“Now he tells us,” Ron sighed.

Harry walked to the sinks, found the tiny snake etched into one of the taps and hissed, “ Open up! ”  Ron flinched at the sound and there were gasps from some of the assembled ghosts.  One spectral horse reared up and bolted from the room as the entrance to the Chamber opened, nearly tossing its ghost rider.

“You are a Parseltongue, Mr. Plummer?” Binns said.  “I don’t recall the last time we had a Parseltongue in attendance.” 

The Bloody Baron drifted forward until he floated within arm’s reach of Harry.  After a few moments of stillness, the Baron slowly bowed, then backed away a pace.  Harry returned the bow and then opened the knapsack that had been slung over his shoulder.

“That is the horcrux, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall asked.  Harry nodded.

“A horcrux…?  Good heavens!  Such a horrible business, horrible indeed!  Wherever did you happen upon that?” Binns said with as much animation as Harry could ever remember seeing or hearing from him.

Most of the company of ghosts had descended into a flurry of muttering at the sight of the exposed pipe.  In the midst of the ongoing kerfuffle, one glided forward: the Grey Lady.  She reached out and ran a shimmering hand through the Grimoire and whispered something.  It was a most peculiar sound indeed, one that Harry felt as much as heard.  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make out the words – they were too faint, just out of reach.

“She asks if this is the Grimoire of Mistress Ravenclaw,” McGonagall said.

“The whole time we were here, I never heard the Grey Lady make a sound,” Harry said; “You could understood that?”

“I didn’t know that she spoke until I was named Headmistress.  Even at that, I never heard her while I was alive.  Only Ravenclaws can hear her, it seems, and not all of them at that.  I’m surprised that you heard anything at all,” McGonagall said.

Harry looked closely at the Grey Lady for the first time in seven years.  She appeared to be young, not much older than he or Ron.  She had long thick hair – translucent like the rest of her, so it was impossible to guess the colour – and a pleasant face that shone with wisdom.  He wondered whether she might be Ravenclaw herself, but he couldn’t imagine any of the Founders would have become ghosts.  Then again, he would have said the same of McGonagall.

“Yes, it’s the Ravenclaw Grimoire,” he said to the ghost.

The Grey Lady reached forward again but this time she wrapped her hand around Harry’s.  He recoiled against the cold and clammy sensation, but held fast.  She whispered again and this time the words were clear: “The self-appointed Dark Lord has defiled this book.  You will destroy it?”

“Yes,” he said.  He began to shudder, but didn’t know whether it came from the touch of her hand or the sound of her voice.

“That which you need is within the Chamber?” she asked.

“I hope so,” he managed.

“The beast inside is connected to you and to another, one who is close to you,” she said.

“Y-yes,” he shivered.

“Destroy it and you shall sever the worst of the connection,” the Grey Lady said; “The greatest danger lies within, Harry Potter.”  He knew in his bones that the last had nothing to do with the Chamber of Secrets, and it took everything in him to hold his place.

“Mistress Ravenclaw fashioned three grimoires.  Two of those were crafted for her sons.  The one given to Yorick, the elder son, disappeared long ago when the ancestral castle was sacked.  The one you hold was for the younger son, Eldrick.  These two grimoires contained only the family rituals and those things that the Mistress wished taught to others.  The Mistress left her own grimoire – the Compleat Grimoire – within these walls upon her passing,” the ghost went on.

McGonagall snapped to attention; “Where?  It might be needed to help Miss Granger.” 

Harry's head felt as if it was being squeezed by a troll.  He saw the hazy image of a large book shelved in the Restricted Section of the Library that contained another book hidden inside.  The Grey Lady pulled back her hand and he fell to his knees.  Energy slowly trickled back into him, seemingly from nowhere.  The thought that Hermione had likely felt just as drained spurred him on. 

“I have to do this,” he muttered as he tucked away the Grimoire and picked up his Firebolt from where he’d let it fall.

A warm hand fell on his shoulder.  “Let’s go,” Ron said.

The pipe was a tighter fit than Harry had remembered.  He had to lay along the length of his broom, clutch it with one arm and use the other to push off the sides of the pipe here and there as it twisted 'round.  It was surely an uncomfortable ride for Ron but there were no sounds of complaint.  As soon as they reached the dark stone tunnel beyond the pipe, he shook the slime from his fingertips.

“Here’s where Lockhart stuffed it up,” Ron said.  Harry nodded and began to say something, but broke into a cough that was hard to stop.  There wasn’t as strong a stench as he had feared, but the Chamber was even dirtier than the first time he had entered the place.

Ron raised his wand to cast the lighting charm but Harry hissed, “ Torca ignis .”  The wall sconces along the tunnel burst into controlled flames one after the next.  The shed basilisk skin still sat there beside the rubble from Lockhart’s failure, drier now and more brown than green.

“It was clearly a... substantial basilisk,” McGonagall murmured from behind.  Harry turned to see that Binns, Sir Nicholas and the Bloody Baron had accompanied the Headmistress.

“Has there ever been such a thing as an insubstantial basilisk?” Sir Nicholas mused aloud.

Harry led them forward as the tunnel turned and turned again, until they reached the entwined serpents with the emerald eyes.  “ Open ,” he hissed, and the serpents parted to reveal the Chamber.

He moved from one serpentine column to the next, wand drawn, sorting the echoes of his steps from other sounds.  He thought he heard the click-clacking of vermin and waited to vaporise the first rodent to show itself, but none came.  With another hiss, the wall sconces in the Chamber ignited. 

The basilisk was still there, sprawled across the stone floor before Slytherin’s gigantic open-mouthed stone face.  Its head was hard to recognise at first, with ruined eyes and the puncture from the Sword of Gryffindor and five years of modest decay.  He slipped off his outer shirt and wrapped it around his face for a spot of respite from the stench of rotten flesh.  For his part, Ron cast a Bubble-Head Charm.  Harry cringed and cast his own; it hadn't occurred to him.

Ron's voice was muffled but still audible: “Bloody hell, Harry, it just keeps going and going.”

“It was big.  I was scared to death,” Harry admitted.

“You were only twelve years old, Mr. Potter… a mere second-year…” McGonagall said quietly.

The lower fangs remained in the great snake’s mouth, but they looked to be dry.  There were dark bloodstains everywhere, but the rivers of basilisk blood had long since dried up. 

“Where do you keep your venom?” Harry wondered aloud.

“The venom sacs of a basilisk, as with other great snakes, are recessed above the upper fangs,” Binns recited.

Harry sighed; he started,  “It’s all gone.  With both of the big fangs missing –” but stopped abruptly.

“Harry? What is it?” Ron asked, his wand at the ready.

“I used one of them to destroy Riddle’s diary.  The other fang was still in its mouth when we took Ginny out of here – I know it was,” Harry said; “There’s only one other person who can open this Chamber!”  He dashed toward the columns with his wand thrust forth like a sword.

“There is presently no one alive in the Chamber save yourself and Mr. Weasley.  We ghosts have a sense of these things, you know,” Sir Nicholas called out.

“Damn it!” Harry shouted.  There was no trace of Voldemort, of course.  He was acutely aware of the knapsack now and he contemplated how else he could get basilisk venom.  Black marketeers that dealt in such things would be terribly black indeed, he knew.

“Perhaps this would be a good time for you to speak with Albus?” McGonagall suggested.

“It can’t hurt... I suppose,” Harry allowed.  He and Ron slowly followed a ghostly procession to the surface.

Harry had successfully side-stepped Dumbledore’s portrait for more than a year.  It had been conveniently asleep the first time he had visited.  It had been away during his second visit, and he hadn't come to the office during the third.  Hogwarts fell just days later.  He had hoped to avoid the portrait a fourth time because, after witnessing magical Britain's slide into dictatorship and then into chaos, Harry couldn’t say that he was Dumbledore’s man anymore.

At least Dumbledore had been right to hold Scrimgeour at a distance, because his people had turned out to be no more honest and even less just than Fudge’s crowd.  The Order had been toothless until well after the Headmaster’s death, and the cost of inaction was still mounting.  The old man hadn't left any sort of plan behind for opposition to Voldemort; that wasn't a great surprise, given Dumbledore's tendency to keep secrets from his own allies.  As the world collapsed around them, Lupin, Tonks, Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley  stepped forward and cobbled together a real resistance.   The resistance and its Ministry-in-Exile had saved thousands of lives in the last year, lives that had apparently meant little or nothing in the Headmaster's schemes.  

Albus Dumbledore had left Harry and everyone else with little more than half-truths, riddles and vague notions.  It didn’t seem right or even reasonable to expect much from the painted echo of such a man.  As he and Ron to the Headmaster’s office, Harry decided that he would settle for the house elves’ best fare and get out as quickly as he could. 

Dumbledore's painted echo was lightly snoring in his frame when they took seats at a small table. The house elves were silent and efficient; in moments, a week’s worth of glorious food covered the tabletop. Harry quickly and quietly downed roast beef and Yorkshire pudding in hopes that once again the portrait would slumber through his entire stay. Ron nipped at fruit and bread and a spot of pudding and a bit of treacle; it was unnerving for Harry to watch his friend pick at food.

McGonagall drifted quietly back and forth across the room. As Harry was helping himself to a second serving, she floated up to Dumbledore’s portrait and ran silvery fingers across its width. The Headmaster stirred uncomfortably.  “Albus, you have visitors!” she shouted. Harry’s fork clattered to his plate.

“Cease your caterwauling, woman!’ an adjacent portrait snapped.

“Hello, Phineas,” Harry grumbled.

Phineas Nigellus squinted across the dimly lit room. “My, this is unexpected!  The Dark Lord of the day must be underwhelming indeed if you remain alive and at large, Mr. Potter,” he sneered.

Several of the assembled portraits grumbled at Phineas, and a couple voiced complaints more loudly, but McGonagall waved them off. “Albus was never willing to have you removed, Headmaster Nigellus.  I now have available to me something  lacking in recent months – two sets of corporeal hands with wands at the ready. I suggest, therefore, that you shut it,” she said.

Albus Dumbledore stood within his frame and stretched; he yawned, “Charming as always, Phineas.” He finger-combed his long beard for a moment and then froze in recognition and exclaimed, “Good gracious! Harry, my boy… and Mr. Weasley in the bargain! What a marvellous surprise! Have you done it, then? Has Tom been vanquished?”

“You should get out more,” Phineas muttered.

“Mr. Potter has been away for quite some time, Albus – more than a year, in fact,” McGonagall said. “He was not here for… certain unpleasant events.”

Dumbledore took off his silver-rimmed spectacles and cleaned them with the sleeve of his robe. “Minerva, you look deathly pale,” he said; “Is everything all right?”

“We’ve been over this, remember?” McGonagall said gently before she turned to Harry and whispered, “For some reason, it has been very difficult for him to retain current events.”

Dumbledore broke into a beatific smile and declared, “It is so good to see you, Harry, truly it is! I hope that someday you’ll see that it has all been worthwhile. I know you will, in fact. Everything has been for the best.  Even the ugliest moments served their purposes. I…” He fished in his robes for a handkerchief, and dabbed his eyes, then finished, “I wish I was there to congratulate you myself, to bestow your awards, to watch you become the great man I know that you will be.”

“Yes, yes, all hail the conquering hero.  Who would that be, again?” Phineas sneered.

“I can have you hung in the courtyard,” McGonagall snapped.

“Hmph… it's always the Headmistresses who are the prickly ones,” Phineas grumbled.

 “The Owlery, perhaps?” McGonagall offered.  Phineas met her scathing glare with a cold stare of his own but remained silent.

Dumbledore’s smile fell away; “Harry, the young ladies have not accompanied you.  Please tell me that nothing untoward has happened?”

Harry blankly returned the portrait’s concerned gaze.  “Young ladies , sir?  It was just the three of us, as you know,” he said.

“The plural was intentional, Harry.  Miss Weasley and Miss Granger, of course – surely they have survived?” Dumbledore asked impatiently.

Harry struggled to respond.  It wasn’t one of the first questions he would have expected Dumbledore to ask, and he was still a bit shaken to hear the Headmaster’s voice again – to see Dumbledore not as the frail old man at the end but once more the powerful wizard who Harry had met seven years prior.

“We’re all still alive, Headmaster,” Ron answered in his place.

Dumbledore let out a sigh that dissolved into unexpected laughter; “Thank the stars!  Never underestimate the power of love, I tell you!”

Ron looked askance at Harry, one brow lifted ever-so-slightly.  Harry returned a subtle shrug; “I’m sorry?” he said.

“You deserve every happiness, Harry – all of you are deserving of this,” Dumbledore went on as though Harry hadn’t spoken.  “I truly feared that you would not happen upon it in time, but… seeing you with Miss Weasley made my last days worthwhile.  You found your own source of power at last, the thing that separates you utterly and irrevocably from Tom Riddle, and it has obviously been wielded.  There was no knowing, of course, but I believed you would choose well in the end and you did so.  Not only is Miss Weasley a charming young woman of good family, but a pureblooded witch of considerable power.  Love and partnership are a powerful combination, Harry, one that will serve you well as you make your way in the wizarding world.” With a guilty but mirthful look that belonged on a schoolboy caught pranking, he added, “I do not regret my part in bringing you together – suffer no regrets, Harry! – but I do hope that all is forgiven.”

Harry had no idea what Dumbledore meant.  “Forgiven?  What part do you mean?  Professor, what are you talking about?” he asked.

“Mr. Weasley, I trust that you and Miss Granger came together to aid Harry in his appointed tasks?” Dumbledore said to Ron; “You are a stronger wizard and a better young man for the liaison, I imagine?  Miss Granger will lead a more fulfilling life in your company, certainly – with luck she will avoid the pitfalls that have befallen me and others attracted to the dusty tomes of wizarding’s ivory towers.  Diametric opposition has its merits – sulphur and mercury, Mr. Weasley… sulphur and mercury…”

McGonagall frowned sharply and demanded, “What have you done, Albus?”  Harry felt the creep of anxiety rising up his neck.

“Oh, dear… were you playing play wizard’s chess with wizards as the pieces, Dumbledore?” Phineas sneered.

“Quests are for the questor, Headmaster Dumbledore.  They must unfold as they will – this is the simplest of alchemical precepts,” an unfamiliar portrait admonished.

“Are you lost, Harry…?  Because I’m lost, see – I mean, I’m really lost,” Ron said.

“You’re not alone,” Harry admitted.  The portrait brought out in Harry the same awkward mix of affection, loyalty, frustration and anger that its subject drew in life.

“There was no more time, Harry, I could wait no longer,” Dumbledore said.  “I was dead already – Severus could do no more than he did – and you needed to know of the horcruxes – ”

Ron let out a nervous laugh.  “It’s horcruces , right?  That’s what Hermione always says,” he said. 

Harry let out a guttural shush, and then said, “Dead already?  I… I don’t understand…”

Dumbledore ignored him.  His eyes twinkled – an improbable thing for a portrait, but there it was – and he chuckled, “ Horcruces , you say?  Miss Granger would insist on that, would she not?”

“We await an explanation, Albus,” McGonagall snapped.

Dumbledore went on, “As I was saying, you needed to understand the nature of a horcrux and I believed then as now that you had to understand how Tom Riddle came to be – how he was shaped by the very circumstances of his birth and the corruption of his heritage as well as the elements of upbringing that you regrettably share with him.  It could have been all for naught, however.  I knew that soon you would have to wield the power that you possess and that you would have to reinforce it yourself.”

Harry understood that much, at least.  The protections at Privet Drive had fallen very vividly after his seventeenth birthday; his relations had survived, but at the cost of their home and all of their belongings.  The anxiety spread toward his chest now, evoking a dim and familiar rumble.  He exhorted Dumbledore on with a look – he had more questions than answers and the portrait seemed as if it might be inclined to answer them.

The Headmaster seemed almost amused by Harry's confusion.  He said, “You remain unaware of what transpired, Harry?  Truly?  I should think that I would have been found out long ago, by Miss Granger or perhaps Miss Weasley… but reason is sometimes suspended when one is besotted.  Ah, the compensations of youth…”

Ron sat bolt upright and blurted out, “You’re talking about bloody love potions !  Everyone was on about love potions last year – the effin’ things were everywhere!”

“Language!” McGonagall chided.

Ron flushed but didn't yield.  “They were everywhere, you know – that fourth-year bint poisoned me with one!  My stupid brothers were making a fortune on them, too!” he protested.

“Don’t be absurd,” McGonagall said; “The Headmaster had better things to do than skulk around spiking the students’ evening meals with love potions.  In any event, properly brewed and administered love potions – while patently in violation of any number of school regulations – are generally little more than a means for attention-getting.  Your trip to the Hospital Wing was an aberration, Mr. Weasley.”

A death rattle bellowed inside Harry’s chest.  “What about Amortentia?” he said.

“Amortentia?  The very word isn’t spoken within these walls outside of the cursory lecture required for the NEWTs,” McGonagall said sharply.

“Professor Slughorn… he had a great cauldron of the stuff right there in the classroom, and Polyjuice Potion and Veritaserum, too,” Ron said slowly. 

“Right there for the taking,” Harry added quietly.

“The smell of the stuff was really powerful,” Ron went on, “It was strange, too, how it formed up into things we knew.  For me, it was a fresh pitch and Mum’s treacle tart and some sort of flowers and parchment, I think, lots of it – like the library.”  He laughed, “That threw me for the longest time, the parchment.  I mean, it’s not as though I hate books, but it seemed passing strange when I thought about it…”  He trailed off and his face slowly fell.

“It wasn’t real.  It wasn’t real, and you knew it,” Harry growled at Dumbledore’s portrait; “You couldn’t stop playing with my life, could you?  Couldn’t leave it to me to decide… oh, no!  Why start now, after all?”

“Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, “if you would consider for a moment the workings of –”

Harry was well beyond thinking; he roared, “HOW DARE YOU? IT WASN’T JUST UNFAIR TO ME, YOU KNOW?  WHAT ABOUT GINNY?  HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO HER?”

Ron sat rigidly, his eyes unblinking in the same way that he watched a chess board.  He said, “The fumes were strong, Harry, but they didn’t make me do anything differently than I’d have done otherwise –”

“Whatever, Won-Won ,” Harry snapped.

“Oi, we didn’t need a potion!” Ron returned; “She was on me from the first of the year.  Are you saying I shouldn’t have liked her being that way?  The point is, the fumes didn’t put you on to Ginny.”

“If it wasn’t the fumes, then who fed it to me ?” Harry demanded.

McGonagall’s hands were at her hips.  “Albus, did you honestly allow that… that reprobate Slughorn to place a cauldron of Amortentia in a dungeon room with a group of sixteen-year old students who would hardly require encouragement?  Of all the ill-thought, irresponsible…!”

Dumbledore wearily took a seat and doffed his hat.  “May I speak?” he asked. Harry crossed his arms tightly and gave a reluctant nod.  McGonagall seemed even more unyielding.

“To my knowledge, Harry, no one fed you Amortentia,” Dumbledore said;  “Horace did, in fact, place the cauldron in the classroom.  The potion was not keyed to a specific recipient.  I insisted upon this, and verified it myself.  A potion such as the one in question can be dangerous indeed if premised upon a specific target.  I should think that the story of Merope Gaunt would have made that perfectly clear.”

“Then why?” Harry bit out.

“My intentions were simple and two-fold,” Dumbledore explained.  “First, as I said, your protections were to expire or weaken dramatically.  They were premised upon something that you had experienced far too little and that you showed no overt signs of seeking.”

“ So you used a potion – ?” Harry started.

From the wall, Phineas snarled, “Oh, do shut up, Potter!  Do you lack the most elementary understanding of magic?  Powerful as it may be, base Amortentia cannot create something that does not exist.  The poor suffering hero was dosed with fumes from the potion in question – not a ladle-full, nor a phial's worth, but fumes – and found himself in an unexpected and slightly obsessive amorous clinch, thusly the Headmaster’s Office is suffuse with botheration... oh, please!  Amortentia vapours amount to a tap upon the shoulder, a smack upon the head, a pounding inside the chest – prurient interest is heightened, and nothing more.  The response might seem a bit forced upon reflection, but it would certainly be rooted in pubescent pining.  Secondly, this entire affair is trivial, boy – utterly and completely irrelevant!  I, for one, do not care if you seek your gratification with the Giant Squid –”

“Phineas Nigellus!  Enough! ” McGonagall screeched.

“– provided that you carry out your responsibilities,” Phineas went on;  “Nothing else matters!  If Dumbledore was willing to allow your focus to descend into stuff and nonsense for the lion’s share of an entire year, then he –  was – wrong.”

“Mr. Weasley, the necessary incantation is effigia eximere – mind the emphasis on 'eximere', if you please.  The wand motion is like so.  At the conclusion of the wand motion, you will touch your wand to the appropriate frame,” McGonagall angrily demonstrated.  Ron looked nervously from McGonagall to Dumbledore’s portrait and back again, and kept his wand ready but stilled.

“It can’t make something from nothing, but it can turn it into something it wasn’t going to be,” Harry said bitterly.  “I remember the lecture, I remember Slughorn warning about the power of ‘obsessive love’.  People didn’t think I paid attention in class but I did, and I do remember that .”

“Your exposure was limited, Harry,” Dumbledore sighed.  “While I disagree with the point that Phineas attempted to make, I do agree that this amounted to no more than strong prompting.  Moreover, you are able to resist the Imperius curse.  Professor Slughorn was uncertain whether exposure to the potion's essence would have the slightest effect upon you.”

Harry countered, “Maybe someone was slipping me the potion, or another potion?  Malfoy and his goons surely got to the Polyjuice Potion, so why not the others?  Maybe Slughorn thought the fumes weren't doing the job and slipped it to me?”

“Is it so hard to accept that you may have had a genuine prurient interest in the bint?” Phineas scoffed.

Ron snapped, “Oi!  That's my sister!  Er... he does have a point, though...” 

“I don't think it was just the one potion.  What I felt for Ginny, it was like something living inside of me – almost like a monster.  Interesting that it sought out Ginny, Headmaster, considering what the two of us have in common?” Harry ploughed on.

“Yes, interesting indeed.  You should have spoken of this, my boy,” Dumbledore said.

“Right, as if it would have bothered with anything I had to say.  I still think you did more than you're letting on.  After all, the feelings started to fade after Snape killed you…”

“ Professor Snape set me free,” Dumbledore said serenely.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asked.

“Severus Snape is no longer a Professor and shall not be referred to as such,” McGonagall coldly interjected; “He is, at best, a vile traitor.  You've said nothing to persuade me otherwise, Albus.”

“Severus remained exactly where he needed to be,” said Dumbledore.

“I figure you’re wrong about that, as well,” Harry said, “just like you were wrong about practically every Defence professor –”

“It is difficult to anticipate the dimensions of such a powerful curse,” Dumbledore pointed out.

“That didn’t keep you from hiring Remus, did it, even though you knew the bloody job was cursed?” Harry snapped; “He hadn’t enough bad things in his life, was that it?”

“Cursed?  The position truly was cursed?” McGonagall gasped.

“Remus Lupin is a werewolf.  For all intents and purposes, every job he has ever held has been cursed,” Dumbledore returned.

“You were wrong about Nagini as well.  She wasn't the last horcrux,” Harry said.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and asked, “Are you certain of that?”

“ I'm the last one ,” Harry hissed.

“I had thought that you would lose the ability to speak Parseltongue... fascinating...” Dumbledore said as he stroked his beard in thought; “What was the last horcrux, if it was not her?”

“You know damn well who the last horcrux is,” Harry snapped, “and I’ve had enough of this.”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened; “You… have not vanquished him?”

“No, I haven’t ruddy well vanquished him!” Harry returned.  “No wonder you were surprised to see me.  I'm supposed to be dead, isn't that right?”

“Remember the prophecy, Harry –” Dumbledore began.

“Do you think that I can forget it?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Voldemort must be vanquished by your hand.  You cannot simply eliminate the last horcrux and leave the final resolution to others,” Dumbledore finished.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Harry demanded. 

“There is a room, at the Department of Mysteries...” Dumbledore said.

“There are a dozen rooms or more at the Department of Mysteries, and the Death Eaters hold the place now,” Harry countered.

“There is a room…” Dumbledore trailed off.

Harry groaned, “I know there’s a bloody sodding room – what of it?”

The Headmaster’s portrait rambled, “I do wish I was there to help you… it wasn’t to be… Severus had to act, Harry, I was already dead… and in so doing, he served us both… must understand… you must understand…”

“Understand?  Understand what? ” Harry growled.

Dumbledore mumbled, “Still protected… thank Merlin, still protected by love... wherever she calls home… don’t underestimate love… Tom never understood, and look where that took him… potions did not matter, they never mattered, couldn’t make you something which you are not… hold onto what the potions gifted you, Harry... hold on and it will save you yet… hold onto it…” The Headmaster’s eyes fluttered oddly.

Harry demanded, “What do you mean, I’m still protected?  Who is 'she'?  The Dursleys are lucky to be alive!  Did you do something to Ginny?  What did you think you were doing, pushing me to Ginny?  Did you do something to Hermione?  What gave you the right?  And what do you mean, you were already dead?  Answer me! ”  When no response came, he shook the Headmaster’s frame as hard as he could manage and shouted,  “ANSWER ME!”

“Mind that you visit to the Potions classroom... I believe you may find answers there…  suffer no regrets, Harry,” Dumbledore whispered, “but I do hope that all will be forgiven.”  The Headmaster's eyes closed tightly and then the entire portrait seemed to fade.

“My word!” one of the portraits shouted; “He’s gone!  Dumbledore is gone!”

“Drained the magic right out of him!” cried another.  Mutters of “impossible!” and “murderer!” filled the room.

“Quiet yourselves!” McGonagall ordered.

Phineas Nigellus rolled his eyes and sneered, “Mr. Potter certainly did not drain the magic from Dumbledore’s portrait – only ninnies and Hufflepuffs would believe him capable of such a feat.  That portrait was never right from the start.  The man was a revenant for most of a year before it was activated, after all.”

“A revenant?  But that means… he was… he was telling the truth, then?” Harry asked. 

While Phineas might not have believed that magic had been drained, he still shifted noticeably to the far side of the portrait as Harry approached.  “Certainly he was telling you the truth!  Dumbledore was for all practical purposes dead before your first lesson of that year,” the portrait snapped.

“And Snape used a potion to keep him... to keep him going somehow?” Harry confirmed.  Snape’s boast that he could ‘stopper death’ in Harry’s very first potions class was fixed in his mind.

“Severus Snape is a brilliant fellow and a genuine credit to his House,” Phineas said with admiration, “unlike the contemptible poseur presently styling himself a Dark Lord.”

“Hear, hear!” someone called out from the wall.

McGonagall was shaking and seemed brighter than before.  “I won’t have you lying to Mr. Potter, Phineas.  Stop it, this instant!” she seethed.

Phineas Nigellus drew himself up and his eyes bored into Harry, so much so that it seemed he might leap from the frame.  The portait sneered,  “To think that Dumbledore put himself through that hell so that he could first see to your coddling for nine months and then coerce Severus to kill him in a foolhardy attempt to protect you from someone whom you should have been properly trained to defeat!  If he was mad enough to believe that somehow ‘love’ was going to save you, then he should have simply told you to go forth and find it. ‘Oh, no, he mustn’t be told,’ Dumbledore said.  ‘He deserves a window of happiness,’ he said.  The fool should have decanted a phial of Amortentia to force down your throat, and then sent you to obsess over your ‘true love’ – if he truly believed in this power of yours.  Better yet, he should have told you what he believed at the first opportunity.  That way, you’d have had the opportunity to renounce this nonsense!”

“What’s gotten into you?  I demand that you stop!” McGonagall roared. 

Phineas’s eyes narrowed into slits as he pressed on, “People think you’re Dumbledore’s man, don’t they?  I know better, especially after your reign of destruction in this very room.  I know you’ve nothing to do with the young Weasley girl now – do recall that you and your friends were at Grimmauld Place last fall.  I simply couldn’t bring myself to tell poor Dumbledore – an unexpected sentiment on my part, but there you are.  You didn’t wish to tell him even now, did you?  Goodness, you’ve becoming a skilful liar… cunning, ambitious, perhaps even powerful. How did you end up in Gryffindor, Mr. Potter?  Did you lie to the Sorting Hat as well?”

“I… I…” Harry fell bonelessly into the chair behind the Headmaster’s desk.

“ You leave Harry alone! ” Ron demanded.

“Go on, ‘Chosen One’, go forth and love your Dark Lord to death,” Phineas snorted, “because that’s all Dumbledore ever wanted of you, isn’t it?”

“ Effigia eximere! ” Ron shouted, and he swung his wand at Phineas’s frame as hard as he could.  The portrait flew across the room, with Phineas Nigellus shrieking all the way.  Ron stalked after it, kicked it hard, and then cried, “ Incendio! ”  The room exploded with protest as the portrait of Hogwart’s most hated Headmaster was reduced to ash.  Ron whirled around, breathing hard; he yelled, “ANYONE ELSE WANT THE SAME?” and the walls went silent.

Harry slowly rose from the chair and said evenly, “You burned the wrong portrait, Ron.  Thank you for your hospitality, Professor McGonagall.”

“Mr. Potter… Harry… Albus’s portrait wasn’t right – that much is true,” McGonagall said tentatively, “but if there was an open cauldron of Amortentia within this castle and with his full knowledge and cooperation… I… I understand why you would be offended by his actions… perhaps even shocked…”

Harry took a long, slow calming breath before he said, “I'm not shocked at all, Professor?  Sad, isn't it?”

Ron still stood over the smoking ruin of Phineas Nigellus’s portrait.  “At the end, he said ‘potions’, Harry,” he said, still breathing hard; “He said ‘potions’, not ‘potion’.”

“Phineas didn’t –” Harry started.

“Dumbledore… Dumbledore said it!” Ron snapped.

It took Harry a few moments to let that sink in.  “One last lie, then… does it really matter?” he said at last.

Ron’s jaw was set and his face crimson; “He didn’t just mess about with you, Harry, he was doing it to Hermione and me – you heard him!”

“It’s done and he’s dead.  Burn his portrait to ash as well, if it makes you feel better,” Harry fired back as he stormed toward the door.

“Wha… what?  I shouldn’t have burned him up – is that it?” Ron shouted after him.  “The Order has the other copy, you know?  I’m sure they’ll let him lie to you and insult you all day – is that what you want?  Do you want me to be sorry?  Is that it?  Damn it, I’m not sorry!  He shouldn’t have said those things, Harry!  It’s no different than with Sirius’s mum – he got what he deserved!”

“You meant well – everyone means well, don’t they?” Harry snapped.

“Potter… what else is to be done?” McGonagall asked.

“I’m going to the Potions classroom – might as well have a look,” Harry said; “I’m guessing that whatever Dumbledore thinks is there left the castle with Snape – ”

McGonagall added angrily, “ – or with Slughorn, that self-important, useless… he abandoned us a day prior to the attack, you know?  A rather convenient decision on his part, I should say.”

“Do you want me to come along?” Ron asked.

“I just want to be finished with this,” Harry called out from the stairs.  Ron didn’t catch up until just before Harry entered the classroom with a hail of spellfire. 

Harry stepped over the smoking remains of the door and cast an absurdly bright lighting charm, courtesy of the Half Blood Prince’s scribbles.  Spiders and dormice and glumbumbles and other things that go bump in the desks scattered into the few remaining shadows.  Snape’s old private stores had been thoroughly pilfered. There were a few traces of Slughorn left in the teacher’s desk: a stray gold button and two crystallised pineapple slices in one drawer, a dog-eared copy of Borage's  Advanced Potion Making in another.  Harry tugged at the third drawer but it wouldn’t budge.  He slowly backed away and began to check for hexes, wards, explosive potions and anything else that occurred to him.

“Is one of the drawers stuck?” Ron asked.

“It’s more than stuck,” Harry said, “but it doesn’t seem to be a trap, either.”

“Try an unlocking charm, then?” Ron suggested.

Harry shrugged.  “ Alohomora ,” he said with a wave of his wand.  He tried the drawer again; if possible, it was shut more tightly than before.  He barraged it with a series of unlocking and opening spells, each more powerful than the next: Aperio , then Effringo , then Refractus , and even Dessectus – all with no effect.  It was with the last that he saw something just above the handle.  At first glance, it could have been a smudge.  He had to kneel to make out the word ‘silencio’ scrawled on the wood in an all-too-familiar hand.

Ron peered over his shoulder; “Find something else, did you?”

“A message for me... seems he's been back in the castle after all,” Harry said darkly.  He waved his wand once more with Alohomora clearly in mind, and the drawer gave an audible click; “Back away, Ron – there’s no telling what’s in here,” he added.

Harry carefully and silently cast the weakest summoning charm he could manage, just enough for the drawer to slide open.  Nothing exploded, no creature sprang forth, and the room was not filled with noxious fumes – so far, so good , he thought.  He whispered, “ Wingardium leviosa ,” and watched as the contents of the drawer very slowly rose into the air.

It was a tightly wrapped bundle of what looked like leather at first glance, tied like a fat scroll with a coarse green ribbon.  “ Solvo ,” Harry said, and the ribbon came undone.  The bundle wasn’t leather at all; it was dragon hide.  Inside was a foot-long dagger, hewn from a horn or something similar.  Harry could almost feel magic radiating from it, magic that didn’t come from the runic inscriptions.

“Harry, that looks like a tooth,” Ron whispered.

Beneath the dagger was a scrap of parchment inscribed with the same too-familiar script; it said:

With the Headmaster’s compliments.

The Dark Lord has the matching blade in his possession.

There was no doubting what floated before him.  It was a blade formed from one of the basilisk’s fangs.  Harry tried to figure how Snape could have possibly accessed the Chamber.  Nearly all of the major damage to the castle had been inflicted from outside.  He knew from reports that the the Death Eaters had briefly breached the castle proper, but both the Order and interrogated Death Eaters said that Voldemort himself had been unable to enter.  The blade could have been fashioned before Dumbledore was killed, Harry thought, but the codeword made it almost certain that Snape placed it in the drawer after the killing... but Dumbledore's portrait had known it would be there for Harry to find.  For that matter, Slughorn hadn’t made off with it either.  None of it made sense, but there would be time enough to puzzle through it later.  

“Let's get rid of the stupid book,” Harry told Ron; “I want you to leave the room, just in case... you know...”  Ron didn't argue the point.  As soon as his friend was in the corridor, he wrapped the roll of dragon hide around the haft of the dagger, held it tight with both hands, and drove it into the Grimoire as swiftly and deeply as he could. 

The book let forth an inhuman howl that rent the air.  Ink gouted from the dagger’s cut and the Grimoire pulsed and throbbed as though it were struggling, fighting to survive.  Harry twisted the dagger and pulled it across until it severed the binding.  He fell backward as the blade came free.  The book flew open and the howl grew still louder before it died away.  The basilisk blade slipped from Harry’s grasp and he pressed his hand against his scar.  The room was a disaster, with the floor scorched black around the remains of the Grimoire and desks thrown about like children's toys.  There was a grim satisfaction in knowing he was one step closer to the end.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Home Is Where Your Friends Are

SIX
Home Is Where Your Friends Are

July 17, 1998      Hogwarts Castle and environs, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

Harry leant against one of the parapets atop the Astronomy Tower, where he had spent much of the night poring over the long-hidden true grimoire of Rowena Ravenclaw.  An orange glow crept slowly up the backside of the hills to the east.  The sky had already lightened from black to grey.  From his particular vantage point, Hogwarts looked almost as if nothing had happened:  as if the halls should be overrun with students concerned about nothing more than the quality of their revising, as if Hagrid should be lumbering across the grounds with his mad-creature-of-the-day, as if Dumbledore should occupy the centre chair at the staff table as he presided over one feast or another.

“Feeling better, I trust?” McGonagall said from behind him. 

Harry wrapped his hand around the nearest brickwork; “Bloody sodding… I almost fell!”

“Language, Mr. Potter.  It is easy to forget how silently I can move about.  I'm sorry that you were startled,” McGonagall said.

Harry took slow breaths and wrested his hand from the stone rail.  “No harm done,” he said in a shaky voice.

“It seems that much harm has been done,” McGonagall offered.  She glided to stand beside him and faced the sunrise.

“That’s all in the past,” Harry said.

McGonagall's eyes swept the grounds as she offered, “Hogwarts will come back, you know.  That is my purpose now.  It will come back, I promise you.”

“If I do my job, you mean?” Harry added.  Before McGonagall could speak, he went on, “I hope you’re right, I hope it comes back.  It needs to be here for people like me.  It… this was my home once.”

McGonagall said firmly, “Hogwarts remains your home, Harry.  Hogwarts will be your refuge whenever you should need her.”

“I like the sunrise,” Harry said; “I used to sit in the window and watch it from the dormitory.”

“And did you read as you watched, or are you taking up a new pastime?” McGonagall asked.

He said, “Hermione's not the only one willing to open a book, you know?  It's textbooks I don't care for... hundred pages of twaddle for every useful bit.  This Grimoire is about doing things.”

“That 'twaddle' represents a thousand years of intensive study and improvements in practice, Potter.  Our people have deified the Hogwarts founders for far too long, and I ask that you reject that example.  Rowena Ravenclaw, for all her greatness, could not have performed much of third-year transfiguration – even the tools for constructing the spells at that level did not yet exist,” McGonagall said archly.

“Could you re-enchant the Great Hall's ceiling, Professor?  Someone will have to do it eventually.” Harry retorted.

“It is true that many of the great techniques for magical construction have been lost to the ages,” the Headmistress admitted begrudgingly.

Harry said, “Ravenclaw did it in the first place.  I always figured it was some kind of enormous charm, but it was mostly done with runes.  She wrote the instructions in here, and not just for the ceiling.  There are a good two hundred pages on the wards alone.”

“Merlin bless us!  It's a manual for reconstructing the castle!” McGonagall gasped.

“I asked one of the house elves to copy anything to do with the castle.  It's all waiting at your desk.  Back to the book, though: there's not a jot of theory in here, at least not what passes for it in class.  She spends a lot of time on intention and symbols, but the rest is all practical,” Harry said.

“This was Madam Ravenclaw's personal Grimoire, Potter.  It stands to reason that its content assume a level of knowledge equal to that which she herself possessed,” McGonagall countered.

“Maybe so, but it's not just a stack of notes either.  Like you said, the theories didn't exist then.  I think I could manage most of the ward work described in here.  Honestly, we make magic more complicated than it really is.  I mean... it's magic ,” said Harry.

McGonagall put on a thin smile.  “That is a very, very old argument; perhaps we can enter into it another time,” she said.

“Easier to just watch the sunrise, I suppose,” Harry snorted.

After a long silence, McGonagall told him, “The sunrise is hope given form.”

Harry turned to her and smiled.  “You sounded like Dumbledore just then.”

“I believe that comes from something I once read... and I must admit that despite yesterday’s events, I consider your comment to be a compliment,” McGonagall sighed.

“I don’t hate him,” Harry said.  “Part of me wants to… hate him, I mean… but I can’t hold onto it.”  He let out a bitter laugh and added, “Maybe it’s one of his potions, still working on me?”

“I rather doubt –” McGonagall began.

“Did he ever care?” Harry cut her off; “Was it all some sort of play-acting?  He said I wasn’t just a weapon… but he said a lot of things.  I don’t know what to believe.”

“He cared for you, I will attest to that,” McGonagall said firmly.  “If Albus was guilty of anything, it was that he cared too much.  Over the years I learned that when he cared deeply about someone, he would go to absurd lengths in order to assure that person’s well-being and happiness.  Despite his insistence on a lack of regrets, I do believe that he felt very badly about your childhood.  He allowed you more latitude than any other student in all of my years as a Professor, and he extended that latitude to Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley – and ultimately to young Miss Weasley, as well – solely because they were your friends.”

“They’re my family,” Harry said.

“Yes, I suppose that they are,” McGonagall allowed, “and I imagine Albus understood that to be the case.”

“I’ve already lost my parents,” Harry said; “I can’t lose them as well.”

“That lies mostly beyond your control,” McGonagall returned.

“If Dumbledore really cared, he would have kept them away from me,” Harry said.  “Maybe the Weasleys would have been pulled in anyway, what with the Order and all, but Hermione… he should have kept her away.”

“Albus was a powerful wizard,” McGonagall smiled, “but hardly that powerful.”

“He didn’t let the troll in, I suppose… you know, first year?” Harry said with a small smile; “I think that’s still the best thing I’ve ever done, and Ron probably thinks the same.” 

“You know, of course, that Albus was an alchemist,” McGonagall began, “and he forever saw the world and its inhabitants through that prism.  I believe that this is the best way to understand last year.  His portrait hinted at as much, actually, in one of its lucid moments.  Surely you can see that Albus viewed your life as an alchemical quest?”

“I… hadn’t thought about it.  That's, erm, that's pretty deep...” Harry said hesitantly.

McGonagall offered, “The end goal of your quest is to vanquish Voldemort, to restore balance between light and dark, to –”

Harry stopped her; “I do know what an alchemical quest is... just hadn't seen it that way, that's all.”

“Alchemists seek their personal balance as well, as they proceed with their quest.  You are aware of alchemical symbolism for the concluding phases of a quest – of creating a Philosopher’s Stone?” McGonagall asked.

“I remember something about opposites, and a queen…?” Harry ventured.

McGonagall nodded and explained, “I don’t pretend to possess a sickle’s worth of alchemical knowledge in comparison to Albus, but I do understand the essentials.  You’re referring to the white queen.  Now, present-day alchemists consider this to express integration of the feminine parts of the soul.  Keep in mind, however, that Albus was trained by Nicolas Flamel.  Flamel was a classical alchemist.  To him, the white queen was corporeal.  Have you heard of a soror mystica?  Flamel’s wife Perenelle was his soror mystica – his partner, his white queen.  I don’t believe that Albus set out to pair you with Miss Weasley, but I can easily believe that he set out to assure that you found your white queen.  He did believe that love was the key to your destiny, after all.  I can also imagine that the two of you evoked in Albus memories of your parents… I admit that I succumbed to the image on more than one occasion.”

“Opposites… sulphur and mercury, he said…” Harry said as his eyes lit; “Ron and Hermione, was that his idea?”

“Mr. Weasley could be the Red King as well, in a classical interpretation,” McGonagall said.  “I can tell you that Albus was immensely pleased… relieved, in fact, as the end neared.  He did not want you to be alone, even if it was necessary for you to fulfil your destiny alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Harry said.

“I assume that Phineas was telling the truth in one respect?” McGonagall asked.  “I am of course aware that you broke off with Miss Weasley last summer, though she and some others insisted that this was in order to protect her.”

“It started that way,” Harry allowed.

McGonagall closed her eyes; “And now?”

“She hasn’t been there this year, and that was for the best – she couldn't have handled it, not this.  She just doesn’t understand.  I need to be with people who understand what I have to do,” Harry said.   

McGonagall asked, “It is well and truly done between the two of you, then?”

“There’s no going back, not that I can see,” Harry said.  “I don’t expect I’ll live, anyway… best that Ginny thinks what she wants to think.”

McGonagall’s eyes flickered and she admonished him, “You should not be so cavalier about matters of life and death.”

Harry brushed back his fringe, highlighting his scar.  “After I destroy Hufflepuff’s cup and Slytherin’s locket, there’s one horcrux left,” he said; “It’s me, Professor.”

“I… well, I don’t believe that for a moment,” McGonagall said, but there was no conviction in her voice.

Harry explained, “Voldemort didn’t intend for it to be me.  I think he was going to use my death to make one, though.  When everything backfired, I took on a piece of him.”

McGonagall pursed her lips in thought before she said, “Hence the behaviour of the scar, the long-distance connection… is this just a fleeting thought, or have you subjected thisnotion of yours to study?”

“Hermione agrees with me.  She came to the same idea on her own.  I haven’t told anyone else,” Harry said.

McGonagall drifted back and forth across the top of the tower, as if pacing.  “I recommend that you keep this close,” she said after a time; “It’s not something that Voldemort and his supporters should know, certainly, and the Order could not cope with the matter – at least not in its former incarnation.  I see that you have collected Ravenclaw's true Grimoire, so perhaps you are needed elsewhere.”

Harry was startled by the rapid change in her manner; he started,  “Professor, I…”

McGonagall wouldn’t face him as she said, “You’ve had a single companion for quite some time, Remus tells me.  Given the ritual that Miss Granger performed on you – some would say that her actions bordered on necromancy, you realise? – I simply can’t…” She stopped, clearly distressed.  When she regained herself, she went on crisply.  “I can not view her as a white queen, not in the sense that Albus would have intended.  Has she become something of a grey queen to you, Mr. Potter?”

Harry ground his teeth and returned, “Ron told you what she did… or was it Remus?”  When she wouldn’t meet his eye, he asked, “Do you know what I did in return, then?”

McGonagall turned and crooked an eyebrow; “What could you possibly have done –?”

“ Excratio pensare .  Heard of it?  Wouldn't surprise me if you haven't – it's not easy to find,” Harry snapped.

McGonagall’s face went slack; “You took on the curse?  You share it with her now?  You… you foolish, foolish…!”

“She – was – dying !” Harry fired back.  “She decided to kill herself so that I could kill Voldemort, and I wouldn’t let her do it!  I couldn’t let her do it!”

“Do you understand that excratio pensare is irrevocable?” McGonagall demanded.  “If either of you are ever seriously cursed – ever, Mr. Potter – you’ll share it to some degree!  If you should fall to Voldemort…” 

Harry could scarcely bite back his anger.  “I didn’t consider it when I cast, but I wouldn’t do anything differently,” he snarled. “If I hadn’t done it, she would be dead right now.  If I can beat him, if I can kill Voldemort, then we’ll both live.  If I can’t… then at least she’s spending time with her parents now, before… well… if Voldemort wins then I suppose we’ll go out together, Hermione and me.”  He stared at her defiantly and pretended that the entire situation didn’t leave a hitch in his chest, before he concluded, “It was the best chance she had, the only one.”

“No one your age should have to make that sort of choice,” McGonagall said sadly, and then added, “No one at all should face it… but we are at war.”

“It’ll be over soon,” Harry said.  “Either way, it’ll be over.”

“How can we aid you?” McGonagall asked.  “Do you or Miss Granger believe that there is something else of use within the Grimoire?”

Harry said, “I’m hoping to find a spell, a potion, a talisman – anything – that Hermione can use… see, there’s one possibility that worries me: I kill Voldemort, but he kills me.  I know we can’t break the connection, but there has to be something that will dull it somehow.”

“There is also the possibility that she could be killed before you reach Voldemort, rendering you helpless or worse,” McGonagall said darkly.

The hitch in his chest grew painful.  “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said quietly.

“The house-elves will comb the Library under our direction.  If anything exists that could be of help, we will find it for you,” McGonagall promised.

“As soon as we have Voldemort’s location, we’ll have to make a move,” Harry said.  The prospect was exciting and terrifying all at once.  It was at last the right time, he was sure.

“I now possess a great advantage with regard to research,” McGonagall said, “as I have no need for sleep.  Retrieve the Grimoire, and go.”  She hesitated, as though unsure whether to say more.  “If something needs to be done, Harry… if something needs to be said… don’t squander these last days.”

Harry nodded; “I won’t, Professor,” he said.

As Harry made for the door to the stairs, McGonagall called out, “Unlike Albus, I have regularly suffered regrets.  I wish we had spoken like this before now.  I wish I’d taken more involvement in watching after you.  I wish that none of this was happening.”

Harry stopped and turned to face his former Professor.  “Thank you, Professor McGonagall,” he said; “Thank you for everything.”

“It has been my honour, Harry.  Despite what I said before… if you would, please let Miss Granger know…” McGonagall said with a stricken expression; “Please let her know… that no matter what she has done, no matter what she – or you – must do… please tell her that I considered her my protégé, and that I hold her in the highest possible esteem.”

Harry managed a wan smile and said, “I’ll tell her.  It’ll mean a great deal, I know.” 

Shortly thereafter, he collected Ron, thanked Dobby and the rest of the house-elves profusely, and made off for the Vauxhall Cresta.  They piled into the ancient car – it took six turns of the key before the rusty beast turned over – and Harry began to put distance between himself and Hogwarts, between himself and the past.  It was the future that mattered, however brief that future might be.

July 18, 1998      John O’ Groats Ferry, between John O’ Groats and Burwick

The silver-grey sea churned where the Orkney Ferry cut through it.  Harry leant against the deck rail and looked first to the horizon and then in the direction of the dock that he could no longer see.  The cottage was still faintly visible amongst a smattering of cottages at water’s edge.  He and Ron had spent the night there; Ron had been exhausted when they had reached John O’ Groats but unwilling to admit it.

The rap-tap of Ron’s cane rang against the decking.  “We’re not in Ottery St. Catchpole any more, are we?” he muttered.

“I like it here,” Harry said.

Ron smiled and joined Harry at the rail.  He said, “You know, I admit it – me too.  The Faroes were better, though – that’s closer to Iceland than here but it’s different there… more… inviting, I guess.”

“Met Gudrun there, did you?” Harry teased.

“Oi!  Enough with Gudrun, right?” Ron snapped.

“Easy, Ron!  It’s been too long since I could wind you up,” Harry grinned.

“It has, hasn’t it?” Ron said quietly.  He faced into the wind, hair pulled back and tucked into the pea-coat that he wore, red wisps strewn about his face.  He squinted ahead with pinked cheeks. 

Ron looked as if he belonged at sea, Harry thought, and he wondered if he knew Ron any more.  It wasn’t the same sort of distance that he felt from Ginny.  Ginny remained young, too young and too vulnerable in the ways that mattered now, but Ron seemed older – more mature than Harry felt himself, in truth.  It was a monumental change in a few short months.  As Harry watched Ron stare toward the land ahead, it occurred to him that the change had been longer in coming.  Their months on the move had already tempered Ron; the recovery from his injuries had merely sealed matters.

“We’re still friends, aren’t we?” Harry blurted out.

Ron whirled around so fast that he had to clutch at the rail.  “Bloody hell!  Are you serious?” he squeaked.

Harry recoiled.  “I don’t know… things change, people change… just asking, mate…” he stammered.

“Some things don’t change,” Ron said.  “Some things do, I suppose – some should, right?  Not that, Harry.  Never that.”

“See, the Ron I know, he wouldn’t say that,” Harry said.

Ron rolled his eyes.  “What, all I’m supposed to ask after is the next meal?”

Harry grinned and said, “Well…”

Ron leant hard against the rail; “I was always the funny one.  Never cared for that, actually – didn’t know that, did you?  It just seemed like every time I tried to be something different, you know… I’d end up being absolutely pants at it, and it was back to being funny again.  The hero, the funny sidekick and the bookworm – that was us.”

“I think better of you than that,” Harry said.

“Not always,” Ron countered, “and I’ve deserved it a time or two.”

“Maybe a time or two, then,” Harry admitted.

“Oi, you weren’t supposed to agree that fast!” Ron said.

The ferry started to rock amidst strengthening waves and both of them found their attention drawn to the sea for a time.  The water was more like a potion in the making than the calm pensieve of days prior. 

Ron cleared his throat.  “This is it, isn’t it?” he said without looking Harry’s way.

“I expect it is,” Harry said. 

“A few days you-know-where, then you and Hermione are off, and it’s over not long after that,” Ron said.

“I don’t know – it might go that way, it might not,” Harry said.  Hermione certainly wouldn’t be going with him, not unless they could break or block the curse-sharing bind.  It had occurred to him that distance might be the best possible defence.

“I suppose I won’t be there – you wouldn’t want me in the way,” Ron said.  “That’s why I went to Hogwarts with you, see?  I didn’t want it to end on the Cup, didn’t want that to be the way people remembered us.  This time out, we actually did away with a horcrux.  Well, you did it while I hid in the corridor –” Harry burst out laughing, and Ron pouted, “Oh, fine – laugh it up!”

“You can make me laugh when everything else is completely cocked-up,” Harry said.  “Don’t make that seem as if it’s nothing.”  He coughed, then added, “Besides, didn’t Hermione tell us that the winner writes the history?  It’ll be you and Hermione writing, then, so I figure you’ll make out all right.”

“You’re going to win, aren’t you?” Ron asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said.  “I have to win.  I’m going to rid us of him, once and for all.”

“I want you to say you’re coming back,” Ron insisted.

“I can’t –” Harry began.

“ Say it ,” Ron demanded.

Harry gulped, “Ron… no promises, mate…”

“You need to think you’re coming back, for her sake,” Ron said, “and you damn well know who I mean so don’t even try taking the mickey out of me.  If you get yourself killed, it’ll be me writing that history on my own and you know I’d be pants at that.”

Harry sighed, “How am I supposed to do it?  Do you know something I don’t?”

Ron shrugged.  “I’m not the bookworm, remember?  Thing is, you’ve a fair number of those when we get to you-know-where.”

“I know,” Harry began; “Hermione will be ready to –”

“It has to be more than Hermione this time,” Ron said.

“Who, then?  Let me guess – Gudrun?” Harry asked.

Ron scowled at Harry.  “Sure, why not… and Lupin, and Bill, and those ponces from the Department of Mysteries – they have to be good for something, right? – and anyone else we can find with a good head for this sort of thing,” he returned.

Harry deflated.  His heart kept telling him that this was something left entirely to him – that he and he alone would see it through, for his parents, to Dumbledore, to everyone Voldemort had ever touched.  His head knew better – he needed help, at least for last preparations.  “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“S’all right,” Ron said gruffly.  They both looked steadfastly to the sea for a while.  Burwick was drawing closer.  The ferry was crowded with holidaymakers, many of them bussing from Inverness, but most were huddled inside against the wind.  “I’m horrid at this, too, all this feelings business... not the sort of thing for decent lads,” Ron added.

“You’re a good friend, Ron – the best,” Harry said.  “You’re my best friend.”

“That’s so? What does that make Hermione, then?” Ron quipped.

“Hermione and me, we’re just… it’s just that… I don’t know…” Harry struggled.  “We just are , you know?”

“I know, mate, I know.  She does that to a bloke,” Ron said.  “Er, here’s the thing… if I can’t go along, then you have to come back.  Simple, really.”  He put his hand atop Harry’s shoulder, gave a squeeze, then let go.

Harry couldn’t look at his oldest, best friend just then.  “You’re not bad at this,” he managed.  “Rather good, actually.  Emotional range of, what, you figure?  Tablespoon?  A level cup, maybe?”

Ron let out a barking laugh.  “Never going to let that go, are you?”

Harry shook his head and grinned.  “Wasn’t planning on it, no.”

July 18, 1998     East Mainland, Orkney Islands

Ron shouted something at Harry, but he couldn’t hear it over the wind.  He pulled the motorbike to the side, and tipped up his helmet.  “What?” he shouted, though he didn’t mean to shout.

“I said this is like scooting down a flight of stairs on my arse!” Ron shouted back.  He wore a leather helmet with absurd goggles that belonged on an aeroplane flyer from a long-ago Muggle War – like the bloody Red Baron , Harry thought.

“Sorry, mate – I didn’t plan this out, though.  This is entirely Remus’s doing,” Harry said.  He’d figured on Lupin leaving them another rusted hulk.  When the attendant at the ferry terminal’s long-stay car park had handed over the keys to an antique motorbike with side-car, both Harry and Ron had been more than a little surprised.

Ron fiddled with a map that looked as old as the side-car.  He ventured, “Erm... we are on the east road out of… Kirkwall, right?”

“That’s right,” Harry confirmed.  “I still haven’t a clue about a ‘Royal Burgh’; Kirkwall looks a mite small to be a Royal anything, I figure.”

“Yeah, well… we’re on the right path, then,” Ron said.  “It’s out on a nasty spit of land called Deerness, ‘round back of this old ruin.  Getting the Muggles to stay clear took a lot of work, I can tell you.”

“You… you think Hermione’s all right?” Harry asked.

Ron shrugged.  “You’re all right, so she’s all right – that’s how I see it.  Speed it up, will you?  I can’t take much more; I’ll be an hour just crawling out of this thing.”

“I can just cut it in half when we get there,” Harry offered.

“You’d do that, wouldn’t you?” Ron laughed, then added, “Bloody show-off,” under his breath.

The land was barren, even when compared to the northernmost reaches of the Scottish mainland.  They saw no trees beyond Kirkwall, nor any bushes save a few meagre outcroppings of heather.  The settlement crept up on them, appearing almost from nowhere as they reached the far side of the peninsula of Deerness.  There was little to distinguish it from other hamlets that they’d seen, though it occurred to Harry that there were more people milling around than the small number of buildings warranted.  It was only when the shock of recognition set in amongst a few onlookers that Harry knew they had arrived.

“Keep going,” Ron shouted over the din of the engine.  “We’re set up just past the thick of things, beyond the ruins.” 

People were waving madly now, and Harry nervously waved back; he didn’t see anyone who he knew.  “Erm, you don’t think I should stop?” he shouted.

“I want out of this thing, and we’d be stuck here all afternoon,” Ron fired back; “Like I said, keep going.”  Harry looked over his shoulder and realised that a lot of people were inclined to follow them.

The house brought to mind a more plausible version of the Burrow – two floors and a garret, but wider at the bottom than the top for a start.  Even without the sense of magic, it seemed a homey place.  Wash hung on two lines that ran from the porch to a tall stake, and Harry thought he spied goats wandering about.  Mrs. Weasley was on the porch, about to go inside with a basket.  She heard the motorbike and let the basket drop, then dashed down the steps.  Harry came to a quick stop just before she was upon them.

“Harry!  Good gracious – Harry !” she shrieked and enveloped him in a tremendous hug before he could even plant his feet.

“Hello, Mrs. Weasley,” he wheezed.

“Nice to see you too, Mum,” Ron grumbled as he stripped off helmet and goggles and began a futile attempt to free himself from the side-car.

“Oh, I don’t know what Remus was thinking, giving you this monstrosity,” Mrs. Weasley fussed.  “I know there’s sentiment attached –”

Harry turned his attention to Ron’s predicament.  “Hold still, mate!  Like I said, I can just cut it open,” he reminded Ron and levelled his wand.

“Harry!” Mrs. Weasley cried; “I do think it’s a horrible noisy contraption,  but surely you don’t want to slice it apart?”  She added very quietly, “What would Sirius think, after all?”

Harry’s hands fell to his sides, and he said, “This is…?”  Mrs. Weasley nodded.

“Oh…” Harry trailed off.  He didn’t know what to say; he didn’t even know what to think, in truth.

“No cutting me free, then,” Ron said quickly; “I’ll just… erm… turn about this way… oof!... and a little twist just so… ouch !”

Harry found himself quickly flanked by the twins, and a familiar Icelander pressed between them.  Gudrun stopped, hands on hips, and shook her head.  “I do hope you are still intact after this, Ronald,” she said; “There is no need for cutting, Harry – cast an Engorgement charm.”

“Poor ickle Ronniekins,” Fred Weasley said.

“Didn’t know he was in need of an Engorgement charm,” George Weasley chimed in.

“Pity, that,” Fred sighed.

“Too true, too true… with all the other things missing –” George began.

“Foot,” Fred said.

“Innards,” George added with a grimace.

“Brains,” Fred went on.

“Fred! George! Stop tormenting your brother this instant!” Mrs. Weasley snapped.

“All we were getting at –” George insisted.

“– was that there should be compensations for all of that, see?” Fred finished.  “But an Engorgement charm…?”

“That’s just sad, really,” George said with a slow shake of his head. 

“I was speaking of the side-car,” the healer said evenly, but Harry was sure her cheeks were ever-so-slightly pinker than usual.

“Oh!  The side-car – of course!” Fred said as he slapped his hand against his forehead.

“She is Ron’s healer – she’d know if he needed an Engorgement charm, wouldn’t she?” George pointed out.

“Oi, that’s enough!” Ron snapped.  Harry enlarged the side-car and quickly freed Ron. 

Gudrun placed her hands around Ron’s right ankle and gave a sharp twist, to which he didn't react.  She met George's eyes and said casually, “Your brother is in no need of such a thing.”  Fred burst out laughing even as George turned crimson – Ron was even redder.  Mrs. Weasley was tapping her foot, but a bit of mirth crept into her eyes. 

Gudrun turned to Fred and added, “I am sure that Harry could cast an Engorgement Charm, however, if you are in need of it.”

“That’s… well, that’s just wrong, it is!” Fred pouted.  “Come on, then, let’s go where we’re wanted!”

“Quite a fuss you’re making, Fred.  Could it be that we're not so identical after all?” George chortled.

“Away with you!” Mrs. Weasley screeched, and she shoved them toward the house.

“Checkmate!” Ron laughed.

Gudrun stood, satisfied with whatever she’d done to Ron’s ankle.  “How do you feel?  The potions are performing well?” she asked.

“Brilliant,” Ron said quickly.

“It is good to see you smile,” she said.  Ron positively beamed, and Harry – who stood behind Gudrun but within Ron’s view – made a subtle gagging motion. 

Mrs. Weasley looked Harry up and down.  “You’ve not been eating as you should.  At least you’re not skin and bones like Hermione, the poor poppet,” she said critically.  Her fingers went to his temple and she added, “You boys and your hair… whatever shall we do with you?” 

“I like it longer,” Harry said.  He knew she’d spotted the strands of white but wasn’t about to offer acknowledgement.  The past few months hadn’t been kind to Mrs. Weasley either.

“Everyone’s anxious to see you,” Mrs. Weasley said.  “Bill and Fleur are inside, and Charlie’s somewhere about.  The twins, of course…” She bit her lip – there was no need, for Harry had long put aside any lingering anger over sales of the twins’ creations to the wrong side – and then added, “You’ll want to see Ginny, of course.”

Harry frowned.  “You’re well aware I’ve recently seen Ginny,” he said, more sharply than he had intended.

Mrs. Weasley raised her hands, and admitted, “I shouldn’t have pressed Kingsley on that.  I’ve offered Remus apologies, and I’ll extend that to you as well.”  She lowered her eyes and went on quietly, “Something happened to Ginny while she was with you.  She won’t tell me a thing, but I know it – mothers know these things.”

“It’s not for me to tell.  Everything will be in the open soon enough,” Harry said.  He had to admit that he was a bit impressed; Ginny could keep a secret, unlike some of the others.

“Hermione is most anxious to see you.  She is walking behind the house.  No, it is not walking... she is, ehh... pacing?” Gudrun said to Harry.

Harry clapped Ron on the back.  “Let’s see about you first, mate.”

“I’m unfolded.  Go on,” Ron said. 

Harry glanced over his shoulder at the crowd making its way toward the path that led to the house.  “Thanks.  I’m not up to speeches and what-not, not right now,” he said.

“I’ll clean up after you, then... not half-bad at doing that, I've a bit of experience,” Ron laughed.  Harry grinned and then quickly headed around the side of the house, ahead of the throng of well-wishers.  Mrs. Weasley’s eyes were surely boring a hole in his back.

As it happened, ‘behind the house’ didn’t describe anything so simple as a courtyard or a mowed field.  To the right were cliffs that fell to the sea; to the left was the ruin that Ron had mentioned earlier.  She was there, glancing at a crumbling wall and talking with her hands.  There were two other people by her side, a man with sandy hair who looked to be about Mr. Weasley’s age and a woman who could only be her mother.  His feet froze in place.  Mrs. Weasley’s cutting gaze suddenly seemed quiet tame, almost welcome, for he was quite certain that Hermione’s parents were going to kill him.  Hermione’s mother saw him first; the look on her face was sad rather than accusing, and he wondered what she had been told.

Hermione responded to being nudged by whipping around, wand at the ready.  As her smile grew, the wand lowered.  He hadn’t seen her smile like that in a very long time – years, he figured.  She had that gleam in her eye that usually proceeded bounding, followed by a crushing hug, but she closed the distance slowly.  He wondered if it was because her parents were watching, because she wasn’t able to run, or because she’d finally had the good sense to realise how dangerous he was to her.  The unyielding smile belied the last and her slow and careful stride suggested the second.  The frozen mask of her father’s face told Harry that the first was a sure thing.

She didn’t pull him into a hug; instead she seized his hands.  When she started to talk, it was like an overflowing river: “Thank God you’re all right – I could feel it when you destroyed it, it hurt so much – and I didn’t know if you were all right, I wondered if it had turned out like Professor Dumbledore with the ring or something even worse, and then Professor McGonagall sent word that you were only unconscious and that Ron was looking after you, and Dobby was there as well – had you known beforehand that the house-elves were still at Hogwarts? – and she said that you would return yesterday, so of course Remus and everyone else was in a complete panic, and it figures neither you nor Ron would think to send a Patronus –”  She smacked him in the chest, but there was no anger in it.  “– but some of our people reported that you’d picked up the motorbike – it’s the one that belonged to Sirius, you know, and for the life of me I don’t know why it wasn’t given to you before – and I can’t tell you what a relief it was to hear, I was thinking all sorts of horrible things –” Harry began to laugh and her brow lowered.  “What’s so funny?  Do you think this is funny?  I thought that Voldemort’s men might have found you somehow, for goodness’ sake!”

“I missed you,” he said.

He caught her completely flat-footed.  “You missed me?” she asked.

He nodded and repeated, “I missed you.”

Her eyes widened.  “I can’t… it’s just… you… you really missed me?  Honestly?” she stammered.

Her father was still looking at him, his face as stony as before.  Her mother was harder to read.  Sod it , he thought, and he drew her into a hug.  He needed it, she needed it, and he wasn’t going to let her parents stand in the way.

“I missed you too,” she whispered into his shoulder.

“Were you able to sleep?” he asked.

“I slept well enough the first night,” she said, “but hardly at all last evening.  That’s your fault, you inconsiderate prat.”

“Ron was completely knackered,” he said.  “I wasn’t at my best, either.  He was asleep by half past seven and I wasn’t far behind.”

“That’s not surprising,” she said.  “It brought me to my knees when it happened; my parents were terrified.”

Harry pulled back a little.  “Brought you to your knees… you didn’t collapse all together?  No fainting?”

“No, nothing like that,” she said.  “I certainly don’t welcome another go, but I know it’s going to happen.  I think I’ll be better prepared for it now.”

Distance does make a difference, then , he thought.  If I can keep her far enough away, maybe… just maybe…

“Where did you go, just now?” she asked.

“Oh, sorry,” he said absently.  “A lot on my mind, that’s all.”

“I can understand that,” she said.

“McGonagall says hello, by the way,” he said.  “I’m to tell you that you were her protégé, and that she has the utmost respect for you.”

Hermione gulped and her eyes teared up; “She… said that?  I didn’t know…”

“Then you were the only one; it seemed obvious to me, to everyone I figure,” Harry said.

Hermione trembled, and Harry pulled her close again.  “I still can’t believe that Professor McGonagall… that she stayed behind,” she said.

“Everyone says she’s still the Headmistress,” he said.  “The ghosts, the house-elves… even the Sorting Hat, apparently.  The wards are still keyed to her somehow.”

“I didn’t think that was possible,” she said.  “How can they be keyed to a ghost?”

He shrugged.  “All I can tell you is that she has complete control of the castle.  Oh, and you’ll be pleased to know that it was the house-elves who forced out the Death Eaters.”

Her face lit again.  “I knew it, I knew they would matter!” she crowed.  “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“They were defending their home,” he said simply.  He wasn’t about to remind her that, with the exception of Dobby, the reason they had defended Hogwarts was most likely because they were bonded into its service.

“Did you find out anything else?” she asked urgently.  “Did you talk to the other ghosts?  Did any of them know anything about the ritual I performed?  Did… I know this is a sore point for you, but did you speak to Professor Dumbledore’s portrait?”

“Yeah, I did,” he said flatly.  “There’s quite a lot you need to know.”

She raised an eyebrow.  “Oh?  I’ll hold you to that.”

Her father looked like a squall waiting to come ashore and dash Harry to pieces.  He let his hands fall away and took a step back from Hermione.  After clearing his throat a time or two, he squeaked, “Erm, I suppose introductions are in order?”

Hermione frowned.  “They’re being difficult, but I’m accustomed to that,” she sighed.  “Don’t fret about it – he won’t bite.”

“That’s a relief,” Harry said.  She took his hand, which was a surprise, and their fingers interlaced.

“I won’t let him,” Hermione said casually.  “Besides, it’s not as though he’d be capable of actually hurting you.”  When Harry stopped walking, she rolled her eyes.  “Honestly, you’re the one with a wand, not him,” she said.  It took a firm tug on his hand before he followed her.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
One Last Golden Evening

Chapter Seven
ONE LAST GOLDEN EVENING

July 18, 1998      East Mainland, Orkney Islands, Scotland

“I thought they might be hard on you, but that...?  I'm so sorry, I really am," Hermione said.

“It's fine," Harry said, though he didn't really mean it.

"It's not fine.  He was horrible... at least until money was mentioned," Hermione returned. She kept running her fingers through her hair, which wasn't likely to straighten it and only served to show her distress.

"That did seem to bring everything into focus, didn't it?" Harry said darkly.

"I expected better of him," Hermione sighed. "I think even Mother was shocked.  I'm not a... not a... a commodity !"

Part of Harry felt the need to make peace, though most of him preferred the idea of blasting Mr. Granger over the cliffs.  He said, “I'm sorry things went that way... should have kept my mouth closed.  As for the rest of it, he couldn't possibly have meant to say that you can, erm, be bought... or that business about inheriting, either...”

She sighed, “Oh, do you think so?  Thank goodness no one was within earshot – that's all I need, for my parents to be seen as the worst sort of Muggles... even if they are...”

“Look, they're angry and they're scared.  I get that much – I mean, I'm scared for you, right?  They want you to go to Canada with them; that's what they wanted a year ago,” he returned.

“I don't want money from you, Harry, not a single Knut.  Surely you know that," she said quietly.

He put on a lopsided grin and said, "First of all, I don’t have a Knut left – it's all in Sterling now.”

“That isn’t funny," Hermione said.  She wouldn't look at him and he wondered if she was crying. He reached out and tipped up her chin. She looked at him, her eyes wide in surprise from the touch but her jaw set firm. 

“There's a reason that the lion's share goes to you and to Ron. It shouldn't be hard to figure,” he said.

"I don't deserve it," she choked out, "and I don't expect to collect."

"Why not? You've always been there for me –?" he started.

She stopped him. "Not last year," she said; "I wasn't there."

"Last year was horrid all the way 'round.  It doesn't count for anything," he said.

"I was frightened," she said; “I… I couldn’t… I just needed time, you know… time for all of it to sink in…"

"You don't have to say anything," he told her.

"But I really don't deserve it.  I don't want it," she said. 

He said, "There's no one for whom I care more.  That's enough, I think."

"You... honestly?  I really don't deserve that," she said.

"Stop it, you're being silly now,” he demanded. "I meant what I said, you deserve it, and the money's yours if… well… you know..."

She sniffed twice but managed a bit of a smile; "You said 'if'. You didn't say 'when'."

"It’s a nice idea: ‘if’," he said.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, until he said, "Let's get out of here. We need a break from this, something to push it all aside."

"Justin Finch-Fletchley told me there's a cinema in Kirkwall," she said.

Harry couldn't help but laugh; "Remember when we took Ron to one?"

Hermione snorted, "Thank the stars it was empty save for us."

"We should take Ron with us – the three of us again, off to do something perfectly normal," said Harry.

Hermione said, "Normal for you and me at any rate… well, I suppose he learned his lesson.  It can be the three of us, then. Can that motorbike handle it? I don't know how else we'd get there. It's not as if we’d borrow my parents' rental, not now."

“He’d probably expect me to buy it from him,” Harry grumbled.

Hermione winced.  “I really am sorry,” she said.

They found Ron inside the house, trying his best to avoid taking part in an awkward conversation between Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Granger. Mrs. Granger didn't acknowledge her daughter's presence.

Hermione frowned.  “Hello, Mother ,” she said.

“Manners, please,” Mrs. Weasley said sharply.

"Fancy a trip to the cinema, maybe a bite to eat?" Harry asked Ron.

"What, you and me?" Ron returned with enthusiasm.

"The three of us, we thought," Harry said, and Hermione nodded.

Mrs. Weasley managed somehow to stare at them even as she continued talking with Mrs. Granger, who was oblivious in a purposeful way.  Both raised their voices as though they could stop another conversation through their tone alone.  Harry knew that Mrs. Weasley could have pulled it off, once upon a time.  Not even Ron responded now.

"The three of us..." Ron said.  He worked his jaw before he agreed, "The three of us would be good... great, even. Erm... I’ll do better this time out, right?  So where is it and how will we get there?"

"Kirkwall, apparently," Harry said, "and we'll take the motorbike."

Ron put his palm to his forehead; "The bloody side-car again..."

“You’re staying here this evening,” Mrs. Weasley announced.  “It’s been too long since we’ve had you all here and safe with us.  Besides, the Order won’t stand for it; it’s far too dangerous to be off wandering through Muggle villages –”

“ – which is exactly what we’ve been doing for a year,” Hermione cut her off.  “We’re adults, and we understand danger very well – more so than most of the Order,” she said.

“And even if I thought this was a good idea – which I certainly don’t – how would you be taking Ginny along?  That infernal contraption will only hold three.” Mrs. Weasley asked sharply.

“We won’t be taking Ginny,” Harry said.  Mrs. Weasley’s eyes flashed dangerously.

“I expect you to pay more respect,” Mrs. Granger blurted out.

“Whatever, Mother,” Hermione sighed; she turned to Ron, and offered, “You can ride behind Harry.  I’ll take the side-car.”

Ron looked at her as if she was mad and then rolled his eyes at Harry. "And wrap my arms around him all the way there? Not likely!" he laughed.

"What, am I rank or something?" Harry mock-pouted.

Hermione shook her head; "Boys… honestly!"

Ron stood tall and lifted his nose in the air. "Oi! We're men, I'll have you know!" he announced.

Hermione put her arms around the both of them. "Fair enough," she said.

“I tell you, you shouldn’t be doing this – you shouldn’t be going out there!” Mrs. Weasley said.

"Can we get that white stuff...?  You know, the stuff that's all buttery and crunchy?" Ron asked excitedly.

"As much of it as you can stand," Harry said.

"Yes, I can't wait for popcorn and a fizzy drink – the kind loaded with sugar ," Hermione said in the general direction of her mother.

“Goodness, how perfectly adult of you… enough , Hermione!  You’ve made your point, God knows you’ve made your point over and over again, but it’s time you listen to reason!” Mrs. Granger snapped.

“You’re right, Mother.  I've had quite enough, thank you,” Hermione returned.  “It was good of you to come and visit. Pass my regards along to Father, will you?  I’m sure Professor Lupin will see you to the next aeroplane out.”

“Hermione!” Mrs. Weasley gasped. 

Harry put his hand on Hermione’s shoulder.  “Don’t you think...?” he began quietly.

“I think constantly, Harry,” Hermione said coldly; “Please stay out of this.”

“This is madness!  I’m fetching Arthur and Remus this instant… I imagine your father will have something to say about this as well, young lady…” Mrs. Weasley announced even as she made for the kitchen.

Ron ran his hands through his hair.  “Er… it’s getting late… if we’re really interested in the cinnamon… um… cimena… I mean…” he stammered.

Hermione’s shoulders loosened just a bit.  “’’Cinema’, Ron – it’s ‘cinema’,” she said.  Still, her neck twitched and Harry knew that she was at her limit.  He took her hand and led her to the door.  Ron went ahead of them.  She never looked back. 

“There’s only one helmet,” Harry said to her when they reached the porch, “and that… well, whatever it is that Ron seems to fancy on his head.”

Ron picked up the ancient leather hood from inside the side-car and tugged it onto his head.  “Oi, this makes a statement, it does!” he said.

Hermione managed a wan smile.  “Are you quite sure it’s a statement you want to make?” she asked.

Ron stuck his tongue out and began to stuff himself into the side-car.  “Bloody… oof! ... thank Merlin I haven’t… erk! ... gained any… oh, for the love of…! ”  Hermione shook her head and quietly cast an Engorgement charm on the side-car; Ron abruptly slid into place.

Harry’s brow rose.  “Hold on… Gudrun did that earlier, as well!  I thought we were avoiding magic unless absolutely necessary, you know, so they couldn’t locate us?”

“The ‘strategic advance’, Harry – remember?” Hermione said.  “The Death Eaters were using Madam Hopkirk’s apparatus for tracking under-aged magic so that they could follow every bit of spell work in Britain.  Anyway, the Order were tipped to its location and managed to destroy it beyond repair.  It would take years to enchant another.”

“Brilliant!” Harry said; “A bit of hope, at last.”

“It’s to be kept quiet just now,” Hermione added.  “It wouldn’t do for everyone to start using magic willy-nilly.  The Death Eaters might still be able to locate large amounts of casting.  All the Notice-Me-Not charms are risk enough.”

Harry nodded and held out the helmet to Hermione.  She shook her head.  “Go ahead – it's fine,” he said.

She shook her head and said, “I’d rather have the wind in my hair just now.”

Harry was taken aback.  “Are you…?  What have you done with Hermione?” he asked.

“I’m safe with you and Ron,” she said; “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than right here.”

Ron snorted loudly.  “Safe with us ?  Are you mental?  We’re the most dangerous lot in all of Britain!” he declared as he snapped the absurd goggles into place.

“Oh, I have missed you, Ron,” Hermione said with affection.  Harry heard the sound of a door slamming inside the house and quickly mounted the bike.  Hermione slid behind him and they set off, drawing still more attention in the makeshift village as they passed. 

She glanced at the onlookers.  “You’ll have to say something to them sometime, you know,” she called out loudly enough for him to hear.

“I know,” Harry called back, “but I don’t know what to say.”  Hermione responded by squeezing him more tightly, and he forced himself to focus on the road ahead.  As soon as they passed the wards, she leaned firmly into his back.  Her cheek pressed against the top of his left shoulder and her hair tickled the back of his neck as it whipped to-and-fro.

Ron flashed Harry a fatuous grin, and then proceeded to bark out the first verse of a horribly obscene drinking song from the first time they’d all visited a Muggle pub together.

“Not that!” Hermione shouted; “Ronald!  Stop it this instant!”  Harry laughed, and Ron heartily launched into the second verse.

July 18, 1998      Kirkwall, Orkney Islands, Scotland

The Rognvald Inn was at the foot of the bridge that spanned the harbour.  There were a fair number of people in the pub but it was hardly a raucous place.  When Ron began to snipe about how the place was probably Hermione’s idea of a wild time, she laid into him for not going into the chemist’s shop on the High Road and getting his own recommendation.

“You spent long enough in that shop.  Were you looking for something to do, or asking after the whole town?” Ron grumbled; “I mean, we would have found a place eventually – real men don’t need directions."

Hermione set her jaw, and Harry cringed inside.  “I suppose it wouldn’t do any good to point out to you that I am not a man?” she said.

Ron threw up his hands and chuckled, “Oi, I’m not confused about that!”

“I’ve had my doubts now and again,” Hermione grumbled.

“Just like old times,” Ron said with a hint of acid in his voice.

“Enough, right?” Harry snapped.  “You’re not going to spoil this, not either of you.  We’re having a good time tonight if I have to make you enjoy yourselves!”  Ron and Hermione gaped at him.  After a long quiet moment, Ron snorted and started to laugh.

“What?” Harry demanded.

“Well… that was a rather silly thing to say, don’t you think?” Hermione chuckled.  Harry looked at her sullenly but said nothing.

Ron peered into the frosted pint before him and then took a sip.  The sip turned into a long swallow.  “Not bad, not bad at all.  This beats sitting through that bloody cinnamon show a second time,” he said.  “I thought you said they make a lot of those shows.  Why was it the same one as before?”

Hermione shrugged and said, “This is a remote place.  I suppose the films come here late.  What are you complaining about, anyway?  Some of us would have been fine going again, but we did what you wanted instead.”

Ron shuddered; “That’s a good thing, too.  Three hours watching a boat sinking… once was enough!”

“Dunno, I remember you were awfully happy watching what’s-her-name.  That was the only thing that got you to stop talking to the screen,” Harry said.

Ron’s cheeks coloured.  “You did get to see a fair bit of her… yeah, she’s a fit enough bird, but three hours of that again? I’ll enjoy my pint, thanks.”

“You were going on about that actress for days, as I remember it,” Hermione teased. 

“ Never let go, Roonil Wazlib – never let go! ” Harry called out in a high affected voice.

Ron said, “Shut it, you!  I know when I’m not wanted.  Hmm, suppose I could try my hand at darts again?”

Hermione nervously bit on her lower lip before she asked, “Are you, erm, completely certain about that?”

“If you stick anyone with a dart, we’re leaving,” Harry said flatly.

“Ha-ha,” said Ron.  “Sit back, hoist a pint, and watch the master.”  Hermione stifled a laugh.

Ron’s dart-throwing skills were worse than Harry’s skills at chess; they were more akin to Neville Longbottom’s practical Potions work.  He didn’t manage to actually stick anyone with a dart – he’d come all too close in Carmarthen, months before – but his turn didn’t last long.  Ron took his seat, drained the rest of his pint, waved for a barmaid and nudged Harry into joining a match.  Harry held his own against a local who frequented the pub, but was still out after one leg.  Hermione was the one to shine at the game; she had once told them that she’d played against her father constantly as a child.

When Hermione had quietly reminded Harry that he still wasn’t of age in the Muggle world, he’d mulled over a fizzy drink.  He had eventually pointed out to her that he’d be conspicuous in lacking a proper drink, while Ron had merely rolled his eyes and ordered three pints.  Harry didn’t really care for ale so he nursed his first pint and Ron went on to demolish a second, while Hermione doubled out against one competitor after the next.  Harry expected Ron to grumble as she played on.  Instead they spent the better part of an hour talking about nothing, and Harry decided that perhaps he was going to have one last golden evening after all.

When Hermione at last returned to their table with a smug grin on her face and fifty quid in her pocket, Ron whispered to her, “Still can’t fly a broom to save your life.”  Harry smacked him on the arm but didn’t miss the hint of pride in Ron’s eyes.

Soon they were drowned out by an impromptu pub session.  An entire pub full of happy souls belted out songs in the company of fiddles, accordions, guitars, pipes and a rubbish bin lid or two.  Harry knew some of the tunes, to his surprise.  Hermione knew more of them; he supposed that she had a childhood’s worth of Muggle music to fall back upon.  Ron seemed to know nearly all the songs – Harry had no idea why – and when he didn’t know one he made a good show of pretending that he did.  He sang about as well as Hermione flew and didn’t care a whit about it; it was more than a little grating  on the motorway but amidst a boisterous crowd it brought a grin to Harry’s face. 

As the evening wore on, Ron began to sing much too loudly and Hermione began to smile far too widely and Harry realised that while he had downed no more than half a pint, Hermione had finished the lion’s share of two pints and Ron had gone for more than that.  It wasn’t terribly surprising for Ron; he’d shown a fondness for Muggle pubs during their six months on the road, and his insistence that it was only for the purpose of studying Muggles had become a private joke amongst the three of them. 

Hermione had kept herself in check in those days; she had sipped politely, but rarely more.  Harry was distracted by the broad smile on her face and the strange way that she kept watching him, but Ron began to draw his attention; he seemed rather off, more so than Harry expected under the circumstances.  His singing went from caterwauling to mumbling and he was suddenly unsteady.

“The potions,” Harry muttered; he shook Hermione by the arm, and asked briskly, “Do you know what Ron’s taking?”

Hermione babbled, "Taking...?  What Ron’s taking… wha...?”

“His medicine ,” Harry snapped; “Do you know what it is?  He’s been drinking quite a lot –”

Hermione’s eyes went wide and she gasped, “His medicine… I… I don’t know, H-Harry… and he’s lost so much weight…”

“So have you,” Harry said.

“You get… tipsy faster without the weight, I think…” Hermione mumbled. 

“Can you stand?” asked Harry.

“’Course I can stand!” Hermione blurted out, and then cringed at the sound of her own voice; “ Sobering charm ,” she hissed into Harry’s ear.

“I’ve only done one on Ron, and it was just the one time,” Harry whispered.

“You can manage it, I know you can,” she said earnestly and gave him a clumsy kiss on the cheek.

Harry nodded blankly and said, “I… uh… sure, I can manage it… lean in, then.” He nearly brandished his wand in public before he stopped himself.

“Pardon?” Hermione whispered hoarsely.

“Lean in,” Harry said again, and he opened his arms.  Hermione’s smile became very wide indeed and she pressed against him.  He let his wand fall into his sleeve and brought his hand around until the wand tip in his hand was near to the back of her neck.  He focused on the proper words, closed his eyes and silently cast the charm.

Hermione was slow to move off and he worried that he’d cast it wrong.  “Better,” she said; “We should get Ron back to the settlement… get some assistance…” She threw a ten-pound note onto the table and Harry moved to hoist up his friend.

“I don’t feel so good, Harry,” Ron mumbled.

One of the two barmaids sidled up to them.  “Excuse me?  This is for your friend,” she said in a low voice.  She held out a small glass phial of a sort far too familiar to Harry.

Hermione suppressed her shock enough to say, "For whom?”

“This is for your friend,” the barmaid repeated; “It’s from the woman at the end of the bar.  She’s a doctor, she said.  She told me that it would help.”

Harry hadn’t shrugged his wand back into its holster; it was still a split-second from a ready position.  Gudrun Stefánsdóttir gave a small wave and her pinked cheeks rose in a wry smile.  Hermione let out a tense breath and Harry re-holstered his wand. 

“Let’s sit him down,” Hermione said.  As soon as Ron was in the booth, Harry thrust the first note that came out of his wallet at the barmaid.

Her eyes went wide; “I couldn’t – this is too much, really – I –”

“She’s a doctor, all right – his doctor, see?” Harry said quickly.  “He’s had a hard time of it these last months.  Thank you for handling this, you know, quietly…?”

The young woman’s eyes locked on Ron’s cane for a long moment, and then she glanced at the note in her hand.  She stammered, “I, um… sure, as you say… but are you certain…?”

Harry hadn’t even looked at the money.  “Buy the doctor what she likes and keep the rest, right?” he said.

She gave him a toothy smile and said, “I’ll do that.  God bless, sir!”

Hermione had already slipped Ron the potion before Harry retook his seat.  Ron’s head was tipped against the back of the booth; he let out a soft snore.  “I wasn’t thinking,” she said.  “This was dangerous for him.  I should have insisted on the movie, Harry, I should have!”

“We’re not his keepers.  I should have said something, though,” Harry sighed.

“I’ve no business drinking so much,” Hermione said.  “I’m awfully sorry, Harry.  I wasn’t thinking... anyone could be here…” She let her hand rest on his forearm. 

He let his other hand rest atop hers; “I’m sure he’ll be fine – otherwise, she would have come over here straight away.”

Hermione closed her eyes.  “Of course… you’re right, of course.  Do you see anyone else lurking about?” she asked.

Harry had learned to take the measure of a room over the course of their travels, and his head barely moved as he surveyed the bar and the tables and the dark recesses of the hall.  “No one’s obvious.  I suppose someone’s hiding beneath a cloak somewhere,” he said.

“This is absurd.  If she’s here to watch us – if she’s looking after Ron – then we should just ask her over,” said Hermione.  She budged past Harry and quickly made her way to Gudrun.  After a quick exchange and a fair bit of tugging on Hermione’s part, Gudrun followed her back to the booth with a glass of something clear in one hand.

Gudrun looked contrite.  “I had no intention of becoming part of your evening,” she said slowly.  “Ronald should have been more careful.  He has already been hurt enough.”

Harry slid to one side.  “Check him over if you like,” he said.

Gudrun nodded.  She knelt beside Ron and ran her hands first along the side of Ron’s head and then down his neck, just above his skin.  Harry was sure that her fingers took on a faint glow.  Hermione watched what Gudrun was doing, mesmerized. 

“He is not injured,” she said at last.  “The decoction given to him is quick to act.  He will rest for a short time and then he will be himself again.”  One of her hands returned to his face and grazed his cheek.  “ Eg elska thig… gerum það besta úr þessu ,” she added in the faintest of whispers.

Hermione sat next to Gudrun and fidgeted a bit.  “You know… I’ve not been taught the proper grammar… but the thing is, Gudrun… erm, most of the runes in our studies have Icelandic roots.  I never realised how many individual Icelandic words I can recognise.  Did you mean what you just said?” 

The pink quickly disappeared from Gudrun’s cheeks.  “You must not say this,” she choked out.  “You must not tell this to Ronald – please .  I will not see him hurt this way, not because of my actions, my weakness.”

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said.  “Surely you see how he feels, and if you –?”  She reached out to pat Gudrun on the shoulder, but recoiled before she could make contact; she gasped, “W-what was that?”  Harry knew that Gudrun wasn’t dangerous to them – he was sure of it – but he flicked his wand back into place just the same.

A tear coursed down Gudrun’s cheek, and she was shaky as she rose from her knees.  Hermione and Harry shifted around so that all four of them could comfortably sit in the booth.  Gudrun took out something that looked like a charred chopstick.  She drew a complex figure on the wooden tabletop, formed of circles and forks and crossing lines.  When she finished, she tapped it with the stick here and there and muttered some unintelligible words.  The figure disappeared and Harry could see a murkiness form around the table. 

“It is a circle of protection,” she explained.  “No one may hear or harm us while I do the telling.  It is like this: you are not… I am having trouble finding the words…”

“We’ll piece it together – do go on, please,” Hermione said quickly.

Gudrun sighed.  “You are not grœði-ligr now, Hermione; that belongs to Ronald.  When I attended to you, then you were grœði-ligr and could share in the grœðing .  If you are to touch me now, you will instead feel græð .  Are you understanding this?”

Hermione’s hand went to her mouth.  “You… oh, God… I’m sorry…” Harry went from wary to nervous; he didn’t want anything else to go wrong for Ron.

Gudrun gave a hollow laugh; she said, “Yes, you are understanding this.  I do not know if anyone has shown sorrow for what I am.  Most want what we bring to them.  It is not a thing that deserves your pity.  Much is pure joy, more than you will ever know for yourself.”

“Then you’re not a physician, are you?” Hermione confirmed.  “You’re a grœðari .”

“I have been trained in medicine of the ordinary kind,” said Gudrun, “but I am sworn to the Healing Order of Halla and trained in the ways of the Order.  The word you use, it is, ehh... imprecise.”

Hermione pulled the sort of impatient face that Harry knew preceded a thousand questions.  She stammered, “How long…?  What I mean to say is, when did you…?  Oh, sod it.  How old are you, Gudrun?”  She flushed, and quickly added, “I know that’s terribly rude of me –"

Gudrun smiled faintly.  “It is a bold question,” she said, “but only rude if I say it is so.  I was pledged to the Healing Order in my tenth year and left my family then.  I was sworn in my seventeenth year, and this is the seventeenth year that I serve.”

Hermione said furiously, “When you were ten?  You were brought into it when you were only ten?  But that’s… well, it’s barbaric!  How could you be asked to give up everything…?”

“It is the way of our Order.  This has been the way for a thousand years.  You were sent away from your family to be schooled at a young age, were you not?” said Gudrun.

Harry raised his hand.  “Excuse me?  I’m the thick one over here, right?  Would someone tell me what this is all about?”

“Honestly, Harry – you’re certainly not thick and you never have been, at least not about magic,” Hermione said.  “This isn’t something you’d have run across in a lecture.  Gudrun is a special sort of healer, you see?  Grœðari means something like ‘the ones who heal’.”

“The meaning is a deeper one than this.  It is better to say 'those who commune with grœð ',” Gudrun said.

“I only know words, not grammar or context,” Hermione admitted before she went on, “Gudrun belongs to a society of healers, I suppose you could call it.  As far as I'm aware, it’s uniquely Icelandic.  They give over their lives to healing, and they tend to live a very long time.  It’s just that… how shall I put this…?

Gudrun said, “Our order is Icelandic, you are correct.  You were about to say that we live in isolation.  This is mostly true.  Some, like myself, leave for advanced study but then return.  It is our way to live apart, it has always been our way.  The magic allows us to bond with the grœði-ligr –”

“The one who is being healed, more or less,” Hermione offered.

Gudrun nodded and went on, “– but we avoid the touch of others.  When someone who is not the grœði-ligr touches with… ehh… comfort, then that person will feel the opposite of the grœðing .  That person will feel græð .”

“Antipathy… it doesn't translate as 'hate', but it's not far from that,” Hermione explained.  “It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, not at all.  I’ve seen you touched, though…” She gnawed on her lip for a long moment, then said, “It was because I touched your skin directly, wasn’t it – and because I did the touching, not the other way around?”

Gudrun nodded;  “This is something that I avoid.  I do not wish to be disliked.  This is only the third time that I have been sent away from the Order; most of my medical schooling was conducted at the Inn after the laboratory sciences were finished.  The elders say that I am suited to travel; I do not know why this is.  Most never leave.  The grœði-ligr will always find us.  It is difficult to travel, I think, difficult to see things that can never be had…”

“Have you ever felt… have you been drawn to one being healed before?” Hermione asked hesitantly. 

“I have never felt what I feel for Ronald; it is unknown to me,” Gudrun said.  “I… believe that it is a good thing… but there is nothing to be done about it.  Soon I will journey home – as soon as your task is completed, Harry.  I believe that you will need me, but I hope that this is not true.” Another tear flowed.  “I wanted Ronald to spend this evening with friends –”

“That’s why no one else is here,” Harry realised.

Gudrun nodded; “I agreed that I would come but remain at a distance.  Ronald’s mother is a person filled with fears.  If I had not come, then she would have either come herself or caused others to follow and force your return.”  Her eyes closed tightly.  “It is important to me that Ronald spend this time with you and with others.  He must rely on others now and no longer on me.”

Ron coughed and cleared his throat.  “Don’t like the sound of that,” he croaked.  Gudrun sprang away from him in shock and he managed a hoarse laugh.  “Not deaf, you know,” he added, barely audible, “just half-pissed.”

“You are not sleeping!  What… how… how much is it that you heard, Ronald?” Gudrun gasped.

“Enough,” Ron said.  “Thirty-four… four minus eight, carry the one… sixteen years, eh?  Good thing I like older women – always have, I suppose.”  Hermione’s cheeks coloured just a bit.

“You did hear the rest,” said Gudrun, “so you know that I must leave when you have recovered –”

Ron held up his hand to stop her; “I don’t know that at all.  All I heard is that you can’t be touched by anyone unless they’re a… toad-licker, was it?   Something like that…”

Gudrun couldn’t help but snort, “ Grœði-ligr … the word is grœði-ligr .”

Ron laced his fingers between hers and she took in a sharp breath.  “I figure I’m still that, eh?  Missing a foot, hardly able to eat, can’t sleep at night… I think I’ll be a toad-licker for a long time.”

Gudrun laughed for a moment but even Harry knew that it was forced.  “There will come a time when you are not, and then I must answer the call of the Healing Order,” she said, “and please understand that it is not unknown for the one who is healed to develop an attachment to the one who heals.  Even those who practice ordinary medicine know this.”

“Bollocks,” Ron snapped; “I’ve known you for six months.  For almost the  whole time I was there, I was your only patient.  Is that normal?”

She made a weak attempt at pulling her hand free; “Not for so long… no it is not… but you needed to be healed… it was so ordered...”

“And then they sent you here with me?  Why?  If you were worried about feelings, then why didn’t they send someone else?” Ron demanded.

“I do not know.  You must stop this, Ronald… please.  There is nothing –” Gudrun said quietly.

He gripped her fingers more tightly, almost roughly.  “Do you feel that?  I’m not getting sick, am I?  I don’t hate you, do I?” he said.

Her eyes glistened.  “You are grœði-ligr.  If you had touched me when Hermione was grœði-ligr, you would have felt græð.  You would… hate,” she sniffed; “What you ask of me, is not possible…”

“Why don’t we take you home now, Ron?” Hermione offered.

“Not until I’ve said this,” Ron returned.  “McGonagall said we should say whatever’s on our minds before it’s too late – that’s what Harry told me.”  Gudrun looked positively terrified.

“I think you should sleep it off, mate,” Harry suggested.

Ron waved him off.  “Need to get it out while I have my nerve, all of it,” he said.

“Don’t say anything you’ll regret,” Hermione warned him.

Once Ron started, it seemed to Harry as though he intended to get it all out in a single breath:  “Outside of my mum and dad and the rest of the lot, there are three people I’d die for, and you’re all here.  Only three… just three people.  I used to want your money, Harry, or your fame.  Sometimes I think I wanted Hermione because I always knew that somewhere, down deep, she wanted you.  I don’t have money, I don’t have prospects – hell, I don’t even have all my parts any more.  I have family and I have you, the three of you.  That’s all, that’s all there is.  And now… now…”

Hermione’s sharp gasp was drowned out by the rattling of the table, as Ron slammed his fist against the tabletop.  He ground out, “I know what you have to do, Harry!  There’s no getting ‘round it, and you’re going to take her along, and you’re not… you’re not coming back, not either of you…” Then he turned on Gudrun, who shrank back.  “And you , you’re going to walk away.  Gods, I should have known better!  I’m just a patient to you, just another bloody toad-licker and that’s all!  I get it, right?  I know you’re worth ten of me, but I guess I thought better of myself for a while.  Don’t you worry about me, though, I’ll get over it…” He jabbed his hand at Harry and Hermione, his index finger sharply pointed and the other fingers so tightly clenched that his fist shook, and barked, “You don’t get off that easily, not a chance!  Don’t you dare leave me behind!  Don’t you dare!   You can’t leave me here!  You… you can’t leave me here –”

Hermione instinctively reached toward him.  “I never realised… Ron, you know we intend to come back, don’t you?” she insisted.

Ron clumsily batted away her hand; “ Don’t!   I’m fine… dusty, that’s all, it’s just dust… can’t keep it out of my eyes.  It’s nothing…"

“This is something... it is more than nothing... you are more than you know...” Gudrun hiccuped.  She wrapped her arms around Ron before he could react.  He shuddered and she pulled him closer, muttering something that Harry couldn’t make out.  Within a few moments, Ron’s shoulders loosened and his breathing slowed.

“How do you do that?” Ron mumbled.

“I cannot stop it.  I heal.  It is what I was taught to do,” Gudrun said.  She muttered something else, then quietly whispered, “ Gerum það besta úr þessu .” Hermione put on a sad smile.

Ron’s eyes opened wide and he sat up with a start.  “Oi, I touched you!” he blurted out.

Gudrun stared at him, unfocused.  “You have done that a number of times,” she said.

“No, no!  When Hermione was… you know, the whatever-it-is?  You were her healer then, right?  I mean, we thought she was dying.  Point is, I touched you!  After Harry did his bit and he passed out, I picked you up and swung you around, and you told me to stop before I knocked us both to the floor!” Ron insisted.

“You were still grœði-ligr … but you are correct that Hermione was also… this is a strange thing… I cannot explain… I must ask the question of the faúra-gaggja …” stammered Gudrun.

“There, you see?  You can’t make me hate you – can’t be done,” Ron said smugly; “That calls for another pint!”

“Are you mad?  Have you already forgotten?” Hermione snapped.

“You have had enough ale, Ronald,” Gudrun said.  “I will take you home now.  You must rest while the decoction does its work.  We will check your potions in the morning.  I believe you will be finished with them soon.”

“I see.  This is about as good as it gets, then,” Ron said with resignation.

“The potions will do little more,” Gudrun said, “but there are many ways to heal.”

Ron slowly slid to one side and used the table to help him rise.  “We’re not done talking about this, right?  It’s not finished,” he said firmly.

Gudrun took his arm.  “No, it is not finished,” she said.

“Coming along?” Ron asked Harry and Hermione.

Hermione shook her head; “I can’t go back there, Ron.  I’m sorry.”

“Why not?” asked Ron.  “Things with Mum will blow over – they always do.”

“Your Mum isn’t the problem,” said Hermione.

Harry put his hand on her shoulder.  “Are you sure you don’t want to go back, you know, and settle things?” he asked.

“They’re settled,” Hermione sighed.  “I don’t think they can accept how things are.  I… I always feared this would happen.  Once they knew, once they really knew how things are, I suppose I knew that it would be over…”

“It was ugly,” Harry admitted, “but they’re your parents.  If I could –”

“– but you can’t, Harry, and you can’t fix this either,” Hermione said.  “I can’t go there tonight. I don’t think I can go there until they’ve gone.”

Gudrun seemed to battle with herself before she said, “It is not safe for you outside the wards of the village, not for such a long time.”

Hermione closed her eyes tight; “Not tonight, I can’t handle it tonight.”

“We don’t have to go back,” Harry said.

Hermione shook her head.  “I’ll be fine alone,” she said.

“Are you joking?  You think I’d let you stay here alone?” Harry countered.  “We’ll find a place – I saw a hotel or an inn of some kind on the way here –”

“The Queen’s Hotel,” Hermione said.  “I suppose I could afford that.”

Harry frowned.  “I have enough money,” he said.

“They’ll not likely take notes or a cheque,” Hermione pointed out,” but…” She fished through her clutch-purse.  “Here it is.  I have a charge for emergencies – my parents arranged for it.  They couldn't have closed it yet.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Harry said.  “Things are bad right now, but they do care what happens to you.  That’s why they hate me.”

Hermione’s clutch-purse disappeared into her anorak.  Her jaw took on a familiar set and she said, “I don’t want to talk about them any more.”

Ron looked drowsy, and Gudrun pulled at his arm.  “Right… off to home… if you’re sure?” he said.

“I’m sure,” Hermione said and she impulsively kissed him on the cheek.

“What was that for?” asked Ron.

“For tonight,” Hermione answered.

“This was like it used to be,” Harry said.

Ron smiled.  “It was, wasn’t it?”  He turned to Gudrun, and added, “Almost like it used to be.  This is better, though.” 

“We will talk tomorrow,” Gudrun said; “This is not finished.”  She led Ron forward.  When she stepped through the hazy circle of protection, it faded into nothingness.

“Are you certain that you want to stay?” Hermione asked Harry.

“Completely; we’ll both sleep better if we're together,” Harry said.  He swore that she murmured, “I’d like that,” and he decided that it was a very golden evening indeed.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Seeking Shelter From The Storm

EIGHT
Seeking Shelter From the Storm

“There’s another copy?  Are you serious?” Hermione squealed.  A dog began barking in the distance and she winced.

“I wouldn’t joke about that; now keep your voice down, right?” Harry said quietly but forcefully.  He wondered if the sobering charm hadn’t fully taken.  Hermione seemed almost giddy. 

She held his hand and swung their arms back and forth like little children did.  “It’s just so amazing!  I didn't dare stop to read it before… can you imagine?  Rowena Ravenclaw wrote it!  Rowena Ravenclaw!  The spells that could be in there… some of them haven’t been seen in a thousand years.  I can’t wait to have a go at it!”

“Could you shout out ‘Ravenclaw’ and ‘spells’ a bit louder, please?” muttered Harry.  Hermione winced again, but she still swung their arms and excitedly squeezed his hand.

He couldn’t resist teasing her.  “If you start skipping, I’ll have to stun you,” he whispered.

“You wouldn’t dare!” she laughed, and proceeded to skip for a few steps.

Harry shook his head and smiled.  “What’s gotten into you?” he asked.

Hermione summoned a posh accent.  “I’ve had a grand evening, Mr. Potter.  I feel positively celebratory,” she said.

“Er… ‘celebratory’?  Right, then – I know you’re Hermione and not someone in disguise, at least,” he said, which earned him a mock-punch on the arm before she seized his hand again.

“It’s a lovely night and I feel… safe, I suppose,” she said.

Harry looked around the area.  “We’re walking down a dark street, it’s after one o’clock and there could be anyone hiding down the alleys,” he observed.

“Please, Harry, do continue to ruin the moment,” she said flatly.

He snorted loudly and began to laugh.  She laughed with him and then moved from holding his hand to nearly wrapping herself around his arm.  Her head rested lightly against his shoulder as they walked and the monster in his chest purred and he didn’t know what to do about it.

“I was thinking –” he started.

“Were you now?” she said.

He grumbled, “Do you want to hear this?”

Her head nestled into him; “Sorry, I was just having you on.”

It took effort for him to speak.  “I… erm, I was thinking,” he began again, “that we didn’t need to let a room.  There’s the cottage, right?”

She nodded and said, “That’s a very sensible idea… but what about –?”  Harry wrapped his free hand around her arm, brought the cottage to mind and pulled the both of them through an impossibly narrow tube that crossed the sea to the mainland in a trice.

They landed roughly but it was still steadier than a portkey.  Hermione immediately pulled free and began battering his chest.  “What were you thinking?” she demanded.  “Even you had most of a pint –”

“The last ferry left at nine o’clock,” he pointed out.

She was worked into a froth. “I know where the cottage is!  There was no reason to side-along…”; then she stopped abruptly and demanded, “Where are we?  We’re not even at the –”

A rush of shockingly cold water struck them from behind.  Harry lost his footing and barely managed to keep Hermione from being swept backward.  He wiped wet sand from his nose.  They were on the beach, he realised, a hundred feet short of the cottage.

Hermione struggled to her feet and spat a mouthful of sand.  “You stupid, inconsiderate… oooooh! ” she growled and resumed her attack on him.

Harry raised his arms to block her; “Hermione…”

She didn’t relent; “You are a prat, Harry Potter, a big bloody prat!  Look at me!”

“Hermione…”

“Not a word!  I’m not finished with you yet!” she roared. 

“Erm… there’s a man with a staff right behind you,” he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes.  “Oh, that’s rich!” she snapped.

“You appear to be Harry Potter and his companion,” came a calm deep voice from behind her, “but you understand why I must ask for the emergency passwords?”  Hermione let out a panicked shriek.

“Evans, Puckle, and Prewett,” Harry said quickly.  The man lowered his staff and made a motion.  Five others emerged from shadows; Harry hadn’t even spotted the shadows, let alone the men.

“You were not expected, Mr. Potter, but you are welcome,” the Icelander behind Hermione said.

“I hadn’t realised you were still here,” said Harry; “We can go somewhere else.”

The man raised his hand to stop Harry.  “Mr. Lupin said that this was your place, and not that of his group.  We were prepared to live on the land and we shall do this,” he said.

One of the other men added, “We thank you for the use of the building.  We will make it ready for you.”

Hermione pulled her fingers through her sodden hair.  “That’s not necessary,” she sniffed.

“It is right,” the first man said simply.  Harry looked around and the other four were nowhere to be seen.

“You’re good at this,” Harry said.

“We were sent for that reason,” the second man said.  “I am Einar.  This is Magnus.  The others do not speak English.  We are of the Guardians of Midgard.”

“We are like your Aurors,” Magnus said quickly.

“Aurors don’t move in the way that you do,” Hermione observed.

Einar gave a bland smile and said as if he was reading it from a note card, “After much debate, the magical peoples of the world agreed by treaty that there would be no armies.  The Althing pledged this on behalf of our people.  We have no army.  The Guardians of Midgard keep the peace.” 

Magnus chimed in, “Like your Aurors.”

Harry laughed, even as Hermione appeared to be scandalised.  He said, “Nothing at all like the Aurors, but we don’t mind - do we, Hermione?”

She let out a huff and said, “Under the circumstances, no, we don’t mind.  It’s quite late.  You’re welcome to stay in the cottage, honestly.  Aren’t they, Harry?”

Harry hesitated before he said, “Of course – you’re welcome to stay.  We won't put you out in the middle of the night.”

Magnus flung something from his hand and a sleek nylon tent emerged from the grass at the edge of the beach, already staked to the ground.  “It is not an inconvenience,” he said.

Harry fished out his wand, brushed it clean, and pointed it toward Hermione.  He started the incantation for a simple cleaning spell to remove the sand from her.

She slapped away his wand, spat, “Don’t even think of it!” and stomped away toward the cottage. 

“Bother,” Harry groaned.

The two Icelanders laughed heartily.  “A lonely task lies ahead of you,” Einar managed.

“We have seven sleeping mats for six of us.  The seventh will be yours if needed,” Magnus chimed in.

Harry glared at them and followed Hermione inside.  He could still hear laughter as he closed the door behind him.  A trail of sandy shoe prints led toward the main bedroom.  Two of the Icelanders passed him with arm-loads of gear; both shook their heads at him sadly.  Making a mess of things was apparently a universal language.

He stood before the bedroom door for a good while before he caught the sound of a shower running.  After a bit of pacing, the perfect idea occurred to him: a distraction was definitely in order.  He let the Icelandic guards know that he would be gone again for a short time, and then disappeared with a quiet pop.

All was quiet in the makeshift village at Deerness.  Harry kept to the shadows rather than using disillusionment or anything else likely to trip wards.  Nothing was moving around the Weasleys’ temporary home at such a late hour save a few goats.  One bleated at him for a moment before it returned to gnawing on the sparse grass.

It seemed as if the veranda creaked with each step.  He palmed his wand just long enough to look for proximity wards, traps or obvious Wheezes.  Finding none, he slipped open the front door; thankfully it was well oiled.

Once inside, he was actually less concerned about a bit of noise.  He had learned over the last few summers that noises were constant in a house filled with people.  He considered collecting Hermione’s things, but wanted to take no chances on waking Ginny.  Mrs. Weasley had offered him his own room.  He hadn’t gone inside, but figured Ron would have put his bags there.

He was gob-smacked to find his things beside the bed, and Hermione’s clothes and books unpacked throughout and the room clearly used.  As quietly as he could manage, he piled her clothes into one empty case – forcefully paying no mind to some of them – and her books into the other.  There was no getting around a feather-light charm, he realised, and so he took the chance.  Nothing in the house seemed to stir.

On the way down the corridor he noticed that the echoes were distorted, which suggested imperturbable charms.  By the time he reached the stairs, he’d figured that four of the five bedroom doors were charmed.  Two of the four bags he was guiding nearly struck the railings, but he managed to reach the ground floor without a tell-tale thump.

Mr. Weasley stood between him and the entry hall.  “Good morning, Harry.  Rather early in the morning for a visit, isn’t it?” he asked.

Harry dropped the bags in shock.  Even lightened, they still made a terrible clatter.  All he managed was a confused babble.

“Don’t fret – no one heard that,” said Mr. Weasley.

“I… er… tried to be quiet…” Harry mumbled.

“I don’t need a ward to know when someone’s entered my home, you know?  When you have teenagers, you’ll understand,” Mr. Weasley said.  “Would you care to sit for a while?”

Harry shook his head; “Hermione’s expecting me.”

“I never saw Hermione for someone who would run from her troubles… seemed stronger than that, somehow…” Mr. Weasley said absently.  Before Harry could object, he went on, “Her father said some awful things to the both of you; even her mother said as much.  He’s terrified, you know?”

“He should be,” Harry returned quickly.

Mr. Weasley sighed, “He wants to understand why his only daughter would follow someone to her death.  I’ve wondered the same now and again, and I’ve had the benefit of knowing you for some time.”

“I don’t want anyone to follow me,” Harry said.  “I’ve tried to keep it from happening.  I tried to leave alone after the wedding, I wouldn’t let Ginny come along, and I tried to get Hermione to stay here after Ron…”

Mr. Weasley said, “Molly and I lived through the last war.  We have some basis for understanding all of this.  Hermione’s mother and father don’t have that, Harry.  By some miracle, we’ve not lost any of our children to this.  If that should happen, it would be horrible beyond words, but we would press on… somehow, we would press on.  For the Grangers, though…” He ran his hand through what remained of his hair.  “They have one child and they feel they’ve already lost her to magic, but she’s still alive – they can still find a way, you see?”

“When the time comes, you have to help me,” Harry said.  “I need you to keep her here, right?  I need you to keep her with you and Mrs. Weasley and everyone else.”

“She’d never forgive you for that,” Mr. Weasley said, “and I can't imagine she’d ever forgive us, either.”

It was hard for Harry to respond but he forced out, “If it keeps her safe – if she’s alive afterwards – I could find a way to live with that.”

The sounds of the night began to niggle at Harry before Mr. Weasley finally said, “It’s not at issue tonight, then, is it?  Let’s think on it, the both of us, hmm?  Off you go, then.  If Molly wakes and spots the charms, it’ll make for a long day,” said Mr. Weasley.

“You… you’re just going to let me leave?” Harry asked.

Mr. Weasley scoffed, “What would you have me do – try to catch you in a body-bind?  You’re more powerful than I, and we both know that.  If you’ve managed to evade the Death Eaters on their own ground for most of a year, then it stands to reason that you can handle yourselves… er… despite what some might think.”

As Harry moved his bags to the veranda, Mr. Weasley put a hand on his shoulder and asked, “Promise me something, would you?  Promise me you won’t just disappear, eh?  You’re going to need help, and we’re organizing to give it.  Promise me that you’ll talk sense to Hermione as well?  Her parents can't remain here, of course, and she really shouldn't leave it like this.”

“We won’t disappear, I can promise you, but she’s made up her mind on the rest,” said Harry as he left.  Somehow he managed to creep outside the wards with four bags without raising notice.  The whole experience left him very concerned about security; he made a mental note to discuss it with Remus. 

It was difficult to apparate with four bags, and for a moment he wondered how he could explain to Hermione that her clothes had been splinched.  As a pop rang out, he wondered what would happen to a splinched horcrux.  He had aimed for a few feet from the rear door to the cottage but instead ended up four feet above the ground and a few feet from the Icelanders’ tent.  By the time he made his excuses and reached the house, he decided that it was a good thing the guardians were so professional; if they’d been Aurors, he’d have most likely found out what those staves could do.

The door to the bedroom was unlocked.  He rapped twice softly and opened it.  She sat on the side of the bed, facing away from him.  There looked to be a towel wrapped around her waist; another was draped over her shoulders.  She was brushing her hair.  Her back was bare and damp, but he couldn’t turn away.

“You left,” she said.

Harry dragged the trunks and cases inside.  “I went to fetch your things.  I thought you might like to have some –”

She quickened the pace of her brush even as she cut him off, “You went for our things in the middle of the night?”

“Er… Mr. Weasley says hello,” he said.

The brush stopped and she shook her head slowly.  “Were there any other greetings to pass along?” she asked.

“He'd silenced all the bedrooms,” said Harry.  “He’s a lot smarter than most people give credit, you know?”

She resumed brushing and said nothing, so he opened her trunk.  “Here are some pyjamas…  I’ll just leave them out for you,” he said, and headed out into the corridor.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” she said, so quietly that Harry nearly missed it. 

He took a step backward into the room and closed the door.  “Not coming back…?  Why would you think that?” he asked.

“Because I snapped at you, Harry.  You were trying to do something nice for me but I snapped at you, and you left, and I thought I drove you away, and that you were going to go off and find him yourself just to be done with it, and I was going to be here alone waiting for you but you were never going to come back,” she blurted out; “You were never going to come back, and you'd go off and do something stupid and noble, and I was going to be alone and I’d never recover from that…”

He rushed to her side.  “I was coming back,” he said.  “I came back.  I wouldn’t do that to you.”  His arm slipped around her shoulders.

“You would if you thought it would save me,” she said.  “I know how you think; you’ve probably planned it already.”  He didn’t have an answer for that.  Her eyes were watery and he hoped she wouldn’t cry.

“I want you to live –” he said, because there was nothing else to be said.  In a trice he found himself with a girl in his arms, wet terry cloth bunched against his chest, and cold clumps of brown hair streaked with white draped across his shoulder.

“ – and I can’t let you die, I just can’t,” she said.  “I’ve given up nearly everything for you, Harry.  I gave up the Head Girl badge – I gave up school altogether!  Who knows what I'll be able to do after this?”

“I’m sorry for that,” he said.

She pulled back slightly, enough to look him in the eyes, and used one of her fingers to still his lips.  “I’d do it again,” she said; “Do you have the faintest idea why?”

“I’d do it for you, as well,” he said.  He could tell for certain that the horcrux in the Grimoire had been destroyed.  Instead of a drain, he felt renewed energy and suspected that she felt the same.  Her face was still thin, but no longer drawn.  She had already gained some weight due to the strengthening potions.  She looked less like someone hiding in the shadows, and more like the Hermione that he had known. 

She closed her eyes tightly and let out a frustrated huff.  “When you look at me, what do you see?  A friend?” she asked.

His hand was on her bare back and he pushed away the urge to run it up and down.  “Best friend,” he managed to say.

“Do you see anything more than that?” she asked.

He babbled, “Erm... seeing quite a lot at the moment... I thought you didn’t want… er… I thought you were waiting for… uh…waiting until you get… you know… death do us part, and such…?”

“I don’t want to die,” she said.  “I want to live, and so do you.  I want to feel alive; don’t you want that?”

“But… you and me…?” He couldn’t finish the question because he didn’t know the answer.

She edged forward until all he could see was her eyes; “I’ve given you everything else I have to give.  Do you understand?”

He crushed his lips against hers and she gave a startled squeak before she pressed into him.  He leant forward and she fell back.  His hand moved unfettered from her hip to her shoulder and the only thing more amazing than the feeling against his fingertips was the sound that she made.  Towels and clothes struck the floor until all that remained on the bed were a quilt, a sheet and two friends grown closer than either had ever imagined.

ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´

When he woke there was light streaming through the blinds and Hermione was sitting up.  She wore one of his baggy T-shirts and had Ravenclaw’s Grimoire opened on her lap.  She bit her lip in concentration and he let out a long breath.

“It’s every bit as amazing as I expected it would be,” she said with a broad smile.

“Do you know, I was thinking the same thing?” he smirked.

“Oh, you!” she huffed, but the corner of her mouth quirked.

“You shouldn’t be reading,” he said.

“What should I be doing, then?” she asked.

He opened his arms to her and she seemed surprised.  It took a moment before she set aside the Grimoire and tentatively nestled against him.

“Are we still… are we all right?  Was... err... was it all right?” he asked.

She flushed and looked away.  “It was awkward at first, honestly, but… well… in the end I’d say it was rather more than all right,” she said.

“Not one to mince words, are you?” he snorted.

“I thought you’d prefer I be direct,” she said nervously.

He used his hand to lift her chin, and said, “Only if you want the same from me.”  She nodded furiously but her eyes said something else.

“I never expected this, but I'm glad for it,” he admitted; “I need us to be all right, Hermione – I need that more than anything.”

“If you’re asking whether we’re going to remain friends, then we’re all right,” said Hermione.  “I won’t see that change, certainly not over a single night –”

“Don’t say that – don't make this less than it is,” Harry said sharply.  “You and me, we aren't the sort for a cheap shag!  Being direct, are we?  Well then: I could have done this with Ginny last year, but it didn’t seem right.  Last night was right – bloody brilliant, in fact – and I don’t like the idea of a single night, not in the least.” 

He kissed her firmly on the forehead and she smiled broadly and pressed into him.  He hadn’t the slightest idea whether he’d said the right thing or not, honestly, but she certainly didn’t seem bothered – quite the opposite, he thought. 

Hermione was still in his arms when he heard a sharp crack that came from somewhere between the cottage and the sea.  Before he could speak, she had already pulled away.

“I heard it too,” she said. 

Harry reached for his denims from the floor.  “Stay here and bar the door,” he said curtly.  Hermione snorted and recovered her own clothing.

“Look, I meant what I said,” protested Harry.

Her eyes bored into his and she said sharply, “You’ve never treated me like a damsel in distress, Harry; don’t start it now.”  She settled into her trainers and reached for the doorknob.

They crouched down when they reached the veranda.  A single black-robed figure was fighting the Icelanders; two were downed, but the other four were moving to encircle the attacker.  An unmistakeable slashing curse flashed from the attacker’s wand and narrowly missed its target.  Harry’s hand tightened on his wand and he edged forward.  Hermione wrapped her hand around his arm to slow him.

Harry said coldly, “It’s Snape.”

“I saw the spell as well,” Hermione said, “but why would he be so obvious?  It makes no sense, if you think on it.  Perhaps he taught it to someone else?”

Harry watched the man’s movements for a few moments.  “No, it’s him all right,” he said, and cold anger flooded into him.

Two of the Icelandic Guardians landed spells on Snape and he dropped to the ground twitching.  A third cast bindings while the fourth attended to their fallen comrades.  Harry rushed outside even as Hermione continued to grab at his arm.  The Icelanders were startled for a moment, which gave enough time for Harry to land a fierce kick into Snape’s side.  Before he could strike again, both his arms were pulled backward. 

Magnus said calmly from behind him, “He is skilled.  We were surprised in the beginning.”  The fallen Guardians were already on their feet.

Harry wrested one arm free and wordlessly summoned his wand, before he was again restrained.  “Let go of me!” he demanded.

“Stop, Harry!” Hermione said.

“…can keep your mouth closed at least… emotions are still like a wireless…” Snape said, his voice gaining strength as he went along.  “Go on, Potter… kick me again… your father would have…”

The Icelander let Harry free, but Hermione moved into his path and planted her hands against his chest.  “No,” she said quietly, and he relented.  Then she turned on Snape and said coldly, “We’re not like you.  We won’t kill for killing’s sake, and we surely won’t be baited into it!”

Snape said in the silky tone that most of a generation of Hogwarts students heard in their nightmares, “My, my, Miss Granger… your hair, your clothing… you’ve been thoroughly debauched!  It appears that the range of services you provide to Potter has been expanded.  There is no Head Girlship to entice you… I wonder what reward was offered you in exchange for your virtue – ?”

Harry didn't need to respond.  Einar grabbed Snape by the hair and dragged him to his feet.  The Death Eater reacted like a kneazle thrust into a bucket of water.  

“First, you offer apologies; then you are questioned; and then you are punished,” the burly Icelander growled.

Hermione strode up to Snape until her face was inches from his and snarled, “You know nothing about me, nothing at all.  Why should anyone listen to you? You’re nothing but a murdering turncoat!”  Then she reared back and slapped him across the face harder than Harry thought possible.

Magnus released Harry and gathered up his staff.  With two sharp raps against the ground, it transformed into the largest sword Harry had ever seen.  “You will tell me your name,” he said to Snape.

Snape’s lip curled and he began to retort, but Einar wrinkled his nose and once again grabbed the ex-professor by the hair; this time he pulled hard to one side.  “You are þræll ? Your master is Skí-maðr ?” he asked.

Snape began, “I am a spy for the resistance –"

Einar cut him off, “I do not like spies, and you reek of græð .  Answer the question now, þræll .  Who are you?”

The former professor somehow managed a superior expression as he announced, “I am Severus Snape and the emergency phrase is ‘asphodel in an infusion of wormwood, valerian roots and sopophorus bean, with one clockwise stir after every seventh counter-clockwise stir’.” 

“Why did you not present yourself at the front entrance?” Magnus shouted.  “You endangered my people without need!  Why did you not state your purpose?”

“As if I would have been received without the wolf’s teeth at your throats,” snorted Snape.

Harry was pole axed; “What the… you mean…?”

“Who was foolish enough to give you a pass phrase?” snapped Hermione.

Snape rolled his eyes, the only part of himself that he could reliably move.  “Lupin, you fools!” he said.  “He should have arrived by now, but this can wait no longer.”  He looked to Magnus and added, “I will have to rely on you to carry the warning.  The Dark Lord’s minions know the rough location of the village.  It must be moved immediately.  There is at least one traitor hidden amongst the resistance.”

Magnus barked out something, and one of the Guardians who did not speak English traced runes on the ground with the end of his staff.  He tapped the runes in an intricate pattern and nodded.

“Go!” Einar commanded.  Magnus and three of the four others stood atop the runes and abruptly sank into the ground.

Harry grabbed Snape by the front of his robes.  “How soon?” he shouted.  “When are they coming?”

“There are scouts combing a part of the islands to the north, an area no more than two miles by three miles.  These scouts have portkeys that will return them to a staging area of some sort.  I do not know how many fighters are needed to subdue the village, as I have not been there,” Snape said.

“Not many,” Harry muttered under his breath.

Hermione began to ask rapid-fire questions.  “What if they’re already under attack?  Do they have a safe rendezvous point?  If it comes to it, where could we hide that many wizards?  What about –?”

“There is a plan,” Einar said.  “We wait for the others, and we see.”  One of the Guardians emerged from the ground shortly thereafter.  He was bloodied and bruised, and he rattled off a frantic message. 

Einar nodded and the Guardian once again sank into the ground.  Before anyone else could react, he tapped Snape on the head with his staff and the Potions Master fell backward, unconscious.  “Now we can speak of the plan aloud,” Einar said.  “Mr. Potter, you must send, ehh… höfuð-faðir to the school.  It is the gathering place.”

“My what?” Harry asked.  Einar struggled for an English word, but ended with a frustrated shrug.

Hermione put on a thoughtful expression.  “Protection… protector… your patronus, Harry.  Send it to Professor McGonagall – tell her we’re coming, all of us.”  Harry took deep breaths, focused, and sent his stag racing to the south.

“Mr. Lupin says you are a fighter,” Einar said to Harry.  “We go now and we fight.”

Hermione took a deep breath before she said, “We’re both fighters.”

Einar captured her eyes in a way that she couldn’t shake off.  “Young miss, þræll do not wound – they kill,” he said. 

“I’m well aware of that.  We're wasting time,” she fired back.

Einar shook his head; “You do not understand.  We will not stun.  If they are þræll , then they will die.”

Even as Hermione paled, Harry gave his wand an intricate wave.  “So mote it be,” he growled.

Hermione looked first to Harry and then to the Icelander.  “I won’t take an oath to kill,” she said; “Anyone I face will fall and they will stay down.  If that will do…?”

Einar nodded.  “Keep your eyes closed and do not breathe,” he told them just as he touched the runes and the three of them sank into the earth.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Neither Life Nor Death Be Proud

NINE
Neither Life Nor Death Be Proud

They emerged from the ground into chaos. Several of the buildings around the village green were aflame, and spells flew everywhere. The burly Icelander immediately shoved both Harry and Hermione to the ground and his staff swung just above their heads. There was a high-pitched sound and Harry saw a sickly purple light deflected away. He looked into the distance and saw that flames were dancing across the roof of the Weasleys’ temporary home.

Hermione clutched at Harry’s arm. “M-my parents!” she shrieked.

“We will save as many as can be saved,” Magnus said gravely. “Mr. Potter… it was told to us that you may be the one who can destroy Skí-maðr. Is this the truth?”

“If you mean Voldemort then yes, it is,” Harry sighed.

Magnus said, “Go on to the gathering place. Miss Granger, if you wish to remain –”

“Not without me, she won’t,” snapped Harry. “They wouldn’t dare kill me. Voldemort aims to do that and they’d never get in his way.”

“Is he here?” Hermione asked.

Harry thought for a moment, and then answered, “No.”

“Good,” she said; “ Aestus antemoenitus !” A massive wall of flame emerged from the ground between them and the green. He heard cries of aguamenti! but the wall persisted.

“Go!” Magnus barked.

“Where did you learn that?” Harry called out as they ran.

“From Rowena’s notes,” Hermione returned; “Harry… do you trust me?”

Harry huffed, “You have to ask?”

“We'll never make it in time,” she said; he could hear the strain of running in her voice. “I’ve not tried this yet, not exactly, but I did master a variation for sending something away, but that typically requires a rune to… oh, sod it! If you trust me, then stop and take my hand.”

Harry hesitated for a moment, but did as he was asked. Hermione closed her eyes and said urgently, “ Advexi excandesco !”

A pillar of fire erupted around them. Harry didn't manage more than to shout, “What the –?” before the flames closed in. There was a bright flash and they emerged, slightly singed but intact, a few feet from the Weasleys’ home. Everyone and everything stopped just long enough for Harry and Hermione to dive clear and for Harry to fire a cutting curse at a Death Eater creeping up on Mr. Weasley.

“Harry! Get out of here!” Mr. Weasley shouted.

“So much for surprise,” Harry muttered under his breath even as he dodged a vicious curse. Hermione cast a shield that shunted aside a second attack. He used the reprieve to hit the Death Eater with a Blasting Curse.

“My parents...” Hermione bit out.

“Inside!” Harry ordered gruffly and covered her movement around the side of the house as best he could. It wasn't easy; the battle entirely surrounded the house. Tonks was taking on three Death Eaters at once. Bill Weasley was down and the twins edged toward him through a hail of spell fire. He saw Lupin and someone literally brawling. Part of him wanted to fight – to help any way that he could – but he couldn't let Hermione down, not where the lives of her parents were concerned.

Harry had to block three spells on his way through the front door. They were friendly fire. A dishevelled Mrs. Weasley was herding bruised and dirtied children into groups while Ginny passed out portkeys. Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood were at two of the windows, alternating between shielding and serving as snipers.

“Harry! Dear Merlin, leave here at once!” Mrs. Weasley shrieked.

“My mother and father -” Hermione began.

“- are on their way home,” Ginny said quickly; “They're safe.  Now focus!  I could use your help.”  In that moment, she seemed much older and harder – more like Ron or Hermione than Harry wanted to admit. Hermione was startled into action and transformed into the Head Girl that she might have been. She cajoled and comforted and helped Ginny send the children off to Hogwarts – where they should have been in the first place if their world hadn't been crushed by Voldemort. As soon as Hermione was safely distracted and had pocketed a portkey of her own, Harry crept out the front door into smoke and death.

Magnus and Einar and their companions had all entered the fray. Harry helped Mr. Weasley and Fred drag Bill toward the house. Neville dispatched a Death Eater who had the drop on them for a moment. All of them dove to the floor of the porch as a storm of spells came in at waist-height.

“Fire suppression... not enough...” Bill mumbled.  He was right: flames were beginning to lick at the siding where a Lightning Curse had struck.

“We have to retreat,” Mr. Weasley said. “Gather everyone you can. I've held back enough portkeys for the last of us.”
Fred peeked through the doorway into the living room; “I don't see any more of the midgets. Mum...?”

“It's just the seven of us inside,” Mrs. Weasley returned.

“Off with you, then,” Mr. Weasley demanded.

Harry heard scuffling against the porch behind him and whirled around. Ron had pulled himself outside. “I was scouting from upstairs,” he said. “We still have Lupin, Tonks, Cresswell, Galatius, Brackens, Purdy, the blokes from Iceland, and Dawlish out there,” he said and then added, “There's something off with Dawlish – take care with him.”

Mr. Weasley's brow rose. “Off...?” he asked.

“I've seen half a dozen Death Eaters miss him entirely,” said Ron.  “I'd say they're meaning to miss.”

“Stun him and we'll sort it later,” ordered Mr. Weasley; “We can't afford to lose any more of our people.” He headed toward Shacklebolt and two of the Icelanders.

Harry fought his way across the field toward Lupin, who was still brawling. He heard a squeaky voice call out, “ Argentus spiculus !” and Lupin fell, bleeding heavily.

“REMUS!” Harry shouted.

Lupin's opponent was Fenrir Greyback. Greyback turned toward Harry and laughed, “Planning to curse me, boy?  Go on, then – do your worst.”

Harry gave his wand a furious wave but said nothing. Greyback dove to the right in a blur and directly into the path of Harry's actual curse, straight from the lesson plan of the Half-Blood Prince.  Sectumsempra neatly sheared through the werewolf's right arm at the shoulder and sliced open his calf on the same side. Greyback collapsed and Harry raced to Lupin. Three sharp silver points protruded from Lupin's belly; he tried to say something but only managed to blink his watery eyes furiously.

“It's all right, Remus,” Harry babbled. “We'll get you to Pomfrey and everything will be square... up and around in no time at all...”

Lupin put on a strange smile and slowly shook his head. “Not this time,” he rasped. “Look after Tonks...

“Don't you say that!” Harry shouted. “Don't you dare say that! Here... this is your portkey; I nicked it from Mr. Weasley. Let's get you out of here.” Lupin's eyes moved slightly to the right of Harry. A shadow moved along the trampled ground and crossed the bloodied face of a slain refugee.

Lupin moved slightly and cringed from the pain of it.  He bit out, “1... 2... 3... ROLL!”

Harry responded without thinking and rolled to one side. Summoning inhuman strength from some final place inside, Lupin sprung to his feet and pulled Greyback into a crushing embrace. The exposed ends of the silver spikes entered Greyback's chest with a sickening crunch.

“NOOOOO!” Tonks cried out from far away. As Lupin and Greyback tumbled to the ground, a wand jabbed into the back of Harry's neck.

“I'm sorry, Harry...” the all-too-familiar squeaky voice said, “but I must take you to the Dark Lord.”

Harry remained still but said, “You won't do that, Wormtail.”

“What, because I owe it to your parents?” Pettigrew asked. “You don't understand the power that the Dark Lord possesses – not yet, but you'll understand it soon enough.”

“There's a higher power than his,” Harry said; “You owe me.” The wand point against his neck twitched.

“I... I... couldn't possibly... it's not that simple... I...” Pettigrew stammered.

“You owe me a debt and it's time to pay,” Harry said.

“I... wh... what sort of payment...?” asked Pettigrew.

“Kill Voldemort,” Harry said calmly.

“Wh... what? Y-you're joking!” Pettigrew laughed until he began to cough. “It's not possible, can't be done... y-you're mad! I won't... gah!” His hand shook so hard that his wand came loose. Harry quickly seized it.

“What have you done to me?” Pettigrew whined.

“You owe me and I've called it in - should have done it long ago,” said Harry. “You can't escape this. If you won't kill him, then kill all the Death Eaters here.”

Pettigrew began, “I can't... gkkk !”

“Then call them off,” Harry demanded.

“They won't listen to... arghh !” Pettigrew gagged, and he fell to his knees.

Harry's eyes were riveted to Pettigrew's silver hand; “ Then you will die ,” he hissed in Parseltongue. The hand pulsed in ripples and Pettigrew shrieked in pain. As the pulsing grew, the hand withered and blood began to pour from his sleeve. Harry knew that it wouldn't stop.

He peeled Greyback clear of Lupin – which took tremendous effort and a charm or two – and set Greyback's body ablaze. Tonks shrieked in fury amidst an unearthly blaze of spells; it sounded as if she was cutting down Voldemort's entire force single-handedly. There were a series of pops as Death Eaters began to flee. Harry set off Lupin's portkey and the last of his parents' friends disappeared just as Tonks reached him.

“No... oh God, it can't... no, Harry... no, no... NO!” Tonks screamed. She pounded at him with her fists until he embraced her.

“Greyback's dead. Pettigrew's dead. I sent Remus on to Hogwarts.  We have to go,” Harry said flatly.  He took the remaining portkey from his pocket and the two of them spun away, leaving behind lingering spellfire and dozens of bodies in the morning fog.

July 22, 1998      Hogwarts Castle and environs, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

Seventy-seven coffins stood on transfigured biers in the courtyard. The house-elves had worked for two days to restore the surrounding part of the castle; now only the sight and sound of students was missing. The Bloody Baron and the men of the Headless Hunt had stood watch for two days and the refugees were grateful for it. McGonagall quietly informed Harry that no new ghosts had joined their company. No one had contemplated that the Fat Friar might officiate services, but he and Sir Nick organised the affair on their own. They arranged brief ceremonies for each of the dead, to be followed by a larger combined remembrance. The Guardians of Midgard attended each, as did Mr. Weasley and Shacklebolt.

Given everything he had done for the cause, Mr. Weasley had asked the Friar to place Remus's ceremony as the last before the large gathering. After a ten minute delay, the only living persons in attendance were Shacklebolt, the Guardians of Midgard, a representative from the Norwegian Ministry who had reached Hogwarts a day after the escape, Neville, Luna, Ron and the rest of the Weasley family, Gudrun, Tonks, Hermione and Harry.

Harry was furious. When the Friar moved to begin, he fired sparks from his wand and said firmly, “We wait.”

“Mr. Potter, the main remembrance is scheduled to begin in ten minutes -” the Friar began softly.

“We – will – WAIT,” Harry growled.  People began to gather for the larger ceremony but hesitated at the entries when they spied the small group huddled around Lupin's bier.

“Mr. Potter...” the Friar whispered.

“No, I've had enough of this,” said Harry. He cast a Sonorus charm on himself and his cold, quiet voice echoed across the courtyard toward the people standing in the shadows.

“Remus Lupin was... he was a friend to my parents,” Harry began. “He was a friend to me, at least after Dumbledore was... you know, this is utter shite. Remus Lupin was a werewolf, for God's sake.” The mass intake of breath was nearly as loud as Harry's voice.

“Oh, do shut up!” Harry snapped as everyone held their hands to their ears. “He was a ruddy werewolf and you were afraid of him. He taught your children, he organised the Resistance, he saved your lives and you were afraid of him.”

“Harry!” Mrs. Weasley squeaked.

“No. I'm going to tell these cowards exactly what's on my mind,” Harry fired back. “The people standing with me cared for Remus.  Where were the rest of you when he was fighting off Death Eaters so you could escape? You were probably hiding your children from Remus as much as the Death Eaters – and he was out there in the fighting.  He died because someone shot him with silver spikes... I could have saved him... but do you know what he did? He ran the other end of those spikes into Fenrir bloody Greyback! He saved you again, rid you of the worst child-killer Britain ever saw, and where are you now? You're hiding in the shadows! Pathetic!” Hermione slipped her arm around him. He waited for her to tell him he was wrong, but she didn't.

Someone had the temerity to call out, “It's his fault everyone's dead! Where was the protection? Where were the wards?”

Shacklebolt cast his own Sonorus charm and snapped, “These people are dead because of the Minister-in-Exile. Dawlish insisted on moving non-combatants further forward than originally planned and then he sold us all to You-Know-Who. He's a traitor and he'll die a traitor's death for it. Lupin argued against the plan and then did the best he could manage under the circumstances. How dare you place blame upon him!”

“Enough! This is about Remus, not about those idiots!” Tonks barked out.  Other refugees - some guilty of hiding and some merely arriving for the large ceremony - entered the courtyard in twos and threes as she moved to the Fat Friar's side.

“We offer blessing for the life of Remus John Lupin,” the Friar said. “He was a werewolf and he was a good man. Despite what some may choose to believe, he was one of God's children, and we now ask intercession for his immortal soul...”

Harry put on a stony expression; he'd be damned before he would give any of the cowards the opportunity to see him break down. Part of him was aware that the Fat Friar was going on far longer than he had with the other individual ceremonies; it didn't occur to him until nearly the end that many of the remarks had been in Latin.

“... Fidelium Deus omnium conditor, et redemptor animabus famulorum, famularumque tuarum remissionem cunctorum tribue peccatorum: ut indulgentiam, quam semper optaverunt, piis supplicationibus consequantur. Qui vivis et regans in saecula saeculorum. Amen,” the Friar finished. He drew his hand through the air in the form of a cross, and added, “Requiem aeternam dona eis Domine.”

“And let perpetual light shine upon him,” Hermione whispered.

“Requiescant in pace,” said the Friar. He made one more sign with his hand and then nodded to Tonks.  She stepped to the head of the bier and began to speak. She cast no charm, and so the gatherers began to move closer to hear.

“I loved him,” she said. “It was taboo. It was illegal, not that it matters now.  When everything went to hell, I suppose we could have said something, but it would have been a distraction and there was already enough to go on about.  So, the Ministry and the sodding ICW would say otherwise, but as far as Her Majesty and the Church of England are concerned, Remus was my husband.” She waved her wand and a modest gold band came into view on her ring finger.  Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth in shock and eight sets of Weasley jaws dropped.

Her hands shook as she went on, “Let me tell you hypocrites something: Remus was more of a man than most of the men here could ever dream of being... close company excepted, of course.  I loved him.  He needed that and it was easy to give, the easiest thing I've ever done in my life.  That sodding curse ground him down but he wouldn't quit.  He would help anyone any time, even when the people he helped treated him like something they had scraped off of their boots.  Remus was a damn fine looking bloke, too.  I'm not blind, you know – I spotted all the women who wouldn't have dirtied themselves with a werewolf but couldn't keep their eyes off of him.  So, I think I'll say one more thing about my husband – and believe me, it was your loss, ladies... he was bloody brilliant in bed.”

With that, she set a flower atop the bier, turned heel and left the courtyard. The whispering and the gasps may as well have been amplified. Harry desperately wanted to laugh; it was painfully clear which women had drawn Tonks's ire.

Instead he moved to one side and watched the mass ceremony. Hermione stayed close with the Weasleys, which left Harry to his own thoughts about bravery and cowardice and Voldemort and whether the wizarding world was worth dying for. After an hour, he decided that the world wasn't worth it, but some of the people in it were.

July 24, 1998      Hogwarts Castle and environs, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

“That's the last of it,” Elphias Doge said. “Now we wait for Pedersen.”

Erik Pedersen, the Norwegian representative, had been appointed the official counter for the election. “I have been counting the ballots as they were cast,” he said.

“On with it then,” said Amos Diggory.

Pedersen stood on his chair so that he could be seen by all present.  He began formally, “Ladies and gentlemen, Resolution 1998-27 of the International Confederation of Wizards required that eligible electors gather to select by secret ballot a Minister for Magic of England and Scotland –”

“Not the U.K.?  I didn't catch that before,” someone called out.

Doge returned, “The Ulster crowd decided to go with the devil they know.  O'Leary almost managed a united Ireland during the First War, so it's not a complete surprise.  'England and Scotland' is the old form – it dates back to bloody King James, a curse to him and all of his works.”

“Bloody King James,” a number of people from the older families echoed, and they all spat on the floor as one.

“What was that about?” Harry muttered.

“Witch hunts,” Hermione whispered into his ear.

Pedersen spoke up, “Pardon...?  May I continue?  Said gathering has taken place and said balloting has occurred, and as representative of the International Confederation of Wizards, I hereby certify that the requirements of Resolution 1998-27 and all related legal requirements have been satisfied.  The results of the balloting are as follows: five votes for Edgar Attenborough... two votes for Robert Bath... one vote for Stubby Boardman...”

Harry's eyes shot toward Luna Lovegood, who gave an unapologetic shrug.

“...seventeen votes for Amos Diggory... nineteen votes for Herbert Macmillan... thirty-one votes for Harry Potter...”

Harry went ghastly pale. “Votes? For me?” he croaked to a fair bit of laughter.

“...one hundred ninety-six votes for  Kingsley Shacklebolt... and fifty-three votes for Arthur Weasley.  Accordingly, I introduce to you the Right Honourable Kingsley Shacklebolt, legally recognised Minister for Magic of England and Scotland.” The crowded classroom responded with loud applause, and he added, “Minister, would you care to speak?”

Shacklebolt said, “I am not a politician nor am I a speech maker.  I have spent my entire professional life in law enforcement.  As I see it, you have elected me to win the war and to bring us home, nothing more and nothing less. For me, a title means nothing unless it is earned.  I appoint Arthur Weasley vice-minister, and it has been well earned indeed. Mr. Potter, Mr. Macmillan and Mr. Diggory will have important roles, as will many others as we move forward. We need time to heal and time to evacuate the children and anyone else who cares to go, and the uncomfortable truth is that we have very little time in which to act.  I believe that all of this will be concluded – one way or the other – by the end of the month.  With that, there is work to be done.  Thank you.”

Fifteen minutes later, the new Minister brought Mr. Weasley, Tonks, Gudrun, Ron, Hermione and Harry into what had once been the Defence classroom. He said, “With Lupin gone – and I'm so sorry for that, Tonks, you know that – we've taken a severe blow in terms of organisation and planning.  Unfortunately, there's no obvious replacement and we have to move onward.  This means everyone is going to take on greater responsibilities.  I trust everyone in this room.  If I'm wrong about that, then we've already lost.  Harry, where do we stand? Do we have the last horcrux?”

“Horcrux...? Sounds ominous,” Mr. Weasley said; “Is that what you've been chasing after for all this time?  Is that... did a horcrux – whatever it is – do that to Ron...?” Harry gave a brief and matter-of-fact explanation to Mr. Weasley, who blanched at the very idea.

“So have you come up with the last, then?” Shacklebolt asked again.

Harry took a deep breath and said, “Yes, sir. Now we need to know how to be rid of it.” He brushed back his fringe and tapped on his scar. Mr. Weasley stumbled backward out of his chair. Hermione squeezed Harry's hand hard enough to turn his fingers white.

Shacklebolt's brow rose and he said, “I say. Rotten luck, that.”

“Quite,” Harry deadpanned.

“Oh, Harry... that just isn't right...” Ron managed.

“This is not good, not good at all,” Gudrun muttered; “I must consult with the faúra-gaggja ... she knows of soul magics...”

“Obviously we need to get the Unspeakables in on this,” Shacklebolt said. Gudrun frowned at that and Harry positively scowled, so he added, “That's only after we test them with Veritaserum. Pedersen brought a few doses with him; we used one on Dawlish, just to be certain.”

“Dawlish is dead?” Harry asked.

“It was done yesterday,” said Shacklebolt; “We kept it as quiet as possible.  There's enough anger already.”

“I was hoping for something all traditional-like – I mean, we are in a castle.  A public beheading in the courtyard would have been smashing,” Tonks snarled.

Harry returned to the point, hoping to distract Tonks. “We've already talked to those Unspeakables about the horcruces, and they weren't exactly helpful.  They don't know about the last one and I want to keep it that way.  Under the circumstances, I think I have the right to decide that,” he said. Shacklebolt hesitated before he nodded in agreement.

“Gudrun, I've come across a few things in a grimoire that may be relevant,” Hermione said. “I could use an expert opinion...?”

“I will gladly assist you,” said Gudrun.

“There's the matter of your wand as well, isn't there, Harry?” asked Shacklebolt. “I recall Dumbledore mentioning a brother-wand problem.”

“We might have something for that,” Tonks said. “How's the old man coming along, Gudrun?”

“Not well,” sighed the healer. “I can give him comfort but he will die soon. He does wish to meet with Harry and this must happen very soon.”

“Who wants to meet with me?” Harry asked.

“Ollivander,” said Tonks; “We found him and a few others trussed up at the Death Eaters' encampment. Most of them were cursed half-to-death, but I guess Ollie's all the way there.”

Gudrun's eyes narrowed. “Mr. Ollivander's health is not a subject for jokes,” she said.

Tonks said with a shrug, “As long as you can keep him fresh until Harry's done, I'm satisfied. He's creepy, that one is.”

Hermione and Gudrun accompanied Harry to the Hospital Wing. Ollivander was almost skeletal and his skin was a sickly shade of yellow. His eyes lit for a moment when Harry entered. He said haltingly, “Hello, Mr. Potter. Holly and phoenix feather... eleven inches... still supple? A most unusual wand, indeed.  Ah, Miss Granger... vine wood and dragon heartstring...”

“Hello, Mr. Ollivander,” Harry said;  “Is there anything we can do for you?”

“You can kill that beast V-Voldemort, and I believe that I may be able to help you in that task,” Ollivander said.

Harry was caught flat-footed. “You... what?”

“Come now, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander chuckled but burst into coughing. After Gudrun settled him, he went on, “Surely it's obvious that you're the one; the Chosen One, they called you. Albus claimed a disdain for prophecy... he claimed many things... but the late Minister Scrimgeour made it perfectly clear that you and Voldemort are bound together in some fashion, at least for those who had the sense to listen. I haven't much time – no one is likely to counter a Wasting Curse cast by him - but I do have a wand for you... and perhaps a story or two that you will find instructive.”

“What sort of wand is it?” asked Harry.

“One of which I'm quite proud,” Ollivander returned.  “By all logic, it should simply fly apart, but there you are. I was so proud of it that it was displayed in my shop window for decades. That was foolish of me, for I should have known that Voldemort would see it for what it was. Thankfully, I had it spirited away before I was taken.”

“Why should it fly apart?” Hermione wondered aloud; “I didn't know that any sort of wood and core material were wholly incompatible.”

“Of course you wouldn't, dear girl,” Ollivander said. “Wand making is a rather secretive craft. It runs in families and thus is only a subject to be found in grimoires, not in libraries or even the great oral traditions. Elder wood and a phoenix feather should repel each other as surely as magnets in opposition.   Elder wood is only compatible with acromantula silk, thestral hair or dragon heartstring, and barely those. For whatever reason, this particular branch wanted a phoenix feather... craved it, in fact. Do you know the properties of elder wood, Mr. Potter?”

“It's not something really covered...” Harry dissembled.

“Elder wood is -” Hermione began.

“I was speaking to Mr. Potter, my dear,” Ollivander said kindly. “I offer you a lesson, then. Herbologists see the magic of woods one way; I see it another. The elder tree speaks of regeneration – of the power of life itself. It brings power and hope at the dark parts of the year's cycle. An elder wand is best wielded by those who have a strong connection to Samhain or Beltane -”

“– and I couldn't have a stronger connection to Samhain, could I?” Harry said.

“Good, you're following thus far,” Ollivander said. “Even the folk magic practitioners knew that elder is a natural ward against malevolent spirits. People used to hang it on doorways and such. It also symbolises loyalty; oddly enough, it flourishes near badger setts. Elderberry wines are still favoured by seers; folk magicians thought it induced prophecy. Elderberries were also used to dye one's hair black. Mr. Potter, the connections... were you not marked by Voldemort, I do believe this wand would have called to you.”

“You have it with you?” Harry asked.

“Oh, even better than that,” Ollivander said; “It's hidden in Albus's office.”

“Charming... should have seen that coming,” Harry grumbled.

“Of course, I would say that elder is more suitable against injustice than evil, per se. Gryffindors cast everything in terms of good and evil, so I doubt that I make sense to you,” Ollivander said. “Magic is neither good nor evil, Mr. Potter. The individual possesses the traits of good and evil. Magic is just, and magic is unjust. An evil man can cast magic justly -”

“- Just as a good man can cast the great injustice of them all,” Hermione finished.

Ollivander's eyes widened. “Where did you hear that?” he asked.

Hermione held up Ravenclaw's grimoire. “You must have been in Ravenclaw, sir,” she said; “Her notes have challenged nearly everything I thought I knew.”

“Where did you get that, girl? Put it down, promptly! Voldemort has surely tainted it!” Ollivander wheezed.

Harry insisted, “This is a different copy.  The Grey Lady showed me how to find it... but how did you know that Voldemort had a copy of Ravenclaw's Grimoire in the first place?” He directed his wand toward the bed.

“Voldemort stole it from me,” Ollivander explained; “I swear upon magic herself that I, Ozymandias Ollivander, am the last living member of the Great and Terrible House of Ravenclaw.”

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
The Warring Mind and Heart

TEN
The Warring Mind and Heart

Ollivander reverently paged through the Grimoire. “This... this is the true Grimoire of Ravenclaw... I never actually... good heavens,” he stammered. “There was a long-standing story in my family that our Grimoire was merely a copy, but we always believed that to be fiction. This... there are so many  notations. I... I thank you for allowing me...”

Hermione waved him off. “It belongs to you, Mr. Ollivander,” she said.

“You need it more than I, child,” Ollivander said. “Upon my death, I will the Grimoire of Rowena Ravenclaw into the custody of Miss Hermione Granger, or failing that, to Mr. Harry Potter – so mote it be.” A flash of light sealed the proclamation.

Hermione's eyes nearly bugged from her head; “Mr. Ollivander! I... I...”

“I have no remaining siblings, and none of us brought children into this world,” he said. “I am the last of my line. Use the Grimoire wisely. If you honour the ideals of Ravenclaw, then there is nothing to fear.”

“I'm a Gryffindor, sir,” Hermione said meekly.

“Is that so?” Ollivander said with surprise. “Eh, pay that no mind; you possess the proper intellect. The rest is a matter of perspective and will, and I shall instruct you if Miss Stefánsdóttir agrees.”

“There should be little pain until the end,” Gudrun said softly. “I can maintain you for perhaps five days.”

“Then five days it shall be,” said Ollivander. “One thing that old Dumbledore and I agreed upon was that death is nothing to be feared. Without death, there can be no life.”

Harry couldn't resist asking, “What else did you agree upon?”

Ollivander chuckled until he began to cough once again. “Little else, Mr. Potter – little else,” he managed.

“Mr. Ollivander,” Hermione began, “I've identified a number of spells and rituals that I believe may be useful against Voldemort. Since you're familiar with the Grimoire, I was wondering...?”

“I have committed the family copy to memory, actually,” Ollivander said. “We may as well begin. Miss Stefánsdóttir, would you remain? I would welcome your unique perspective on these matters.” The conversation quickly descended into rune chains and force potentials and Gudrun's occasional protestations that the old magics were much simpler and more direct. Harry listened, then fidgeted quite a lot as they drifted into a discussion about Harry's maternal protections.

Ron wandered into the Hospital Wing. “Ollivander looks worse than I did; didn't think that was possible,” he said in a whisper.

“Dunno... it's not like you're the best looking bloke...” Harry teased.

“Fine, I won't loan you this,” Ron said. He pulled out a worn copy of L'équipe du Quidditch . “It's from February, and it's French, but at least it's something. How long do you think it'll take to get the leagues going when this is all over?”

Harry started to laugh and drew a glare from Hermione. “Don't ever change, mate,” he said, and cast a translation charm on the magazine.

They left for a time, and Harry sat and talked with Ron in the kitchens during his friend's meagre meal – they had to turn away the house-elves five times as they continued to bring more food. When the conversation waned, he asked Ron, “Do you think what Gudrun does is better than our magic?”

Ron shrugged. “It's all magic,” he said. “Is any of it better or worse – other than the really dark stuff, I mean?”

“Dumbledore said once that Voldemort doesn't have any respect for the old magics,” Harry said.

“You think he respects anything at all?” asked Ron.

“He likes power, craves it,” said Harry. “That means he thinks old magics aren't powerful... do you suppose...? My mum's protections were old magic, too... thanks, Ron!”

“Erm... you're welcome?” Ron said as Harry bolted from the kitchens.

He clattered into the Hospital Wing so quickly that he knocked over a cart of supplies. There were no potion bottles atop it, but the sound of the metal striking the floor caused Hermione to draw her wand.

“Harry, what on Earth are you doing?” she demanded.

“Voldemort doesn't think the old magics are powerful,” he panted. “That's why he didn't think about my mum's protections; he didn't think they would matter. It was old magic. Don't you get it?”

“What am I supposed to 'get'?” asked Hermione.

“It's a power he doesn't know!” Harry groaned. “The power he knows not?

“Oh, Harry – of course!” Hermione said with delight. Gudrun put on an expression that was almost smug.

“There is far more old magic referenced in this Grimoire than I would ever have anticipated,” Ollivander said. "Perhaps you're on to something, Mr. Potter?”

“Why is it so different than your family's copy?” Hermione wondered aloud.

Ollivander said, “I suppose that some of the differences were intentional, but do keep in mind that magic is not easily copied. A grimoire is no mere book – it is a conscious collection of one's magical knowledge, and thus the text itself is imbued with magic.  There is a reason that any personal grimoires in Hogwarts' collections were kept on restriction.  Thus, copying such a book is not a matter for a simple duplication spell, as on a student parchment. Copies of magical items of any sort are inevitably degraded from the original. I recall someone who tried to create magical copies of pygmy puffs, hoping to create the next great wizarding business. With each copy, they changed. The poor fellow was nearly eaten by the fourth copy of a copy. This is one reason why the world needs wand makers, for a wand core cannot be duplicated.”

“Was your mother a mistress of runes, Harry?” asked Gudrun.

“Her wand was best suited for charms work -” Ollivander observed.

“I was asking about the casting of runes, not the waving of wands,” Gudrun said.

“All I ever heard about were Charms and Potions,” Harry told her.

“If you would have permitted, Miss, I would have added that the greatest masters of charms have all been gifted in the area of runes. The two disciplines are by necessity linked,” added Ollivander.

“Someone could have told me that before I wasted two years in Divination...” grumbled Harry.

“Potions could also be used...” Gudrun murmured.

“What are you after?” Harry asked.

“I believe the protection placed by your mother was runic in nature,” said Gudrun. “Why else would the scar left on your forehead take the precise form and scale of a rune?”

“Madam Ravenclaw was an expert in the casting of runes, according to lore,” Ollivander said.

“It's more than lore,” Harry said idly, thinking of the Hogwarts wards and the Great Hall ceiling.

“But what sort of charm or potion would deliberately cast a rune in the event of the caster's death?” Hermione asked.

“We all hold both grœð and græð ...” Gudrun said slowly. “There are... rituals... practices that allow a dying mage to project grœð in defence of another. Without knowing what the Killing Curse actually does to the magics, I cannot know whether your protections were similar.”

“What about the Unspeakables?” Harry proposed. “Would they have an idea of it?”

“It's not exactly a curse you can research...” Hermione said, then stopped and added nervously, “Is it?”

She had her answer a few minutes later, after a fashion. The two Unspeakables who had examined the destroyed copy of the Grimoire came to the Hospital Wing when ordered by Shacklebolt to offer assistance. The Department of Mysteries had recorded data on over one hundred uses of the Killing Curse; one of the Unspeakables hastened to add that most of the data were centuries old.

“We know that the Curse displaces the life energy of the victim – the soul, if you're so inclined,” said the other Unspeakable. “The problem is that we don't know where the energy goes. Because of the existence of ghosts, most wizards believe that this energy is transported into an afterlife of some sort.”

Gudrun rolled her eyes. “Magic is belief,” she snorted; “You people, you understand nothing.”

“Magic is a qualifiable and, in many instances, quantifiable force,” the first Unspeakable said as though he were lecturing a child. “Our studies of a variety of charms and curses, from Lumos to Avada Kedavra , have allowed us to standardise force, velocity, displacement and a variety of other variables. Studies with the Veil of Death and the Room of Magical Energies have corroborated –”

“Veil of Death? You study a Veil of Death? The only means to study such an abomination is to put living creatures through it!” Gudrun snapped. “What is a Room of Magical Energies? I have not heard of such a thing. Magical energy, as you wrongly call it, is everywhere – it is not found in a single room.”

“Oh, no, we wouldn't put magical creatures through the Veil simply for study,” the second Unspeakable said. “It has been used solely for executions – but not for a number of years, of course.”

“You are savages,” Gudrun said flatly.

Both Unspeakables were affronted. “We are scientists, Madam!” they protested.

“As for the Room of Magical Energies... well, it's something of a state secret, but the Minister was adamant that we answer any questions posed,” the first Unspeakable admitted. “There is a room within the Department of Mysteries – ”

“There is a room...” Harry murmured.

“That's what I said,” the Unspeakable began again. “Bosphorus Blake, the first Head of the Unspeakables, used a set of charmed mirrors and a spell of some sort to focus a store of magical energies into a special room at the Department.  The spell and the mirrors have long been lost, but the energies remain. It is self-replenishing – a completely confounding phenomenon. The energies in that room violate all arithmantic expectations save one, which is that magical energy reacts in equal and opposite fashion to the application of additional magical energy from an external source.”

“You... you filled a room with grœð !” Gudrun shrieked. “Thank all that is holy you did not secure græð , or you would have killed one another long ago! Do you find that your scientists either become quite healthy or quite ill when working around this room? I imagine that most become ill or injured, do they not?”

“Yes, but you couldn't know that,” the Unspeakable said.

“What you have done is evil,” said Gudrun. “ Grœð is justice. It cannot heal a truly evil man or one who commits gross injustices; it is as likely to hurt him. It can bring a good man back from the edge of death if the healing is a just one.”

Ollivander stirred from what had looked like sleep. “Fascinating,” he said;  “You believe mankind to be good or evil and magic to be just or unjust. You live the Ravenclaw ideal.”

“I think this lot's a bit off, if you ask me,” the first Unspeakable said to the second.

“If you've finished with your questions...?” asked the second Unspeakable.

“Leave us,” Gudrun growled. When the Unspeakables had left, she added, “I must consult with the Healing Order. The faúra-gaggja and others of the Healing Order will look at these spells of yours, Mr. Ollivander, and they will also consider what is to be done about this Room.  Justice demands it.”

“Do not judge them too harshly,” Ollivander warned, “not until you make the effort to understand what drives their way of thinking. My House lost its way centuries ago. The Ravenclaw students and alumni of the present prize knowledge at any cost, whether to themselves or others. This thinking has even plagued my family, which is doubly dangerous when a family is cursed.”

“Cursed? Your entire family was cursed?” Hermione gasped.

“It was a line curse, actually, cast by the Egyptian witch Cleopatra. At the time, my forebear refused to create a staff for the vile woman,” Ollivander said. “It was that cursed forebear who earned my family its name, and her curse has manifested once every seven generations for two thousand years.” He took out his wand and with an unsteady hand wrote his last name in flames:

Ollivander

and then rearranged the letters:

An Evil Lord

“Just as well that my line is at an end,” he said ruefully; “In four, perhaps five generations, the cycle would repeat once again. There was my brother, you see... his name was Walden Ollivander...”

“You can do that with Voldemort's name, too. He showed me himself, right down to the flames,” Harry said.

“Why am I not surprised?” said Ollivander. “He is a thief – immensely powerful, but a thief nonetheless.”

“ Walden Ollivander...? What was your brother's middle name?” Hermione asked.

“You are a clever one, aren't you?” Ollivander said. “His full name was Walden Grindelius Ollivander.”

“My God! He was Grindelwald, wasn't he?” Hermione blurted out.

Ollivander bowed his head. “I have made my peace with that. Dumbledore was not so charitable. For the crime of not joining him personally to chase my brother toward prison and death, I have led a somewhat restricted life for the last fifty years – unable to leave Britain and return, unable to hold the Ravenclaw family seat on the Wizengamot, unable to invest except via the goblins...”

“I don't understand something, sir. How did you become heir to Ravenclaw if you're an Ollivander?” Harry asked.

“Ah, that would be due to Madam Ravenclaw's granddaughter, Rosina. Rosina had no siblings and three daughters. Her oldest daughter, Eleni, married Reinhardt Ollivander in 1073. That is how lines often end and consolidate – your family has received several lines in that fashion, Mr. Potter: Wright, Stanwix and Boothby come immediately to mind,” explained Ollivander. “Alas, I've diverted from my point. Ravenclaws such as the men to whom you just spoke have no beliefs. They understand what they can see and what they can measure. To them, magic is something to be studied and therefore controlled. That is their idea of a just cause.

“Since the Great Separation, it has only become worse. Twelve generations of wizards have come to believe that secrecy is necessary and therefore any means to achieve it is just. It is a very small reach to conclude that magic controlled should be magic wielded in support of the cause. My brother concluded that the only means to maintain our secrecy in the long term was to control the Muggles entirely, and he acted to that end. He used and supported the vilest of Muggles in his attempts. In so doing, he was complicit in millions of deaths.

“Remember, Miss Granger, that a false sense of justice can lead a good wizard to perform unjust and even evil acts. Remain true to justice – remain true to magic herself – and you can use Madam Ravenclaw's magic as it was intended. The challenge is knowing when to let the heart govern the mind instead of the reverse... not the simplest of choices to make, I'll grant you,” Ollivander's eyes fluttered. “I am tired and cold. Return tomorrow, Miss Granger, and we shall continue our lessons.”

July 26, 1998      Hogwarts Castle & environs, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

“I don't understand – you're saying that my mum found the Grimoire when she was a student?” Harry asked.

Hermione shook her head. “I'm not saying that... well, not necessarily. Somehow, some way, she found this protection ritual. This simply must be it!”

“It is a surprise to me that one of those who created the English magical ideal was so versed in old magics,” Gudrun said as she paged through the section of the Grimoire that Hermione had marked. “Perhaps she did not realise what she had wrought, with this schooling and these houses of yours?”

“The Houses worked for a thousand years,” Hermione said defensively.

“Is that so? One of your houses is set on knowledge but lacks the wisdom to use it; another mistakes foolish risk for courage; the third is use by the others to show that loyalty lacks value; and the fourth has lain waste to your country,” Gudrun snapped; she looked to Harry and added, “I do think your partner speaks the truth about the protections placed by your mother.”

“My partner...?” Harry mumbled.

“Please do not play the fool,” Gudrun said; “You are partners in every way now – this is clear to anyone with eyes that see.” Hermione blushed to her toes at that.

“Here's hoping some people need glasses more than I do,” muttered Harry.

“Ronald has excellent vision,” said Gudrun with a small, soft smile. “Do not be concerned; he would give his blessing, if he was asked of it –”

“Perhaps we should come back to this ritual?” Hermione cut in.

Gudrun nodded and said, “The faúra-gaggja agrees that this is likely what your mother cast upon herself prior to the attack by Skí-maðr –”

“This Skí-maðr of yours must be Voldemort, but I never figured that you'd be the sort to avoid his name,” Harry said.

“It is not that at all,” Gudrun insisted. “We knew that Voldemort was a name of his choosing. The members of the Althing – the elected leaders – instead chose their own name for him. It means 'The Pretender'. In our legends, The Pretender sought the throne of the Lord of Death.”

“That's appropriate, isn't it?” Hermione said. “So we know what your mother did to protect you, Harry; what we don't know is the result.”

“Er... I'd say the result was pretty clear,” Harry snorted; he pointed to himself.

“She refers to that which remains,” Gudrun said. “This is not a hard thing to find.” She tossed one of her rune stones and a bed appeared similar to the one she had used to examine Hermione at their first meeting; she patted the top and motioned to Harry.  Once Harry laid down, she placed a series of the stones around his head and feet.

“What are you doing, exactly?” Hermione asked.

“Finding the connections between Harry and the magic is a simple matter. We do not tell the magic what to do – we do not coax it. We must follow the magic where it goes,” Gudrun said. She tapped the stones with her strange charred stick in an intricate pattern, and Harry was suddenly bathed in a white light that seemed blotted with grey above his head. Gudrun took in a sharp breath.

“What? What is it?” Harry asked.

“I have never seen such a light,” Gudrun said slowly. “You are not just connected to grœð , as the rest of us – you are filled with it...”

“O... kay... I'm guessing that's the white light, but why is there grey above me?” he wondered.

“It isn't grey,” Hermione said; “Your scar is pitch black.”

“It is pure græð – the complete opposite of the rest of you,” Gudrun explained.

“That's the horcrux, then,” said Harry.

“I think this is a good thing,” Gudrun said cautiously. “The scar holds the horcrux; it is not a part of you. It is like a cancer being attacked by the body's defences. If it is not a part of you, then it can be removed without killing the body.” Hermione let out an enormous sigh of relief.

“But we still don't know how to do it,” Harry added.

“You're averse to good news, aren't you?” grumbled Hermione.

July 27, 1998      Hogwarts castle and environs, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

“The French will be offended by your choice of name,” warned Pedersen, the Norwegian representative from the International Confederation.

“Voldemort has taken our country, and I'm to worry about French sensibilities? Where are their gendarmes? Where is their financial support? The answer is the same for the Germans, the Italians, the Spaniards... at home, and in their banks. Will Norway be troubled? Sweden? Denmark? Iceland? We are at war! This is a Council of War!” Shacklebolt snapped.

“I do not disagree,” Pedersen said. “I am merely saying that the French will use this as an excuse for why they have withheld support, as will the other European ministries.”

“Then they do not understand,” Magnus said. “They are fortunate not to have faced Voldemort during the last war.”

“Many of them supported Voldemort in the last war,” Mr. Weasley pointed out. “Just last month, the Albanian minister called Voldemort's takeover a vindication of Grindelwald.”

“We're better served without any of them,” Amos Diggory spat.

“Let's call this to order, then,” Shacklebolt said. “Miss Weasley, thank you for agreeing to take the notes. This is the first full meeting of the Council for War of the Ministry-in-Exile of England and Scotland, Minister Shacklebolt presiding. Present are myself, Arthur Weasley, Amos Diggory, Herbert Macmillan, Bertrand Blake, Augustus Calloway, Harry Potter, Ernie Macmillan, Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Fred and George Weasley, Bill Weasley, Fleur Delacour, and Ginny Weasley; three representatives from our Icelandic friends: Gudrun Stefánsdóttir, Magnus Jorgensson and Einar Stefánsson; Erik Pedersen, representing both our Norwegian friends and the International Confederation of Wizards; and Johan Lund, representing our friends from Sweden. Anders Twing is in transit; he will represent Danish interests.” Ginny gave a sudden smile at the last name, Harry noticed.

“Amos, give us an update on the numbers,” Shacklebolt went on.

Diggory pulled out a parchment and perched a pair of small spectacles at the end of his nose. “After the attack on us, our estimates are that Voldemort is down to about seventy marked followers and a number of irregulars – no more than fifty of those. One pack of werewolves is still in his corner, numbering between fifteen and twenty-five; he has a handful of vampires; and a colony of giants, numbering between eight and twelve. We believe several of his foreign interests have cut off funds since he failed to take us out, and our man in Wiltshire says that a group of Russian irregulars has fled the country.”

“What about the Dementors?” Mr. Macmillan asked.

“They don't appear to be in Voldemort's control any more,” said Diggory. “I received a report that a large group of them have been wandering the streets in Luton.”

“They surely won't stay; 10 Galleons says there won't be another sighting there,” Ernie Macmillan said with certainty.

“And on what basis could you possibly come to that conclusion?” Blake – one of the Unspeakables – said with a sneer.

“The things seek out Muggles so they can, erm, graze on all of the happiness in the air, right?” Ernie confirmed.

“That is correct.  Dementors rarely kiss Muggles but will seek out their ambient positive emotions.  What is your point?” Blake demanded.

“Happiness, sir?  Again, they're in Luton ,” Ernie dead-panned; his father nearly managed a spit-take. 

Mr. Weasley gave a parental glare of disapproval and then said, “Right, then... control of the Dementors will have to be an early order of business when this is over.”

“Agreed,” said Shacklebolt. “What do we have, then?”

Diggory reported, “We've seventy-eight able bodied adults ready to fight, seven healers, sixteen of the under aged students who Longbottom has trained up, the six Guardians from Iceland, thirty-three Norwegian irregulars who are coming through from Shetland -”

“I can promise another twenty by the 31st,” Pedersen cut in.

“Good, good,” said Diggory. “We have twenty-two Swedes -”

“Twenty-three,” Lund said. “You don't expect me to sit here and wait, do you?"

“Twenty-three, then,” Diggory returned with a smile.  "Anders said he was bringing eighteen with him from Copenhagen. They were coming in via Edinburgh. I haven't been able to reach them yet.”

“Do you think they might make the rendezvous in the Orkneys?” Ginny asked.

“That's likely,” admitted Diggory. “Kingsley, can I leave a man there for a day or two?”

“We'll decide that later,” Shacklebolt said. “In the meantime, keep trying to reach Anders. Is that the lot, Amos?”

“That's all of us,” Diggory said; “We're just shy of two hundred.”

“This is the first time since the collapse that we've had them outnumbered,” said Shacklebolt. “This is why we need to strike now.”

“Why not wait until we can raise another fifty to one hundred fighters?” Blake asked. “Why not try harder to get the Colonies into the fray?”

“The United States is ready to help with reconstruction but won't commit fighters, and Canada will send sixty irregulars but can't have them here until mid-August at the earliest,” Shacklebolt said. “Would you rather we give Voldemort time to recruit? I know we had losses – far too many losses – but we've rooted out Dawlish and we did take down over thirty of their people.”

“Could you consider hiring mercenaries?” Calloway – another Unspeakable – asked.

“And what if You-Know-Who buys them off?  It's a good way to surround yourself with traitors, and we've had enough difficulty with that as it is,” Diggory pointed out.

Mr. Weasley added, “Hiring mercenaries also implies the means to pay them.  We remain dependent on charity, I'm afraid.  It's neither fair nor practical to tax a citizenry in exile, and we haven't access to the Ministry's funds despite the ICW's repeated orders to the goblins.”

Shacklebolt's smile, always present but often forced in recent days, slipped completely.  “What's the excuse this time?” he growled.

“Ragnok's happy to hand us bags of galleons.  All we have to do is walk into Diagon Alley to collect them.  They claim it's unsafe for them to convey any vault contents outside of Gringotts at this time,” Bill Weasley said.

“More evidence they're on You-Know-Who's side,” Diggory grunted.  “We'd damn well better pull all the Ministry gold out of there when this is over,” said Diggory.

“Which would set off a rebellion,” Bill returned.

“Which is why we should never bank with them in the first place,” Diggory growled.

“Which is why every settlement agreement since the 1500's has required us to do exactly that.  Gold is leverage,” said Bill.

“Five hundred year old problems aren't on the agenda today, gentlemen.  Today's problems are quite enough,” Shacklebolt cut in.  “We have the forces that we have.  We haven't the money to rent an army, and we couldn't trust that army even if we had the money.”

“And so you move forward without sufficient personnel?  Will you consider it a victory if no one is left standing on either side?” snapped Blake.

Shacklebolt looked him dead in the eyes and said flatly, “If Voldemort is dead, then the answer is yes.”

“I say...” Blake mumbled.

“We haven't the luxury to wait for Canada, I'm afraid.  The Muggles aren't going to let this go on until mid-August,” Shacklebolt continued. “I've met with the Prime Minister and he's made that clear. They don't know where Hogwarts is located exactly, but they have a fair idea. Tell me this, Blake – do you know how high the Muggle aversion charms extend above the castle?”

“How high? What, do you expect them to ride in on brooms?” Blake scoffed.

“No, I expect them to ride in on aeroplanes and drop bombs atop us until they hit something!” Shacklebolt shouted. “Hermione, do you want to explain to Mr. Blake precisely what a Muggle bomb can do?”

“What sort of bomb?” Hermione asked.

“The PM said, and I quote, 'We'll turn the Highlands to glass if that's what it takes to convince you',” recounted Shacklebolt.

“My God... he wouldn't seriously use nuclear weapons on his own country?” Hermione gasped.

“He would, and he'd blame it on those terrorist chaps – you know, the IRS?” Shacklebolt said.

“It was the IRA, I'm sure, but I doubt he'd blame a group native to the country.  Even the thought of nuclear weapons... Mr. Blake, they could easily reduce Hogwarts and everything for miles around it to to a pile of ash,” explained Hermione.

“Pish-tosh,” Blake said; “Next you'll be telling me that their muskets can hit us here from London.”

Hermione groaned and then told him, “Muskets were used hundreds of years ago, and Muggle missiles can hit any target on Earth.”

“This is nonsense, like those stories about Muggles travelling to the Moon,” chuckled Blake.

“They did that in 1969,” Hermione sighed.

“She's telling the truth, Bert,” Mr. Macmillan said. “An atomic bomb can lay flat an entire city the size of London. It happened twice during the War with Grindelwald. Even without those things, think of what the Muggles did to German cities. Have you ever spoken to any wizards from Dresden?”

“Surely Grindelwald burned Dresden,” Blake insisted.

“Nuclear weapons are quite real.  Clearly you have much to learn about the capabilities of the larger world,” Pedersen said flatly.

“The PM also knows exactly where the Ministry is, thanks to Scrimgeour, and he's willing to bomb that as well.  Apparently they have something smaller than what you've described but enough to collapse the entire facility,” Shacklebolt added.

“If they were to somehow disrupt the Department of Mysteries...” Blake shuddered.

“What would happen if the Room of Magical Energies exploded?” his colleague Calloway wondered aloud.

After a long silence, Gudrun said quietly, “No one could give a certain answer to your question.  This 'magical energy', as you call it, can be asked to generate heat that melts copper and force that diverts the flow of a small volcano.  When there is nothing asked of it, grœð responds to the world in equal and opposite measure.”

“You're saying that there would be a second explosion equal to the first, then,” Calloway confirmed.

Hermione said, “Equal and opposite.  If the government's explosion would create a 200 foot deep hole, more or less...”

Calloway offered, “Without taking expansion charms into account, the Ministry building is 418 feet high, 230 feet wide and 377 feet deep.”

“The explosion caused by this bomb is supposed to destroy or render useless a volume of more than thirty-six million cubic feet.  It seems likely that this bomb would explode in or above the level closest to the surface.  If the reaction is equal and opposite, and this bomb is supposed to affect the space beneath it, then it follows that a thirty-six million cubic foot space above the building would be affected by a second explosion,” Luna said as though she were describing the weather.

Blake scoffed, “This is nonsense.  No Muggle machine – ”

Shacklebolt cut him off, “That's enough, Mr. Blake.  You're just going to have to trust that this is a very real threat.  If Miss Lovegood is right – and thank you for speaking up, by the way – then the buildings above the Ministry would be hit from below.”

Luna chimed in, “The result would be a hole several hundred feet deep and several hundred feet wide, partially filled with debris.”

“There would be no hiding that from the Muggles,” Diggory said.

Mr. Macmillan gave a rueful laugh and said, “No hiding it?  The Muggles travel underground, they run the sources of their power through underground tubes – gas and such.  There would be fires, perhaps thousand of deaths outside of the Ministry...”

Calloway spoke up, “There would also be the magical effects to consider.  Every ward stone and rune stone inside the Ministry would be disturbed in the span of a few seconds.  I have no idea what the effect would be when every ward collapsed simultaneously, other than to say it would be very, very bad.”

“When I was in Egypt, a goblin crew accidentally collapsed the ward scheme surrounding an ancient tomb.  I'd say that the tomb was probably one hundred feet in all dimensions.  I was standing a half-mile away at the time and my hair was singed,” Bill Weasley told them.

Hermione sank deeper into her chair; she said, “Everyone would think that London had been nuked.  It would be the end of the Statutes for Secrecy, at best.  The implications all across the world... if it led to other weapons being used... I don't even want to think about this.”  

“That's why we attack now – this can't be allowed to happen,” Shacklebolt said. “Now, we've worked up a plan. It involves a four-pronged attack. We'll be sharing information with each group shortly before the actual attacks begin. Bert, Gus, you can go now –”

“There's a way into the Ministry other than the public entry and the Floos,” Blake said quickly.

“You're giving them the back door?  Not that I'm opposed, of course!” Calloway gasped.

“Three of us worked for the Ministry for years,” Mr. Weasley said; “I'm hard pressed to believe that there's a third way into the building.”

“I don't know if it's still accessible,” Blake admitted, “but there's a single-person elevator that leads directly into the Department of Mysteries.” The gathering went silent.

Harry broke the quiet. “Hmm... that changes things, doesn't it?”

ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´

The sound of chanting brought Harry to a stop. It came from a classroom that he didn't remember ever using; then again, he'd had little call to visit the corridor for Muggle Studies, Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. It was a strange, haunting sound – almost mournful. Something about it drew him in. The door to the room was ajar and he moved to peer inside. He caught a glimpse of two women in gossamer robes but couldn't make out faces in the dim candlelight...

“Hello, Harry,” Gudrun said.

He turned toward the hand on his shoulder. “Sorry – I didn't hear you,” he said.

“They probably don't want to be disturbed,” she said. “Runic rituals are complicated things.”

“Runic rituals? What the devil – ?” Harry said, and he headed back toward the door.

“Many people are performing rituals in these last days,” said Gudrun; “There are purification rituals, joining rites, even rituals for those who believe they are about to die. What I hear from that room speaks of a ritual incorporating love.”

“Oh... OH,” Harry said. “Best that I don't interrupt, then... er... that would be... wouldn't want to do that, would I?”

Gudrun said, “There are many forms of love, Harry, but I will leave it to Hermione to explain this.  You and she have your own rituals for love, do you not?”

“Err... I'll just be going now,” Harry said quickly.

Hermione came to their room two hours later, looking drained.

“Hard evening?” Harry asked.

“A difficult one,” she said; “There are so many things to do before the attacks.”

“You don't have to –” Harry started.

“Yes, I do, and you know it,” Hermione cut him off. “What did you do this evening?”

“Manned part of the watch,” he said, “and spent a lot of time thinking about how to get this thing out of my head. I'm on to an idea, but it's a bit out there...”

“Tell me,” she said.

He shook his head and said, “You'll think me an idiot.”

“As if I have any better ideas? I'm at a loss, Harry,” she said.  “Even if it only starts a new line of enquiry... please tell me.”

“All right, but remember, you asked for it,” Harry pointed out. “Here's the thing: if I'm filled up with this grœð that Gudrun's always on about, then more of it shouldn't hurt me.”

“That's a reasonable assumption,” said Hermione. “Go on...”

“There's a room filled with it at the Ministry,” Harry said. “If we're planning to end this there anyway, then why wouldn't I just go for a swim in it? If I already have enough grœð to hold the horcrux at bay on my own, then wouldn't that be enough to finish it off?”

Hermione brightened even as she said, “It... I don't know, it might work... yes, it makes quite a bit of sense, Harry, quite a bit indeed!  I should tell Gudrun this straight away.” She leaned forward and kissed him soundly. Harry kissed her in return, hoping to shut off her idea-of-the-moment.

“You've something different in mind, I take it?” she asked with a smirk.

“Gudrun says a lot of people are doing rituals and other sorts of things, with the attack coming soon,” he said.

“Rituals... really? That's interesting. When did she mention this?” Hermione asked sharply.

“I was walking past the Ancient Runes suite and it was being used. She just happened upon me,” Harry answered.

“It's a good thing she was there, then,” she said. “It's dangerous to interrupt a ritual of almost any sort... especially the sort of rituals people are probably doing right about now.”

“I'd have had my head taken off, I imagine; she said it was a ritual of love,” Harry told her.

“A ritual of... love, you say? Well... that is interesting, isn't it?” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think there's something wrong with love-based rituals?”

“Er... not exactly... it would depend on what was involved...” Harry back-pedalled.

“Some people might say that what we've been up to is a love ritual, wouldn't you agree?” she asked in a way that brooked no argument.

Harry said, “Erm... some people might say that, yeah.  We can call it a ritual if that's what... oi, what did you do to your arm?”  He lightly touched a white dressing wrapped around her bicep.

“Oh, that? It's nothing, honestly. I was clumsy – just a... just a sharp bit of metal, that's all,” Hermione explained quickly.  “Ginny put some salve on it so I won't end up with a scar. Really, it's nothing to worry yourself about.”

“I just wouldn't want to hurt you, that's all,” Harry said.

She smiled indulgently at him. “You'd never do that, not purposely – I know that.” After a long deep breath, she added, “Harry James Potter, I love you with all my mind, heart and soul.”

Her declaration was so formal and so unexpected that he nearly choked. “Erm... really? All of that, eh?” he managed. “I'm not so good with this. You know that I... you know it, right?”

“That you love me, too? Mind, heart and soul?” she asked. He thought she sounded afraid that he didn't.

“Yeah, that – exactly that,” he told her.

She smiled at him in the strangest way but he wasn't about to complain. Then she kissed him, first on the forehead, then on both cheeks, and then full on the lips. With that, the rest of the evening was spoken for.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Into the Breach

ELEVEN

Into the Breach

July 29, 1998      Hogwarts Castle, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

“ REDUCTO! ”

A red beam lanced from Ollivander's elder wand, which bucked in Harry's hand. It left a scar on the large stone he was using for practise, but it was much smaller than the one left by his own combination of holly and phoenix.

Hermione's hand came to rest on his shoulder. “It's still uncomfortable?” she asked.

“Ollivander did say that elder wood and a phoenix feather were meant to fly apart.  This wand feels like it's at war with itself,” Harry returned.

Hermione looked thoughtful at that, and said, “I wonder... what spells have you tried?”

“Everything that came to mind: Reducto , Percussio , Everbero ...” Harry said.

“Curses or hexes, all of them,” said Hermione; “What about charms, or transfigurations? Conjurations, perhaps? You might want to summon something to block a curse, after all, or penetrate magical darkness, or -”

“Right, I get it – try something more on the light side,” Harry cut her off. He brandished the elder wand and casually incanted, “ Lumos .”

“Cancel it! Cancel it!” Hermione shouted.

It took him two tries to stop the charm. In its aftermath, his stone target was bleached completely white. His vision was peppered by yellow spots, and from her swaying Harry figured that Hermione had experienced the same.

“Did you expect that? I didn't expect that,” Harry said sheepishly.

Hermione blinked back tears from the blinding light. “Try something else... something less intense?” she encouraged him.

He didn't consciously think on it – the charm just fell from his mouth: “ Expecto patronum .”

A stag erupted from the elder wand, but it was larger than he recalled. It grew brighter and brighter, and then the halo of light burned away. What remained was a true brown-coloured stag, accurate in every way to the downy hairs on its antlers and the cool dampness of its nose. It walked majestically to Hermione and nuzzled her cheek.

“Is this possible?” Hermione said in astonishment.

On an impulse, Harry flicked his wand and said, “ Orchideous .” He gathered up the spray of flowers that sprung forth and handed them to Hermione. “It isn't just the wand, you know? You did this, too – you're my happy thought,” he said with a grin.

Her eyes went impossibly wide and she enveloped him in the firmest, warmest hug he could imagine. She whispered into his ear that she loved him and promised him a lifetime supply of happy thoughts, and his hold on her became as tight as her hold on him.

Abruptly, she let him go and sprang back; “Harry, you conjured those flowers,” she said.

“Erm... that's right... they're for you...” he said uncertainly.

“No, you're missing it: you conjured those flowers,” she repeated.

“I know that, they're... steady on – the stag's still here!” he said.

“You can hold off a Dementor and keep casting!” she said excitedly.

“That's bloody brilliant!” he said, and broke into a full-on smile. She resumed her hug and then began to kiss him soundly, which was also bloody brilliant as far as he was concerned.

ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´

July 30, 1998       Hogwarts Castle, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

Amos Diggory announced, “We're down to the last group.”

“Be sure that you stay with the plan, Amos,” Shacklebolt said as the two men shook hands.

Diggory turned to Harry; “Harry, I... did we ever thank you properly? You brought Ced back to us, and... did we thank you for it?”

“I wish I could have saved him,” Harry said.

Diggory clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “We all wish things had turned out differently.  Just do your best to survive this, would you?”

“We're going to win,” Harry said firmly; “We're going to win, and that's the important thing.”

“Let's be off, Amos,” Mr. Macmillan said. “We'll follow the plan, Minister: we'll watch and wait, and we'll make for the Faeroes if you aren't in contact within forty-eight hours. We may not like it, but we'll do it.”

“Good man,” said Shacklebolt.

Moments later, the last portkey left Hogwarts for the Shetland Islands. Only those who were fighting to the end, the castle ghosts, and a handful of house elves remained – excepting Hermione, Ron and Gudrun.  Harry hoped Gudrun would be his ally in keeping Hermione and Ron as far from London as possible.  Mr. Weasley hadn't been helpful in that, and all of the Weasley children had reached an age where their mother's loud demands drew grins rather than obedience.  Ginny had steadfastly refused to stand down.  She and a dozen other members of the English resistance would march with the Danish irregulars, now confirmed to be en-route to London, as they created distractions across the city before joining the battle at the Ministry.

Dobby hesitantly tugged at one leg of Harry's trousers. “We is here to help, Harry Potter,” he said.

“You were supposed to follow the portkeys,” Harry said. “You can't stay here after tomorrow. If we don't do our job, Hogwarts won't be safe –”

“We knows this. House-elves hear even when wizards think that they do not,” Dobby returned; “These elves defends their home, and so they helps Harry Potter's friends before they helps the Headmistress and her wards keep the Muggles at bay.”

“They don't have to do this.  What are you going to do, Dobby?” Harry asked.

“Dobby helps the great wizard Harry Potter, of course,” the house-elf said proudly.

Harry thought for a moment, and then said, “I have a special task for you, Dobby. It's very important.”

Dobby could barely contain himself. “Dobby is listening – Dobby awaits his orders, Harry Potter, sir!” he said.

“I need you to keep Hermione away from London,” Harry said. “I don't care what you have to do – you need to keep her away from there, as far as you can.”

Dobby's face fell and he began to tug on his ears. “Dobby would like to be helping Harry Potter...” he mumbled.

“I need you to do this, Dobby,” Harry said firmly.

“Harry Potter's Miss Granger knows Harry Potter very well,” Dobby said nervously. “Miss Granger already asks Dobby to swear that Dobby helps her to help Harry Potter, no matter what Harry Potter says.”

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. “I suppose you agreed to this?” he confirmed.

“Dobby – wants to helps Harry Potter – and – and – Harry Potter's Miss Granger wants to helps Harry Potter – so Dobby promises to helps Miss Granger –” the house elf stammered, even as he collected a stray chunk of masonry and began to wave it toward his own forehead.

Harry said quickly, “Stop! You meant well and that's what matters, isn't it? Look... when the fighting starts, could you and your friends take our wounded to safety?”

Dobby clapped his hands excitedly and said, “Oh! Dobby and the other house-elves can be doing that! The old families – the ones pure of blood – they are never setting wards to stop the come and go of the house-elves. We are beneath their thinking. The Ministry wards are not blocking us.”

“Brilliant – we'll be counting on you,” Harry said.

Dobby puffed out his chest and assured him, “Dobby will not fail.”

Shacklebolt gave Harry's shoulder a squeeze from behind, and then he lowered himself into a squat. “You and your counterparts may save many lives tomorrow. I'll thank you in advance for it,” he said to Dobby.

“M-M-Minister... the... Minister... h-he looks Dobby in the eyes and... he gives thanks to house-elves... Dobby is beside hisself, although Dobby cannot be beside hisself, not without there being two Dobbys...” the flummoxed house-elf managed to say.

Shacklebolt laughed softly before he said, “I need you to serve as the central point of contact with the other elves. You will lead them in their duties. Can you do this?”

Dobby bore himself up and said, “Dobby will speak for the others.  Dobby is honoured.”

“Harry, we need to be off,” Shacklebolt said; “I want to reach our destination before night falls.”

“If I call for you, will you be able to find me?” Harry asked Dobby.

“Dobby will always be finding Harry Potter,” the house-elf assured him.

Harry turned to Shacklebolt and began, “I'm almost ready... just wanted to check with Professor McGonagall before we – good lord, Professor, could you make some noise or something ?”  McGonagall let forth with uncharacteristic and unrestrained laughter.  Shacklebolt gave a toothy grin.

“I would offer an apology, Harry, but as I believe honesty to be the best policy... well, I shall only say that I am at your service,” the spectral Headmistress said at last.

“I just wanted to be sure that you were ready to lock down the wards,” Harry said tersely.

McGonagall's expression soured instantly.  “All of the preparations were completed several hours ago.  The rune clusters do seem to respond to my commands, but I remain concerned that once locked, the wards may remain permanently in that state,” she said.

“That won't happen,” Harry said without a flicker of doubt.

Shacklebolt cut in, “Malachi York and his son both shared the same concern, Harry, and they're the most accomplished ward masters I know.”

Harry sighed, “They spent an hour trying to prove that Rowena Ravenclaw was wrong about the wards that she designed.  Brilliant blokes, I'm sure, but still...”

“In fairness to Malachi, he was suggesting that the wards have changed over the centuries.  They're twice as old as any other warding scheme in Britain, you know?” Shacklebolt countered.

“It isn't that he can't explain why the wards respond to Professor McGonagall, it's that there isn't an explanation he's willing to accept.  Ward damage is an excuse, and nothing more,” Harry said.

Shacklebolt sighed and squeezed Harry's shoulder in parental fashion.  “It does my heart good to see you stretching, and I mean that - you're more than just a dab hand with a wand, and don't forget that.  So, please understand that I'm not trying to patronise you, but these may be the most complex wards in the world and right now they indicate that the Headmistress is alive.  Goodness knows I wish that were true –”

“That's just it, Kingsley: they're not really that complex.  I mean, the Yorks acted like they thought the wards were intelligent or something.  It's just layers of intention.  Ravenclaw laid it out clearly enough for a simple bloke like me, so they've no reason to be confused about it.  I think maybe they know too much; they're getting in their own way.  The wards aren't broken – we know the active defences are working.  That means there's a reason why the Professor meets their test.  We just have to trust the lock-down, and that's all there is to it,” Harry insisted.

“This is not a small error, Harry, and Mr. York is correct to take it as a sign of additional errors,” McGonagall said archly.

“Are the Heads bound to Hogwarts?” Harry asked her.

“By blood oath, of course,” she answered.

“Was there something more than that?  You're still here, Professor – you had unfinished business, right?  When you were... um, struck down...?  You were trying to evacuate the castle.  You sacrificed yourself, didn't you?  Where were you when it happened?  Were you near the rune seals at the entrance?  Did you make an extra oath?” he pressed.

McGonagall's eyes lost their silvery lustre.  She said, “I was at the keystone... Pomona needed more time to trap the dungeons, and if we were going to die, then we were bloody well going to take as many of them with us as we could.  Filius attempted to raise the interior wards.  It hadn't been done in five hundred years and we didn't have Madam Ravenclaw's notes... but I doubt it would have mattered.  The power requirements were far greater than either of us would have guessed.  I made the blood sacrifice instead of Filius... I had hoped it would protect him, but of course it did not.  The wards... they drained him, it was horrifying...”

“So you made a second blood oath to Hogwarts, directly on the keystone?” Shacklebolt confirmed.

McGonagall said, “Not in so many words, but Harry did point out the importance of intention.”

“What happened next?” Harry asked.

She explained, “From there, I made my way to the entry.  Hagrid was leading the last students through the Forbidden Forest and it was my hope to give them at least a half-hour free of pursuit.  Pomona and I fought a group of Death Eaters to a standstill.  The house-elves could not inflict direct harm, but they could and did make it very difficult for their opponents.  It was about then when we realised that Filius had been partly successful.  The courtyard was completely sealed from the rest of the castle.  Anyone could enter, but no one could leave without being obliterated.  Pomona and I decided to confine as many Death Eaters as possible.  Unfortunately, I lost my footing in an exchange and was caught in my own trap, alone in the courtyard with a hundred Death Eaters.  Though I am loathe to admit it, transfiguration can only get you so far.  After a few minutes, I was downed and bleeding.”

“So why didn't you drop the wards and take a runner?” Harry asked.

“I had no intention of yielding one hundred or more fighters back to Voldemort.  Once I knew that survival was no longer an option, my choices were rather stark.  You have heard of Fiendfyre, of course?” she said.

“Oh, Minerva, you didn't...” Shacklebolt murmured.

“However well versed in the spell those Death Eaters may have been, none of them considered the consequences of incapacitating the caster whilst the Fiendfyre was still loosed.  No one left that courtyard alive.  A few minutes after that, I found myself in the entry once again and the wards and defences remained at my command,” she finished.

Harry said, “So why are you surprised?  First you took a blood oath to serve Hogwarts, then you offered a blood sacrifice to raise more wards, and then you sacrificed your life to protect the place.  We know that can raise some awfully powerful magic that's hard to explain – like what my mum did, right?  You are the wards' intentions, Professor!  The wards may not be intelligent or aware or what-have-you, but the layers of intention Ravenclaw mentioned are a lot like the Sorting Hat.  I can't imagine they've been able to trust anyone this much since the Founders were here.  Lock the place down.  I trust you to open it up again.”

McGonagall looked into his eyes for far longer than was comfortable.  At last, she said, “Then it is only fair that I trust in you , Mr. Potter.  Go.  End this.  We will be waiting.”

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July 30, 1998     near Heathrow, Surrey, England

“Merlin's balls...” Harry muttered.

“Hard to wrap one's head around,” said Fred from one side of him.

“We've been here a half dozen times, and it doesn't get any easier,” George chimed in from the other side.

“Let's not tarry,” Shacklebolt said. The four had apparated into a row of warehouses used for air freight. It was a mile to the designated Heathrow apparation point, which in turn was a short walk from the airport's railway station.

The signs of magical warfare were all around. Harry could see evidence that the cargo terminal had been attacked by giants. There were few commercial aircraft in evidence; military planes and armed soldiers were everywhere, it seemed.

“Make certain your identification badges are clearly displayed,” Shacklebolt told Harry; “Expect that everyone will be acting in a panic.”

Harry checked for the three badges attached to his military-issue jacket. As they came around a large warehouse, he saw a burned-out British Airways jet in several pieces strewn across an adjacent road. There were huge guns stationed atop several buildings in the area, and...

“Are those missiles ?” he blurted out.

Fred inclined his head toward the remains of the plane. “There were dragons,” he said.

“All the Muggles see are flames and explosions,” Shacklebolt explained. “They figure that other Muggles are firing weapons from what they call 'stealth' aircraft. I actually considered fully revealing ourselves to their military. If we'd had enough wizards on our side, we could have stationed them to watch for dragons and giants and the like.”

The station itself was a virtual armed camp. At least half of those awaiting the train were soldiers. No one could get on or off a train without a thorough screening and proper identification. Even the badges Shacklebolt had obtained from the PM's office drew close scrutiny.

The intelligence officer attached to the station was summoned. He looked Harry, Fred and George up and down, and said to Shacklebolt, “They seem a bit young for this sort of thing. What's your business in London, exactly?”

“Official Secrets Act – it's need-to-know, sir,” Shacklebolt said.

“I'm sorry, sir... but with things as they are, I do indeed need to know,” the officer countered.

Shacklebolt let out a long-suffering sigh and flipped over his badge. “Call this number,” he said; “It's a secure communications line at Ten Downing. Ask for Pamela Barnes at Tango Two-Eight-Zed.”

The officer hesitated for a moment. “I do recognise the number, Mr. Shackleton,” he said, and proceeded to call it on a mobile phone. “Pamela Barnes at Tango Two-Eight-Zed, please... this is Lt. Robert Troxel calling from Heathrow Station, authorisation Five-Three-Bravo-Four-Two-Alpha. I have a Mr. Shackleton and three associates; they're displaying Delta Six identification... yes, I'll hold... thank you... Yes, sir, this is – ”

The lieutenant's eyebrows climbed nearly to his hairline. “Sir! I... yes, sir, that's a fair description... I... I don't mean to be forward, sir, but I'll have to ask you for the proper authorisation... yes... thank you, sir, I'm simply trying to... thank you, sir, I... yes, sir, I... I'm not certain that's possible, given... no, of course we wish to... yes, sir, I understand... we'll do our level best to meet that, sir!”

Shacklebolt crooked an eyebrow and asked, “Well...?”

“My apologies, Mr. Shackleton,” the lieutenant said; “I didn't intend to hinder you -”

Shacklebolt waved him off. “Better safe than sorry, Lieutenant,” he said.

The lieutenant rapidly dialled a number on his mobile, and barked, “This is Troxel. I'm declaring a Red Twenty-two, repeat, a Red Twenty-Two. No, this isn't a sodding drill. Red Twenty-two, immediately!”

Moments later, the speakers throughout the station crackled, and a voice announced, “Attention, ladies and gentlemen – attention, please. Train number 238, arriving in two minutes, has been declared an express. Repeating, train number 238, arriving in two minutes, has been declared an express. There will be no stops between this station and King's Cross. Train number 248, arriving in twelve minutes, will follow the normal timetable. Our apologies for any inconvenience.”

The lieutenant waved over an enlisted man, and ordered, “Take these men to the first car when 238 arrives, and then ride with the engineer to King's Cross. No other passengers are to be allowed on that car. You will ensure that they are allowed off the train before the rest of the passengers, and that they pass efficiently through security. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Godspeed, Mr. Shackleton... gentlemen,” the lieutenant said.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Fred muttered as they made their way down the platform.

“Perks of the office,” Shacklebolt returned; “Thank the stars Scrimgeour put me with the PM last year. I didn't intend to be this conspicuous, though. Stay sharp, boys.”

Even the interior of the car was vastly changed from what Harry recalled. Seats had been removed at each end, to be replaced by small cabins made of clear plastic; he could only assume that they were stations for armed guards. The normal jumble of station guides and placards were replaced by signs such as “MIND YOUR BELONGINGS” and “REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS ITEMS” and “ALL CONVERSATIONS ARE BEING MONITORED FOR YOUR PROTECTION”.

The enlisted man left them with a daily tabloid whose banner headline read: “BRITAIN SOLDIERS ON”. It was filled with reports of explosions and disappearances and failing power grids and mandatory evacuations and the ongoing efforts to contain the 'foreign terrorists' who were laying siege to the heart of England.

George shook his head sadly and said, “They've no idea - no idea at all, the poor blighters.” For his part, Fred seized the paper from Harry and promptly turned to the third page.

The train raced toward London much faster than Harry recalled from his few experiences. Not once were they routed to a siding nor did they ever slow until reaching King's Cross. Within five minutes of arriving at the station, they were at the pavement. The enlisted man tried to arrange a troop transport for them, but they begged off and made their way as quickly as possible to the nearest close. After three quick and apparently random side-along apparations, Harry found himself in Knightsbridge and within sight of Harrod's, its doors shuttered and windows shattered. From there, the four wizards walked down a littered and vacant side road to Sloane Street and toward their destination, the heavily barricaded Embassy of Denmark.

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July 30, 1998      Embassy of Denmark, City of London

A half-dozen soldiers stood warily behind concrete barriers and two armoured vehicles were at the ready. The soldiers' weapons were aimed squarely at the wizards from the time they came into view. As they drew within a hundred feet, one of the soldiers barked out in accented English, “Who are you? What are you doing in this place?”

Shacklebolt raised his hands and returned, “My name is Kingsley Shackleton. My associates and I have an appointment with your Political Section.”

“The Political Section? Is this some sort of joke? Look around you!” the soldier snapped.

“That doesn't change the facts, sir. We're here to meet with Mr. Twing,” said Shacklebolt.

A second soldier said, “Approach slowly. Please keep your hands visible. If you... make any unexpected movements, we will fire. Do you understand this?”

“Raise your hands, gentlemen,” Shacklebolt said to Harry and the twins.

As they reached the barrier, a soldier emerged from the front door accompanied by a young man – perhaps the twins' age at most – dressed in a polo shirt and casual trousers. The young man's voice was strong and his accented English hinted at both Nordic heritage and an upper-crust education. “Kingsley, old boy – splendid to see you once again,” he said to Shacklebolt.

Shacklebolt said, “Gentlemen, this is Anders Twing, Deputy to the Ministry of the State of Denmark. His office handles special affairs not covered under the other Danish ministries –”

Twing cut him off, “I deal with Faeroe Islands issues, contacts with the mass media, that sort of thing. Let's move inside for further introductions; I'm told the looters rarely come out in the daytime, but we've no reason to test it.”

They were met shortly after entering the Embassy by an older man in a crisply tailored suit. Twing introduced him, “This is Mikael Jacobson, the Danish ambassador to the United Kingdom.”

Mr. Jacobson chuckled and said, “Technically, I am the charges d'affaires ad interim for the Kingdom of Denmark's diplomatic mission to the United Kingdom. The Prime Minister and the Minister of Foreign Affairs recalled much of our delegation to Copenhagen when hostilities broke out. I drew the short straw, as one might say.”

Shacklebolt returned, “My name is Kingsley Shackleton. I'm attached to the Office of the Prime Minister. These are my associates, Mr. Evans, Mr. Prewett and Mr. Prewett.”

“And you represent one of the special affairs under Anders' portfolio?” Mr. Jacobson asked.

“It would seem so, Mr. Jacobson,” said Shacklebolt.

Mr. Jacobson said, “Very good. My wife's parents are... associated with your community. I do not know the precise nature of your mission, nor do I need to know. At the direction of the Prime Minister of Denmark and at the request of the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, this delegation and all of its resources are at your disposal.” With that, he shook hands with each of them and headed to a bank of lifts.

Twing led them down a corridor to a spartan conference room where nine wizards and seven witches awaited. “We lost two of our company in Scotland. These Death Eaters are, ehh, bad business,” he said.

Shacklebolt looked around the room slowly and then said, “My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt and I am the Minister for Magic-in-exile of England and Scotland. My associates are Fred and George Weasley, and Harry Potter.”

At mention of Harry's name, everyone stood and began applauding. Harry said uncomfortably, “Please... please... Kingsley's the hero in the room. He and... and Remus Lupin and many others... they've saved thousands of lives...”

One of the witches, who was somewhere around Shacklebolt's age, shook her head and said, “Mr. Potter, you are the hope of the Nordic countries against, ehh... konge i endeligt . The world forgets what he and his did to our brothers and sisters, but our memories are long. You saved all of us the last time. This time the English joined him or were exiled. You remained. If we can aid you in defeating him a second time, then this is what we do.”

Twing said to his Danish comrades, “Mr. Shacklebolt is the Minister-in-exile because his predecessor was a traitor. This is why few details will be shared until the time comes. Others will be arriving over the next several hours, some here and some at other locations. Mr. Jacobson's staff has assured me that this evening's meal will be one to remember. Rest while you can. The next twenty-four hours will be the most difficult of our lives, but know this: our English brothers and sisters will be free before tomorrow's sunset! Dismissed.” Each of the Danes moved to shake hands with all four Englishmen before departing the room.

Shacklebolt sat down slowly, almost painfully; Harry could see the months of fatigue on his face. He had stopped shaving his head, which left him with closely cropped and heavily receding steel-grey hair. “What happened – were you ambushed?” he asked Twing.

“I believe that your man Dawlish must have communicated our plans,” Twing said.

Shacklebolt returned, “Dawlish was already dead when we decided that this was a go. That means we've another mole somewhere.”

Without a conscious thought, Harry blurted out, “It's Blake.” Shacklebolt's mouth dropped open and first Fred then George let their faces fall into their hands.

Twing asked, “Is that the fellow from Ministry intelligence? What did you call it... ehh... Mysteries?”

Shacklebolt didn't answer him; instead he asked Harry, “How do you know it's Blake?”

Harry tried to explain, “I don't know for certain... I just know. Something's not right about him. He's a good Occlumens – I suppose all of the Unspeakables have to be – but he's still giving off something . I just didn't put it together until now.”

Shacklebolt didn't bother to bring up that Harry had no business using Legilimancy without legal authority. “Could he be under the Imperius curse?” he wondered aloud.

Harry said, “No. The Imperius has a certain... feel about it inside a person's mind.”

“He could be under coercion, Kingsley. Perhaps they have his family...?” Twing offered.

“He could also be a bloodsucking arse-faced traitor,” Fred pointed out.

Shacklebolt asked “Harry... how certain are you? Decisions have to be made, and right quick ones at that.”

Harry mulled it over for a moment before he said, “It's eighty percent that he's on the wrong side.”

“So what can be done about this?  Your traitor, where is he?” Twing asked.

Shacklebolt pulled out a worn leather book and consulted the pages before he said, “He should be at Iceland's embassy by now.  I wanted the Guardians to watch him.  It wasn't that I thought he was a traitor... figured him for deadweight in a fight, honestly.”

Harry grumbled, “Before we do anything else, we're going to sit here and have a nice chat without any food or drink for the next sixty minutes.  We've gotten careless, all of us.”

“Fair enough – it's for the best to know that we're in fact ourselves,” Shacklebolt agreed.

Fred and George said in unison, “Exploding Snap, anyone?”

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July 31, 1998     Embassy of Iceland, City of London

“Sorry for the unexpectedness of it, but it's for the best this way,” Shacklebolt said.

“B-but to go in the middle of the night? Surely you realise the state of things? It's dangerous enough that you've divided the few people we have into groups and spread them all over who-knows-where.  I don't know why you put Calloway and myself with these... these barbarians .  Beyond all of that, we've the Muggles to fear as much as the Dark Lord's men, as these people tell it,” Bertram Blake protested.

Harry explained, “We need to safeguard the contents of the Department of Mysteries without blowing up half of London. When do you think that will be easier – when the Ministry is full of people, or when the Ministry is nearly empty?”

Blake snapped, “That's not the point, boy! When the Ministry is nearly empty, it's riddled with alarm wards. There's a good chance that I'll set something off the moment that I leave the lift.”

“Then we'll just have to go with Plan C,” Harry said with a shrug.

Blake's eyebrows rose. “Plan C...? There is more than one plan?” he asked.

“Blake, there are plans within plans this time. We operated with a single plan before and Dawlish betrayed us. We can't have that happen again,” said Shacklebolt.

Magnus, who had arrived along with the other Icelanders an hour earlier, said, “Very well. We have divided into three groups as planned. We will leave at 2:00 AM. Blake, you will come with us. We will arrive five minutes ahead of the second group in order to secure the area. Mr. Potter's group will come next, followed by Mr. Shacklebolt's group. By your leave, I will go and see to my men.”

“Carry on, Magnus,” Shacklebolt said.

Blake said, “Two in the morning... I should try and rest a little, I suppose. Where might I...?”

Magnus said over his shoulder, “The chaplain's office is available.”

“Get some rest, Blake,” Shacklebolt said.

As soon as the Unspeakable was out of earshot, Harry asked, “How long should we wait?”

Shacklebolt said, “He'll crack inside of two minutes.”

“Ten galleons on that?” Harry asked.

Shacklebolt let out a low rumbling laugh and said, “Ten galleons, on two minutes or less.”

“Are you certain about the wards?” Harry asked him.

“Magnus swears that he won't be able to get any sort of message outside without permission,” Shacklebolt returned.

“Well... he's been in there for thirty seconds... fancy a look?” Harry said with a smirk.

The window set into the door of the chaplain's office had been spelled opaque. Harry dropped an Extendable Ear into the space beneath the door, and a moment later they could hear Blake's voice: “Plans have changed, the first group leaves at 2:00 AM and I'll be with them. Potter will arrive five minutes after we do.  I will come down first and signal all clear.”

“Shite,” Harry grumbled.

“I'm sure you're good for the galleons,” Shacklebolt said; “You open the door, and I'll take him.”

When the door opened, Blake was staring in confusion at his patronus, a small bird of some sort. It bumped against the outer window, circled the room, then bumped against the window again and continued the cycle.

“Drop your wand NOW,” Shacklebolt boomed.

Harry looked at the frustrated silvery bird and said, “Shouldn't it be a rat, Blake?”

“Th-they've got my wife and granddaughter,” Blake moaned.

Shacklebolt said in a flat voice, “They sealed my wife in our own home and burned her to death. It was because I wouldn't join Voldemort's Auror Corps. They were five minutes ahead of me, and so she died. If I had it to do over again, I would still tell them no.” Harry hadn't known that Shacklebolt had a wife. The man was so even-tempered that Harry would never have guessed he'd suffered such a horrible loss.

Blake started, “But they promised –”

Shacklebolt said, “They lied, Blake; it's what they do. Your family is either dead, or soon will be once you turn us over.”

“What am I supposed to do...?” Blake asked plaintively.

Harry felt the same something coming from Blake. He quickly raised his wand and barked, “ Legilimens! ”

Blake tried to avert his eyes but wasn't fast enough. Harry wasn't a particularly capable Legilimancer, but Hermione had helped him to master a brute-force technique that was effective in a pinch. Because the Unspeakable was unprepared, Harry was able to gain the toehold that he needed. He probed hard enough to make the man's nose bleed.

“Back off, Harry! We still need him!” Shacklebolt snapped. Harry released the man from the spell and promptly punched him as hard as he could manage. Blake buckled and fell to the floor.

Harry planted his foot on Blake's chest and demanded, “Where's your mark?  If I have to look for it, you're not going to like it very much!” Blake glanced toward his left foot. Harry slipped off the man's boot and found the small death's-head tattoo near his ankle.

“I've changed my mind. We don't need you at all,” Shacklebolt growled.

“How long have you been spying?” Harry asked.

“You – can't – possibly – win – ” Blake ground out.

“Veritaserum resistance, a long tenure in the Department of Mysteries... do you go all the way back to Rookwood?” Shacklebolt demanded.

Blake spat blood and managed to say, “Go – to – hell –”

Harry asked Shacklebolt, “Who are you right now, Kingsley? Are you an Auror and Minister, or are you a fighter? I need to know.”

Shacklebolt put on an alarming smile, enough to make Blake squirm on the floor. “He's earned whatever you're planning,” Shacklebolt said.

Harry pointed his wand at Blake once again, and incanted, “ Imperio .” Blake struggled and writhed for nearly a minute before his body went slack.

“Get up,” Harry said, and Blake clambered to his feet.

“Tell me how you were going to signal all clear,” Harry asked.

“I was to cast my patronus as a message,” Blake said absently.

Harry asked, “What was supposed to happen after that?”

Blake said, “Your group would come down one person at a time. They would cast the Imperius curse on each of you in turn and have you cast your own patronus as the all-clear signal.”

“How large a group are they expecting?” Harry asked him.

“Between six and twelve,” said Blake.

Harry asked, “When are we expected?”

Blake said, “Any time between six in the evening today and six in the evening tomorrow.”

“They'll guard the lift that whole time?” asked Harry.

“Yes,” Blake said. Shacklebolt cursed under his breath at that.

Harry asked Shacklebolt, “What do I do with him now? Can I make him sleep or something?”

“Yes, tell him to sleep until you come to wake him up,” Shacklebolt said.

After Blake was soundly asleep, Harry asked, “How much trouble will I be in for this?”

“If Magnus is right and this place was concealed from all of the Ministry's detectors, then even before the ware there wouldn't have been a record of the spell.  Even if he's wrong, the truth is that we'll have to deactivate whatever is left of the detection grid and start over again after the Ministry's re-taken,” said Shacklebolt with a sly grin.

“That's a relief,” Harry admitted.

Shacklebolt told him seriously, “Harry, there will be a blanket pardon for anything our people have to do to finish this.  It's rather obvious that wasn't the first time you've cast Imperio on someone. This isn't about a few Aurors trying to prevent a crime. We're at war, and if we don't end it in the next 24 hours then it could engulf the entire world. Just promise me that you'll try to do the right thing for the right reasons.”

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July 31, 1998      Holborn, City of London

Harry sat between the Icelandic Guardians Magnus and Einar inside the Danes' armoured vehicle. The driver had been chatty as they prepared to get under way, so Harry knew that he was riding in a 'Saracen' that the embassy had procured from British army surplus when the situation in London started to go pear-shaped. It was a tight fit, made tighter by the protective vest that the soldiers guarding the Danish embassy insisted he wear. The Weasley twins and another Icelander sat across from him; the twins were wearing black ski masks that brought to mind bank robbers. Shacklebolt sat up front beside the driver. The imperiused Bertram Blake was at the back, sitting next to George with his hands and feet bound together as a precaution. A second Danish soldier was also at the back, manning a gun turret through a roof hatch.

Harry's vest was well pocketed, and he felt across the front of it to check the ease of opening the various zippers and Velcro closures. He was well stocked courtesy of the twins: Peruvian instant darkness powder, Gibbering Gobstones, Silly Smokescreens, Belch Bombs, and some silver spheres about which he only knew that 'it's best that you don't know – just throw them as far as you can and then duck'. The Danish soldiers had gifted him with four devices that they called 'flash-bangs'; the instructions weren't all that different than those provided by the twins. He only hoped that he wouldn't be weighed down by the vest and unable to manage in a magical fight.

The Danish driver had skirted around a half-dozen improvised barriers in a drive of less than two miles. They had been fired upon several times by roaming people with guns. Looters and gangs ruled the London nights now that most people had fled the centre city. They passed untouched through a Death Eater checkpoint on High Holborn, just after Harry spotted a giant smashing holes in the street-front of the Holborn Bars with its bare hands.

Shacklebolt glanced out through a shielded side window. “I don't like how open this is going to be, not at all,” he said; “Are you certain he's still under the Imperius?”

Harry thought for a moment and then said, “Mr. Blake, hold your arms out in front of you, please.” After more than a minute, his arms were still in place without so much as a quiver.

“Good enough,” said Shacklebolt.

“Mr. Blake, put your arms down, please. Where is the Department of Mysteries' private lift located?”

Blake said, “At the base of Prince Albert's statue in the centre of Holborn Circus,” which was exactly the same thing he'd said more than an hour prior.

Shacklebolt once again took out the detailed map of the lift landing and the entry to the Department of Mysteries that the imperiused Blake had been made to draw. “Are you certain you want to do it this way, Magnus?” he confirmed for the fourth time.

“I threw off the curse that controls the mind in three seconds, four seconds faster than did Mr. Potter. If the þræll do not act as we expect, then I will kill them,” Magnus said as though it would be nothing.

A hail of bullets rained against the side of the Saracen, and everyone – even Magnus and the imperiused Blake – instinctively ducked. The Danish driver let forth a string of agitated words that Harry didn't need to understand in order to get the point. For his part, the Danish gunner let forth a barrage so intense that it looked like a stream of liquid fire slicing through the darkness; the heat from the gun quickly soaked into the Saracen's cabin.

Blake asked with a tremor in his voice, “Are those muskets ?”

“These are the new and improved muskets, Blake – welcome to the 20th century,” Shacklebolt said.

“It is intense tonight,” the driver called back to them; “The Swedes are coming in two APCs and the Norwegians are also on their way. We should be able to give a few minutes of cover, but there are no guarantees.”

“I'll settle for your best efforts,” said Shacklebolt.

Just then, the driver slammed onto the brake pedal as hard as he could manage. He let loose with another incoherent burst of Danish, broken at last by a bit of English: “ What the hell is that? Shoot it! Shoot it! ”

A troll swung its club into the front of the Saracen with all its might. The Danish gunner seemed paralysed, until Harry struck his leg and shouted, “ Shoot it, for God's sake! ” Startled back into his senses by the gunfire, the driver backed up several feet and then ran square into the badly wounded troll.

Shacklebolt snapped, “Damn it, there are more of them!” He turned to the driver and went on, “Listen, you're going to see things you've never imagined before. Have you ever heard the term 'black ops'? Good.  This is as black as an operation can be.  You'll be treated as if you've gone mad if you ever breathe a word of it. As soon as you reach the statue, park and we'll get out.  We'll be using the vehicle as cover for a few minutes.  When reinforcements arrive, you will leave here and return to the Danish Embassy.  Do you understand?”

Both the driver and the gunner managed to press on, although the driver nearly clipped the statue of Prince Albert as he slid sideways to a stop. Somehow both Magnus and Einar were out before Harry could even get up from his seat. George took Blake by the arm and hauled him out. The three Icelanders immediately began to take on the trolls, along with Fred.

Harry ordered Blake, “Bring up the lift, please.”

“I will need my wand,” Blake said.

Harry held out the Unspeakable's wand and said, “You can only use it to bring up the lift, and nothing else.”

Blake said, “I understand,” and he proceeded to tap the base of the statue in a complex pattern. A small rune stone emerged, which he charged via a quickly muttered spell. A section of the concrete pad that surrounded the statue's base opened, and a lift rose into view. It looked to be made of steel plating. The door opened in the same fashion as a Muggle lift. Harry peered into the cabin, which was perhaps large enough for two persons. The walls were mirrored and there was a hatch in the ceiling.

“Did someone nick this from a Muggle building?” Harry asked Blake.

“The cabin was once part of a Muggle lift. It was put into service here twenty-one years ago. That is all I know of it,” said Blake.

Harry ducked to avoid some stray spellfire, and then stayed down as gunfire pinged off the far side of the parked Saracen. Blake flattened himself against the concrete and remained there.

Magnus worked his way back to the relative safety of Harry's side of the armoured vehicle. “I do not like trolls,” he said matter-of-factly; “Are you ready to send him down?”

Harry said, “Mr. Blake, get into the lift and go down into the Department of Mysteries. Follow the Death Eater plan just like you told us it's supposed to happen. You can use your wand to protect yourself from the Death Eaters, but you can't use it against any of us.”

Blake stood up, straightened his robes and stepped into the lift. “I will follow the plan. Wait for my signal,” he said. The concrete closed up behind the lowering lift, and there was nothing left but to wait and to keep from being shot.

ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´

Augustus Rookwood held his wand at the ready. The private lift to the Department of Mysteries was on its way down, just as his protege Blake had planned. Rookwood wished he had more experienced fighters just for an extra edge of protection if things went pear-shaped, but the five Ministry regulars were all he was allotted. His Master, Bellatrix Lestrange and others awaited deeper in the Department's labyrinth of rooms. Either Rookwood would make good on his pledge to bring them Potter and his minions, or they would deal with Potter themselves. However, this was an engagement Rookwood intended to win.

Blake had been Rookwood's sleeper agent in the Department for nearly two decades. He was entrenched so deeply that he had been able to penetrate the resistance's deepest secrets for months. Dawlish was an easy sacrifice in the service of keeping his true agent in place. Now, Rookwood would return to his rightful place in the Master's closest circle. He planned to share a small part of the Dark Lord's favour with Blake – enough to keep the younger man's appetite whetted, but not so much that he might become a threat. A clunking sound echoed through the entry, and the metal doors of the narrow lift slid open.

Bertram Blake emerged, smiling. “Greetings, Augustus,” he said.

“Are we ready?” Rookwood asked him.

Blake's smile did not diminish as he said, “Everything is according to plan.”

Rookwood eyed him askance. “You're pale, Blake. Are you certain nothing's the matter?”

Blake said evenly, “I'm fine, just a bit shaken. Have you been out there? It's madness!”

“It's a glorious madness, though. Soon we'll be ready to begin subjugating the Muggles – bending them to our will once and for all. It will be our Lord's greatest triumph,” Rookwood declared.

“If it's all the same, we should proceed,” Blake said.

“Yes, yes, we wouldn't want them to begin wondering, would we? Carry on, then,” said Rookwood.

Blake cast his bird Patronus skyward and it disappeared through the high ceiling. “And now we wait,” he said tonelessly.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Acts of Last Resort

TWELVE
Acts of Last Resort

July 31, 1998      The Ministry for Magic, City of London

2:03 AM

Einar leant into the lift and opened the inspection hatch in the ceiling. Harry, who sat atop the lift cabin, let his legs dangle through the opening. He was tied to the cabin's frame with an enchanted rope that was also treated with a positionable sticking charm. Several newly arrived Swedes kept him magically shielded as best they could, but the report from the Saracen's gun still made him flinch.

Shacklebolt called up to him, “Be sure to crouch tightly; your head needs to stay beneath that crossarm.”

“No worries – I'd rather keep my head attached, if it's all the same?” Harry returned.

Shacklebolt reminded him, “As soon as the shaft closes above, bring up your feet.”

“We've been over this,” Harry said tersely.

Magnus's patronus emerged from the ground and Shacklebolt stepped into the cabin, which started the lift. As soon as the shaft opening sealed above them, Harry pulled up his feet and sat cross-legged while Shacklebolt shut the hatch. The open hatch had been a precaution in the event that the shaft had been evacuated of air.

Their plan was predicated on Shacklebolt's experience that the Unspeakables were brilliant but were prone to cut corners in areas of little importance to them; security had often been one of those areas, at least in the past. They were gambling on the likelihood that, while the wizards below could probably tell whether one or two people were in the small lift cabin, it was unlikely that they would detect Harry sitting atop the lift.

The lift took the better part of two minutes to reach bottom. Harry heard the lift door open, and then a muffled voice barked out a spell; he was fairly sure that the Imperius Curse had been cast on Shacklebolt. Five seconds after that, there was a barrage of spellfire and the lift shuddered. It suddenly occurred to Harry that the lift might go back up, and he would never have the opportunity to come out the hatch and into the entry. Several long seconds later, there was a knock at the hatch and Shacklebolt said, “There are no ferrets bouncing down here,”; it was the sign for Harry to come out.

This was the weak spot in their plan. It was possible that Shacklebolt was in fact still under the Imperius and had been ordered to bring Harry out. Then again, the Death Eaters wouldn't know Harry was atop the lift unless they asked... which they would if Harry's presence had been detected. He opened the hatch by about an inch and took a quick glance. What he saw made it fairly certain that Shacklebolt and Magnus were in control of the area.

Almost half the floor in the entry was slicked with blood. Three figures in black cloaks were strewn against the far wall from the lift. Two more bodies were near the exit, both impaled on long metal rods. Magnus was holding a sixth man by the throat. Blake stood silently in the corner. Harry felt the rise of bile in his throat but ruthlessly suppressed it.

“This one's mind is too strong, there will be no breaking him,” Magnus said of the man in his clutches.

“Any chance you'll willingly tell us anything?” Shacklebolt asked the man.

“Piss off, Auror,” Rookwood growled; “You'll get yours, mark my words.”

“Pity you shan't see it. Stupefy ,” said Shacklebolt.

Magnus dumped Rookwood a few feet from the three bodies against the wall. Shacklebolt pointed his wand, averted his gaze slightly, and said, “ Reducto .” Another part of the floor was covered in blood.

“What are we to do with this þræll ?” Magnus asked, his staff directed toward Blake.

Harry looked at Blake, then waggled his wand and said, “Mr. Blake, once we leave this room, you will walk ten feet in front of us at all times.”

Shacklebolt raised one eyebrow. “You're going to use him as a shield?” he asked.

“He's earned it,” Harry said, daring the Minister-in-Exile to challenge him.

Blake erupted into movement. He blasted Magnus to the floor with a Concussion Hex, managed to stun Shacklebolt, and transfigured one of the dead Death Eaters into a stone barrier before Harry was able to react. For his part, Harry banished both Shacklebolt and Magnus into the corridor beyond, and cast a potent Bombarda at the barrier. Blake returned fire with two silent curses; Harry recognised one as an Entrails-Expeller and managed to roll clear of both. He created his own barrier, which both shielded him and blocked Blake's avenue of escape from the entry. As Blake pounded away at the barrier, Harry enervated Shacklebolt. Magnus was already moving around and casting some sort of field healing spell on his own leg.

“Did you really think you could hold me under the Imperius indefinitely , boy?” Blake called out; “Think about it: I resisted Veritaserum and maintained Occlumency shields for months.”

“Then what's your game?” Harry asked.

“I needed Rookwood eliminated, and you've conveniently done my work for me. Now my path is clear,” Blake said.

Harry whispered forcefully to Magnus, “Do the ward that stops a patronus!”  As he suspected, Blake's little silvery bird was soon bouncing around the entry, unable to escape. Blake growled in frustration and began to pepper Harry's barrier with darker and darker curses; it tottered dangerously.

Harry quickly cast deafening charms at Shacklebolt, Magnus and finally himself. He reached into his protective vest and pulled out one of the Muggle soldiers' toys. The 'flash-bang' bounced just outside Blake's barrier and then erupted. Blake stumbled to one side, his hands pressed against his ears. Harry took no chances. He dispelled his barrier and cast a Blasting Curse at the downed Unspeakable's head; then he cast another and another until little more than a puddle remained.

Shacklebolt cancelled the charms on himself and Magnus, and then on Harry. An involuntary shudder began in Harry's wand arm and quickly spread. He bit out, “That s-scum helped Dawlish give us up... g-got Remus killed... h-he deserved that... ”

“Adrenalin,” Magnus said flatly. He drew a small chunk of chocolate from a pocket in his tunic and held it out for Harry.

“Yes, definitely the rookie shakes,” Shacklebolt said.

“S-suppose you're mad at me...” Harry managed.

Shacklebolt sighed; he said, “Look here, Blake's probably not the last person you're going to kill today. Still, there's no room in this for revenge or blood-lust; it's the sort of thinking that'll get us killed instead. This isn't something to enjoy, or even to find satisfying. It's killing, and it's ugly, but we have to do it. It's our job to save Britain, simply put. So, stiff upper lip, and let's get on with the job. Clear?”

“Clear,” Harry said. He tried to shake off the shuddering but it was slow to lift.

Shacklebolt sent his patronus through the ceiling with the proper all-clear message, and Einar and the Weasley twins began their respective journeys down the lift. While they waited, Shacklebolt transfigured the dead Death Eaters into small rocks and Harry spelled away the blood and other evidence of the fighting. The third Icelander remained behind to help the Swedes and the Norwegians finish off the trolls and then to proceed with their own assignments. Eight long minutes later, they were ready to proceed into the Department of Mysteries.

2:35 AM

Despite Blake's painstakingly drawn map, the Department of Mysteries was still enormous and labyrinthine. In fifteen minutes, it appeared that they had only crossed about one-eighth of the map's width. In that time, they'd not seen a single soul. The whole of the Department thus far was unnaturally silent, almost as if a silencing charm had been set against every floor, every wall, every object, even the air itself. Most of the rooms that they passed were empty, or nearly so. Harry wondered what sort of horrors Voldemort and his men had spirited away.

Magnus was at the front of the group and Einar at the back, with the Weasley boys behind Magnus and Harry and Shacklebolt in front of Einar. The two Icelanders moved in ways that were beyond Harry's understanding. Sometimes they were visible, sometimes they were hidden in the shadows and sometimes there was no trace of them at all; they came into view just often enough that the others knew they were headed in the right direction.

They rounded a corner and Magnus abruptly appeared, already in action. Within three seconds, he gave a signal to move forward. Leant against the side of the corridor was an old man in a silver-black cloak that was almost difficult to look upon. It was obvious that he could only move his head.

“Ahh, you're here. I can't say as I'm surprised, although I had expected it might be a while longer,” the man said calmly.

Shacklebolt came forward; he said, “Croaker! What in blazes are you doing here?”

“I'm working, of course – as are you, are you not?” Croaker returned.

“All the Unspeakables were ordered to evacuate months ago! How did you get in here?” Shacklebolt demanded.

“Why, through the main entry, of course,” Croaker said.

Magnus lifted his staff and said, “ þræll ...”

Shacklebolt held up his hand to stay the Icelander and asked Croaker, “When was that, exactly?”

Croaker seemed to disappear into thought for a moment before he said, “Oh, it must have been around the 17th of September... I honestly don't pay the time much mind.”

“You've been here all this time?” Shacklebolt asked in disbelief.

Croaker smiled and said, “Of course we've been here. Where would we go?”

“There was an order to evacuate!” Shacklebolt snapped.

“From whom? Our leadership gave no such order. Was it from the Minister of the time? We would certainly have ignored that; after all, we couldn't leave this place to just anyone,” said Croaker.

“We? How many of you are here?” asked Shacklebolt.

Croaker returned, “All of us, young man... excepting, of course, those whom we sent away. We couldn't allow any to remain amongst us who did not have our complete trust.”

“You... you kicked out all of your traitors? Are you saying that every Unspeakable we've dealt with was a traitor?” Shacklebolt hissed.

“No, no, not necessarily. Now young Mr. Blake, there was a man not to be trusted. We had to turn out his apprentice as well – a Mr. Calloway, if I remember rightly. Mr. Calloway hadn't been in our company long enough to be sure of him, but I rather doubt he was a traitor. He merely had the misfortune of a poor apprenticing match. There were a few others as well. Then there's Mr. Rookwood, of course. We've had to strongly limit his access since his return; the risk that he might have upset the balance of things was simply too great,” Croaker said.

“You've let Rookwood run free in here?” Shacklebolt asked.

“As I said, Mr. Shacklebolt, we have strongly limited his access. He has not been aware of this, of course,” Croaker clarified.

“Doesn't matter now – he's dead,” Harry cut in.

“And such a shame it is. He had great promise at one time, but was seduced by the illusion of power,” Croaker said. He peered into the darkness toward Harry and continued, “Ahh... Harry Potter... we've been interested in you for a very long time. Your uninvited visit the year before last only heightened that interest, don't you know? It was the strangest thing... you made the Room of Magical Energies sing.”

Harry tried not to sound too eager. “We need to get inside that room,” he said; “Voldemort hasn't managed it, has he?”

“Certainly not! Young Mr. Riddle is absolutely unworthy of most of the knowledge we've accumulated over the centuries. He only visits the Room of Time and the Room of Death now,” said Croaker.

“What is he doing messing about with time?” Harry asked.

Croaker said, “To the best of our knowledge, he has accomplished nothing there.”

“The Room of Death... you're talking about the Veil, right?” Harry said.

“Ahh, yes – the Veil of Death. He finds it a convenient way to rid himself of enemies. It is more humane that some of his other chosen methods, so we have not attempted to prevent his access,” Croaker told him.

Shacklebolt asked, “How often does he come?”

“He has come more frequently of late. He and his thralls were here as recently as last evening. I imagine they're searching for you right about now,” said Croaker; “Mr. Potter, come closer, would you? I shan't bite – haven't got the right sort of teeth for that.”

“Go ahead, Harry. If he tries anything, I'll take him down,” Shacklebolt said.

“Thank you for the show of confidence,” Croaker said with mirth in his voice. The old man gazed into Harry's eyes for some time, but there was no hint of any sort of magic.

Finally, the Unspeakable said, “At the moment, you're worthy of the knowledge, Mr. Potter. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named attempted to enter the Room of Magical Energies once. It was not pleasant for him. Based upon the evidence, I'd hazard a guess that he barely escaped with his life, such as it is. I doubt you'll have any difficulties at all, however. I also believe you're correct in speculating that the Room is a sure way to rid the world of his spirit anchor... oh, what's the Abyssinian name for it... a horcrux?

“There are three things you must know. The first is how to call for the correct door from the nexus – that would be the Room of Doors which you doubtless recall. Simply call for the Room of Magical Energies. If you have been granted access by us... or if the Room itself wishes to see you... then that door will appear. You'll know it when you see it. It's only when found accidentally that it appears the same as the other doors.

“The second is how to open the door. Tap the door three times with your wand and say 'I ask permission to enter'. At this point our permission matters not. It is the Room that decides whether to open or remain closed – we know not how or why this is the case.

“The third and last is how to properly seal one of our doors. There is a silent spell that we Unspeakables can apply to all the doors in this facility save the Room of Magical Energies. It can be defeated, but even the most capable of wizards will be thwarted for a few minutes. Watch this wand movement very carefully. The incantation is compingo permissu . Do not speak it aloud lest the spell fail.

“But know this, Harry Potter. No one enters the Room and remains unchanged. Most have been rendered physically ill. Some have died in an instant. Some have been ejected from the Room with no memory of the experience. Some have had ecstatic visions. Some have been healed of every malady they had ever suffered. A lucky few have been gifted to solve some of the great mysteries... but no one has left the same as when they entered,” Croaker finished.

“Did you ever go in?” Harry asked.

Croaker nodded and said, “It haunts me to this very day. I can only give you this advice, based upon the experience of dozens who have taken the same journey: ask of it what you seek, do not expect anything from it, and whatever you do, do not demand of it.”  The sounds of battle echoed down the corridor just then. Magnus turned his attention toward the sound and Einar made ready.

“May I be released now?” Croaker asked. Shacklebolt nodded and Magnus twitched his staff.

“Thank you,” Harry told the old Unspeakable.

Croaker gave an enigmatic smile and said, “You're most welcome, Mr. Potter. Either you will win this day, or you will not. Whatever may be, we will protect what the wizarding world knows and what it does not know. I will indulge my prejudice in the matter ever so slightly, and sincerely wish you well. Now then, I must join my colleagues in our lower levels. Until next time...” He waved his hand and a downward stairwell appeared in the wall beside him. As soon as his second foot reached the steps, the opening disappeared.

“Lower levels? What lower levels?” Shacklebolt asked no one in particular.

2:50 AM

Somehow, the six men made it halfway across the map in less than fifteen minutes. While they had heard sounds of fighting at various times, they came upon no one. Harry figured that Croaker had something to do with it, but he wasn't about to complain.

They turned a corner into a long narrow corridor. At its end, in complete defiance of the map, they found the Room of Doors – the nexus, as Croaker had called it.

“This isn't right,” Shacklebolt said.

Harry said, “Does it matter?” and then called out firmly, “Please show me the Room of Magical Energies.”

The room spun fast enough to sweep the twins off their feet; Magnus and Einar braced with their staves. Harry and Shacklebolt managed to hold their positions. When the spinning stopped, two doors impossibly spread apart and revealed a faintly glowing door between.

Harry opened his vest and freed the knapsack he had been carrying. A dark weight seemed to lift from him as the sack settled on the floor. He drew his wand and tapped the door three times, and began, “I ask – ” but had to dive clear of a blood-red spell.

A hated voice crowed, “Look what we have here: unwelcome guests!”

“Bellatrix,” Harry hissed.

Magnus threw up a stone barrier in front of Harry and the rest began to exchange spells. Harry moved on hands and knees to the door and managed two taps before a Reductor Curse nearly caught his wand.

“Now what would wee baby Potter be wanting with that nasty room?” Bellatrix asked as she fired at Shacklebolt.

There were seven attackers in the tight space: Lestrange, Mulciber and five that Harry didn't recognise. He made a second move toward the door, but one of the Death Eaters had flanked George and landed a cutting curse on Harry's leg just below the knee. In return, George caught the Death Eater with a quick transfiguration that merged his legs into a reptilian tail. Before the wizard could free himself, Einar delivered an explosive killing blow.

“Ooh, Icelanders! I thought we'd killed all of you the last time around! A shame, it was – you Guardians are all so deliciously fit,” said Bellatrix.

“I feel that I should vomit now,” Einar said.

“Enough talk,” barked Magnus, and he unleashed a blast of blue lightning that Bellatrix nearly failed to block.

Bellatrix laughed madly and then said, “Now that's a spell! Ahh, if but one of you could be turned... I'd throw Rodolphus over in an instant.”

Harry tucked in behind the barrier and cast a rough Episkey on his leg. It was enough to stop the bleeding but the cut was raw and deep. Three of the Death Eaters were converging on Shacklebolt. Fred moved to break them up but Harry took on one of them from his perch. George was distracted for a moment and Shacklebolt moved to shield him.

It was then that Harry realised what was happening, but he was too late. Mulciber had been moving into position the entire time and he let loose a Blasting Curse that cut Einar nearly in half. Before Mulciber could seize it, Harry had the presence of mind to summon Einar's staff; he doubted that he could use it, but now neither could Mulciber.

Magnus tucked and rolled beneath a spell from Bellatrix. When he stopped, he lashed out with his staff and swept Mulciber off his feet. His free hand drew a large knife from within his robes, and he buried the knife into Mulciber's chest. The twins converged on one of the remaining Death Eaters and Shacklebolt took on the other. Bellatrix howled with rage and stalked toward Magnus, curses flying.

Harry used the opportunity to give three taps upon the door. He called out, “I ask permission to enter!” He heard Magnus let out a pained growl but he couldn't pull his eyes away from the door. It glowed brighter and brighter until all Harry could make out was an impossibly bright white light. He reached for the knapsack just as it began to slide away from him.

“Now what could wee Potter have in his little bag?” Bellatrix cooed. He turned to face her and saw that everyone else was down.

Harry banished the knapsack away from her and growled, “None of your business, you bloody hag!”

“Oh, my! Did baby Potter's danglies finally drop?” Bellatrix cackled and she took aim at him.

Magnus lifted his head from the floor and gave a rough wave with his staff before he fell unconscious. A pale yellow light struck Bellatrix and shoved her hard in Harry's direction. She slid along the floor, her wand already redirected to strike back at Magnus. Harry took a shot at her as he stumbled backward, but missed wide.  Her slide took her within a few feet of the opened doorway.

She staggered to her feet and turned away from the fierce light. Before she could completely avert her eyes, she began to moan, “No... no... no ... NO!”

The light flared out like a brilliant fog and enveloped Bellatrix's legs. She shouted and clawed at the floor as the light dragged her into the Room. The fog and Bellatrix retreated back through the door with a last shrill scream. Harry was already summoning the knapsack when the Room abruptly sealed itself.  Harry tapped and tapped and asked and pleaded, but the door wouldn't reopen. On the third attempt, it simply disappeared.

He pounded his fist against the floor and shouted, “Fuck!”

“That sums it up nicely,” Fred bit out. George sat up slowly, his hand pressed to his forehead. Harry enervated Shacklebolt for the second time in an hour even as he made his way to Magnus.

“Where's Lestrange?” Shacklebolt asked.

“The Room sucked her in,” Harry said bitterly.

Shacklebolt looked around the nexus and asked, “Where's the Room?”

“Gone,” said Harry; “Help me with Magnus.”  The burly Icelander took a full minute to awaken, during which Shacklebolt did his best to mend the man's ribs and George found and fused together a broken bone in his leg.

As soon as George withdrew his wand, Magnus waved off his helpers. He struggled to his feet, leant heavily on his staff, and said flatly, “Einar is dead.  We will collect him on the way out.”

“What now, Harry?” Fred asked.

Harry slung the knapsack over his shoulder and said, “We have to be rid of these.”

“The Veil room, then,” said Shacklebolt.

“Your Unspeakable, he said that this is where Skí-maðr has been seen,” Magnus said.

“It's the last place I want to go, but I don't know what else to do. I can keep trying to re-open the Room...” Harry offered.

“There is no time. We will go,” said Magnus.

The five wizards made their way slowly and carefully through one of the other doors in the nexus, and onward through a series of rooms as Harry remembered them. They were on the verge of reaching the Room of Death when a large company of Death Eaters set upon them. It was over very quickly; Harry hadn't even sensed them coming.

3:05 AM

With his next conscious thought, before he could manage to open his eyes, Harry knew that he was bound and standing. His head felt as if he'd been trampled. It only required a glimpse from a single bleary eye to figure out the situation.

“Hello, Tom,” he said.

“Mind your place, boy. I am the supreme ruler of magical Britain – and soon the ruler of all Britain – while you are an insolent whelp about to die,” Voldemort hissed.

The sound of a distant explosion echoed through the open door to the Room of Death. Harry said, “Do you hear that, Tom? It's getting closer. You're the supreme ruler of half this building, and I'll call you by your true name, thank you very much.”

“You place too much confidence in your friends,” said Voldemort.

“And you think too much of the power of fear,” Harry returned.

Voldemort sneered, “You really are Dumbledore's man through and through, aren't you?”

“No, actually – not for some time,” Harry said.

Voldemort hesitated for a moment before he said, “How... unexpected. Seen through the great man's veneer, have you? It's a shame that didn't come sooner... perhaps things would have played out differently.”

“Not likely. You killed my parents and you've tried to kill me, what, five times? Six?” said Harry.

“It's a shame to end the repartee, but Lord Voldemort has work to do. You will now be released from your bindings, upon which you will open that pack,” Voldemort ordered.

“Couldn't do it yourself?” Harry said.

Voldemort said, “Whomever you enlisted to seal it was rather skilled. Lord Voldemort knows no bounds, but would rather not destroy the contents. Whatever is in that sack gives off an intense dark magic.”

“And you just can't pass up the chance to gather it up, can you?” Harry said.

“Insolence will get you nowhere, boy. I have all the time in the world to decipher that seal. Lord Voldemort is attempting to show mercy despite your cheek. If you open it, then you might save at least some of your friends,” Voldemort said.

Shacklebolt and the twins were tightly bound and hovering no more than fifteen feet from the Veil. While moving as little as possible, Harry tried to sweep the room; he saw no sign of Magnus.

“All right, but I can't dispel it without a wand,” Harry said.

“If you direct that wand anywhere other than toward that pack, your friends will die,” Voldemort said.

Besides his three comrades, Harry saw a handful of Voldemort's minions and three of his inner circle: Macnair, Avery and Snape. Snape didn't acknowledge his glance; there was no hint that the man was anything other than Voldemort's thrall. He certainly wasn't going to count on Snape as an ally. Macnair moved directly behind Shacklebolt at Voldemort's direction.
Harry carefully picked up his wand from where it had been dropped before him. He worked slowly but consistently, neither wanting to provoke Voldemort further nor wanting to believe that Magnus was dead and unable to help.

“Time is slipping away, Harry Potter...” Voldemort taunted him.

“It's not a simple job,” Harry snapped.

Snape sneered, “The boy has never been a consistent performer under pressure.”

“Shut up, Snivellus,” Harry growled as he continued to perform a very elaborate version of the unsealing spell.

“Ahh, I do so love the taste of old grudges – wouldn't you agree, Severus?” Voldemort said with some relish.

“There – it's open,” Harry said, all the while thinking ' where are you, Magnus? '.

Voldemort said, “Excellent. Mr. Macnair, if you please...?” With a negligent flick, Macnair sent Fred, George and Shacklebolt flying toward the Veil.

Harry dove for his wand, narrowly missing a wicked-looking spell from Voldemort, and frantically conjured a thick marble column between the Veil and his three friends. Shacklebolt and Fred bounced against the column and ploughed into the floor at the edge of the dais. George hadn't even the time to react before he disappeared.

“George... GEORGE!” Fred cried out.

Before either Voldemort or Macnair had opportunity to fire on Harry's remaining comrades, Magnus stumbled into the room. With a guttural howl, he cast a vicious-looking gout of red flame toward Macnair. The Death Eater dove to one side but one of his feet was nearly sheared off. Voldemort immediately dispatched a Killing Curse toward Magnus, who managed to dodge.

“Voldemort!” a gravelly voice cried out.

“Auror Moody... how nice of you to join us,” the Dark Lord hissed, and then cut loose with a quick series of half-a-dozen spells that Harry didn't recognise.

Shacklebolt pulled a distraught Fred clear of the dais, and Harry realised that it was Snape who had freed them. The Room of Death was chaos – Moody and his sixteen fighters had all entered the fray, a dozen Death Eaters had followed them in, Magnus and Macnair were engaged in a vicious exchange, and Voldemort...

“Snape, send Potter through the Veil to join his friend,” he ordered. Snape was at Harry's back, with one hand at his waist and the other atop his shoulder.

“He is here for your taking, my Lord,” Snape said.

Voldemort strode toward them as though nothing else was happening in the Room. Attacking spells seemed to simply bounce off; one even appeared to bend around him. He snarled, “The thing is, Severus, that you're far too slippery for my comfort. The way by which you can return to my good graces is to do as I say and cast the boy through the Veil.”

Snape stepped to one side of Harry and bowed formally. “As you command, my Lord,” he said. As he came back up, his wand flashed forward and his signature curse – Sectumsempra – blasted into Voldemort's shoulder. Snape never stopped moving; he raced directly toward the most feared wizard in the world and continued his attack. At the same time, Moody made for Voldemort from the opposite side.

“Get rid of them, Potter – NOW!” Snape shouted as he cast spell after spell. 

Harry summoned the knapsack, but Hufflepuff's Cup bounced free as it shot toward him. Fred saw the stray cup and made a dash for it.

“What do you think you're doing, Potter?” Voldemort said with an almost-casual air, even as he engaged two outstanding fighters in Snape and Moody; “That knapsack belongs to me – leave it be.”

Harry dodged a spell from Voldemort and fished out the already-ruined Ravenclaw Grimoire. With a flick of the wrist, it flew through the Veil. He reached for the next item.

“You will stop what you're doing, Potter, and you will stop it now ,” Voldemort commanded. Harry replied by casting Slytherin's locket through the Veil. Only he heard the death rattle of the horcrux over the constant din.

Voldemort said, “What was that, Potter? It looked like... jewellery...”

Harry ducked as Macnair soared through the air, over his head, and into the Veil. Fred rolled to a stop next to Harry, his face lit with grim satisfaction. Harry conjured a broad stone wall and Fred added a series of stone spiders the size of small acromantulas that went straight for Voldemort.

“Did you get the Cup?” Harry asked.

“No, someone kicked it,” Fred said.

Harry rooted through the knapsack and threw Tom Riddle's long-destroyed diary into the Veil. “We need that cup. Without it, we're lost,” he said.

“I'm on it,” Fred said grimly.

Harry removed the last item from the sack: Slytherin's ring. Dumbledore had been sure that he'd destroyed it, but the old wizard had remained covetous of it. When Harry had tested it, he had found that the ring was still incredibly magical. As such, he sent it through the Veil rather than take the chance that Dumbledore had been wrong.

“That was... that was a ring! That was my ring! You couldn't have ... YOU WOULDN'T DARE!” Voldemort roared.

Magnus tried to draw Voldemort's attention with a sickly yellow curse, but Voldemort was having none of it. A ball of roiling orange energy collected at the end of his wand and whipped directly into Moody; it ripped through the old Auror's shields as though they didn't exist, and tore him to pieces. Snape moved away as fast as he could, dodging for his life.
It was Shacklebolt who intercepted the Dark Lord. Voldemort hadn't been looking anywhere save toward Harry and the Veil, and the Minister literally ran into him from the side. The tackle caused Voldemort's wand to come free from his hand, and he landed hard against the stone floor.

Fred ducked and dodged his way through the mêlées with the Cup in hand. Harry saw Tonks – who had come with Moody's group – shield him from several vicious spells along the way. Along the way, Fred started to fling all manner of things out of his vest. In seconds, the space around him was filled with swamps, man-eating plants, poison-spewing gobstones and other distractions.

Shacklebolt came to a stop next to Harry behind his battered stone wall. He spied Fred and began screaming, “No! Stop it, Fred! Stop it!”

“But he's got them running for cover!” Harry said.

“He's making a path!” Shacklebolt countered.

Harry took a quick look around the side of the wall and realised that Shacklebolt was right. All Voldemort had to do was to dispel the Weasley creations, and he had a direct empty path to them.

Voldemort howled, “Give me that Cup, boy!” and he fired a crisp orange jet at Fred. It struck his hand and the cup within it, and both were quickly engulfed in flames. Fred screamed in pain and fell to his knees, but struggled to his feet and stumbled toward the Veil.

“I've got to help him!” Harry said.

Shacklebolt nearly laid on Harry and snapped, “He's in open space – you can't go to him; all we can do is lay down fire. On three...”  Shacklebolt and Harry opened a barrage on Voldemort. The Dark Lord literally slapped away Shacklebolt's spells, but Harry managed to hit him once on the forearm.

Voldemort screamed in rage and bellowed, “ Accio Cup! ”

Fred screamed again as he began to slide across the floor. His free hand grasped blindly, seeking even the smallest crack to stop himself. Tonks conjured a stone barrier in the path of the Summoning Spell, and Fred came to a hard stop.

“Now we can get to him,” Harry hissed.

Shacklebolt shook his head and said, “Tonks has a better angle.” He made contact with the other Auror and they exchanged hand signals. Tonks began to make a move, but was quickly cut down by two of the remaining Death Eaters.  Voldemort swept his hand from left to right, and the stone barrier slowly slid away from Fred. Fred rolled to one side, trying to keep the stone between himself and Voldemort, but he lost ground each second.

“Snape! Snape!” Fred shouted.

Shacklebolt whispered forcefully, “What the devil...?”

“There's no need for yelling, Weasley,” Snape returned over the constant concussion from spells striking stone. The spy dove behind his own set of barriers to avoid a fresh fusillade of curses.

Fred held up his hand high, almost above the top of the barrier. Harry had to avert his eyes. His friend's hand looked to be virtually melted and there would be no freeing the Cup from it, short of amputation. He saw Fred catch Snape's eye and something was exchanged without words.

“Do it, Snape – do it!” Fred yelled out.

“Weasley...” Snape hissed.

Fred stumbled to his feet, still crouching behind the moving barrier. “Damn it, Snape – do it! ” he demanded. From his position, Harry saw Snape close his eyes slowly and then open them with purpose.

Fred abruptly stood tall – Voldemort was actually startled by it – and bellowed, “Come and get it, you pasty-faced arsemonger!”

“Fred!” Harry shouted.

Still under constant but ineffective fire, Voldemort shouted, “Impudence! Avada kedavra! ”

Fred Weasley died literally thumbing his nose at the Dark Lord Voldemort. In the same moment, his body flew into the air and raced backward into the Veil. There was a loud and shrill scream that took seconds to die out.

“ Forget everyone else – kill Potter! ” Voldemort roared.

Harry was still clear of cover from having tried to stop Fred. He ducked but still took a cutting curse across his upper arm. Voldemort began to blast Harry's wall into pieces.

“We have to clear out now,” Shacklebolt said.

“On three?” Harry asked.

“Three!” Shacklebolt declared, and the two men dove and rolled to Snape's barrier.

“Isn't this cosy?” Snape drawled.

“That door seems a mile away,” Harry said.

Snape said, “It may as well be. Where is that accursed snake?”

Nagini was slithering between the feet of combatants and attempting to bite the Death Eaters' opponents. Dragon-hide boots were slowing the snake's work, but it was persistent. It seemed as though Snape thought Nagini was a horcrux, which didn't make sense; Harry knew Snape was a right bastard, but the man could surely count.

“Nagini!” Voldemort called out.

Shacklebolt hissed, “Shite, he's onto us!”

Voldemort cast, “ Accio Nagini! ”

Harry rose above the barrier too late, as the snake began to slide toward the Dark Lord. Just feet from its destination, Nagini slammed into a giant stone rabbit. Tonks, who was laying on one side and soaked with blood, had conjured it at the last second.

“Damn you!” Voldemort ground out; he cast a Blasting Curse at the bunny that sprayed the whole area with sharp chips of stone. As the dust settled, it was clear that Tonks was dead.

In the confusion, Harry slowly summoned Nagini in the direction of the Veil. When it looked as if Voldemort was about to catch on, Shacklebolt dashed free of the barriers and crossed in front. Voldemort shot a curse in his direction but then caught sight of Nagini. Harry switched to a banishing charm and drove the snake toward its doom as fast as he could, but Voldemort conjured his own barrier in its path, not more than six feet short of the Veil. Shacklebolt launched a rapid-fire series of curses at the Dark Lord, momentarily drawing his attention.

Snape tapped Harry on the forehead and asked, “Have you found a way to be rid of it?”

“Yes,” said Harry, startled by the contact.

“Then it's time to be rid of the snake,” Snape said.

“Why?” Harry asked.

“Because the Dark Lord believes that Nagini is a horcrux. Only an imbecile would give him the chance to think otherwise,” Snape snapped.

“Is it worth dying over, for God's sake?” Harry asked.

“You really are an imbecile, aren't you? No more fumbling about, Potter – do your job ,” sneered Snape. With that, he burst free of the barriers, grabbed the unconscious Nagini by the tail and swung the heavy snake toward the Veil.

“Snape!” Voldemort shouted. He cast a Killing Curse but Snape had anticipated it; the snake's body rose into the air and caught the curse.

“ NO! ” Voldemort exploded. A frenzy of wild magic rippled through the Room and knocked nearly everyone from their feet, including Snape. The spy fell backward and both he and Voldemort's familiar slipped through the Veil.

Voldemort began to madly cast curses in every direction. He spotted the nearest wizard to him – one of his own – and applied a Cruciatus Curse so powerful that the man's robe began to smoke. Harry realised he wasn't going to get a better chance, and he full-on sprinted toward Shacklebolt and the exit. A curse from somewhere struck him on the right shoulder but he ploughed forward. It was Magnus who dragged him through the door.

“Have to seal it –” Harry rasped out. He pointed his wand at the door and performed Croaker's spell.

“Hold still, Harry. This is going to hurt,” Shacklebolt said.

A spell struck Harry's shoulder and he bit back a shout.  Nonetheless, he forced himself to his feet. Somehow, Einar's staff had remained in the corridor the entire time, so Harry collected it.

“We can not remain here,” Magnus said. Harry struggled to his feet. There were only seven of them left: himself, Magnus, Shacklebolt, and four of Moody's fighters – two Swedes and two Englishmen.

“Back to the nexus, then?” Shacklebolt asked Harry.

“It's all we've got,” Harry said.

The seven fighters trudged back through several rooms until they could see from their position into the nexus. A dozen Death Eaters awaited them there. Three appeared at the ready, but five were actually seated on the floor.

“No better opportunity will come,” said Magnus.

Shacklebolt said, “I don't like having to enter through a single door.”

Harry consulted Blake's map. “We can go through the Room of Time, cross here, and come in on the opposite side.”

“Is it wise to split up?” one of the Swedes asked.

“Mr. Potter is with me. Mr. Shacklebolt goes to the other door. One other comes with me, the rest with Mr. Shacklebolt,” Magnus ordered.

“A signal?” Shacklebolt asked.

“We attack in three minutes; that is the signal,” said Magnus. Shacklebolt nodded and disappeared into the next room along with the Englishman and two of the Swedes.

Harry peeked into the nexus and then tapped Magnus on the shoulder. “There's a spell... my headmaster did it once, and I figured it was worth learning. I think it would be a good one at the start,” he said.

“It is a powerful spell?” Magnus asked.

Harry said, “He used it to keep back inferi – you know, undead?” Magnus weighed that for a moment before he nodded.

Two and a half minutes later, Harry edged into the nexus – the Room of Doors – and executed a flawless Fire Whip. The flames tore through the room in a great circle as he moved forward, with Magnus and the other fighter close behind. Twelve burning black robes and white masks fell to the floor, empty.

Shacklebolt ran into the room from the opposite side. “It's a trap!” he shouted; one of the Swedes made it into the room with him, followed closely by a pack of Death Eaters firing wildly. Magnus dropped to one knee and Harry rolled to the side; along with the Swede who accompanied them, they took advantage of the Death Eaters' hesitation at the doorway and began to pick off their opponents.

The Englishman who was with Shacklebolt ploughed through two of the Death Eaters under fire and shouted, “DOWN! DOWN!”

Harry and Magnus flattened themselves against the floor, and both Shacklebolt and the Englishman shot a volley of spells over their heads. More Death Eaters were entering from behind them, and their Swedish comrade had already paid the price.  By dividing the room, the five rebels were able to keep back the Death Eaters. Harry tried to open another door, but was barely able to force it closed against a third onslaught of attackers. He was able to seal that and the other closed doors, but there was no way out of the nexus. We need another way out , Harry thought, and then the obvious occurred to him.

“Dobby!” he called out.

The house-elf popped into place at his side and immediately popped away to avoid a Blood-Boiling Curse; he reappeared an instant later, eyes wide. “Dobby is getting Harry Potter, sir, out of here straight away!” he squeaked.

“There are five of us,” Harry said as calmly as he could manage.

“Collect our dead, please,” Magnus added.

Dobby disappeared and returned not more than three seconds later with several of his fellows. While the house-elves could not attack wizards, they were more than capable of defending themselves and others in their care. The Death Eaters failed to land another spell.

3:25 AM

They found themselves in the midst of chaos. A healer who Harry didn't recognise shuffled him toward a cot, all the while casting charms.

“Shoulder, left leg,” the white-robed witch called out briskly.

Harry thought to protest, but the healer's grim expression stopped him cold. He allowed her to direct him onto the cot. Someone thrust a steaming goblet into his hands. He sniffed at it – definitely Pepper-Up, he decided – and downed it in one go. He winced as a healer started to work on his leg.

A very familiar healer approached, arms crossed and face carefully schooled. “I see you're still prone to ending up in hospital, Mr. Potter?” Madam Pomfrey chided him.

“I suppose it looks that way,” said Harry.

She checked him carefully from head to toe and said, “It seems that you didn't fare too badly, at least compared to most.”

“What about the shoulder?” he asked.

“I can repair the soft tissue easily enough, although you'll notice a strain for several hours. In ideal conditions, I'd regrow the acromion, the head of the humerus, the corachoid process and part of the clavicle. These are not ideal conditions,” she told him.

Harry asked, “What can you do in these conditions, then? I have to go back, it's not finished yet.”

“I can mend the bones, but you'll be at high risk of re-breaking them... especially the acromion, which is a fine mess... and you'll be at fair risk of shearing the coracoacromial ligament,” she said.

Harry managed a mirthless laugh. “You don't sound like a school healer any more,” he said.

Madam Pomfrey huffed, “I'll have you know that I was the chief healer for Artefact Accidents at St. Mungo's. Hogwarts was supposed to be my quiet dotage - imagine that?”

“That's certainly gone down the pan, hasn't it?” Harry said with a wince.

The healer cast a bright yellow beam at his shoulder, and he bit back the pain. “Quite. I have a better qualified healer on hand for this particular repair...” she said as though distracted; “There... is that any better at all?”

He tried to rotate his shoulder and gasped, “It's a bit better...”

Madam Pomfrey huffed, “Stop moving it, then, if it hurts so much! No sense, these children... Healer Stefánsdóttir, over here please?”

Gudrun turned and automatically began, “Yes, Healer Pomfrey... oh...”

“What in the hell are you doing here?” Harry demanded.

Madam Pomfrey hissed, “Mr. Potter! I'll not have that on my ward!”

Harry continued undaunted, “You're supposed to be with Ron and Hermione, and they're supposed to be in the bloody Shetlands! Why are you here? ” Before she could form an answer, he heard a cry of “Harry!” from behind him that was immediately followed by a brown-haired missile.

“ Aaaahhh! My shoulder's broken! ” Harry bit out.

Hermione quickly let go; she stammered, “Oh! Oh, I didn't mean...! I'm so sorry...”

Harry fixed the most dangerous gaze he could muster on Gudrun, pointed at his shoulder, and barked, “Fix it!” Before she took her first step toward him, he had already turned to face Hermione; with equal force, he ordered, “Explain!”

“Gudrun has been here since the outset. Ginny and I only arrived a few minutes ago. Everything's changed – can't you feel it?” Hermione said.

Harry snapped, “You can't be here – look around you, for God's sake!”

Ginny came storming down the aisle toward them; “We have to be here – even I can feel it!” she fired back.

Harry was furious, “A good thirty of us went in there, and five came back! FIVE!”

Ginny's mouth opened and closed without any sound coming forth, even as Hermione said, “Fred and George were with you...” Gudrun did something that made most of Harry's shoulder feel numb even as a tiny area burned so sharply that he pulled free from her, but the pain seemed well earned at that moment.

“Ginny, they didn't make it out. I'm sorry,” he finally managed. Ginny went rigid; she took in hoarse, keening breaths and her hands shook. Hermione pulled her into a tight embrace.

Gudrun grabbed Harry by the chin and turned his head to face her. “You will stop moving if you care to use this arm again,” she said.

Harry closed his eyes tight and told Hermione, “That's why you shouldn't be here. I suppose Ron managed to come along? You'd best take Ginny to him.”

“Yes... I'll do that...” Hermione whispered.

An explosion echoed down the wide corridor in which the hospital had been set up. Harry's cot rattled and Gudrun pulled back. Bits of plaster rained down from the ceiling.

Harry looked around to see if anyone could offer an explanation. Ginny sniffed, “That was Anders blowing up the lifts. Fred and George helped him plan it out...”

As Gudrun returned to work, she snarled, “This way, if Skí-maðr and his þræll come for us, they must use the stairs. Skí-maðr may survive it, but the þræll will die.”

“I thought a healer might have a problem with that,” Harry said.

Gudrun looked at him with watery eyes, but her voice was steady. “Einar was my brother,” she said; “If they can die a thousand times, I hope that it will be so.”

3:35 AM

Dobby led Harry down a side passage into another large corridor. “Minister Shacklebolt and Mister Twing and others wait for Harry Potter, but Dobby knows the short way,” the house-elf said.

“Good, I don't want to keep them waiting. We're running out of time,” Harry said.

“Dobby must apologise to Harry Potter. His mission could not be carried out,” Dobby told him as they walked.

“You got us out of there, Dobby; if you hadn't, we'd all be dead. There's nothing to apologise for,” Harry insisted.

Dobby tugged on one ear. “Dobby and the other house-elves did not come to the Room of Death... did not take the wizards to hospital like Dobby said. Dobby and the other house-elves could not come near He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

Harry said, “It's all right, Dobby, I understand. It was terrifying in there, you know? There's nothing wrong with being afraid –”

Dobby cut him off, “No, Harry Potter does not understand. Dobby and the other house-elves would gladly serve the good wizards, would give up their very lives to serve. When the house-elves popped, we could not come near He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Dobby does not know why.”

“You did your best. Moody's group were the only ones you couldn't help. Madam Pomfrey told me that you saved dozens of people. No apologies, Dobby, I won't have it,” Harry said.

The house-elf insisted, “Dobby did not try hard enough. Dobby could have saved many good wizards, like Harry Potter's red-headed fools –”

“My what ?” Harry choked.

“ – or Dobby could even have saved not-so-good wizards such as Professor Snape, if Dobby was absolutely required to do so...” he went on.

Harry broke into what he knew was completely inappropriate laughter, but he needed it too much to care. He spluttered, “Sweet Merlin, don't say that aloud, Dobby... Snape's probably right around the corner... you just know he'd become a ghost to bother me for the rest of my life...” He had to force himself to stop laughing and to wipe the smirk off his face.

Dobby led him to an all-too-familiar door.  “You must be joking,” Harry said.

“Dobby rarely jokes on purpose, Harry Potter,” Dobby returned.

The grand interior of Courtroom Ten was barely recognisable from Harry's last visit. Fighters in scorched robes and dirtied boots lounged in the Wizengamot's throne-like chairs. Supplies were stacked here and there on the centre floor. The once-intimidating witness chair had been carelessly shoved to one side. Shacklebolt, Anders Twing, Neville Longbottom and a woman Harry didn't know were standing at a conjured table littered with large sheets of paper.

Neville spotted him as he drew close. “It's good to see you,” he said.

“It's good to still be here,” Harry said.

The woman at the table extended a hand. “Astrid Michelsen, from Norway,” she said briskly.

Harry swept the table with his eyes. “You've mapped everything?” he asked.

“As best we could,” Shacklebolt said; “Between those of us who worked here and the survey group, I think it's close to complete.”

Twing pulled out a cross-section drawing that showed all ten levels Harry expected as well as two further below. He said, “My fellows used a series of spells created for miners. In doing so, they concluded that there are more levels below us. The Minister tells us these are likely an extension of your Department of Mysteries. We shan't concern ourselves with them unless there is no other choice.”

Harry said, “That fits with what Croaker told us. I understand you've been blowing things up?”

Twing laughed softly. Michelsen explained, “Our main area of concern is this Department of Mysteries and this level is our fall-back position. The main lifts will no longer reach below the seventh level. This leaves four sets of stairs that the enemy can use. They will not like what they find.”

“There's an old lift located just behind us. It was for Wizengamot members to enter and leave without otherwise being seen. Bagnold had it shut; she didn't care for the elitism of it, and she also knew it was a security risk. It isn't marked on any current floor plans,” Shacklebolt said.

Neville went on, “That means the only Ministry people who know about it date back at least twenty-five years. We think the chances are pretty fair that the only ones of that sort who Voldemort would keep around in the middle of the night are the ones from his inner circle.”

Shacklebolt finished, “With Rookwood and Macnair dead, there shouldn't be anyone else who even knows it exists, and even then it's a small thing to remember. We blocked the shaft for that one below the eighth level, so it can't be used to get down here.”

Harry asked, “How many fighters do we have? The group with Moody... well, they're all gone... and we didn't fare well either.”

Twing drew a small notepad from his vest, glanced at it and then reported, “We started the morning with 171 fighters and 7 healers – it's fewer than we had hoped, but the evacuation required more support and a few just weren't battle-ready. As of ten minutes ago, there were fifty-seven dead and thirty-eight still in hospital. The Swedish have taken the worst losses, as you know. We at this table are the remaining leadership; Pedersen and Lund are dead. There are ninety-three of us in this room and not all of those are in a condition to fight. We've also lost two healers.”

“How many Death Eaters are dead, do you think?” Harry asked.

Shacklebolt said, “That's a fair question. How many did our group take down?”

Harry counted off, “Seven at the lift if you include Blake; seven more at the Room of Doors; twelve or thirteen at the Room of Death; and a fair dozen when we were stuck in the Room of Doors the second time.”

“So figure on thirty-eight,” said Shacklebolt; “What about you, Twing?”

Twing said, “We cleared seven rooms with the use of explosives, and that could have killed as many as one hundred, but I suspect closer to seventy. On the way down to this place, there were at least thirty more. As for the atrium area... there's no getting around it, it was a horror. Astrid, any guess at it...?”

“Each of our people took on one or two of the enemy. The only ones to leave that area alive were our own. As many as one hundred were killed. There were also creatures... trolls, things that appeared as werewolves even without the moon... we killed all that attacked us,” Michelsen said.

“So we've killed upwards of two hundred Death Eaters, and likely more. We don't know how many more might be injured. How many of Voldemort's inner circle are gone?” Shacklebolt asked.

Harry said, “Macnair went through the Veil. Did you see if Avery went down?”

“I don't know,” Shacklebolt said; “I don't recall anyone left standing other than us and Voldemort, but we weren't keeping score.”

“One of the Englishmen with us said that we killed one of the Lestrange brothers,” said Twing.

“Bellatrix was sucked into the Room,” Harry added.

Neville's eyes grew wide. “Bellatrix Lestrange...? She's dead, then?” When Harry nodded, he closed his eyes and gave a small smile.

“Magnus killed Mulciber, and Rookwood's dead,” Harry went on.

Shacklebolt mused, “Pettigrew is gone, Crabbe and Goyle died months ago, the Carrows were killed when he took Hogwarts, no Malfoy – the elder, at least... are there any left?”

“This does not mean that the Death Eaters are without powerful wizards,” Twing pointed out.

Michelsen countered, “They may be without leadership, however.”

Harry set his hand atop the pile of papers. “Is there a plan, then?” he asked.

“Room by room,” said Twing.

Michelsen followed on, “We will take back this place one room at a time, but we will start at the eighth level. It has been pointed out that the ninth level is too dangerous – that we might cause an event of apocalyptic proportions.”

Harry stroked his chin in thought. “There's more to it than that,” he said; “What are the chances there's another turncoat in here?”

Twing said, “It is a risk, but less likely now than before, I should think. Why do you ask?”

“It's time to tell part of the truth, then,” Harry said; he cast Sonorus on his throat, and asked, “May I have everyone's attention?” Some sleeping fighters stirred and took their feet off the Wizengamot's chairs; a few stood. Shacklebolt muttered, “I hope you know what you're doing,” before he cast his own Sonorus .

“Friends, I am pleased to introduce Harry Potter. He would like to say a few words,” said Shacklebolt. Nearly everyone stirred with that announcement and many rose to their feet. Harry contemplated hitting Shacklebolt with a stinging hex, but he decided to save it for later.

“Thank you, Minister,” Harry said; “I wanted to thank all of you for doing this. We've lost many people today who were important to us. I lost two who were my brothers in all but name. It's hard to imagine that there's more yet to come, but I won't lie to you. We fought our way into the Ministry, and now it's time for you to take it back. It's also time for me to find Voldemort and to kill him.” He drew the expected chorus of gasps and mutterings, but within a few moments the room became eerily silent.

“For the last year, a small group of us have been on the hunt for several items. Voldemort placed a part of his soul into each of these items. That's why he's been more or less immortal. That's why he didn't die when his killing curse rebounded off of me. We couldn't risk killing him, because he might arrange for a new body and we would have to go through this all over again,” he said. The shock on the faces of nearly everyone was actually greater than he'd expected.

He went on, “The reason we came here today... the reason so many have died... is so that I could destroy those items. It was so that Voldemort could be mortal again... so that he can be killed. That's over and done.” That announcement drew the sort of cheering that he had anticipated.

He held his hands out to stop the commotion and continued, “In a few minutes, you're going to begin taking back this place from the Death Eaters. I have one more job to finish besides Voldemort, and some of you will have to risk your lives to help me pull it off. There's a room inside the Department of Mysteries that's filled with a kind of energy. It's so powerful that if the room were to explode, it could level an entire city in an instant.” He waited for the gasps that would surely come, and wasn't disappointed.

“I have to secure that room, and it has to be me that does it. I'm the only one who can go in there – even Voldemort doesn't have that power,” he announced. “We have to be finished here – Voldemort has to be finished – by the end of today. If not, we've been told that the Muggle government will use its bombs to destroy everything of magical Britain that it can find, including this very place. If they did that, and that room is still as it is right now, then the Muggles might think that someone set off an atomic bomb in the middle of London... I see most of you know what that is... and that could start a war that I can't even imagine. I know you don't need more pressure, but the future of Britain and the world is on our shoulders today. The people brave enough to do this are in this room. The people I can count on are in this room. The people who can win this thing are in this room. You're the best people for this. We're going to win, I know it! So do your job today or die trying, because we've got to win today, we've got to!”

The people assembled in Courtroom Ten began to applaud, something that he hadn't entirely counted on. He cancelled his Sonorus charm and raised his right arm with his fist clenched, which inexplicably drew even more cheers. Shacklebolt clapped him on the back and Twing gave him an excitable thumbs-up.

Harry saw Hermione, Ginny and Ron standing off to one side. He gave a last wave and then headed toward them. Hermione was fidgeting, Ginny was leaning into Ron, and Ron had a smirk on his face that seemed quite out of place.

“We need to talk, Harry. I need to explain,” Hermione said.

Ginny said quietly, “Thank you for mentioning Fred and George... I think they considered you a brother, as well.”

“I hope so, I really do,” Harry returned.

Ron took a stuttering breath and then let out a snort. “Bloody hell, Harry... a Quidditch speech? Ollie Wood's Quidditch speech?” he chuckled.

“Oi, it's not like I spend my Sundays at Speakers' Corner!” Harry protested; “Besides, there's a bit more to this one than Quidditch! Ollie didn't have to game plan around atomic bombs, did he?”

“Harry, really... we do need to talk,” said Hermione.

“That's right, we need to talk about why you three are here and not in the Shetlands,” Harry said.

“When did you destroy the rest of the horcruces? It wasn't all at once; there was a break between them. Was it just after three o'clock... say, around thirteen minutes past?” Hermione asked.

“That has to be about right,” said Harry.

“I felt it from almost four hundred miles away, Harry. Everything's changed. All of my strength's come back. My spells haven't been this powerful since... well, they've never been like this, really,” Hermione said.

Harry gave a hesitant nod. “It was like this weight was lifted,” he admitted; “I wasn't paying attention to spells; we were trying to stay alive.”

“Do you suppose he's weaker, then?” Ron asked.

“It's possible; I hadn't considered that,” Hermione said.

Ginny said, “You're stronger with us here, Harry. We need to be here for this. I need to be here for this. I need to be there when you beat him.”

Hermione took Harry's hand. She pointed out, “Distance won't save me. If I could feel what you did from that far away...”

“You don't know that,” Harry said.

“You're right, I don't, but it stands to reason,” said Hermione.

Harry snapped, “I'm still angry about this – you shouldn't be here.”

“I can't be anywhere else,” Hermione countered.

He turned to Ginny and said, “Me beating Voldemort could be the last thing you ever see. I understand what you're thinking; I felt like that after he killed Cedric, like I had to see him dead. I haven't a choice in that, but you do.”

“I haven't had a choice since the Chamber of Secrets, and you know it. This isn't about dating or seeing you as my white knight or whatnot; this is for me , Harry,” Ginny said.

Harry said grimly, “Ron...?”

“I can't be out in front, and I know it. I'd be in your way at best. That doesn't mean I have to sit here. I'll be with Twing,” he said.

Ginny's face brightened. “You'll look after him? Really?”

“I suspect he'll be the one looking after me, but at least I can keep up a shield for him,” said Ron.

“I figured Twing would be off with the rest of the Danes,” Harry said.

“That's not why he came. He came to see V-Voldemort finished. He has good reason for it,” Ginny said.

“We all have our reasons for it, Harry,” Hermione said, “and you aren't responsible for that. You don't get to decide who comes and who stays behind.”

“Almost sixty people are dead already, just in getting me where I needed to go!” Harry protested.

“They're dead because they want to end this, mate. That's what we all want,” said Ron.

“I'm coming with you. I can have Kingsley order it if you'd rather,” Hermione said.

Harry huffed, “Fine. Where's Twing?”

Ginny said, “He's over there – hello, Anders!” Twing looked up and gave a quick wave. He was loading a backpack.

Harry headed in his direction but stopped short. “What is that?” he asked warily.

Twing didn't look up. “These? These are box magazines, 30 rounds each.”

Harry pointed next to him and demanded, “And what are you planning to do with  that ?”

Twing stopped what he was doing and stood to face Harry. “That is an MP5K-PDW. It's a Heckler & Koch. They make a nice weapon. Folding stock, suppressor-ready... it does nicely in these small spaces.  What will I do with it?  What sort of question is that?  I will kill Death Eaters with it, of course,” he said.

“But... it's a gun...” Harry said.

Twing's expression cleared; he said, “Ahh, you were under the impression that I am a wizard. Sadly, no. I am what you Brits refer to as a Squib – a rather offensive term, if you ask me.”

“Why?” Harry asked simply.

Twing knelt to finish filling his backpack. He explained as he worked, “My father is also a Squib. My father and his father before him were in the import-export business, you might say. On occasion, when the Kingdom of Denmark is in need of, shall we say, unique items or services, then they fulfilled the Kingdom's need. I am in a similar business, albeit more closely tied to our government. My mother was an English witch. She attended your school. In fact, she knew your family; my father claims that she was your father's minder on occasion when he was a boy. She came here to visit her brother and sister last year, just before Voldemort took control. She was the worst sort of blood traitor in his eyes, of course. We believe she was murdered in November, along with the entire extended family.”

“I see,” Harry said softly.

“That is why I am here. This Voldemort, he is a rabid animal and he must be put down. I may not be able to do that, but I can clear your path, and so that is what I will do,” Twing said.

Harry whispered forcefully, “I'm glad to have you, then, but you need to live through this.”

As he inspected his gun, Twing asked, “And why do you say this?”

“Because you fancy Ginny and she fancies you. I expect you to take proper care of her, Twing. Anything less and there's nowhere in the world you'll be able to hide,” whispered Harry.

“I thought that she was yours,” Twing said.

“She thought I was hers,” Harry corrected him.

“I am four, almost five years older,” said Twing.

“I don't think she cares about that,” Harry said.

“She's an amazing woman,” Twing said without looking toward Harry.

Harry said, “Keep her and Ron alive: that's what I'm asking of you.”

“And Miss Granger?” Twing asked.

“She's fool enough to be with me,” said Harry.

Twing fitted several of the magazines into his vest and then slung his backpack; “Are you ready to go?”

Harry said, “Give me five minutes.”

“Can you do this?  Can you kill him?” Twing asked.

Harry looked him dead in the eye and gave the only acceptable answer. “Yes,” he said.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
The Last Horcrux

THIRTEEN
The Last Horcrux

July 31, 1998      The Ministry for Magic, City of London

4:25 AM

Shacklebolt's lynx patronus burst through the wall and presented itself to Harry. The message wasn't one that Harry wanted to hear: We've been found out. The house-elves can still transport themselves but can't carry anyone with them. Advise that you retreat and attempt to reach the nexus from another direction .

“The news could be better,” Twing said as a string of cutting curses chipped away at their conjured barrier.

“So... another of those banging things, then?” Ron suggested.

Twing elbowed Ron and said, “Make certain that you cast that spell to deaden our hearing, yes?”

“I didn't know you were about to throw the thing. I didn't even know what it was!” Ron groused.

Harry took one of the two remaining flash-bang grenades from his vest and said, “On three...”

As soon as the flash faded, Harry and Twing stood and fired on the Death Eaters: blasting curses from Harry and 9mm bullets from Twing. Ron deflected curses from Twing and Ginny did the same for Harry. Within ten seconds, every Death Eater in the room lay on the floor, dead or mortally wounded.

Hermione spoke up from behind them.  She was surrounded by fallen fighters and her hands and shirt sleeves were blood-stained.  “I've done all I can.  No one's going to bleed to death, but we have to get them to hospital now,” she said.

Another lynx appeared and notified them: Dobby is coming to you . A few moments later, the house-elf appeared next to Ginny.

“Hello, Miss Wheezy. Hello, Harry Potter. Dobby apologises that he and the other house-elves cannot pop the injured to Madam Pomfrey, but the evil ones cannot keep us from using magic, not without keeping themselves from using magic. We will take Harry Potter's fighters to Madam Pomfrey,” Dobby said. He snapped his fingers and two of Hermione's improvised stretchers lifted two feet from the floor. Two more house-elves popped into the room. One levitated the other stretchers, and the other stood in an alert stance.

Twing said, “We cleared the rooms behind us but that may have changed.”

The alert house-elf said, “Cook will not allow Harry Potter's fighters to be hurt a second time. Cook will defend them with his life if need be.”

“Be careful, all of you,” Harry said. With that, the three house-elves floated the wounded out of the room and toward safety.

Hermione sighed, “I... I didn't imagine it would be like this. I don't know what I expected, really...”

“Do you see why I didn't want you to come?” Harry asked.

“I'm here now and I won't leave,” she said.

4:40 AM

“One more sodding room...” Harry groaned.

“I am running low of bullets,” Twing said.

Ron said, “Dobby might be able to bring those things, even if he can't carry a person.”

Twing shook his head. “I packed every magazine that I had. There are three left including the one that's loaded. Eighty-one bullets, that is all.”

“You're already torn up, Twing. You can't go any further,” Ron told him.

“This is my place, Ronald. This is what I came for,” Twing insisted.

Harry grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him: “Someone has to get to the army when it's over – to the Prime Minister, really – so they know that he's dead. We don't know if Shacklebolt's still alive. Someone with a bit of authority has to tell the Muggles when it's over. I need you to stay clear – to stay alive.  Please.”

Twing looked to Ginny. “You're with him to the end, aren't you?” he said, and she returned a resolute nod.

“If you are unavailable tomorrow, I will be most put out,” Twing said in the poshest of tones. Ginny laughed but her eyes were watery.

Harry rolled his eyes and said, “Sweet Merlin, will you just kiss her and get it over with?” Ginny flushed crimson and Twing nearly choked on his tongue, so Harry added, “What, did you think I was joking?”; then he turned away from them and faced Hermione.  After he landed a playful punch, Ron did the same.

All the while Hermione continued to cast spells on Twing's leg.  “This is definitely a lash-up job. I'm afraid that you may end up with a limp,” she told him when she was finished.

“There are worse things. Just as long as I remain dashing...?” Twing quipped.

Ron said, “You're stuck with us until the house-elves can come back, at least.  We'll conjure another set of barriers, and then we're going to layer it with Notice-Me-Nots, disillusionments, silencing charms, the whole lot. If you stay quiet, they won't know you're here. Don't send bullets at anyone unless there's no other choice.”

Harry shook Twing's hand; he said, “Coming in here without a wand... you're either the bravest person or the biggest nutter I've ever met. I wish I'd had the chance to get to know you a bit, Anders.”

“When you have won, we shall 'go and have a pint', as they say. I look forward to it,” Twing said warmly.

Harry flinched and jumped to his feet. “Wands out,” he hissed.

Ron cast a Supersensory Charm on himself and then quickly dispelled it. “Left side,” he mouthed. Harry moved toward the entry to their left and flattened himself against the wall. Ron ambled toward him and did the same.  A second later, they found themselves crossing wands with Neville and Demelza Robbins, an old Quidditch teammate.

“Bloody hell, Harry, I guess you got the drop on us,” Neville said.

“That was the idea,” Harry said; “Where are the rest of you?”

Neville said, “Magnus has us checking the perimeter of the Room of Doors. Are you lot responsible for the dead Death Eaters we've been finding?”

“That would be us,” Ron said.

“What's in the next room?” Neville asked.

“Fourteen Death Eaters; we've set up a Reflecting Barrier and an Imperturbable Charm, so we can see them but they can't see or hear us,” said Harry.

“They're pretty well set up: barricades, good visibility... there must be a clever one in the bunch,” Ron added.

“Isn't Twing with you? I saw that little Christmas cracker of his earlier, when we were coming through the Atrium. I should think that would do the trick,” said Neville.

“It would, if I weren't almost out of ammunition,” Twing called out.

“Ahh, I suppose it can't be conjured?” Neville wondered.

Twing said, “Conjured bullets often cause guns to jam and misfire.”

“Bother,” said Neville.

“We've got something else, I think,” Twing said; “Do you have any of those silver balls that Fred and George Weasley assembled?”

“Two of them, I think,” Harry said as he felt inside the various pockets of his vest.

Twing said, “Fred told me to throw them as far as possible –”

“– and be sure to duck. George told me that, I think,” Harry recalled.

“He said that they explode after bouncing twice against a hard surface, something about... eruption fluid? It was something of that sort,” Twing said.

Hermione's brows shot up. “Was it erumpent fluid?” she blurted out.

“Yes, that was it. Apparently it's inside there in a compartment made from a worm, if that makes any sense... and there are two other things in different compartments... when they combine... boom ,” said Twing.

“Erumpent fluid will explode well on its own. They must have used flobberworm skins for their stabilizing effects – a genius idea, actually. Do you remember either of the other ingredients?” Hermione asked.

“Ehh... one had something to do with winding, and the other is a powdered root. Sorry, that's all I can remember,” said Twing.

“Winding... winding... oh, they wouldn't! They wouldn't have... would they?” Hermione gasped.

“Fred and George would do anything ,” Ron pointed out.

Hermione said, “Ashwinder eggs, then. They put erumpent fluid and ashwinder eggs inside those things. What they won't blow up, they'll burn. I won't even hazard a guess what the other ingredient is, but considering the source I'd expect that it accelerates the other two.”

“Magnus is hoping he'll get to the Room of Doors from the opposite side, Harry. What ever you've planned, you'd best do it quickly,” Neville said.

Ron said, “Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder first, do you think?”

Harry nodded; he said, “Two of these balls should do the trick.”

“Two will probably collapse the entire building,” Hermione dead-panned.

“One it is, then,” Harry decided.

Hermione said, “Let's get the barriers placed for Anders, and we can all take cover behind them for now.”

Several moments and a dozen or more charms later, Harry and Ron were at either side of the charmed doorway and their five companions were behind the newly conjured barriers.

“On three?” Ron asked.

“Throw the powder first,” Harry said.

The room beyond instantly went black and a few trails of inky darkness floated through the doorway. Amidst the shouts of confusion, Harry counted to three and then flung one of the silver balls into the room beyond. Ron crouched and Harry threw himself to the floor.

The explosion outdid anyone's highest – or lowest – expectations of the Weasley twins.  It was, in short, monumental. Harry was showered by bits of wall and gore. His ears rang. He heard Ron let out a groan and slowly turned onto his back. Most of the wall between the two rooms had been obliterated, and Ron was half-buried in a pile of rubble.

“You do make an entrance, don't you, Harry Potter?” said a high, thin voice through the dispersing darkness; “It was not as flashy as Dumbledore and his pet, but memorable all the same. So... shall we duel?”

“I'll need to clean my clothes first. I seem to have gotten your Death Eaters all over them,” Harry said with as much bravado as he could muster.

Voldemort let forth a chilling laugh. “I will allow you a moment to ready yourself, if for nothing more than your ability to joke at a moment such as this,” the Dark Lord said.

“Not joking, actually... suppose I should take off this vest,” Harry returned.

“Do as you will. It shan't affect the outcome of the day,” Voldemort hissed.

“We'll start when you dispel the darkness, then?” said Harry.

Voldemort said, “Why would I do that, when I can see through the darkness in perfect detail?” and followed immediately with a Killing Curse that Harry only spotted at the last moment; he dodged it by inches.

Harry fired back with a Whirling Dervish charm that caused the darkness to spiral away like an inky fog lifting. He silently thanked George for having taught him the charm; it had been an unspoken apology for having sold the Darkness Powder to Death Eaters the year prior. The exploded room was little more than a corridor now. Voldemort was standing casually in the centre of the Room of Doors, about fifty feet away.

“And now we bow, like civilized men,” Voldemort said.

Harry fired off a quick chain of Blasting Curses, Bludgeoners and Flaming Arrows as he returned, “I don't think so.”

Voldemort deflected most of the spells with a flick of his wrist; two Flaming Arrows were deflected at Harry and the Dark Lord avoided one Bludgeoner by stepping to the side. Harry cast a quick shield and the Arrows bounced away. Voldemort cast a Blood-Boiler over Harry's shoulder that had to be an intentional miss, so Harry dodged; out of the corner of his eye, he realised that the curse was aimed at Neville, who had dashed through the door behind him and clear of the room.  Harry palmed the second of the Weasley twin's silver balls and cast several Stunners, hoping that Voldemort would be surprised by the choice.

“You think to stun me, boy? You cannot possibly be that thick,” Voldemort sneered.

“That's true,” Harry said; he called out, “ Aguamenti! ” and sprayed the widest, heaviest burst of water he could muster.

Voldemort began to laugh at him. “Water?” he said in disbelief, without firing any sort of spell in return.

Harry cast, “ Incendio! ”

“Have you lost your senses?” Voldemort laughed. The spray of water burst into a thick cloud of steam that filled the space between them.

“Ahh, now I understand: you're trying to take away the visibility again. Pathetic... a first-year could do better,” sneered Voldemort. As the Dark Lord blew away the sudden fog, Harry threw the last silver ball and dove to one side.

He heard, “What's this...?” and then an explosion louder and stronger than the first. This one was thirty feet further away, though, and he made it to his feet before Voldemort did. He cast everything that came to mind, as fast as he could manage: severing charms, blasting curses, flaming curses, magical ropes, entrail-expellers, slug-vomiting charms, tickling charms, and even an ear-twitching hex before he realised that Voldemort had no ears to twitch. Voldemort managed a thick, dark shield that shunted away most of the spells, but at least two severing charms struck true.

When the Dark Lord stood, the effects of the explosion were obvious. His robe was in tatters and his face and neck were burned. His wand arm hung oddly and dripped thick, black blood. His teeth were clenched and he was breathing hard.
“Oh, that was good... that was very good. Lord Voldemort was actually fooled for a moment. Touché, Harry Potter – touché,” he said from behind his still-visible shield; “It's time for a change of pace... think of me as your N.E.W.T. examiner, if you like. You see, I can demonstrate dark arts the likes of which no Hogwarts student – save myself – has ever seen. Observe!”

Harry felt very fortunate to survive the next two minutes of Voldemort's onslaught. He was pounded by curses of colours, effects and intensity unlike anything in his imagination. One black beam that barely missed him actually smelled evil. He shielded against some, dodged others, and blocked the rest with anything he could conjure or summon. Just as he didn't think he could continue, Voldemort growled and turned away from him.

Harry dove behind the rubble pile, where Ginny and Hermione were still pulling Ron free. Magnus had already taken several shots at the Dark Lord from the opposite side, and freeing Ron looked to be a slow process. Being rather short on patience, Harry decided to solve two problems at once: he banished the top half of the rubble pile toward Voldemort's back.

Hermione started, “Harry, I can –”

“Get him out of there,” Harry cut her off. Just as she started to protest, a cutting curse caught him high. He dropped to the floor and rolled behind the remaining rubble.

“It's the same shoulder,” he ground out.

Hermione winced as she probed the wound with her wand. “It's a right mess, that's what it is... I can probably fix part of it. You should be able to move your arm, but it'll be painful to do it.”

“Do what you can. I need both arms,” he said.

As she worked, she said, “We need to get him away from the doors, don't we? You need to open the Room.”

“That's assuming that it will open at all,” Harry pointed out.

“What do we do if you can't get it open?” Hermione asked.

Harry said, “Maybe someone could try using a Killing Curse on my scar... that's pretty out there, isn't it... not much better than trying to have a Dementor try to suck it out. Lovely idea, that was.”

“We were trying to think of every possibility, all right?” said Hermione.

“If you believe the prophecy, I probably have to let him kill me. It's either that or the Veil,” he said.

“Then we'll get the door open,” she said; “Can you move your arm?”

“Yeah, I think so... aaaah! That's... not much fun,” he gasped.

“Here, hold still,” she said.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Something I'd forgotten to do earlier,” she said.

“What's that?” he asked.

She said, “This is going to sting a bit.”

Harry said, “I can handle a bit of... gaaah! Do you enjoy hurting people? It's a dentist thing, isn't it?”

“Stop whinging,” Hermione said. As she traced her wand across his upper arm, smoke rose from his skin.

He said in a choked voice, “You're giving me a tattoo? This isn't exactly the time –”

“It's a rune of protection. You'll need one on the other arm as well, and one more rune on this side. Now, hold still!” she said.

“Hurry, then. I don't like the sound of things – it's too quiet,” Harry said.

Twing came up beside them. “Magnus needs a rest,” he said.

“What are you doing?” Ginny demanded.

“Giving Magnus a rest,” Twing said. He leant over some of the remaining rubble and took three quick shots at Voldemort, then three more.

“Is that a gun ? Is someone shooting a gun at me?” Voldemort howled.

Twing took three more shots and caught the Dark Lord twice in the leg. Voldemort conjured four metal discs the size of serving platters and sent them into the air with one wave of his wand. The next three shots were intercepted by the discs, and the three after that were turned back on Twing; he dove for the floor and groaned when he hit.

“ I – will – not – be – attacked – by – a – Muggle! ” Voldemort shouted. Harry saw blue flashes from Magnus's position, and Voldemort turned the other way again.

“Are you finished?” Harry snapped at Hermione. The smoke made him want to gag, as much for the thought of it as for the actual smell.

“Almost there...” she said. Her wand tapped the last of the three runes and she muttered an incantation. It sounded vaguely familiar... something-something excandesco , he thought.

“Done,” he said as he stood and aimed his wand at Voldemort. Harry and Magnus began to level fire on Voldemort from opposite directions.

“Death Eaters, to me!” Voldemort called out. He returned to the fight for several volleys and then called again, “Death Eaters, to me!”

“No one's coming,” Harry said.

“Impudent brat!” Voldemort spat. He shifted the metal discs behind him to catch Magnus's fire and advanced on Harry, wand blazing.

One of the doors in the nexus to Voldemort's right suddenly opened, and Neville charged out with the Sword of Gryffindor drawn. From the look on his face, Neville was almost as surprised as Voldemort when the sword struck true. Neville's momentum buried the blade in Voldemort's side nearly to the hilt.

“GRYFFINDOR!” Voldemort hissed. He jabbed his wand and banished Neville so hard into the wall that he left a mark before he slid to the floor. Then he stopped, and pulled firmly on the hilt. The sword slowly worked its way free, dripping with thick black inhuman blood. Voldemort didn't cast a healing charm after the sword clattered to the floor; he cast a sealing charm.

“He... he's a true homunculus – no organs, no vessels... just a blood bag!” Hermione gasped.

“How do I kill that?” Harry said in a panic.

“Drain him completely... I think...” Hermione returned.

Voldemort turned around and angrily thrust his wand toward Magnus's position. The Icelander literally tore through the wall and flew toward the Dark Lord. With a jab and a wave, Magnus struck the wall opposite of Neville and fell face-first. He turned back to face Harry and began walking toward him. He batted away each spell Harry fired with quick waves of his wand.

Harry heard Ron groan behind him. “I've got him out,” Twing said.

“Get him out of the room – out! Out!” Harry shouted.

“I don't know if he should be moved –” Hermione started.

“Get him out now! ” Harry ordered.

Twing didn't hesitate: he pulled Ron to his feet, slung him over his shoulder and headed for the far door without a single look back.

“Hermione, Ginny – GO!” Harry demanded.

Hermione stood next to him and began to fire all manner of surprisingly dark curses. She and Ginny took turns casting shields and firing. Most of Ginny's spells were blasting curses but she even attempted a Bat-Bogey curse out of frustration; only three pathetic bogeys took a few flaps around the snake-like slits in Voldemort's face before they disappeared. The net result of all their work was that Voldemort slowed his stride somewhat. Ginny moved out to one side in an effort to force the Dark Lord to divide his attention.

Voldemort stopped for a moment and said, “Ah, of course... you're the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets. Imperio .”

“No... no...” Ginny sobbed.

“Fire your strongest Blasting Curse at Mr. Potter, please,” Voldemort ordered.

“I... won't...” Ginny bit out.

Harry and Hermione fired curse after curse at Voldemort, but it was as though they were standing still. What wasn't intercepted by the whirling metal discs seemed to bounce off of the Dark Lord.

“I owned you before, girl, and I will own you again. You're too weak to resist me,” said Voldemort.

“I - fought - you - for a year ,” Ginny managed.

“Kill Potter and the girl – NOW!” Voldemort demanded.  Ginny's arm shook as she raised her wand and turned to face Harry.

“Good! Very good! Now DO IT!” said Voldemort.

“I will... NOT,” Ginny snapped; she turned in a trice and fired three rapid-fire and surprisingly powerful Reductor Curses at the Dark Lord. One made it past his shields and sent him flying backward into the conjured stone barriers. Harry took Hermione by the hand and ran toward the Room of Doors, with Ginny close behind. Harry reached for her with his other hand and she took it.

“You beat him! You beat him!” Harry told her. Ginny gave him a nod and a determined smile.

Hermione said, “I have Magnus; Ginny, get Neville. Let's move them to the corridor. Harry...?”

Harry called out, “I ask for the Room of Magical Energies!”

The Room of Doors shuddered and tried but failed to turn; there was simply too much damage from the two explosions. There was a second round of shuddering, and two of the doors near the spot where Neville had fallen slid apart. The faintly glowing door appeared between them.

“No – you – will – not!” Voldemort thundered. He shot across the rooms as though he was flying, and a wave of raw magic preceded him. Before he could cast a shield of any sort, the wave struck Harry and threw him backward. Ginny ran back into the room and tried to summon Harry clear.

Voldemort hissed, “Goodbye, blood traitor,” and cast a too-familiar purple beam. Harry cast a shield spell in front of Ginny but it didn't fully block the curse. She slumped backward, sliced across the stomach, and struck the floor hard.

Hermione tried to reach Ginny, but caught a cutting curse that her hastily-cast shield couldn't block. She fell to her knees, cradling one arm. Voldemort promptly blasted her wand into a thousand fragments.

That distraction gave Harry a chance to return the favour. Just as Voldemort cast a Body-Bind at Harry, Harry's quick Expelliarmus shook Voldemort's wand just enough to slip it loose. The Body-Bind only caught half of Harry's body. He managed a Blasting Curse that assured the yew-and-phoenix-feather wand would never be used again. Then he immediately moved to dispel the binding.

One thing that Harry hadn't counted on - though he certainly should have - was that Voldemort had a second wand. Even though it clearly wasn't a perfect match, it was more than powerful enough to deliver a curse that shattered Harry's wand. The pieces of it slashed through his hand and the phoenix feather burst into flame.

His hand was in agony; he couldn't see his palm but it was surely charred. Try as he might, he couldn't move properly, and his attempt left him flat on the floor. His holly wand was gone forever. The elder wand was a foot from the fingertips of his other hand but it might as well have been at Hogwarts for all the good it did him.

“The accursed protection is gone, and your wand is no more,” Voldemort sneered. “You won't be saved by a mudblood this time, Harry Potter.”

“That's what you think, you monster,” Hermione said. She was in little better shape than Harry. Her left arm was cut badly from wrist to elbow. Her breathing was laboured; he wondered if her ribs were broken. She crawled until she sat awkwardly in front of Harry.

The Dark Lord declared, “History is written by the victors. Harry Potter will be the monster, not Lord Voldemort.”

“You're not even him any more... just a tiny piece,” Harry managed to say.

Voldemort scoffed, “That's not how it works, boy. A horcrux is a segment of the soul: seven horcruxes, ergo seven equal segments. You've destroyed five, I'll give you that much, but two remain within this form; you cost me the opportunity to create a sixth at Godric's Hollow. I will create one final horcrux, and let me assure you that no one will ever find it. Lord Voldemort will never die.”

He limped forward and went on, “In fact, I believe that I shall use your death, Potter, as the catalyst for my last horcrux. Let us do this the same as seventeen years ago... excepting the end, of course.”

“I don't think so,” Hermione said. She clasped her hands around Harry's arm.

“Release him and stand aside!” Voldemort demanded.

“Make me,” Hermione said, almost petulantly.

Voldemort let forth a high, chilling laugh. “You are certainly spirited, girl – foolish but spirited.  It ends here, Harry Potter.  Avada –”

Hermione squeezed tight against the rune on Harry's upper arm, so tightly that his skin seemed to burn with the touch. He felt a tiny bit of her magic reach out to the rune. There was a bright orange flash of light, and he realised that she had released the incantation embedded within it. Something-something excandesco... it was from Ravenclaw's Grimoire, he realised... advexi excandesco . It wasn't a rune of protection at all.  It was a transportation spell.

He shouted, “NO!” but there was no air in his lungs to carry the sound. In an instant he emerged from a mass of flames on the other side of the chamber and dropped to the floor.  Suddenly imbalanced, Hermione stumbled into the empty space where he had stood.

“ – Kedavra! ”

A green light glowed from Hermione's eyes for a moment and her mouth formed into a silent 'oh!' as the curse struck.

Harry felt the excratio pensare bond pull against him – the bond that held he and Hermione together so that they could share the burden of a curse. It was oddly comforting to know that they would be together again in seconds. He wondered if his mother had felt the same way about his father. He wondered if they would be disappointed in him.

Then the bond buckled and shuddered and he felt as if his insides were being torn apart. It made no sense: the Killing Curse was instant and painless. There was an incredible rush of – something? - and then he screamed as what was surely pure magic flowed through him and then out again: out his fingertips, his feet, his nose, his mouth. He thought his very soul would follow it, but somehow he was still Harry.

It was then that his head exploded with pain and light. His scar cracked and a sheen of blood flowed down his forehead. A hazy black mist swirled before his eyes and a second shout joined his own.  Voldemort added a third; he shouted, “NO! STOP!”  The shrill scream of the last horcrux continued as the black mist spun and shredded and finally disappeared.

Harry felt as though he was free of the body bind, but when he moved to clear the blood from his eyes, he still couldn't manage to lift his arm.  Voldemort was far from uninjured himself: Neville's jab with the Sword of Gryffindor had left him listing to the right; he was burned more badly than Harry had realised; and various curses had cut his arms and torn to shreds his right leg. He unsteadily pointed his spare wand; both his hands shook badly.

“You were a horcrux, you miserable brat! You were my last horcrux, and you knew it! ” he screamed.

Harry fought to his feet. “None left... and now... I'm going to end this...” he stammered.

Voldemort shrieked, “You think you've won? I think not: the prophecy says that only you can kill me, horcruxes or not – doesn't it? That's what it was all about. I should have realised that from the start.”

“They're horcruces ... bloody twit...” Harry ground out.

Voldemort ignored him; he said, “I can still copy myself again, and again, and again... who will stop me? You? You are a defeated schoolboy without a wand. Well then... I haven't the proper ritual stones for the task just now, so the order of deaths matters not. Goodbye, Harry Potter.”

A quiet Expelliarmus came from the far side of the chamber. Voldemort's wand shook and clattered from his grasp.
“The blood traitor still lives?” Voldemort rasped. He tried to summon his wand with a wave of his hand, but it only shuddered.

Harry managed to reach across his body with his left hand and knock the elder wand loose from his pocket. He rolled to the floor, left arm outstretched, and the wand skittered into his hand. He cast the only spell that he knew for certain the temperamental wand would accept from him.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

Voldemort hissed at the approach of Harry's silvery stag. “You think to ward me off, do you? Ridiculous, boy!” he boasted.  The stag cantered around Ginny, whose wand was loose in her hand; it looked as if she was trying to speak but failing at it. Voldemort leant to pick up his wand, but then stumbled backward and raised his arm to shield his eyes.

“I won't let you hurt her again,” Harry said. He painfully rose to his feet. Just as at Hogwarts, the patronus stag continued to hold its place even though his wand and his thoughts were directed elsewhere.

“ What magic is this? ” Voldemort demanded, even as he backed toward the side of the room.

Harry drew strength from somewhere.  He said, “Ollivander told us about someone who made too many copies of a magical something-or-another. In the end, it wasn't anything like the original. You can try to copy yourself, but it won't work.

“Nonsense – Lord Voldemort's magic knows no constraints,” Voldemort scoffed, though he couldn't let his arm down for fear of looking upon the stag.

Harry closed in on the Dark Lord; he said, “You're not very good at maths, either. I've thought about this for a while now. If you've actually managed to split your soul, then there's a little less left to split each time. You said there were seven equal segments, but I don't think so. The first split left you with half a soul, the next with a fourth, and so on, and so on. You're barely human any more... practically a dementor. Prongs! ” The patronus stag dashed toward Voldemort, who now huddled against the wall.

Voldemort forced himself to look toward Harry and said, “We're at a stand-off, it seems. For whatever reason, I can't seem to stand against your patronus, but you can't attack me for fear of dispelling it. What happens now, Harry Potter? My men are surely closing in by now.”

Harry said, “I'm not so sure about that, Tom.”

“You will not call me by that name!” Voldemort snapped.

Harry went on, “Your men didn't come to you before. I figure they're all dead now.”

“Killed? I doubt that, Potter – stunned, perhaps, but not killed. Your people think like Aurors. My Death Eaters will rise again,” said Voldemort.

“No, I meant what I said. We didn't come today to take prisoners. Think about it. Macnair? Dead. Mulciber? Dead. Rookwood? Dead. Bellatrix? Dead.”

At that, Voldemort said, “You're lying!”

Harry pointed across the room and said, “She went through that door a few hours ago. I figure that she's dead. We're not taking prisoners, Tom. We came here to rid England of you and everyone with you. It's finished now. Somnus. ”

“What...?” was the last thing Voldemort said before he slid to the floor, soundly asleep. Harry's patronus stag immediately settled beside the unconscious Dark Lord.

Harry struggled toward Ginny; “Oh, God... can... can you hear me?” he asked.

Ginny coughed furiously and then managed to say, “Sleep? You... he's asleep?”

“I can't cast curses with this wand,” Harry said; “You hang on, Ginny – do you hear me?”

“Where's Hermione? Where is she?” Ginny asked him.

“Dobby!” Harry cried out.

The house-elf appeared nearly beneath Harry's feet; he barely managed to remain standing. “Yes, Harry Potter...? You... that... it's... is He dead?”

“He will be in a few minutes,” Harry said. “I need healers here, now. Ginny needs help. Neville and Magnus are in the corridor.”

“Dobby will do it, but what about Miss Granger...? Miss Granger? Dobby is calling, Miss Granger...” Dobby nudged Hermione's shoulder again and again, and Harry put everything he had into holding down the emotions roiling inside of him.

“She's dead, Dobby. Just... just get the healers, would you?” Harry asked.

4:55 AM

Harry didn't notice when Dobby returned. He barely registered the commotion around him. He waved off one healer – it might have been Madam Pomfrey, but he wasn't sure. He re-cast the Sleeping Charm on Voldemort and levitated his body toward the glowing door. Several people gasped at the sight, but he didn't care. He went back and picked up Hermione in his arms. There was an exquisite pain in his shoulder, but he wouldn't let it stop him.

“Mr. Potter! What are you doing?” someone called out.

Another said, “We were... we were about to collect the body, sir –”

He ignored it all and carried her with him to the door. It was awkward, but he somehow tapped the door the requisite three times, and said in a thick voice, “I ask permission to enter.” Nothing happened.

“I ask permission to enter,” he repeated. Still, nothing happened.

“Please let me in... I have to finish this... please let me in, or it will have all been for nothing... please,” he begged. Just as earlier in the morning, the door became brighter and brighter until the entire Room of Doors was washed in a white light that flickered and danced on every surface.

The white fog that had earlier reached out for Bellatrix Lestrange pooled on the floor and swirled around Voldemort's sleeping form. Slowly, almost as if he were on a funeral bier, his body drifted into the fog and disappeared into the Room beyond.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered.

Something urged him to step forward. It wasn't so much a voice as feelings that he sensed. He was being invited in. He heard pleas to stop, but the urging to enter the Room had to be satisfied. He knew there was no going back.

Once inside, the light dimmed enough for him to open his eyes without blinking back tears, but there was still no sense of walls or boundaries of any kind – it was just a white endlessness. He turned and couldn't see a door behind him.

He dropped to his knees but somehow kept Hermione in his arms. Her head settled limply in the crook of his neck. He was running on something outside of himself, he knew; it was almost impossible that he was still conscious.

“I'm sorry,” he said; “I never wanted to kill anyone. I never wanted any of this to happen.”

It wanted to know what his purpose was, what he was asking for. It wanted to know why he had been drawn into the war in the first place. It wanted to know why he brought Voldemort to it rather than killing the Dark Lord himself. It wanted to know his deepest hopes, dreams, fears and wishes. It wanted to know him , he realised. He couldn't fight it, and wasn't sure he would put up a fight if he could. It rifled through his memories but the feeling was of a soft caress. It was taking care of him.

What do you want?

It didn't actually speak aloud, but it may as well have spoken – the question was perfectly clear.

“You can't give me what I want. She's dead,” he said aloud.

What do you want?

“I just... tell me she's... that she's somewhere safe, that's she's all right... that's all I need to know,” he said, and somehow he knew that she was.

What do you want?

“How do I set you free? Whoever you are, or whatever you are, this isn't right. You're not supposed to be locked up like this. I... I want to make things right,” he said.

The light became brighter and brighter until he had to squeeze his eyes shut. He could still sense the brightness through his eyelids, and there was a gentle warmth, and a breeze, and then nothing at all – pure darkness. He opened his eyes.

He was on his knees in a dimly lit and empty metal-walled room; its only feature was the open door behind him. Voldemort's body was gone. Hermione's body was gone as well.  There was nothing left.  He fell forward into the darkness.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Things Worse Than Death

FOURTEEN
Things Worse Than Death

August 3, 1998      King George VI Hospital, Greater London, England

“Harry...? Harry...? Can you hear me? If you can hear me, I need you to wiggle the fingers on your right hand. Can you do that for me?

He wasn't sure if his right hand moved or not, but he managed to get a word out. It sounded like, “Urgl,” which wasn't at all what he'd intended to say.

“I don't know what that means, Harry. Try again.”

“Wrgl. Wrtr. Water,” he said.

“Not just yet, young man. Let's see how you fare with sitting up.”

His head felt like it moved more than his body did, but eventually up and down were fixed in place and he decided to open his eyes.

“You are still alive... no thanks to your own efforts,” Madam Pomfrey told him.

He looked around the room very slowly. He wasn't at Hogwarts, and he wasn't at St. Mungo's. He was in a perfectly ordinary hospital room.

“Wrrr am I?” he asked.

“You're in hospital. Hogwarts will require major repair and St. Mungo's may have to be torn down entirely, so we've made arrangements through the Minister,” Madam Pomfrey told him.

“Wuhhh day is it?” he managed.

“It's August the third. You've been out for three days this time,” she said.

“Potions?” he asked.

She said, “You're already game for them...?  Even braver than I thought, aren't you?”

He let out a half-snort-half-laugh and said, “Nothin' better to do.”

Another healer brought over a tray with several glass beakers that held horrors that he preferred not to think about. Madam Pomfrey put her hand on the first beaker, and then stopped. She stammered, “Harry... Mr. Potter... no words can properly express... what you've done... oh, sod it. Thank you. There, now it's on to the potions."

August 6, 1998      King George VI Hospital, Greater London, England

“I'm sorry, but Mr. Potter is still refusing visitors,” he heard one of the nurses tell someone in the corridor.

“Madam, I am here on official business of the Crown,” someone returned.

Harry sighed and called out, “Let him in.”

An owlish looking man with a valise entered the room. He said briskly, “My name is Herbert Mallory, sir. I am employed by the Royal Household in the Lord Chamberlain's Office. You are Harry James Potter, born 31 July 1980 at Godric's Hollow in Wales, is that correct?”

“Erm, that's right,” Harry said.

Mr. Mallory gave him a thorough once-over and said, “No offence is intended, but I'm having a hard time squaring you and the award which you are to be granted. Nonetheless, on behalf of the Lord Chamberlain and Her Majesty, I extend the gratitude of the United Kingdom for your service. Due to your... unusual circumstances, there can be no formal investiture at this time.”

“Look, Mister... Mallory, is it...? I don't mean to be a bother, but I've had a rough go of it, and I haven't any idea what you're talking about,” Harry told him.

Mr. Mallory was shocked; he said, “Good heavens, man! No one's told you, not even someone from that, er, particular part of Her Majesty's Government?”

“I've been a bit of a recluse,” Harry said irritably.

“Yes... well... understandable, I'm sure,” said Mr. Mallory.

“So, again – not to be a bother – but could you start from the beginning?” Harry asked.

Mr. Mallory took a paper from his valise and said, “Yes, quite... ahem... For acts of the greatest heroism and the most conspicuous courage in circumstances of great danger, The Right Honourable Edward M. Lowell, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, with the consent of Her Majesty Margaret the First, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth and Defender of the Faith, awards to Harry James Potter the George Cross, on this day, the fifth of August, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-eight. Now, it is my understanding that you may wish to receive this award under a pseudonym?”

Harry was overwhelmed; he managed to say, “I'm sorry... under a what?”

“I understand that you may use a different name and propers in, ahem, the world within which most of the Queen's subjects live? The Prime Minister is willing to award the Cross under the name of your choosing,” Mr. Mallory explained.

“Ahh, right. Yeah, I expect I'll be using the other name and such from now on. Harry Potter's a bit too easy to locate,” Harry said.

“And the name...?” Mr. Mallory pressed.

“Black,” Harry said; “John James Black, with the same birthday and birthplace.”

Mr. Mallory took out a fountain pen and made a note. “John... James... Black – very good, sir. We will reissue all of the documentation accordingly. Will you be here for long?”

“Another two or three days, I expect,” said Harry.

Mr. Mallory said, “I believe we can accommodate that. I'll have the Cross and paperwork back to you before you depart. There is a small annuity associated with the Cross, Mr... ahem, Mr. Black . The Lord Chamberlain's Office will make arrangements with the... other branch of government in respect to that matter. I understand that the Office of the Prime Minister is also awarding you recompense of some sort, but they'll sort that on their own. There is one more rather delicate matter... I do regret having to trouble you with this.”

“I'll manage,” Harry said blandly.

Mr. Mallory removed a second page from his valise. “As you say, sir... for acts of the greatest heroism and the most conspicuous courage in circumstances of great danger, The Right Honourable Edward M. Lowell, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, with the consent of Her Majesty Margaret the First, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth and Defender of the Faith, posthumously awards to Hermione Jean Granger the George Cross, on this day, the fifth of August, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-eight. Mr. Potter... we weren't certain what to do with Miss Granger's Cross.  Someone has gone through a great deal of trouble to eliminate any references to her immediate family.  We were hoping that you might assist us in resolving the matter.”

“Oh, God...” Harry whispered.

“Ahem... Mr. Potter, we can address this at your leisure. As I said, I didn't wish to trouble you,” Mr. Mallory said quickly.

Harry waved him off. “It's... it's all right. Her parents are all she had. They moved to Canada for the duration. Are you able to get in contact with our Minister?”

“Both the Lord Chamberlain's Office and the Office of the Prime Minister are able to make that contact,” Mr. Mallory said stiffly.

“The Minister should be able to find them, or at least he'll know who can take care of it,” Harry said.

“Would you prefer to deliver the Cross to them yourself?” Mr. Mallory asked gently.

“No,” Harry said.

Mr. Mallory placed the papers back into his valise. He made for the door but stopped short. “Mr. Black? They say you ended the London War. If that's truly the case, then Her Majesty and Mr. Lowell aren't the only ones who are deeply grateful. Thank you, young man... thank you so very much,” he said. With a tip of his hat, he left.

Harry waited until the door closed, and then he bitterly wept for quite some time.

August 9, 1998      King George VI Hospital, Greater London, England

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey, for everything,” Harry said.

The stern old healer gave him a tentative embrace and said, “I think that after all we've been through together, 'Poppy' will do nicely.”

“I'll try my best,” Harry chuckled.

“I do hope we'll see you from time to time?” Madam Pomfrey said.

“We'll see what comes, right?” Harry said evenly.

“You've quite a crowd waiting to see you home,” she told him.

“A crowd? I'd rather not have a crowd,” he said.

She smiled and said, “Some of them are rather insistent – Mrs. Weasley, for one.”

Harry gave a small smile. “She and Arthur are here?” he asked.

She said, “My considered opinion is that you really shouldn't suffer through more than one or two people at a time. Would you like to see Molly and Arthur?”

“Just for a moment,” Harry said.

His first impression was that the two elder Weasleys looked very old. He realised that while he'd been in hospital, they had buried two of their sons.

Mrs. Weasley shuffled forward and then pulled him into a hug that felt to Harry like she was drowning and he was the last life saver in sight. She mumbled something into his shoulder, and his shirt quickly grew damp. Mr. Weasley patted him on the other shoulder but couldn't manage to get a word out.

“We tried to save them,” Harry said. His voice cracked as he spoke the words.

“We know that, Harry,” Mr. Weasley said; “Bill, Charlie, Percy, Ron and Ginny all made it through this. As much as it hurts to lose them... whole families came to an end in this war, and in the last one as well. Kingsley tells us that Fred destroyed one of those foul things – is that true?”

Harry's shoulders slumped and Mrs. Weasley pulled back from him. He said, “He was trying to keep Hufflepuff's Cup from Voldemort. It was stuck to his hand and there was no getting it off. He went through the Veil rather than give it up.”

Mrs. Weasley cried, “My brave boy... what did he say? What was the last thing he said?”

Harry couldn't help himself; he couldn't even think of it without a dark bit of laughter. He snorted and said, “Honestly, you don't want to know.”

She said, “What's this? You're the third person who won't tell me.”

After he composed his thoughts, he told her, “You wouldn't approve of the language; let's just say that he told Voldemort exactly what he thought of him. It was... so completely Fred . I don't know what else to say about it.”

“That will do, dear,” Mrs. Weasley sniffed.

“Harry, I don't know what plans you may have...” Mr. Weasley began.

Mrs. Weasley took over, “There's a room for you at the house we'll be living in. It's time for you to come home.”
“I'm sorry, but I can't do that,” Harry said.

“Why, what do you mean? Of course you will,” Mrs. Weasley insisted.

Harry said, “I was afraid this would happen. Look... I'm not exactly right in the head after what happened. I need to be on my own for a while.”

“But that's exactly why you need to come home: so you can be looked after!” Mrs. Weasley protested.

“Thank you, but I'll still have to say no,” Harry said with a tightness in his voice.

“You know that you're welcome, of course,” said Mr. Weasley.

“I do, and I really appreciate it. You just... you don't know what happened there,” Harry said.

“I'm... oh Harry, Hermione was a wonderful, wonderful girl.  Of course you were very close – the two of you and Ron,” Mrs. Weasley said.

Harry couldn't hold it back any more. He said, “And there it is: that's why I can't come with you right now. I don't need to hear that day after day after day. She's dead , Mrs. Weasley.  You say that we were close, but you don't know the half of it. We weren't just close. We were together, completely together. I was... well, I would have asked her to marry me when this was finished – that's how close we were. She's dead and she shouldn't be dead, because she should have been in the Shetlands.  She wasn't supposed to be there! ”

Mrs. Weasley's mouth sat open in shock. Mr. Weasley cleared his throat and said, “Clearly we didn't realise things had reached that point between the two of you. I suppose that after half a year spent together – and under those conditions, no less...”

“You should still come home with us,” Mrs. Weasley said in a hollow voice.

The door came open and Ron burst in. “Are you all ready, then? I figure you must be bursting to get out of here,” he said.

Harry's fists clenched and his breathing quickened. “I don't want to see you, not now,” he said.

“What's this?” Ron said.

“You were supposed to keep her away. It was a simple thing, but could you manage that one thing, that one bloody thing for me? No, of course not! ” Harry snarled.

“Keeping her from anything that she wanted to do was like fighting against a force of nature, and you know it,” Ron fired back.

“SHE WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE THERE, AND NOW SHE'S DEAD!” Harry shouted at him.

Ron bowed his head and said, “I hear you, Harry... God knows, I hear you. I haven't been able to put it out of my mind for a minute.”

Harry reached toward the tray next to the bed and grabbed the first thing he could find: a tissue box. He hurled it at Ron's head and growled, “GET OUT!”

“Easy there, Harry...” Mr. Weasley said.

Gudrun popped her head in just then. “What is happening in here?” she asked.

Harry lost it the moment that he saw her. He raged, “YOU! IT'S A LOT MORE YOUR FAULT THAN RON'S! I KNOW HOW HERMIONE LEARNT THOSE SPELLS! SHE AND GINNY WERE THE ONES DOING A RITUAL THAT NIGHT, WEREN'T THEY? YOU KNEW IT!  YOU KNEW IT ALL ALONG, AND YOU DAMN WELL KNEW SHE WASN'T TO BE ANYWHERE NEAR THE MINISTRY! YOU COULD AS WELL HAVE PUT A WAND TO HER HEAD!”

“That's out of line!” Ron barked.

“I... I... I don't know what to...” Gudrun stammered.

Harry threw over the tray entirely, then grabbed a metal bedpan and threw it at Gudrun's head. “GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!” he screamed. The blood rushed from his head and everything in the room shook.

Madam Pomfrey bustled in and demanded, “What is going on here? What have you done to my patient?”

“He's gone spare, that's what's happened!” Ron said.

“Out with all of you – out, I say! Mr. Potter will be leaving when I say he's to leave, and not a moment sooner. Good day to you!” Madam Pomfrey huffed.

After a long while, when the Weasleys were gone and the room was quiet and the only sounds were the whirring of the air vents and the slow rocking of Madam Pomfrey's conjured chair, he said, “I can't go back to it, you know? I have to go away.”

“I understand why you can't go to the Weasleys' home, but I'm more than a little concerned about you being entirely alone. Set me at ease: tell me why you think that you'll be all right on your own, why you think that you'll be safe.” Madam Pomfrey said.

Harry said, “I'll never be Harry Potter again, I can't be. Be honest with me, now. Do you think I'll ever be able to set foot in the magical world again without stirring everyone up?”

“In a generation or two, perhaps,” Madam Pomfrey admitted.

“I don't want to be that , and especially not now. I don't want to be used, I don't want to be in politics, I don't want to be chatted up – none of it,” said Harry.

“Where will you go?” Madam Pomfrey asked him.

“I'm not sure, honestly.  I'll be sure to give the Ministry a mail drop, or at least Hogwarts,” he said.

She said, “If you need anything, Harry, anything at all... I consider myself to be your personal healer. After all, who else would put up with your nonsense?”

“Thank you,” he said honestly.

She nodded and told him, “I think it might be best if Mr. Black were to take the stairs and apparate from the rooftop, don't you?”

A few minutes later, Harry found himself somewhere quite unexpected.  A few moments after that, he decided it was where he wanted to be - that he had found his home for now.

September 22, 1998      John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

Harry sat on the veranda and watched the sea go by. The sky was churning, the wind was blowing, and a mist was falling. It suited him perfectly, he thought.

“Mr. Black? Mr. Black?” Mrs. McLaren, the property agent, called out.

“I'm back here,” he loudly returned.

She came around the side of the cottage and said, “Ahh, there yeh are.” She was wearing oversized wellies along with her work-a-day clothing.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

She said, “Well, there's the matter of how long yer plannin' ta stay. A good number of the cottages are boarded up 'round about October, all exceptin' the year-round sorts.”

“Do you think the owners would sell this place to me?” he asked.

“Sell to yeh? Well, I don' rightly know... sort of an investment fer 'em... not that I can't find others fer yeh, if you're thinkin' of winterin' over,” Mrs. McLaren fretted.

“I can pay in cash,” Harry said.

“ 'Struth? That might carry the day,” she said. “Yer stayin', then?”

“That's my plan for now, at least.  If they won't sell, then perhaps I'll build.  That might be for the best, anyway," he said.

She said, “Well, yeh decided ta stay around the good'uns. We take care of those what be deservin' it in John O' Groats, I tell yeh. I'll set yeh ta meet my brother Robbie. He were in the service, too – yeh might find somethin' akin, see? Nothin' else, he might put yeh ta work... not that it's needed when yeh can pay Sterling fer a cottage. Now, yeh come by the Brown Bottle on Saturday evenin'? Take care, Mr. Black.”

“It's John, not Mr. Black – just John, that's all,” he said.

“Good ta hear, John,” she said.

He cracked open a book that he'd borrowed from Hogwarts via Poppy Pomfrey, and read and rocked and relaxed. He was nearly asleep when he heard a peculiar  whump!  nearby; his wand was in his hand before his eyes were open.

He called out, “Dobby! Is that you?”

“Good afternoon, Harry,” came a voice from behind him. Gudrun Stefánsdóttir stood along his beach front, along with a very, very old woman.

“You're not welcome here. Leave,” he said coldly.

“You may go, child. I shall be fine on my own,” the old woman said. Gudrun nodded and promptly disappeared into the earth.

“Who are you?” Harry demanded.

“I am known as many things, but the name given by my parents is Sigurrós Gísladóttir. I am the faúra-gaggja of the Healing Order of Halla,” the woman said.

“What do you want with me?” he said harshly.

“I wish to discuss a number of things,” she said; “May I have entry to your home?”

Harry dropped his book hard onto the seat of his rocking chair and opened the door from the veranda into the cottage. “Come in, don't come in, whatever,” he said.

Gísladóttir was surprisingly spry; she was inside his sitting room and seated before he returned with a freshly warmed kettle. “Tea?” he asked.

“What sort of tea do you offer me?” she asked in return.

“It's a pouchong tea from Taiwan, bitter at first but a little sweet on the second taste. I take it with nothing, but I suppose you could add a bit of sugar,” he said.

“I have only had the black tea that Englishmen seem to favour, the sort that requires cream and sugar. Your pouchong tea sounds adventurous to these old ears. I will gladly take a cup of it,” she said.

He slowly sipped at his tea, hoping that it would settle his anger from seeing Gudrun again. Gísladóttir seemed content to drink slowly, and Harry had recently taken a liking to silence.

At length, the old woman said, “Your dislike for Healer Stefánsdóttir is clear, but she is concerned for your well-being.  She returned to us with her concerns and presented an idea, a startling idea.  Having lived twenty decades, I tell you that I am not often startled.  I can tell you know that my initial examination of you supports this idea of hers.”

Harry's brow rose; “Your examination?” he asked.

The old woman's mouth curled into the barest of smiles and she said, “Not all mages are wand-wavers.  Now, I offer to you a hypothesis as to why you survived on the thirty-first of July.  When your young lady was struck by Skí-maðr , you surely expected to join her, did you not?”

He was startled by the abrupt question, but after a bit of thought, he said, “The bond between us was supposed to let us share a curse. If you share a Killing Curse, then you should be dead... at least, that's what we thought.”

“In nearly all instances, you would surely be correct in that thinking. There were many magical connections at work on that day, however, and those must be unravelled to find the true cause,” she said.

“I'm listening,” he said.

She began, “Firstly, you and the young lady were bound by this spell, this excratio pensare that Healer Stefánsdóttir explained to us in some detail. Secondly, you were bound by a ritual that the young lady and her friend performed. This was a Norse ritual of protection, one that was apparently known to one of the early leaders of the English.

"Healer Stefánsdóttir believes that your mother used this same ritual for your protection when you were but a babe, and that this saved you from the curse by Skí-maðr at that time. Thirdly, you were both connected in some way to these... how shall I say...? The soul anchors that Skí-maðr created – it is those of which I speak.

“So, young man, how does this Killing Curse work – this curse of which Skí-maðr was so fond? Do you have an understanding of it?”

He said, “Basically, the wizard casting the spell uses his will to force the life out of the victim.”

She said, “At a high level this is true, but more must be understood.  It saddens me to say this, but the death curse is one of very few things common to magical societies across the world.  For my people, it is ensconced in ritual.  For the English and those of like mind, it is performed as a spell.  In China, it is distilled into potion form and typically dispersed as an aerosol. 

“The magical construct behind all of these is as one.  Death curses break the connection between the body and the insubstantial self: that which most people call the soul. It is true that a strong desire to kill must be present at the time of invocation, but it is the breaking of the connection that is of the most importance.  If this is the case, and Skí-maðr broke the connection between your young lady's body and soul, then what would happen to her soul?”

“It's just gone, isn't it? Some people say that it's destroyed, others say it moves on to, you know... wherever souls go, I guess,” he answered.

“Let us accept that a portion of what makes a magical person different than the rest of humanity resides in the soul. In the particular case of your young lady, what would happen to her soul?” Gísladóttir clarified.

Harry's brows rose. He said, “She was connected to me... are you saying that it came to me?”

“A horse not led follows the first path that it sees. The young lady's insubstantial self – her essence – would have followed the existing magical bond, and so it would have passed from her to you,” she said.

“But then what?” he asked.

“As I said, a horse not led follows the first path that it sees. If something can be made to come in, then it can be made to go out again,” she said.

Now his brows furrowed. “Isn't that where it should have killed me, then? Why didn't I follow her out?” he wondered aloud.

She said, “Ahh, yes – and that is where we must consider the third party to this exercise: the soul anchor that was housed within you. It was expelled, yes?”

“We're certain of that much. It hurt. A lot,” he said.

She asked, “Do you know the game of Croquet? It is an Englishman's game, correct?”

“Erm... yeah, I suppose it is. I've seen it before, but I've never played,” he said.

She said, “It has been many a year since I have seen the game, but I do recall a few things about it. If one's ball hits that of another player, then one has an option whereby his ball may be placed side by side with the struck ball. Do you know of what I speak?”

He sighed, “Yeah, my cousin thought that was the best part of the game. He put his foot on his own ball and smacked it with the mallet, and that other ball would just fly across the lawn.  If he could hit someone with it, all the better.”

“Indeed, that is how I remember it,” she said.

“Is this going somewhere?” he asked her.

She nodded and went on, “Let us substitute the essence of your young lady for your ball, and the soul anchor of Skí-maðr as the other. Your young lady comes to a stop against the soul anchor. Your foot, which we shall call the bonding spell in this case, comes down upon your young lady. The mallet is applied, and...?”

“The horcrux comes out, and then...” he trailed off.

Gísladóttir asked, “May I be permitted to employ some diagnostic runes upon you? I will swear whatever oath you like that I will do you know harm. As you may know, such oaths are already imposed upon me as a healer.” Harry hesitated, but agreed.

She bade him lie down on the sofa, and then placed several rune-stones on or around him. “Healer Stefánsdóttir performed this same examination upon you some weeks ago,” she explained, “but I expect to see a different result.”

“I remember this one. She was looking for the horcrux,” he said.

She said, “Yes, that is correct. One moment... there. Healer Stefánsdóttir was correct: I, too, have never seen a result such as this. What is the quality of light around you? Describe to me what you see.”

“There's a white light all around me, but it's even brighter above my eyes. Last time it was grey up there. Hermione said it was actually black, from the horcrux,” he reported.

“It is such a brilliant white that I can scarcely look upon it,” she said. “The soul anchor is most certainly gone. It has been replaced. You are at once the luckiest and unluckiest person I have met in all of my years upon this Earth.”

Harry began to say, “Replaced? Are you saying that...?” but the words nearly died in his mouth.

“Your young lady has not left you. She is to be found right there,” Gísladóttir said, as she tapped upon his scar for emphasis.

“She's a horcrux? Voldemort split her soul in two?” Harry gasped.

Gísladóttir smiled and shook her head; she said, “Certainly not. One cannot divide the indivisible, no more than one can destroy the indestructible. If Skí-maðr truly divided that which he thought was his soul, then he had already given up his soul entirely. He had ceased to be human, or even to be alive in the sense that you and I would understand. The ritual associated with the term 'horcrux' can be found in Magyar lore, though it has been closely protected.  It is a derivation of a derivation of a derivation, and my most learned colleague says that it was of Egyptian origin.  Skí-maðr may have been told that he was dividing his soul, and may even have believed this.  This ritual allows a mage to copy his essence and place it in a repository.  I would not recommend this to anyone, as a copy is never the equal of its original. Having considered this in some depth, I believe that Skí-maðr made several copies of his essence and bound those copies to himself.  The bindings would be enough to keep his essence tethered to this world, just as the binding with you was enough to keep your young lady in this world.”

Harry was sitting bolt upright in great interest.  He said, “You've come to this in a few weeks?  Dumbledore must have been studying this for fifteen years.  Why was he so wrong?”

Gísladóttir seemed to struggle internally before she answered, “The Magyar ritual does not account for the making of more than one essential copy at any given time.  As to whether he bound himself by ritual or spell to these copies, I do not know for certain; it is a reasoned guess, nothing more.  The making of multiple copies and the act of binding, these things would introduce powerful variables to the known ritual.  I have indeed wondered how the Supreme Mugwump would have concluded that the making of a horcrux actually divided the indivisible.  My conclusion is that he did not have a proper translation of the ritual or sufficient grasp of the original language.  He did not understand the subtleties – the difference between elvalaszt and kettevalaszt would be one of these.  I believe that he interpreted the severing of the connection between the mage and his essential copy as a fracturing of the essence proper.”

“You could be right about that.  He wouldn't have asked anyone else's opinion, that's for certain,” Harry said flatly.

There was another lengthy silence before she continued, “The Supreme Mugwump is a topic of conversation for another time.  One of those essential copies resided within you – within the rune of protection on your forehead, to be precise – because the ritual of protection performed by your mother prevented that copy from being absorbed into your own essence. Now, recall that your young lady performed the same ritual of protection; Healer Stefánsdóttir tells that your friend also joined into the ritual, but from the role of sister rather than lover –”

“I knew it!  I was right!  What in the hell were they thinking?” Harry blurted out.

Gísladóttir said blandly, “May I finish?  The same protections that would block Skí-maðr out of your essence and entrap his copy within the rune scar would also serve to keep the young lady in. And there you have it: she has unintentionally replaced the soul anchor with herself.”

Harry felt the panic rise within him and he couldn't hold it at bay. He babbled, “Charming!  And what am I supposed to do with that? If Voldemort's body was any example, I certainly can't make a new one for her, and even if I could, how would she get from here to there? Do I kill someone and let her possess the body? Is she trapped there until I die? Is that it: do I have to kill myself now? What am I supposed to do?”

“This I do not know. I believe that you will know of it when the time comes,” the ancient healer said.

Harry went on, “Oh, that's so helpful! Hermione's stuck in my head! I'm supposed to just walk around like a normal bloke for the next hundred years pretending it's all right?”

“We will make available to you everything that we know on the subject. I suggest that you visit the Inn of the Healing Order as our guest. There is no room filled with grœð at Hekla - we would never presume to do such a thing - but it does commune with us when asked. If you wish to commune with grœð a second time, then we will make it so,” she said.

“What good would that do?” he asked.

She said, “Perhaps the young lady would be freed to move on? Perhaps you would receive the solution, or the path that leads to it? Perhaps nothing would happen at all. I believe that what ever you would experience, it would be favourable.

“In addition to this, we owe you a boon. You emptied that horrible Room within your Ministry. You were asked what you sought, and you chose to let life freely live – to let justice go out into the world as it belongs. This is an act beyond our ability to repay, but we will do as best we can. What would you ask of us? You do not need to answer now.  In fact, this may not be the proper time at all.”

Harry sat back for several minutes, and to his surprise Gísladóttir patiently waited. At long last, he asked, “I don't know if you've met Ron Weasley...?”

“I met the young man during his healing. He and Healer Stefánsdóttir have grown rather attached,” she answered.

“Does she still feel that way? I'm sure about him, but what about her?” he asked.

“She does, I fear. It is troubling to many of our sisters and brothers in healing,” she said.

“Set her free, then. Let them have each other. That's my boon,” he said.

Gísladóttir peered at him with her rheumy eyes as though she was trying to read the contents of his soul. “Why do you ask this? I saw your anger when Healer Stefánsdóttir arrived. I was told that you have broken off contact completely with young Mr. Weasley.”

He wrung his hands and said uneasily, “I'll patch things up with Ron, eventually.  Her...?  I don't know, I suppose that depends on what happens to Hermione.  Look... if Ron and Gudrun... if the two of them can have something special... well, I can't stand in the way of that.  If I can make that happen for them, then it's the right thing to do. I guess I'm just a fool, but there you are.”

“What if I told you that the elders had already agreed to release Healer Stefánsdóttir from her oaths of service?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. “There's nothing I really need, then,” he said.

“Do you wish to be our guest in Iceland?” she asked him.

There was no hesitation on his part. “Yes,” he said.

October 31, 1998      Inn of the Healing Order of Halla, due north of Skaftafell, Iceland

“This isn't my favourite day, you know? Nothing good's ever come of this day,” Harry said to one of the attendants as his eyes took in the huge wood-hewn ritual room.

Madam Gísladóttir, the faúra-gaggja , arrived just then with six women in tow, all of them closer to her age than his. She clasped Harry's hands and said, “I know this has been a day of ill omen for you, but it is also the time when the veil between living and dead is at its thinnest. As I know what you hope for, I felt that this would be for the best.”

“Thank you for that,” he said.

“We will not allow you to be harmed, though the faúra-gaggja thinks it unlikely in any event,” one of the women said.

Another asked, “Is it true that you were the one to free the grœð from the Englishmen?”

“I did that. It wasn't right.  They didn't own it; it's not something to be controlled,” he said.

“You are a truly honourable man,” she returned, and gave a formal bow to him.

“There are three who asked to be present today. It is in your hands as to whether this will be so,” Gísladóttir said. She directed his attention to the left of the room. Magnus, Ron and Gudrun were all standing there.

“I need a moment,” Harry said to the seven women. Once he was dismissed, he crossed the room.

Magnus took his arm up to the elbow in some sort of warrior's handshake, and Harry did his best to return it without embarrassing himself. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Potter, very good indeed,” the burly Icelander said.

“It's my honour. How did you know about this?” Harry asked him.

Magnus inclined his head toward Gudrun; he said, “Know that Einar, my friend and ally, was the brother of Gudrun. I protect her as though she were my own flesh and blood, and she told me that you would be a guest of the Healing Order. on this day." 

“I see,” Harry said evenly.

“We fought and we won the day.  My people were avenged.  A Guardian of Midgard I may be, but more than this, I am a liege-man of Harry Potter.  So it is, and so shall it be,” said Magnus in a formal tone.

Harry had no idea how to respond; he stumbled, “Erm... okay... I do appreciate that... thank you, obviously...”

Ron drew a deep breath and said, “Look, Harry, I didn't know of any place else to find you, and Kingsley won't give out your location to anyone – which he shouldn't, of course. I just had to thank you for what you did, standing up for Gudrun and me.  That's all.  I don't expect anything from it.”

Gudrun added, “It is the same for me. What you said to the faúra-gaggja was more than we expected or deserved. I thank you for it. I will be released from the Healing Order tomorrow.”

“We're making a start of it in the Faeroes. I think the both of us need a change, at least for now. I suppose that's something you understand,” Ron said.

Harry pursed his lips before he said, “All three of you can stay here. I don't expect there will be much to see.”

“So, is she really... you know...?” Ron asked; he tapped on his own forehead to make the point.

“That's what they tell me,” Harry returned.

A few minutes later, Harry was dressed in a simple white robe and stood at the centre of a circle; the seven healers stood on the circle at equal distances from one another. The only light in the ritual room was within the circle. He couldn't see Ron or Magnus or Gudrun in the darkness. The healers began to chant something that Harry assumed was in Icelandic. It was almost as much a song as a chant, and he found his head was swaying in rhythm with it. He was quickly dizzy in the sort of way that usually indicated a person was about to spew. The light within the circle grew brighter and brighter and then a whitish fog began to build around his feet. Soon, he found himself surrounded by the light and unable to find up or down or forward or back.

What do you want?

He said, “You know what I want, but she's dead.”

What do you want?

He said, “If I have to die to bring her back, then kill me. If she wants to, you know, move on... then let her leave.”

What do you want?

He couldn't answer. He could barely find himself in the light. He was becoming nothing; the only thing he could place was his insubstantial self.

What do you want?

He said, “I just want this to be over. I can't figure out how to live. Is that too much to ask?”

The voice changed, from one to many, from quiet to commanding.  It had a bit of the ugly resonance Harry remembered from Trelawney's true prophecies.

All will be as it should be in its own time.  The time will come after you learn the truth of it, but know you will carry the burden of it unto the end of time. 

“I don't give a damn about 'all' – is she all right?  Will she be all right?” he shouted at it.

The one you seek will be whole again.

With that, the light went away and he was once again on his knees and on his own. 

The clutch of old women looked at him as if he had sprouted an extra head, and even Gísladóttir's brow was sharply raised.  Gudrun was pensive and Magnus was unreadable.  For his part, Ron wore an expression Harry had seen more times than was really healthy – one that said something along the lines of  'I don't know what this is all about, but I've got your back'.

Harry didn't know what this was all about, but he couldn't deny that it had the flavour of prophecy.  The thought that he could be at the centre of another prophecy wasn't merely unpleasant; frankly, it was unacceptable.  He knelt there for quite a while and allowed his mind to work, something that came so much easier since Voldemort's demise. 

The stupid bloody white light did confirm that Hermione was still there, or at least not dead, and that it was at least possible to make her whole again.  He supposed that it could have meant she would be 'made whole' by way of some sort of afterlife, but something about the white light was more forthright than that. 

Prophecies were slippery things, open to a thousand interpretations – they were almost dishonest by design.  The grœð was all about justice, if these Icelanders were in the right.  It said Hermione would be whole again.  It suggested that this would take some time and that he would have to find the truth about something, something that didn't sound very pleasant.  The first thing he needed to do was figure out if anyone else had overheard the... the message , he decided to call it.  He wouldn't allow a latter-day Severus Snape to cock things up from the start.      

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
His Own Man

FIFTEEN
His Own Man

November 1, 1998      Inn of the Healing order of Halla, due north of Skaftafell, Iceland

Madam Gisladottir found him sitting on a bench outside the Inn, looking off into the horizon. “It is cold,” she said.

Harry shrugged and returned, “That's what warming charms are for.”

“An interesting view, is it not? A landscape cold and forbidding, with a sea of fire beneath: the eternal contest of heat and cold, birth and death, new and old, rightness and wrongness... of justice and injustice,” the ancient healer said.

Harry said nothing for a long while before he asked, “So how often does the mountain, erm, fire off?”

“Hekla has had four periods of eruption in the last fifty years. The volcanic eruption is rarely a single explosion as writers of fiction would have you believe. Eruptions linger; they ebb and flow.  The most recent eruption continued for two months,” she explained.

They said nothing for a long while before he observed, “You people certainly don't mind silence.”

“We speak when we have something to say. That is enough, I think,” she replied; “You are bothered by silence?”

“Silence means not being noticed, I guess. That was a good thing where I grew up,” he said.

“Your upbringing, it was abusive,” she concluded.

He shook his head and said, “I wasn't beaten, if that's what you mean. A lot of people have had it worse than me.”

She observed, “The poor treatment of children, it is not a thing to be excused. You were unloved and unnoticed as a child and so you wished to be noticed by those who showed interest. Now that you are a public figure and of an age to understand the consequences of being noticed, you wish to be unnoticed. You are not the first to experience such things."

“Feels like it,” he said sourly.

“Alas, they are more common than you know – so much so that I believe the Supreme Mugwump planned for both: the former so that you would be shaped into a hero, and the latter so that you would neither bask in adulation nor become a villain,” she observed.

He tensed as he asked her, “You're not in my head, are you? If you are, we're done here.”

“No. That would be rude. I have observed twenty decades of life and all that comes with it, and have some understanding of it without benefit from manipulations. The emotions preyed upon by the Supreme Mugwump, they were of the common sort. The stage upon which your troubles were played out, it is that which was unique. Now that Ski-madr has departed, more of your troubles will be of the ordinary sort," she said.

“Except for this,” Harry said as he tapped his index finger against his now stark-white scar.

“Except for this,” she agreed.

“So what do I do now?” he asked.

She said, “I am a healer. I am not an oracle. Do you think that I possess the wisdom you require merely because I am old?”

“I suppose you don't,” he grumbled.

“Your quest will not be resolved by the ramblings of an old crone, nor will the answer be stated plainly in the pages of a book,” she said.

He admitted, “Well, I had to start somewhere, right?  I've read Ravenclaw's Grimoire from cover to cover, a dozen times or more, and I didn't see anything that applies to something like this – didn't understand half of it after the sections on Hogwarts, really. I've been through most of the Black library, and almost everything in those books would be out of the question. I'll not become a necromancer, thank you very much!”

She gave a slight shrug and said, “It is a good thing that you will not become a true practitioner of necromancy, but do not reject all of its principles until you have studied the subject sufficient to make such a judgement. The same is true of the full breadth and depth of magic.  There is much for you to learn. 

"You have been instructed solely in the ways of Merlin and those who followed him. The Supreme Mugwump thought himself superior to others in intellect and judgement, and thus obligated to lead.  Those who lead all suffer from this attitude to some degree, but he was most powerfully afflicted. 

"In itself, this would not have posed a great problem, but he also believed himself superior to others because he was an Englishman.  The sons and daughters of Merlin have often thought themselves such.  The Supreme Mugwump was fascinated by those of us raised with other practices, but in the way one is fascinated when visiting a zoo.  None of this was acknowledged in the halls of the Confederation – perhaps he did not even acknowledge this to himself – but it was clear to those with eyes that saw. This manner of thinking leads to lost opportunities and lazy scholarship – an ironic path for a man who claimed to be a schoolmaster above all else.”

“Well, there's no doubting that you knew him. I feel like I should apologise for that,” he said with not a little bitterness.

Her nose wrinkled as she explained, “You are not required to apologise for the acts of others and I should not speak ill of the dead.  I was long acquainted with the Supreme Mugwump.  Few truly knew him, for he wished to be respected or admired rather than to be known. After enough time in shared company, even the most reluctant observer sees through the fog of public deeds and discerns something of that man's true self.  I did have ample opportunity where the Supreme Mugwump was concerned. For five decades, I was put forward as the people's representative to the Confederation by the Althingi , those who govern the people. You would call them Wizengamot, I think, but the  goÄ‘ar  – the members of the Althingi – they are selected by the people rather than appointed according to lineage.”

He pointed out, “If you hated it, then why not pass it off to someone else?”

She snorted and said, “The Confederation accomplishes little, even in the face of great need.  Seek the meaning of the title 'mugwump' in the course of your studies and you will understand this.  Simply put, I was appointed because no one else would have it. I believe this is called 'drawing the short straw'?”

He laughed and then they fell into silence, which allowed him to gather his thoughts. Finally he spoke up, “So the answer isn't written out in a book, but there's still a good chance that the things I'll need to know are . Bloody hell... it'll be like going back to school. Me, playing at being a scholar – that's rich. Hermione would love this; she'd have a good laugh over it.”

Madam Gisladottir rose swiftly – it was often hard for Harry to accept that she was nearly a century older than Dumbledore had been – and said to him in a formal way, “You must be told this now, and know that I speak true, Harry Potter.  You are welcome in this place now and for the rest of your days. Just as the English, we of the Healing Order and the other mages of this island relate to the higher magics in a particular manner and by practices of our own design. Know that we will share what we know without reservation, but I will also invite to this place skilled mages willing to share with you their own knowledge and understanding. If I am able to make introductions for you with still more – those unable or unwilling to journey here – then I shall do so. The Healing Order will arrange this for as long as needed, until the time that you are ready to go forward. You will know when that time has come. For now, we invite you to be at ease, to learn as you will, and to heal. Perhaps your views on the quality of silence may change?”

“Anything's possible. Look... I do appreciate all of this, but you've already done a lot for me. You honestly don't have to do any more,” he said.

She put on a small smile and shook her head in a way that seemed at once fond and disappointed in him; “To prevail in a war, no matter your wishes otherwise, you can not fight without the help of others. Those around you chose to give you their aid; many did so at grave cost but their aid was freely given all the same. Because of what has happened to you and your beloved, the war is not yet ended for you.

“We owe you a great debt, not for sending Ski-madr on his way, but for releasing grœd that those fools had trapped. They did not understand that in doing this, the balance of justice was tipped for nigh unto thirty decades in favour of greed and selfishness and arrogance and darkness. This would have directly affected all of England, perhaps Ireland and even portions of the continent. We give you aid and rest and healing because it is right . We will help you to commune with grœd at any time that you wish it. In the proper place and at the proper time, the Healing Order will arrange for you a boon.”

“A what?” Harry asked.

“A boon: a particular benefit bestowed in gratitude,” she explained.

“I see. Well... well ... thank you for that. I'm glad to have freed it, you know? It just felt wrong for it to be locked inside that room. As for this communing business... erm... once was enough, I think. It didn't help,” he said.

“The value of a thing is not always clear at first,” she ventured.

“I'm surprised you didn't ask what happened in there,” he admitted.

She said, “Communing is a private matter. It is something that you may share, but no one here will question you.”

“So you didn't hear...?” he confirmed.

“There was no sound.  For a time, we could not see you.  Most of our elders have never witnessed a more corporeal communing; I can think of one or two occasions, perhaps,” she said.

Something about the old healer radiated trust, and he supposed there was no harm in at least acknowledging that he had been told something.  He explained, “It kept asking me 'what do you want?' before it finally gave an answer, if you want to call it that... wasn't much of an answer, if you ask me. It did the same thing at the Department of Mysteries, but it didn't really gave an answer then, not in words anyway –”

She held up a hand to stop him; “I have surely misheard. You were asked this, you say? The grœd spoke to you?” she queried.

“Erm... well, yeah,” he answered.

“Words were exchanged – or more properly, thoughts?” she pressed.

He nodded and tried to explain, “Hogwarts has this hat, the Sorting Hat. It sorts the firsties into the four houses. It talks to you in your head and sorts through your mind to get a sense of you – basically, are you more courageous, bookish, loyal, or ambitious? Anyway, the grœd does something like that, I think.”

All the members of the Healing Order were generally reserved in both speech and action.  When her eyes narrowed for a long moment, Harry saw it for the expression of irritation and distaste that was intended.  She said, “I know of this practice, this Hat. Such a thing is profoundly unhealthy: an enchantment that, based upon a single invalidated assessment of an immature personality, assigns each of the English to one of four groups that will in most cases determine her life-long place in the order of things. Only four traits upon which an entire culture is built: ambition, courage, knowledge and loyalty – these are important things, but alone they do not render us human. I am told that interaction between these groups of children is allowed but not encouraged for purposes other than competition or compliance. I am also told that families of long standing are assigned by this hat to the same group for generation upon generation.

“Therefore, it follows that the mages of England have for ten centuries assembled and segregated their most ambitious youth; educated them to place lesser value upon courage, knowledge and loyalty; and encouraged them to live, work, socialise and rear children in a way that perpetuates these prejudices. This explains much about your countrymen.”

He said uneasily, “Erm... when you put it that way, it sounds really bad.”

She said, “We will speak no more of this, as it resolves nothing and serves only to frustrate. I prefer to explore this communication between yourself and grœd .”

“I take it this isn't normal, then,” Harry observed.

“It is unique ,” she emphasized; “There is much that we may teach and that you may learn, and so we shall begin with this.”

January 12, 1999      Inn of the Healing order of Halla, due north of Skaftafell, Iceland

Harry rather liked the room that the Healing Order had set aside for his visits to Iceland. Like the rest of the Inn, it had a uniquely Nordic sensibility to it, an aesthetic that found beauty in simplicity. The fact that he was aware of this, or was using the word 'aesthetic' for that matter, was still another sign that he was a different person than the Harry Potter who woke up in hospital after the final battle of what the Muggles were calling the London War. He was more focused, more capable, more refined, and undeniably smarter – or at least more able to apply his intelligence. His magic was stronger, purer, and in some ways more dangerous than before. It was becoming something , he thought, and he tried not to worry too much about what that might be.

In school, he had struggled to pull together a number of different issues and make sense of them – to 'synthesize', as one of his books described it – but now it came to him almost as easily as breathing. He read much more and much faster than ever before, simply because it had to be done. Hermione had to be freed; she needed to come back. It was true that he needed her to come back, but restoring her was an inherently just and good thing to do – he was sure of that much.

He had already made progress on his own before the October prior, but seven weeks spent in Iceland had already led him to the first hints of the answers that he needed. It didn't come fast enough and there were never enough hours in the day, but everyone involved in his studies said that his progress was nothing short of incredible. Madam Gisladottir – or Siggy, as he called her – forced him to stop in the evenings. She insisted that his work would improve if he broadened his studies beyond what seemed necessary; she made him read classics of English literature as well as translations of Iceland's Great Sagas, and some of the great works of Western thought, and newspapers from around the world, and even a trashy Muggle novel or two. The other elders of the Healing Order and the scholars Siggy brought to the Inn taught him calculus and advanced conjuring and French cooking and Slavic runes and emergency healing and introductory Greek and draw poker, and somehow most of it was getting through to him.

Unfortunately, all of this synthesizing had led to not a few unpleasant conclusions. Events of the last two years came together in different ways and raised many issues. His impression of the war had changed, and he was more conscious of who supported whom; of who the betrayers were and where they came from; of the ugly underbelly of wizarding that he'd known about but hadn't thought about. His opinion of Dumbledore was actually worse than it had been before. He understood the reasons for Siggy's view of the old man and of the English wizarding world, though she would no longer speak of them. Sadly, he concluded that she was for the most part correct, and that very little was actually changing despite the best efforts of the new regime.

Most troubling was the apparent role of the goblins in the war.  That was why Bill Weasley sat surrounded by books and scrolls and a hundred pages of notes at the small table where Harry took his meals. 

Though Bill's scars left him with a darker look than befit a Weasley – the corners of his mouth were permanently down-turned – there was no mistaking the true anger on his face.  “Are you sure of this, Harry?  Are you absolutely, positively certain?” he asked.

Harry looked to the sketches in front of Bill for form's sake, but it wasn't needed.  He  said, “That's the exact sequence.  I pulled the memories and went over them in a pensieve.  So I'm right, then?  These are goblin runes?”

Bill said, “Oh, they're goblin runes, all right.  It's a Gringotts warding sequence: one of the best they have to offer, and lethal as hell... and this is what  You-Know-Who sprung on you.  They lied to me!  They lied through their bloody teeth!”

Harry was as angry as Bill but it was a cold fury; he had suspected the truth for several days.  He wanted – needed – to be absolutely certain before acting on what they knew, so he asked Bill, “Could Voldemort have stolen it?”

Bill shook his head; “The human warders at Gringotts aren't even taught this category.  I'm only familiar with it because of some work we did in '93.  We were contracted to de-curse an estate in Hungary, and it turned out that Gringotts had laid the wards and curses themselves back in the fifteen century.  These type are activated by goblin blood – and before you ask, it has to be willingly given at the location of the wards.  So, Voldemort couldn't have kidnapped a warder or stolen a phial of blood.”

“Could he have taken over a place that already had the wards?” Harry went on.

Bill immediately said, “No.  They were set to activate based on his conditions, right?  The warders would have to take that into account, and he couldn't have altered these particular wards.  They have to be taken down and re-established if you want to change the configuration.  This was in a cave, you say?”

“More like caverns, actually... went on for miles and miles,” Harry said.

Bill's eyes blazed; he asked, “Do you have a map?  We need to go over everything that you remember.”

Harry looked to Dumbledore's pensieve in the corner of the room and said, “It might be easier if I just show you.”

Twenty minutes later, an ashen-faced Bill was on his third tumbler of a powerful Icelandic liquor; the first two had been downed in seconds.  He babbled, “Ron... he knew it was going to happen.  Well, not that exactly, but he knew it was probably going to kill him.  I've taken my share of risks – nature of the work, you know? – but nothing like that... I suppose that's how it was for Fred, as well?  Maybe there's a good reason Weasleys tend to have big families... would have died out otherwise, all that stupid bloody courage...”   

“Did you see what you needed to see?” Harry asked.

Bill's face hardened.  “They lied to us, Harry," he said; "Goblins will always play to the absolute letter of an agreement if it's in their favour; you expect to be mislead, if you know anything about them at all.  This is different.  Not only did Ragnok tell us that they weren't allied with Voldemort, but that they weren't doing business with him, full stop.  He said there were no contracts, active or inactive, and that no new business of any sort was being initiated with his Ministry.”

“Voldemort was at this for fifty years.  Maybe he made the arrangements back in the day, before the end of the First War?” Harry suggested.

Bill shut that down immediately; “Not a chance.  Not only were some of the rune sets fresh – I mean, you could still see blood spatters – but I've been in that place, Harry.  The first tunnel and those passages to the left may have been new, but when you came back to the right...?  If you go to the far side of that cavern, there's a side passage that eventually leads to the Gringotts silver reserves below... erm... right, then – I can't tell you what they're below, but trust me, it's all connected.  You were in part of Gringotts' extended tunnel system.”

Harry winced – it was as bad as he had feared.  “So they were backing Voldemort.  I guess that explains why they were so nasty about money-changing just before the Ministry fell,” he said; when Bill looked at him blankly, he added, “You know, when they switched the exchange rates...?”

“Five pounds Sterling per galleon was set into law when the Muggles moved from coin to paper.  The only reason they could change it was because  the Wizengamot was dissolved,” Bill said.

Harry frowned deeply.  He said, “You might want to do some asking around, then.  They gave Remus less than half that on my trust vault, and I've had people tell me they were offered one pound per Galleon when they were trying to leave the country.  They were keeping people from taking gold out of their vaults, and I know for a fact that they refused to make good on some of their own transfer drafts with the gnomes.  What I can't figure is why they're being so aggressive now?  Kingsley told me that he's thinking about changing the name of the Goblin Liaison Office to the Office for Exchanging Threats.  You'd think they would be a little more worried about being found out.”

“That part I can understand, actually.  Goblins are gamblers by nature, and they like to bluff.  When their bluff is called, they throw a rebellion.  After they lose, we get a reminder that they have the gold and therefore make the rules, and everyone backs down.  It's been happening for five hundred years,” said Bill.

Harry shook his head; “I don't think it's that simple this time.  Look, I slept through Binns like everyone else, but I'm still fairly certain that the goblins have never backed one side of a wizarding civil war before,” he pointed out.

“If they have, then it was never spotted,” Bill admitted.

“So, the question is: what changed?  I think I can answer that, actually,” Harry went on.  He proceeded to give Bill a general explanation of horcruces.

Bill nodded thoughtfully throughout.  He concluded, “They bet everything on a sure thing.  He gave them one of these things to protect, in exchange for their support.  They were guaranteed he wouldn't go back on his word as long as they had control of it –” 

“So they must have thought he had only one horcrux?” Harry cut in.

Bill disagreed, “They probably figured on two of them.  Ragnok would never have expected You-Know-Who to give them total control, just enough leverage to strike a deal.  At any rate, Ragnok and his circle would have made the same mistake as You-Know-Who, and it was a whopper of a mistake.”

“What's that?” Harry asked.

Bill explained, “They wouldn't have counted on someone doing what Ron did.  No goblin would ever sacrifice himself for others on general principle.  He'd follow orders, sure, or dive in front of a curse to protect his own mate or spawn, but that's not the same.  I don't know the rune sets that they used, but I can read the conditions.  Ron didn't want the horcrux for himself or his own gain.  He was willing to die to get inside that ward, if that's what it took.  He wanted to manage it without anything bad happening to you or Hermione.  The condition runes didn't account for any of that.  If they did, the defences would have been triggered without so much as a flicker in the ward.”

“I knew we were lucky.  I didn't know we were that lucky,” Harry said.

“It wasn't luck.  It was because my brother's too bloody noble for his own good.  I blame you for that, you know?” Bill laughed.

“He's a good man,” Harry said.

Bill agreed, “Damn straight.  You need to patch things with him, Harry.  You and I both know that he isn't the reason Hermione is –”  At the same time as Bill said 'dead', Harry said 'away'. 

“Care to explain that?” Bill asked.

Harry shook his head; “One thing at a time.  What should I do about the goblins, do you think?”

Bill quirked an eyebrow at that.  “What should you do?  It's more a matter of what the Ministry should do, isn't it?” he asked.

“Right, the Ministry will make it all better,” Harry snorted; “They've let this go for centuries.  Besides, I have some leverage of my own... had a bit of an accident with a Galleon recently, and I doubt they'll like it if anyone else finds out what I know.”

Bill sat up sharply.  “Do tell...?” he prodded.

“I need to know more about the treaties, about banking, about the goblins in general – allies, enemies, politics, all of it.  If we do bring Kingsley in on this, I want to have a plan first,” Harry diverted him.

“You're really serious about this,” Bill observed.

Harry set his jaw and said, “If your brother hadn't gotten through that ward, Voldemort would still be out there.  Thousands of people lost most of their money.  Hundreds probably died because they were able to be tracked.  Ragnok did that, Bill.”

Bill disagreed, “No, the Anglo-Saxon clans did it.  Ragnok isn't a bank president or the Minister of Magic.  He's the head of goblin society.  They aren't human, and wizards forget that too easily – I worked for them, and I've still been guilty of that.  He would never have done something this radical without a clan edict.  Sure, they have politics and factions and all of that, but a clan edict commits everyone from Ragnok down to the youngest spawn.  Now, the clans in the Orient or the Americas are a different matter –”

“Anders explained that much,” Harry cut him off.

Bill said slowly, “I see.  You've been meeting with Twing...”

“He's been a big help.  With the goblins keeping me from my family vault, I've had to reconstruct the family holdings without any records to speak off.  He and Ginny pulled it off – I don't know how, and probably don't want to know,” Harry said.

“My sister –”

“– is happy.  Before the war, she would have been pushed by Molly to marry young and raise her own Quidditch team.  Now...”

“Mum wouldn't have –”

“Really?  Who went to work for dangerous non-humans and moved thousands of miles away within a month of finishing Hogwarts – was that you or Charlie?  Steady on – it was both!” Harry said with a smirk.

“Right, so she can be a bit set in her ways,” Bill returned flatly.

“Ginny grew up.  She's smart, creative, and can't be stopped when she's set on something.  In six months, Anders has tripled his family's business, and Ginny's been a big part of that.  They work twelve hour days and they mingle with the beautiful people at night.  She loves it.  I'd hate it.  Be happy for her, Bill,” Harry fired back.

“His family were spies.  He's a mercenary!” Bill grumbled.

“Hardly.  Anders works in some fairly grey areas, but that's his job.  He's a businessman.  He's oath-bound to the Danish government, and there are lines he won't cross for any price,” Harry said.

“I don't like him,” Bill said.

“Is it because he's a squib?” Harry asked honestly.

“NO!” Bill insisted.

Harry settled back into his chair with a knowing grin.  He said, “I get it now.  The mystery man swept your little sister off her feet.  You think she's in over her head, and you don't want to be picking up the pieces when he moves on – something like that?”; when Bill grunted, he went on, “I wondered about it myself.  Spend a day with the two of them and you'll change your mind.  Ginny isn't a 20th century English pure-blood witch, and your mum can't change that.  If you want to keep close to your sister, then you'd best accept that.”

Bill admitted, “Fleur says the same thing, more or less.  You've changed, Harry – even more than Ron has, and that's saying something.”

Harry said blandly, “You have no idea.” 

January 28, 1999        The Moddey Dhoo, Ramsey, Isle of Man

Shacklebolt looked with clear interest at the privacy runes that Harry had inscribed around the doors and windows of the private banquet room.  “How did you ever stumble across this place?” he asked.

Harry's voice took on an edge; he snapped, “It's part of the family portfolio.  Apparently I own a share in half a dozen pubs around the U.K.  Just add it to the other things I didn't know about until recently... quite a long list, that.”

Shacklebolt raised his hands in placation.  “I was never a party to any discussions regarding your assets, inheritance, or anything of the sort.  In those days, I was to keep Sirius from being recaptured and little else.  You were only mentioned with respect to keeping you and your relations out of You-Know-Who's hands.  By the time that changed, we were in the thick of things,” he said.

“Fair enough,” Harry grumbled; “At any rate, you said to pick a place out of the way but still under the Crown's jurisdiction.  The Isle of Man is outside of your jurisdiction, though.”

“And you feel a need to be outside of Ministry jurisdiction?  I've turned the Ministry upside down to move on the goblin issue, and that hasn't come without cost.  Dash it all, Harry, I'm your friend and you'd do well to remember that,” Shacklebolt said. 

“And this is one of your friends, you say?  Your enemies must be something to behold,” said the man who accompanied the Minister.  He was a tall, rakish fellow with wavy brown hair and an affable smile.

Harry didn't bother with manners; “And you are...?” he demanded.

The man extended a hand and introduced himself, “Ben Lytton, Mr. Potter.  I work within Her Majesty's Government.”

Harry relaxed slightly.  “Good, you're not one of the pure-blood wastes of space cluttering up the Ministry, then.  Beat them in a war and they're back in power already... makes you wonder, doesn't it?  Well, I've met a few blokes from Whitehall.  Are you one of them, or are you with the PM?”  he asked.

Lytton's smile never wavered as he returned, “We're rather less public; my people are at Vauxhall Cross.  We have a mutual acquaintance: Anders Twing...?  His father worked closely with my predecessor.”

Harry's brow rose sharply.  “MI6?  License to kill and all that?” he said.

Lytton laughed, “We go by 'SIS' these days, and it's not as glamorous as Mr. Fleming would have had people believe.  I'd happily take the Aston Martin, though.”

“Well, I can't imagine you're here over the goblins, so I suppose something else has gone horribly wrong and I'm to be dragged into it?” Harry asked.

“Quite,” Shacklebolt said with not a little embarrassment.

“How does murder as a prelude to insurrection grab you, Mr. Black?” Lytton added.

Harry sighed, “Getting back their Wizengamot seats wasn't enough for our old friends, is that it?  Well, that's just grand, isn't it?  I don't see where I fit into this, though.”

“Put bluntly, you're the only living magical sort who has directly sworn fealty to Her Majesty and isn't currently appointed to your government.  That makes it impossible for you to have been knowingly involved in both the murders and the assassination attempts, and therefore makes you a safe advisor,” said Lytton.

Harry sat bolt upright; “Who's been killed?”

“Four of the thirty-seven officials in Her Majesty's government and military  who were added to the Right to Know registry by the Ministry-in-exile,” Shacklebolt answered.

Harry said, “Great.  They couldn't even wait long enough to mourn the dead, could they?  I suppose the killers were hired, but who's writing the cheques?  Is it Hedgerow and his flunkies – Newbury and that lot?  Or is it someone keeping his head down to deflect the blame... maybe Collins?  He's the sort that really bothers me: posing as a moderate except for the times when it actually matters.”

“I wasn't aware you followed the Wizengamot so closely,” Shacklebolt said in a cautious tone.

“Know your enemy,” Harry returned.

Lytton cut in, “It's none of your usual suspects; I wouldn't be involved if it were.  I expect the Minister here thought the same as you did until after the second assassination attempt –”

“Bloody hell, Shack!  They tried to kill you?” Harry blurted out.

“They made a botch of it, obviously, but they didn't intend to succeed.  It was a message.  They were letting me know that if they wanted me dead, I would be dead,” Shacklebolt said.

“Who are 'they'?” Harry demanded.

Lytton answered him, “A friendly little club calling itself 'The Department of Mysteries'.  They appear to be part of your Ministry, except that they claim that they don't fall under its authority... flies, Mr. Black – if your mouth stays like that, they'll find their way in.”

Harry was reeling; “The Unspeakables tried to kill you?  They're killing people in the regular government?  Are they mad?  Do they want to start another war?” he gasped.

Shacklebolt explained, “Croaker showed up at the first Wizengamot meeting after we reconvened and demanded that everyone added to the registry during the war be relieved of all of their memories of the preceding year.  Wentworth – he's one of Collins' coalition – pointed out that the Muggle government would likely notice if dozens of officials suddenly developed amnesia.  Croaker's response was that it would be impossible to selectively Obliviate them at this point, and that we overestimate the Muggles' ability to keep their attention on a problem.  He went on to cite a three hundred year old ruling that he claimed required us to do this.  The conservatives don't appreciate having their hand forced any more than the rest of us; even Hedgerow voted against. 

“Over the next few weeks, there were a series of assassination attempts on members from all four Wizengamot factions, in addition to the first attempt on myself.  Sometime after that, Croaker showed up in my office via apparation – yes, I know the wards are supposed to prevent that – and insisted that I meet their demand via executive order.  He also insisted that I restore some very obscure ministerial appointments that went vacant when Voldemort executed Scrimgeour's people; six posts, and I'd never even heard of five of them.”

“I'm guessing you didn't go for any of it?” Harry said.

“I don't respond favourably to threats,” Shacklebolt returned.

Lytton said, “That's where my people enter into this.  It seems these Unspeakable chaps decided that they were required to act in your Minister's stead, supposedly something to do with their charter.  They popped in on one of our offices and turned a high ranking counter-terrorism expert into an amnesiac.  He didn't just lose a year, either: the poor bastard barely remembers his boarding school days.  Their second visit was met with more resistance.”

“Oh, boy...” Harry winced.

“It must not have occurred to them that everyone in one of our conference rooms would be armed.  I've had the full brief, Mr. Black – listed on your registry since '88 – and there's no doubt you people can do some remarkable things with your magic.  Apparently, blocking a head shot isn't one of those things,” Lytton explained.

Shacklebolt went on, “The Prime Minister was not amused –”

“ – and I can tell you that the press has old man Lowell pegged: a volcanic temper, that one,” Lytton added.

Shacklebolt went on, “The next morning, there were three dead Unspeakables laid out in the Ministry Atrium.  Mr. Lowell had a handwritten note pinned to one of their cloaks.  It was rather formal, and far more polite than the dressing down I received in his office that afternoon. 

“I figure that Croaker and his ilk expected the conservatives to demand an aggressive response.  What the Unspeakables don't seem to realise is that while they were hiding under Level Nine, the rest of us got an eyeful of what the British military can do.  Newbury may champion pure-blood superiority, but he was a few hundred feet from the Nott's manor when the RAF destroyed it.  He sponsored a formal order to the Department of Mysteries to desist that passed unanimously.

“That was followed by a second assassination attempt on my person; formal notice to my office that the Ministry has no governing authority over the Department of Mysteries; and the murders via Killing Curse of two SAS senior officers, an under-secretary in the Home Office and a senior man at Treasury.”

They sat in silence for a long while.  Lytton seemed to accept it, but Shacklebolt began to fidget; Harry knew that a few months earlier, he would have fidgeted as well.  Finally, Harry asked, “So what do you want from me?”

Shacklebolt sighed, “Well, I'd appreciate an alternative to borrowing a large bomb from the British army and levelling my own Ministry building.”

“That request has already been approved, Mr. Black,” Lytton added before Harry could scoff.

Harry shook his head; “That's what they want you to do.  You don't even know if they're still down there.  Do they have other facilities?  They're just arrogant enough to think they're in no real danger, but they're smart enough to have more than one plan.  So, you blow them up, your government falls in disgrace, the pure-bloods take control, and then the Unspeakables pop up again in a year and get what they want from a government unable to stop them,” he concluded.

“Well reasoned, lad, but the killings have to stop nonetheless.  My government won't tolerate even one more.  We have some experience at dealing with dangerous zealots, and there's already a precedent for using the military to battle terror on our own soil.  The only things staying our hand at present are Her Majesty's respect for your actions, Mr. Black; and Mr. Lowell's  remaining good will toward the Minister here,” Lytton pointed out.

Harry went quiet again for a few moments before he asked, “So who's in charge of the Department of Mysteries, then?”

“No one, apparently – not that they'd listen to anyone who was,” Shacklebolt grumbled.

Harry shrugged; he pointed out, “Well, that's the question you need to answer, isn't it?  Do you really think no one's above them?  If they don't answer to you, then it's something to do with how the lines were drawn after the Great Divide.  Take the Isle of Man, for example.  The reason it isn't under the Ministry is because the Baron Strange at the time was magical, and also happened to be the 8th or 9th Earl of Derby, or something like that.  At any rate, the royals intervened and that family kept control of the Isle.  There aren't any wizards in their line any more, so you'd have to go back a dozen generations to figure out who's actually in charge, but the Ministry's still out in the cold.  It has to be something like that, don't you think?”

Shacklebolt gaped at him, while Lytton looked thoughtful; the spy said, “He has a point, but this is a government service.  Surely it can't be under control of a peer?”

“No offence, but you're thinking like a Muggle.  The Ministry didn't look anything like the Muggle government until after the Great Divide, and there's nothing on the Muggle side parallel to the Department of Mysteries.  People probably think the Unspeakables are like your lot, Lytton, but they're not spies – they're more like guardians, or at least that's what they're supposed to be,” Harry offered.

Shacklebolt's eyes narrowed; “Clearly you know something,” he accused.

Harry snapped at him, “Look, I don't want this coming back to me in the end.  I don't have the time to mess about with those lunatics trying to kill me – things to do and all that.  Summon the Department's charter from the Ministry archives, why don't you?  Go to Hogwarts and talk to Binns; for some reason, he's a lot more useful now that he knows he isn't a teacher any more... who knows, maybe the old man cursed him so he wouldn't be able to teach me anything I needed to know?”

“Harry...” Shacklebolt began to chide him.

“My name is John Black now.  Remember that,” Harry hissed.

Lytton looked Harry directly in the eyes, and Harry suddenly felt like prey before a predator; he asked, “Mr. Black, let me be blunt.  Are these people likely to view you as an ally of the Minister, whether or not you remove yourself from the field?  Do they realise that you're far more closely connected to the rest of the world than the Minister's other allies and advisers?  If the answer to this lies outside their sphere of influence, do you honestly believe you won't be blamed?  I can remind you of your oath to the Crown, if it will help?”

Harry clenched his fists beneath the table and bit out, “Fine.  Dobby?”

Harry's excitable friend appeared at his side in a trice.  “Harry Potter does like to have Dobby travel great distances!” the house-elf huffed.

Harry laughed, “Yes, I live to inconvenience you.  The Minister and his friend here have been asking about the Department of Mysteries –”

Dobby's eyes bulged more than usual as he took in the rest of the room.  He bowed low; “Dobby is at Mister Minister's service, of course, and that of the Muggle gentleman representing the Royal Household!”

“Their government doesn't work that way any more, remember?” Harry said.

“Begging Harry Potter's pardon, but is not all of the Muggle government people responsible to Her Royal Highness...?” Dobby returned cautiously.

“Mr. Lytton's probably reports to the Prime Minister, or to someone else who reports to the Prime Minister,” Harry told him.

The house-elf's ears drooped; he said, “Oh, Dobby remembers now... the Mister Lowell who likes so much to be on the telly.”

Lytton, who hadn't so much as flinched when Dobby made his appearance, snorted, “That's him, all right.”

Dobby pressed on, “But Mister Minister swears to the Royal Household still.  The three ministers before, they did not swear and there was minister things they could not do because they did not swear.  The Department headmasters, the last time they swears is when Grogan Stump was Mister Minister.  The Croaker man, he did swear because the Mister Chief Unspeakable, he is compelled to swear... but there is not being anyone in the Royal Household to accept his swear, so it doesn't be counting.”

Shacklebolt shook his head slowly and said, “Dobby... are you saying that the Department of Mysteries is directly accountable to the Queen?”

Dobby said hesitantly, “Dobby... is not sure what being directly accountable means.  Dobby is saying that Mister Chief Unspeakable has to do what the Queen says.  He swears, but the Royal Household must accept his swear for it to take hold.”

Harry patted Dobby on the shoulder and asked, “Can you pop back to the Cloister and bring us the books that you were reading on this?”

“Dobby will do that,” the house-elf said as he popped away.

Shacklebolt was wide-eyed; “The books he was reading?  He was reading ?” he spluttered.

“You have a problem with him reading?” Harry snapped.

Shacklebolt began, “I suppose at least kitchen house-elves learn a bit of it - enough to manage the larder, at least - but many people would say that –”

“Is it illegal?” Harry cut him off sharply.

Shacklebolt said hesitantly, “Illegal...? I don't believe it's ever been addressed as a matter of law...”

“Well, that's good, isn't it?  I only found out by accident that Dobby likes to read and I'm not about to cut him off.  It's incredibly helpful: he covers topics I don't favour and things I haven't the time for.  Don't let his speaking fool you,  he's brilliant.  If Hedgerow, Newbury, Collins, Greengrass – any of that sort –  don't like it...?  Well, that's their bad luck, isn't it?  Dobby's free, besides, so anything they brew up shan't apply to him,” Harry fired back.

“It hasn't been established that a house elf is allowed to be free under the law.  You're taking a chance with Dobby's safety by flouting that,” Shacklebolt said.

“This is a very secure room, Minister.  Rita Skeeter is dead.  I live mostly apart from British magical society.  Dobby won't be an issue unless you decide to make him one.  Did you ask me here to pick a fight?  Remember, I want nothing to do with any of this sort of thing,” Harry warned him.

“Is that so?  You're the one who brought the goblin issue to me,” Shacklebolt pointed out.

Harry snapped, “That was because I had hoped you could do something about Ragnok bankrupting the refugees, and so I could get Dirk Cresswell's advice.  You're going to have a three or four percent revenue increase as a result.  Believe me, I have better things to do with my time – far more important things.”

“Yes, you've been keeping interesting company of late.  I suspected it was Twing's doing at first, or maybe the Icelanders, but you are definitely your own man,” Shacklebolt said.

“What, now you're spying on me?” growled Harry.

Lytton slapped his hand on the tabletop.  “Mr. Black, are you just a simple citizen of the Empire?  Are you a Muggle, to borrow your lot's term?” he asked; when Harry didn't respond, he went on, “It's true, of course, that you've gone to great lengths to give that impression.  You're living in an ordinary home in an ordinary village in an ordinary part of Scotland – any farther from the centres of power for your lot, and you'd be under water.  Of course, there's an ordinary George Cross and the stole of the Royal Victorian Order set atop your mantle.  Then there's the matter of that dangerous little stick you keep holstered up your right sleeve... but far be it from me to suggest that there's anything about you that might bear occasional notice by the authorities?”

Harry rolled his eyes; he said, “I'm not stupid – I understand why the Minister wants to keep an eye on me, I just don't agree with him.  To answer your question, I'm a citizen of the United Kingdom.  That makes me the Queen's subject and not the Minister for Magic's subject.  I see the Ministry's authority as no different than, say, the Home Office's authority.  Are you aware that every other magical parliament in Western Europe is at least partly elected?  Every other head of magical government has some accountability to the general government.  As a matter of law, the Ministry for Magic of England and Scotland declares that it can overrule the government of the United Kingdom on any matter – anything at all – concerning any citizen who happens to have magical abilities.  So what do you say, Mr. Lytton: should a British citizen be subjected to the laws of dictators without any legal recourse outside of the dictatorship that set the laws in the first place –”

“I'll take a lot from you, but that's out of line,” Shacklebolt stopped him.

Harry returned calmly, “Minister, you're a good man – maybe the best to hold the office in hundreds of years – but you could suspend the Wizengamot tomorrow, and the pure-blood’s only options would be to fight you or ask you to change your mind.  You're a lord with a fiefdom, which might make at least a bit of sense if this was the year sixteen ninety-nine.”

Shacklebolt visibly settled himself before he said, “You've changed.”

Harry couldn't help but chuckle at that.  He said, “People keep telling me that.  You're right, I have changed.  I won't be anyone's pawn.  I won't take anything on faith when it comes to the wizarding world, especially in Britain.  One old man – one deluded old man – was able to appoint himself my guardian, decide where to place me, and keep dozens of teachers, constables, barristers, judges and independent visitors from remembering my treatment long enough to do anything about it.  You know how it was between the Ministry and me.  Sure, I have your favour today, but tomorrow...?  Sorry, Minister.  No matter how good a man you are, I'm not about to trust the rest of those in-bred fools to decide how I should live, who I should associate with, what fields I should study, or what truths I should know.  All I want from you and yours is to be left alone.  I think I've earned that.”

“I'd be more comfortable with that if I had some idea of what you're doing,” Shacklebolt ventured.

“Get used to disappointment, Shack,” Harry said.

Shacklebolt laughed at that, to Harry's surprise.  He began, “You have some very good friends, you know?  I pressed Bill Weasley for at least some hints –”

“– Bill doesn't know,” Harry cut in.

Shacklebolt went on, “He didn't see fit to tell me that; instead, he threatened me with an Arabic curse that's best left forgotten.  Young Mr. Longbottom informed me that I remain the Minister for Magic at your sufferance, and that he was happy to explain that to you should I continue to press –”

“That's madness!  Even if it was true, I'd never act on it.  That would make me as bad as... as bad as... them !  One person shouldn't have that kind of power.  Dumbledore did, and look what happened,” Harry insisted.  Shacklebolt opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. 

Dobby made a well-timed return just then, laden with three ancient tomes and two scrolls packed away into leather tubes.  “Dobby begs pardon from the gentlemen, but returns with all the writings that speak of the Department of Mysteries and their swears to the Royal Household.  Dobby has marked important passages for Mister Minister.  Mister Head Unspeakable is to be Her Majesty's liege-man through Mister Lord Chamberlain, but if Mister Lord Chamberlain is not having the magic to accept the swearing, then one of Mister Lord Chamberlain's men will do,” the house elf announced.

“Imagine that: this Croaker fellow's a working stiff like the rest of us,” Lytton said.

Harry pointed out, “A Squib can accept a magical oath; it doesn't have to be a wizard.  You just need someone placed in the Lord Chamberlain's Office who has the Right To Know.”

Shacklebolt slowly began to grin; “Herbert Mallory,” he said.

Harry tried to place the name; “Mallory...  Mallory?  The fussy bloke who came around about the George Cross?”

“Fussy, you say?  All right, I'll grant you that, but he's an absolute stickler for protocol.  I can't imagine he would take kindly to people who set out to avoid fealty oaths,” Shacklebolt said.

“And this oath?  It'll tie their hands?” Lytton asked.

Shacklebolt said, “That depends on the wording, of course, but there's a fair chance that it will.”

Harry started to stand up; “Well, that's great, isn't it?  You won't be needing me after all...”

“I'll need your help pulling this off, Harry,” Shacklebolt told him.

“Rubbish!  You're the Minister for Magic, you don't need my help.  Press this Mallory chap a bit, give him some rules to send Croaker, and Bob's your uncle – it's finished,” Harry scoffed.

Lytton said, “You don't give yourself much credit, do you?  We were nowhere after a month of debriefing every supposed expert in your Ministry, and you set us right in ten minutes.  It doesn't fit your profile, in truth; you weren't much of a student.”

“It wasn't in my best interests to stand out... still isn't, in fact,” Harry deflected him.

“Ron Weasley said that I should ask you to help us for a limited amount of time, and promise that I'll not ask again... three months, say?” Shacklebolt proposed.

Harry harrumphed at that; “He said that, did he?  I have commitments, Shack, serious ones – plans have been made, schedules set, Galleons spent.”

“Well... he said I should ask for two weeks, actually,” admitted Shacklebolt.

Harry cracked a small smile.  “That's more like it,” he allowed.

“Two months, then?”

“Don't push it.” 

January 31, 1999       Inn of the Healing order of Halla, due north of Skaftafell, Iceland

He waved his hand absently and the door opened; without looking, he said, “Hello, Siggy. How are you?”

“How is it that you always know when I am at your door?” she asked.

He chuckled and said, “The same way you always know when I want to talk to you: it's magic.”

“Indeed it is magic at its most profound, magic rarely mastered by all but the most experienced of mages. I am pleased that you have returned to us. You wished to speak with me,” she said.

“I've been thinking a lot about revenge lately,” he admitted.

She said, “That is a troubling topic. Will you allow me entry?”

As soon as she took a seat, he told her, “The goblins did some really awful things during the war and I kept finding more and more evidence, so I went to see Kingsley Shacklebolt in London. We met with the Vice-Minister for Trade at the Norwegian Ministry, and some others as well. I've made some... erm... arrangements with a friend of mine in Denmark. Something has to be done about it, Siggy. I can't let this stand."

Madam Gisladottir gave a knowing nod. “You fear that you are acting in anger, that you are taking revenge. Understand that the underground ones – goblins, dwarves, nissens, chupacabras – all of these are bankers or miners, and often both of these things. All live in closely knit groups: goblin clans, dwarven burrows, chupacabra clutches, nissen houses. There is no accusing one without accusing all, no means of justice that roots out a single culprit,” she said.

Harry sighed, “If enough people find out about the things the goblins did, the things they're still doing... they're already starting to hide away, I think, but that won't be enough. Honestly, it could be the end for every one of them. I know that should bother me, but honestly it doesn't.”

“They have wronged you personally?” she asked.

He said, “They're responsible for what happened to Ron Weasley. It's obvious they were on Voldemort's side in the war and good people died because of it. They made a war profit on the refugees when they left, and another when they came back. They've blocked most wizards who oppose them from emptying their vaults – or even banned them completely from Gringotts, like me. I think they see this as a way to have a rebellion and win it without even being caught out. Every wizard who did this much for Voldemort either died in battle or was tried and convicted. Most of those have been executed – I'm not comfortable with the way the Ministry went about that, but it's true that there's been rotten luck with keeping Death Eaters in prison. My point is: why should it be any different for the goblins?”

She was silent for a long time, something that he had learned to accept if not entirely tolerate. Finally, she offered, “Perhaps in addition to asking what will happen if the goblins are punished, you should ask what will happen if they are not punished? The difference between the two in cost and consequences should help you to decide what is just and what is not.”

“I don't have the right to do that. I'm not a judge. I'm not an Auror. I don't have a place in the government. Someone else is supposed to decide what's justice and what isn't,” he insisted.

She said, “If you are not the one to decide this, then who is the one? Do you believe anyone given the same information will act more fairly? Few English would shed a tear over the fate of a goblin. Your shared history is one of constant tension interrupted by open war every five to ten decades. Most mages in Europe are of the same mind as the English with respect to goblins.”

“Are you telling me to go through with this?” he asked her.

“I am telling you to seek advice, consider alternatives, come to a decision, and act upon the decision. If this leads to punishment for the goblins, then so be it,” she returned.

He let out a long breath and then said, “You're right, of course.  Well, then, I'm off to Copenhagen in the morning.”

“You will be meeting with young Mr. Twing?” Siggy confirmed.

Harry nodded; “He's something of an indispensable man right now, isn't he?  A few days with he and Ginny, and then to London.  The next week or two are going to be very interesting...”

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Loose Ends

SIXTEEN
Loose Ends

February 9, 1999       Gringotts Wizarding Bank, London, England

Harry ignored the ten halberds held within a foot of his neck and met the eyes of the corpulent goblin that sat before him with something as close to Dumbledore's eye-twinkle as he could manage. “Good morning! How have you been? Business going well, is it?” he said easily.

“How in the Nine Hells did you enter my chambers, Potter?” Ragnok snarled.

Harry said, “Through the door, of course. What did you think, Ragnok – that I dug a tunnel? That's more your line of work.”

“You will refer to me as Director or Clan Chief. I do not permit you to use my name!” Ragnok spat.

Harry said, “That's all right, I gave myself permission. You can call me Harry, if you like.” He shook off the security goblins and took a seat in front of Ragnok's desk.

“Nor did I permit you to be seated,” the goblin added.

Harry agreed, “Yes, and that was rather impolite of you, old bean.”

“You have come into our territory, despite having been duly notified of the consequences should you fail to comply with the Rules of Banishment. I now have every right to kill you myself, or to allow my security staff to do the job in my stead, or to have you imprisoned at my pleasure for the next century,” the goblin leader growled.

“Oh, would you just stop blustering? We've important business to conduct,” Harry dismissed him.

“Allow me to gut this thing for you, my liege!” the chief security goblin barked.

Harry smirked and told the angry goblin, “Shut up and learn your place, minion. The important people are having a conversation.”

“Impudent wizard!” Ragnok shouted.

Harry chuckled; “I do try,” he said.

Ragnok ordered the rest of the goblins in the room, “Leave us. The wizard's fate belongs to me!”

“Hardly,” Harry scoffed; “In fact, they really should stay – it'll save time, and you're rather short on that. Now let's be clear about this much: you and yours won't lay a finger on me, Ragnok. Firstly, the Ministry would take it as an act of war. If that wasn't true, then you would have put a bounty on my head as soon as Voldemort was gone. Secondly, I figure you're aware that I beat Voldemort in a solo duel before I vanquished him? You might want to keep that in mind. Thirdly, the tunnel system where we found the Grimoire was yours, including the warding. I understand pride, but leaving a detectable Gringotts signature on a ward is going to get you in trouble one day. Either those tunnels were extra space that you let to Voldemort or he hired you to dig them. You knew that I needed that Grimoire, and I'm pretty sure that you knew why. Voldemort asked you to help him protect it, didn't he?”

The security goblins hissed as one and Ragnok said, “A preposterous accusation, Potter, and irrelevant now that Ravenclaw's book of spells has passed beyond the Veil.”

“Funny how that's the first time you've used my name, isn't it? Actually, it's the first thing you've said calmly... not to mention that you knew I was talking about Ravenclaw's Grimoire and that it went through the Veil. Well informed, aren't you? Anyway, it doesn't really matter whether any of it's true or not. What do you think will happen when Harry Potter tells the Daily Notice that the goblins actively supported Voldemort?” Harry returned.

Ragnok settled back into the opulent chair behind his desk. “The matter before us is blackmail, then?” he ventured.

“I thought you might appreciate that; it seems like something a goblin would aspire to,” Harry said.

Ragnok steepled his long fingers and said, “You have pushed me too far, Potter, and you have also forgotten that you must leave Gringotts alive in order to speak to the Daily Notice . I have a powerful incentive to assure that these are your last minutes on this earth. We are therefore in an equivalent position, so let us get to business.”

Harry rubbed his hands together excitedly and said, “Oh yes, let's! Here's what you're going to do...

“As you know, my trust vault was emptied long ago – that would be the time when you screwed me sideways on the exchange rate. My family's vault is still here, though, and I'll be wanting that. Oh! Almost forgot this bit: under the Right of Conquest clauses in the Settlement Agreement of 1826 between the United Goblin Clans and the Ministry for Magic of England and Scotland, there are some more vaults I'm here to claim... ended a few family lines along the way, don't you know?” He withdrew a pile of Never-Fill Sacks from somewhere that the goblins couldn't discern, and threw them to the ground one at a time as he listed out, “Malfoy – that would be family and any personal as well... Lestrange – the same applies... Rookwood... Rosier... Travers... Higgs... Crabbe... Locke... Trenton... Macalester... Bainbridge... Terwilliger... and anything accessible prior to July 31, 1998 by Lord Voldemort or Tom Marvolo Riddle. One sack per vault, please. Bring the filled sacks to the entry, where I will collect them and leave. This will be the last time I ever set foot in this place or any other goblin establishment, and I will not speak of this visit or answer any questions relating to it that might be asked by the press or others. Don't drag your heels, though, because I really do need to be on my way.”

The room was deadly silent for several seconds before Ragnok began to laugh; his minions quickly joined in. “Ah, that was enjoyable. I've not heard anything so amusing in many a year. In fact, I think the laughter was worth a full ten Galleons. That is the most you will ever see from the Gringotts vault that was once held by the Potter family but is now wholly owned by the Bank. It is also the best offer you will receive from us. Our conversation is at an end, wizard. May your enemies prevail as painfully as possible,” he said with a sneer.

Harry leant back in his chair and with all the calm he could muster told Ragnok, “Perhaps I should tell a story first? It's positively fascinating... quite profitable, as well. You see, I had something of a happy accident a few months ago. I've been looking at the amplitude of highly energetic curses and charms, and how directed waveform changes could be used to modify spell structure or create spell chains without all the mucking about with arithmancy... well, I suppose I could pass along a portion of my notes if you've an actual interest in this sort of thing? You can owl me later. Anyway, it seems that when you hit a Gringotts galleon coin with a particular chain of curses and charms for a particular period of time, it loses all of its protective charms and curses and then breaks down into a nugget of pure gold and a puddle of dross. You can imagine my surprise! With the Sterling-to-Galleon exchange rate as low as it is, I figured that the actual gold in a Galleon couldn't amount to much more than a few grains of sand. Almost half an ounce of 24-karat gold? Well, I was shocked, I can tell you! Actually putting gold into a gold coin? I know the pureblood hordes would have gutted you otherwise, but still... it was so... honest? Yeah, that's it: unexpectedly honest.

“Now, the Muggles have been paying between £160 and £170 per ounce for pure gold lately, so I've been taking in £80 or thereabout per Galleon. Your exchange rate for years was £5 per Galleon, Ragnok, and you paid out £2 per Galleon for the coinage in my trust vault. You gave less than that for families who had to do a runner into the Muggle world, and blamed me for it besides... bad form, old chum, very bad form. Then you had the nerve to charge £7 per Galleon when people returned after the war? I realise you've been paying off the editorial desk at the Daily Notice to keep Gringotts off the front pages, but did you honestly think no one else would spot this? You must have thought that British wizards are even more foolish than they really are – and only world-class fools would win a dozen wars against the same opponent and keep rewarding the losers with control over their whole bloody economy.

“But then it hit me: the wizards who were really getting it were the pure-bloods! I mean, I have to hand it to you... you bollocked them for three hundred years. Impressive, actually - couldn't happen to a nicer bunch of blokes. It was their gold that held up the system in the first place, of course, because we both know your lot would never accept any actual risk. Then, every time they wanted to pick up some of life's little luxuries from the Muggles that wizards don't produce, like... oh, I don't know... food...? Cotton fabrics...? Anything hard to permanently transfigure...? Every time they converted Galleons to Sterling, you took a half-ounce of gold that was ultimately theirs in the first place, gave them less than a tenth of its market value, and then you went out and recovered the value. It's a nice little game you've played with the wizarding crime lords. Using them as a front to sell your gold to the Muggles was clever, really. It's too bad that you've been telling them that a Galleon contains a quarter-ounce of gold – a crying shame, it is.

“Time's getting short, so let's press on to the blackmail, shall we? The process for removing the protections from a Galleon coin and separating the pure gold from the dross has been explained in detail on four identical parchments that were sealed yesterday inside four separate envelopes that were then sent to four different locations. Those envelopes will be posted... let's check the watch, shall we?... fifty-one minutes from now to the publisher of the Daily Notice ; the office of the Minister for Magic of England and Scotland; the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards; and the head of the Karlov crime syndicate in Bulgaria... that is, unless the owls are stopped by a particular person whose identity has been protected by a Fidelius charm – and I haven't been told the name of the secret-keeper, so don't bother asking.

“How long would it take tens of thousands of angry wizards to dig every last one of you out of your holes? I'd wager a hundred Galleons that every goblin in Britain and Europe would be dead or at the very least homeless and penniless inside of a week, except that you wouldn't be available to make good on it. That's nothing compared to what the Karlovs would do; you've cost them millions of Galleons, hundreds of millions in Muggle currency. You probably think you were just leaving out information, not lying or cheating them. Maybe you figure that the fine print will protect you? I doubt that Anton would agree. We both know that your next job would be as a goblin-skin rug for his office floor.”

Ragnok arched an eyebrow; “And how would one such as you come to know Anton Karlov?” he asked.

Harry said nonchalantly, “Oh, we have a few shared interests, some common business ownership as it turned out. The man can certainly hold his vodka, I'll tell you... oh, and did you know that his youngest sister Zhivka is a necromancer...?”

“I did not know this,” Ragnok said with far less confidence.

Harry went on, “I'll collect those sacks in the entry fifteen minutes from right now. If they're one second later than that, then those posts will be on their way promptly at half eleven. If I find that the sacks or any of their contents have been damaged, cursed, charmed, spelled, treated with potions or poisons, engraved with property seizure runes, or otherwise messed about in any way whatsoever, then those posts will be on their way promptly at half eleven.

“In fact, if you don't do everything I've just asked and exactly as I've asked it, then the envelopes will be posted. If you do as I've as asked, then I'll destroy three of the envelopes. If I happen to die from anything other than natural causes – ever – then either the person under the Fidelius charm or that person's successor will post that fourth envelope to whomever can hurt you the most. If I ever get sick and I think you're responsible for it – even if it's just a scratchy throat – then that post goes out. The same applies to my family and friends as well.

“If anyone ever takes so much as a one-pound note from my person, my property, or my accounts without express permission – and electronic theft's no different than pinching it with your own hands, by the way... well... I suggest that you start packing your trunks. Even if you make good on everything, you can bet that I'll still melt down every last Galleon that ever comes into my possession; your approval for that is neither wanted nor required.

“Who knows? In the end, maybe I'll sell you out anyway just for the pleasure of it? Still... I like to think that I'm not the third coming of Voldemort. So, in the spirit of goodwill and all that rot: if I do ever decide to sell you out, I guarantee on my honour that you'll be given at least a ten minute head-start on the angry mobs.”

The security goblins stood as if petrified. Ragnok said haltingly, “After the cessation of hostilities between the wizards, we absorbed the vaults belonging to abandoned and terminated family lines, as stipulated in Gringotts policy per the Settlement Agreement. Your family vault was not properly claimed upon your majority and thus fell under the same policy. Coin was removed and property sold or disposed, and the proceeds were distributed according to the rules set forth in Section CCLXVIII of the agreement. Even if we were to accept your claims, it is impossible to reclaim the coinage on such short notice and some property may be forever beyond our reach.”

Harry snorted at that and said, “Pull the other one, mate. I doubt you've actually touched my family's vault – you're greedy but you're not stupid. If I'm wrong and you did do that, then a mated pair of Nundu will call on you and your bank before the close of business. If you've done that to anyone who wasn't backing Voldemort, then maybe I'll send a Basilisk instead – give you a fighting chance, right? For that matter, if you keep preventing my friends and the other people who I fought for from accessing their vaults... well, it won't be pretty. Now, I do accept that you may have taken the Death Eaters' vaults – can't say I'd blame you there – so I suppose I should offer you an alternative... wouldn't want to be greedy as a goblin, after all. There are nineteen vaults I'm entitled to under Right of Conquest, but I'll settle for the complete contents of my family's vault as it was on my seventeenth birthday plus one million Galleons. Hell, you probably took in twice that much on the Malfoy's primary vault alone. I think it's a generous offer.”

Ragnok's mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times before he managed, “This... this is... you cannot... you are threatening the destruction of an entire race!”

“Certainly not! The Asian and American clans had nothing to do with this and I'll be quite vocal about that. In fact, I'll give a speech to that effect, right outside the doors of this establishment. I'll be sure to have your head on the pike immediately to my left at the time,” Harry said.

Ragnok choked out, “You are The-Boy-Who-Lived and the Vanquisher of Voldemort... you... you are a light wizard. Wizards such as you think revenge to be beneath them. You... you cannot do this...”

Harry very nearly lost it at that; instead his jaw tightened and he said, “Your wards nearly killed my first friend. I had to carry him on my back for a mile while he held his guts inside with his hands. He lost one of his feet. The only reason your curses aren't going to take forty years off his life is because a groedari fell in love with him. Were you aware of the nature of my relationship with Hermione Granger?”

“W-we were aware of Miss Granger... it has long been our business to follow the schooling of young witches and wizards of great talent...” Ragnok ventured.

“You're fishing, which means you don't know. By the definitions in your precious Settlement Agreement, I had claimed her as my consort before her death. You supported Voldemort. Voldemort killed her personally,” Harry told the goblin with as much calm as he could muster.

“Justifiable vendetta,” Ragnok whispered.

Harry leant forward in his chair and said with the casualness of a dinner conversation, “If this was about revenge, I would have come here with a hundred hit-wizards and laid waste to your precious bank. I would have dragged your mates, consorts and children to this room and made you watch while I cut their throats one at a time. I would have had their bodies chopped into pieces, ritually cursed, and buried in salt. Then I would have cut off your head and staked it on a pike in front of what was left of this place. I would have ended my day by dumping ten thousand tonnes of Greek Fire into your caverns and sealing them with limestone. If I wanted revenge, Ragnok, you'd know it.”

“You... you are monstrous!” Ragnok gasped.

Harry sat back, took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Having everyone you've ever loved killed or maimed will do that to a man. Dumbledore told a wizard or two that he was afraid his meddling might turn me into another Dark Lord someday. I won't give him the satisfaction, and frankly I have better things to do. No revenge, Ragnok, no revenge at all. I'm just doing business, goblin-style. It's now 10:42 AM, which means those four posts will go out in forty-eight minutes unless I stop them first.”; he added with a purposeful sneer, “This is the best offer you will receive from me. I suggest that you take it.”

Twelve minutes and one shockingly simple contract later, Harry left Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron with two sacks: the full contents of the Potter family vault were in one, and one million Galleons were in the other. He took six minutes to leave Diagon Alley and find the nearest secluded spot, and from there apparated to a hillside in Cornwall. He was in an abandoned Newcastle steel mill eight seconds later; an eagle owl awaited him as planned. He closely inspected the sacks and their contents, using a series of spells bartered from an American hit-wizard who made Mad-Eye Moody seem calm and sensible. The eagle owl took the all-clear message with nine minutes to spare. With that done, he apparated to the Rognvald Inn in Kirkwall – the tavern where he and Hermione and Ron had spent that last golden evening together. Two people waved him over to their table. Harry took a chair and set the sacks at his feet.

Anders Twing had a lopsided smirk on his face. “Does this mean that your appointment went as hoped?” he asked.

Harry let out a long breath and sank into the chair. “Only because the two of you came up with an ironclad plan,” he said.

Ginny Weasley grinned at him; she countered, “The plan wasn't that important, Harry. Between killing Voldemort and having too much Gryffindor courage for your own good, they never had a chance.”

Harry gave a nervous laugh. “I was this close to wetting myself the entire time... had to summon my inner Malfoy just to get through it,” he admitted.

Twing smiled at him and said, “Ginny is right: it was never in doubt, my friend. This was the easiest 20,000 Galleons that the Universal Trading Company will earn this year.”

Harry frowned; “Two percent? We agreed on ten,” he said firmly.

Ginny shook her head and said, “We didn't agree to that, you did. Twenty thousand is a lot more gold than we deserve for this. Anders won't admit it, but we'd have done this for free.”

“Fine, nine percent,” Harry said.

Twing countered, “Two and a half.”

“Eight.”

“Two and three-quarters.”

“Five?”

“Three, and not a Galleon more. The negotiation is finished,” Twing said.

Harry sighed, “Fine, three percent it is, but you're getting £3,000,000 instead. I won't have any Galleons left, anyway; it'll all be melted into ingots by tomorrow night.”

Twing laughed and Ginny insisted, “Then we're picking up the bill for lunch, and I won't hear any argument over it.”

“I can live with that,” Harry said.

Twing asked him, “Tell me, do you still have a pensieve in your possession?”

“Yes, and I'll never give it up. It's already been a godsend; I couldn't possibly study all of these different forms of magic at the same time without it. Why?” Harry wanted to know.

Twing's smirk grew considerably. “Because I will pay £1,000,000 to see the expression on Ragnok's face,” he answered.

Harry buffed his fingernails against his shirt and said nonchalantly, “I've something better on the way, my friend. The contract between Ragnok and I definitely exceeded expectations. He kept his eyes on the biggest danger and let everything else slip through, just like you thought he would. We did agree that I wouldn't tell people how to get around the protections on Galleons and that I wouldn't publish what they've done with the exchange rate. I can only melt down Galleons that come into my possession... but nothing stops you from putting your Galleons into my possession so that I can remove the protections and give you back the raw gold. Even better, nothing keeps me from telling the Notice that the goblins backed Voldemort – he missed it completely. Maybe we can arrange for a picture of him when he picks up the paper with that headline?” Twing gaped at him.

Ginny gasped, “But... but... that would be the end of the goblins in England!   Obviously we were going to hit them where it hurts, but this...!  You were planning on this all along, weren't you?  I can't believe the two of you didn't tell me!”

Harry went on, “The goblins knew Gringotts was finished as a bank in England the day that Voldemort died. They had already moved most of their own gold abroad, and they were ready to poach the Ministry's reserves in the confusion after the battle but they didn't realise that the ministry-in-exile would get the vault keys automatically as soon as Voldemort's puppet surrendered. Kingsley's not messing about with this any more. He's already drawn the Ministry vaults down to the minimum required by treaty. Amos Diggory and Ernie Macmillan's dad are going to shuttle refugees through Gringotts over the next couple of weeks so that they can empty their vaults, and I've more than enough gold now to cover any losses. There won't be any interfering with it, though; they have too much to lose. The nissens signed off on the contract to open a bank in Hogsmeade, and it's to open on the first of March. The Ministry's current accounts will move there immediately. And now...? Well, thanks to Ragnok, we know what to expect on the Notice 's front page a day or two after that.”

Twing fidgeted, which was something Harry hadn't expected; “This is a greater success than expected.  We must consider the Karlovs, you know? The impact of this on their finances has been considerable, and may grow worse before it grows better,” he pointed out.

Harry tried to put him at ease; he said, “I'm not stupid, Anders. I know we can't afford to have Anton get burned in all of this – after all, you're in business with the man –”

Twing cut him off, “To me, he is a broker of information; this is not the same as a business partnership. In that sense, you are more 'in business' with the Karlovs than I.”

“Either way, I wouldn't want them angry with me unless there was an awfully good reason for it. I won't convert Galleons to gold for them, though. That would be like giving them money to, you know, run their other businesses.”

“There are several legitimate businesses in which you and Anton both hold interests. You could perhaps sell some of your holdings to him, in order to soften the blow?” Twing proposed.

Harry slowly began to nod; “That could work... right then, how about this? Let's have lunch with Anton sometime during the last week of the month. We'll tell him that Gringotts is about to get some very bad press that will affect his business, and we'll ask him to keep that to himself until after the fact. If he agrees, then we'll sell him the Potter family share of Istinata for 100,000 Galleons,” he decided.

Twing protested, “Are you daft? Istinata is the most-read wizarding daily in eastern Europe, and you hold thirty percent ownership. This is worth a million Galleons at the very least, not to mention that it gives him majority ownership – I understand what you seek to do, but I do not think you understand what you are offering him!”

Harry smirked as he pointed out, “I have been paying attention to your lectures, you know? Even at the best commercial rate, Anton would get £6,000,000 for a million Galleons. On the other hand, there's a lot of gold in 100,000 coins.”

Ginny closed her eyes in thought; “50,000 ounces... that's something like £4,000,000 at today's gold price, but the price has been falling for the last few weeks,” she told him.

Harry said, “So we get a £4 per Galleon exchange rate on the full value of the business? We wouldn't make out better than that with the goblins, especially now. They can bugger all anyway – thanks to your planning, we're ahead of them by £80,000,000. Meanwhile, Anton takes over the biggest newspaper in his country for 900,000 Galleons less than it should have cost him. He can keep himself out of the news whenever he wants, and the extra income should cover the rest of his losses eventually. What am I missing? Do you already have another plan in the works, is that it?”

“No, no, this is a good idea but you should allow me to negotiate with him. Surely you realise that Anton would double the price if you would ask his sister to dinner and dancing?” Twing chuckled.

Harry shuddered; he said firmly, “I have absolutely no interest in that sort of thing, and I'd hex anyone who meddled that way, but even if I did... Zhivka ? You can't be serious! Look, she taught me a lot and she does make interesting conversation, but the woman's a practising necromancer! I'll bet that her idea of a hot date ends with the bloke dumped in a #8 cauldron on a high boil. Besides, I've never cared for blondes and those teeth can't be entirely human. No thank you!”

Twing laughed at that but Ginny's expression was serious; she told Harry, “You have that guilty look in your eyes. Are you having second thoughts?”

“You've seen all of the information. There's no doubting what they've done.” Harry said.

She returned, “That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

He let out a long sigh and rubbed at the bridge of his nose; “They've earned it, they really have, but... I keep thinking that there must be goblins here who aren't involved in this mess, who see things differently than Ragnok and his sort. Of course, it's been pointed out to me that goblins don't think or behave like humans – Bill said it was an all-or-nothing choice, and he should know.”

She said, “Hermione won't hate you for doing this, you know? I think she'll be proud, actually. Out of all the big things you've ever taken on, this has been the least impulsive of the lot.”

“It's not just that, Ginny. I'm getting rich from this –” he protested.

She snorted, “Getting richer, you mean?”

“Now who's playing word games? If this was just about Galleons, I'd have stayed in John O' Groats. All I really wanted from them was my family vault, you know? It's all that's left of the Potters. I should just give away the rest,” he shot back.

Ginny quipped, “You're going to give Anders a heart attack saying things like that.”

Twing shook his head; “My father knew how to make money, and I learned well from him. I will gladly take the three percent – it would be foolish to do otherwise – but Ginny was correct: we would have done this freely. Still, you left Gringotts behind with one million Galleons in hand, and you say that the balance should be given away?

“I will accept this, but then I must ask you who should receive the money? The English Ministry? Kingsley is a good man, but who will succeed him: shall it be another Shacklebolt, or another Fudge? To the International Confederation? It suffers the same flaws as your Ministry, but on a larger stage and with even less resolve. Wealth allows a corrupt institution to cause more harm. Would you rather leave a mound of coins in the midst of Hogsmeade? Harry, you are neither a hoarder nor a spendthrift. You do not mind being wealthy but you do not desire wealth. You are thoughtful but a man of action. You seek to do the right thing and pay little mind to anyone or anything that stands in the way. You favour people and institutions who do good works. So, who should have these Galleons, my friend? Who else could be trusted with them? It's hardly a question,” he said.

Ginny grinned, “Too true, dear - too true. So... let's hoist a pint, shall we?”

Twing laughed, “To the love of my life – and I must thank you yet again for that, Harry – to Ginny! It is hard to fathom that only three years ago she was a pure-blooded witch from the countryside, and now she is a ruthless international trader and financier. I do good work, do I not?”

“Oi!” Ginny snapped.

“There was always a lioness in there,” Harry said.

“And so she is a ruthless and increasingly wealthy lioness,” said Twing.

Ginny said earnestly, “I'm rich because I have you. I'll take that over all the money in the world,” and she pulled Twing into a searing kiss.

“Hem-hem...” Harry mocked.

Ginny pulled away, abashed; “I'm sorry, Harry, I wasn't –”

Twing said very seriously, “It will not always be like this, my friend. You will not always be without her. She is here even now, yes?”

“That she is,” Harry said. He appreciated Twing's certainty on the matter more than he could say.

Ginny said, “Absolutely, and I meant it when I said she'll be really proud of you. Maybe she'll be able to figure out how you can pick up new things so quickly now... and don't try to hide it, mister. I saw you with the brief that Anders put together. It took me two hours to plough through that thing. You read it in ten minutes and you understood all of it. You haven't been mucking about with rituals, have you? I know what sort of things you've been reading, and I know that you're trying to do something that's never been done...”

“No rituals,” Harry assured her.

“Then what is it?” she asked.

Harry hesitated before he said, “My magic's changed, and don't ask me to explain that; I'm not ready yet. That's part of it, maybe most of it, but you should also keep in mind that I'm not in this alone. Now that we're finished with all of this business, I can stay clear of the wizarding world and get back to what really matters.” He tapped his forehead for emphasis.

After an awkward pause, Twing said, “Well... well ... I believe we were toasting? Let us resume, yes? To the goblins: may they get everything that they so richly deserve!” With that, the three young veterans toasted to dead comrades, once and future friends, the coming demise of the goblin nation, and Harry's greatly expanded fortune.

November 11, 1999      London, Ontario, Canada

“The weather's certainly frightful, wouldn't you say, Mr. Black?” the consular officer said.

“It's appropriate,” he returned. The fellow meant well, he supposed, but hadn't stopped talking since leaving Toronto.

“Well, then... perhaps I might wait in the car?” the man offered.

He sighed, “There's no need for you to stay at all. I can take care of myself and I'm not going to go haring off. I could be here for ten minutes, or I might stay for a week. I told them in Ottawa that I'd be sure to check in before leaving the country.”

The man from the Consulate was the very picture of Percy Weasley as he huffed, “There is no intention on anyone's part to suggest that you aren't free to do as you will whilst visiting Canada, sir – none whatever. The Foreign Secretary's office was adamant that the High Commission provide every assistance and courtesy – ”

“I got to know some of the chaps in Whitehall after the war, but don't work yourself into a strop over it. I'll let the Secretary know that you've gone above and beyond. Now then, it's Remembrance Day, and I'm here to remember,” he said firmly.

“If you should need anything – anything at all – you do have my card. We're largely a trade consulate in Toronto but I can assure you, Mr. Black, that we are fully as accommodating as our colleagues in Ottawa,” the officer said.

“I've no doubt,” he assured the man; after that, he pointedly ignored both the trade official and his offer of an umbrella until the man at last recognised that he'd been dismissed.

It had been very windy on the drive from Toronto. Here, the wind was down but the clouds were low and there was an insistent rain on the verge of turning to snow. It was the same penetrating cold as he'd left behind in John O' Groats. Still, he didn't feel like he deserved a warming charm under the circumstances.

Despite the weather, the cemetery was still filled with mourners two hours after the official 11:11 AM commemoration. Most of them were elderly: the spouses and dwindling friends of veterans from long-ago wars. The cemetery was larger than he had pictured and was surrounded on three sides by a residential neighbourhood. He couldn't imagine living next door to such a place. After wandering for a while, he found a grounds-keeper who directed him to the plot number he had been given.

He was glad that it wasn't amongst the cluster of military headstones. He wasn't there to visit the marker, in any case. She wasn't buried beneath it – she wasn't buried anywhere at all, or properly dead for that matter. He was there to call upon the two people who stood vigil there. Neither of them had an umbrella. It seemed right to be sodden, he thought, and he wondered if they felt the same.

The marker was small but elegant. A likeness of the George Cross was carved into the upper left corner and a stylised phoenix into the upper right, with the words cut into the centre:

Hermione Jean Granger, GC

1979 - 1998

Daughter – Friend – Scholar – Heroine

“Those things which are precious

are saved only by sacrifice”

He knew in his head that it was just a piece of marble, that she wasn't truly gone, but the sight of it undid him. He didn't sob or cry aloud – life with the Dursleys had taught him to suffer in silence – but he couldn't keep his eyes from watering.

“Hello, Harry,” Mrs. Granger said quietly. Mr. Granger's head snapped up from gazing at the marker, and Harry recoiled; the expression on the man's face was a mix of anger and horror and defeat that made him feel unworthy of his own grief.

“You weren't here, not for any of it,” Mr. Granger said.

Harry said, “I couldn't. I'm sorry.”

Mr. Granger said, “It's just as well.”; he waved his hand toward the insignia on the marker and added, “It was hard enough to explain all of this.”

“Everything was handled well, by the way,” Mrs. Granger told him.

Harry wiped at the tears on his cheeks. “Er... sorry?” he said.

She said, “On the phone, it seemed as if you were worried about how it was handled... the notifications and such?”

“I was afraid that they'd treat her like she was nothing,” he admitted.

“Certainly not that,” she said.

“Bloody overwhelming, that's what it was – the Ambassador himself comes to our door... and then those people from the international federation for your lot... and then the Cross and the knighthood – couldn't very well put that on the stone, there's simply no explaining it... and then a bunch of bloody Canadian soldiers come to the chapel with rifles and a gun carriage! The official story is that Hermione was a cadet at Sandhurst. A group of them were lending a hand at a base away from the fighting when it was attacked without warning. Supposedly she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and made the best of it,” Mr. Granger said.

Mrs. Granger pulled tight the collar of her long coat. “The dates alone should have put paid to it: she was only eighteen, for pity's sake. You look like you could do with some tea,” she said.

Mr. Granger said, “It's a short walk – we're just eight blocks to the west. Hell of an irony, that.”

The Grangers had let a modest older bungalow on a small, tidy lot. Mrs. Granger explained that she was on faculty at the local University, and that their home was not far from the hospital where she practised and taught oral surgery. Mr. Granger had never really settled after the move; he worked as a fill-in for a number of dental offices in the area. They planned to return to England in the following summer, after the close of the academic year, and rebuild their home; there had been a “gas explosion” shortly after they left for Canada. Mrs. Granger made small talk while she put the kettle on and continued to chatter as they settled into the sitting room. Mr. Granger said very little. Eventually they all went silent and sipped at their tea.

Mr. Granger set down his cup, let out a long breath and then said, “The last time I spoke with my daughter, I insulted her. We parted in anger, Mr. Potter, and I will never forgive myself for that. Still, it shouldn't be an issue at all, should it? She should be here right now, not wherever the hell she is. I don't know why you decided to contact us after all this time, but we weren't about to miss the opportunity. How did she die? Why was there no body? Something's been off about all of this, and we need answers. That's the only reason I agreed to this, because I had rather hoped to see the backs of you people.”

Mrs. Granger said, “We only spent a few months in total with Hermione once she left for Hogwarts, and much of the time we did have together was awkward. We didn't understand most of her experiences – how could we, really? – and it was obvious that she was hiding things from us, even during the first summer. We had hoped that once she finished at Hogwarts and entered uni, we might have the opportunity to... reconnect, I suppose?”

“It wouldn't surprise me if you thought we didn't care about her at all” Mr. Granger said; “You probably figured that the sort of people who would let her just drift off into a strange new world at the age of eleven were cold or distant –”

Harry cut him off, “Every wizard in Britain and Ireland boards, more or less – the only alternatives are home schooling or apprenticeship. It's been like that for a thousand years, so it's just the way of things, you know? I was so glad to be clear of my relatives that I never gave much thought to how everyone else felt about being away from home. Erm... Hermione never had a bad thing to say about either of you when we were at Hogwarts.”

Mr. Granger said, “I boarded at public school but we were two years older when we started. In truth, we'd already decided that she would attend a day school. The whole idea of Hogwarts – of magic as a whole – was frightening, but the things happening around Hermione were beginning to border on dangerous. She needed what that place could provide. That doesn't mean we liked sending her away, not one bit.”

“We were already driving her away from the very start, weren't we? They were driving her away from us as well – it's what your world does to people like Hermione, to those with ordinary parents,” Mrs. Granger said.

Harry savoured the warmth of the cup in his hands for a few moments as he gathered his thoughts. He started, “I've spent a good portion of the last year in Iceland with some healers and teachers, trying to get my head around all of this. One of the people there... a very nosy old woman... we've talked through a lot of things. I like to think I've grown up a bit, that I've gained some perspective. When you came to the Orkneys, the both of you were scared to death. Mr. Granger, I think you were being... what's the word?... flippant , flippant about what was happening. I think you were trying to get Hermione to see that her life was worth more than a pile of gold, and it just came out all wrong. She was awfully sick, even though she wouldn't admit it, and we had been in a life-or-death situation for eight months. She had it in her head that she was willing to die in order for us to win and she wouldn't hear otherwise, not from me or anyone else. Even if you had said everything in the right way, she would still have been angry.”

“We didn't make any allowances, even though we knew better,” Mrs. Granger said quietly; “We just acted as if another year had gone by. All of the other parents we met in the Orkneys were behaving so matter-of-factly that it seemed like the thing to do. Molly Weasley acted as though... what? What's this about?”

Harry stopped laughing and explained, “I do love Mrs. Weasley – she's been very good to me over the years – but... erm... look, the Weasleys were the closest thing to parents that I had when I was younger, but I wouldn't use her as a model for how to behave. She's bossy, she's smothering, she jumps to conclusions and she can be rather mean-spirited about it as well. Honestly, it's not hard to see why Bill and Charlie took jobs thousands of miles away right after they finished at Hogwarts, or why Percy's such a prig, or why Ron didn't start to grow up until he almost died.”

“Well, I did a smashing job of acting like Molly that night, didn't I?” Mrs. Granger said with a frown.

Out of nowhere, Mr. Granger demanded to know, “Why can't I stay angry with you? I want to be angry with you – logically, I should wring your neck and be done with it – but it just won't stick. It feels like... dash it all, it feels like you're supposed to be here with us. Is this one of your tricks? Did you cast some sort of spell...?”

Harry said immediately, “Absolutely not! I'll take a freely binding oath if you want, and that could kill me if I'm not telling the truth. I would never mess about with someone's feelings like that, especially not yours and not now.”

Mr. Granger said, “I can't explain it, then. It's just...”

Harry felt a brush against his leg and looked down. “Crookshanks!” he exclaimed. The big cat, finicky at the best of times, jumped into his lap and curled up contentedly.

Mrs. Granger sat up straighter in her chair; she said, “That cat has been miserable since the day it happened. It's almost as if he knew when Hermione... well, I don't think he's taken to anyone else since then. He barely tolerates us but we haven't the heart to just give him away. What's going on here, Harry?”

Harry didn't know how to go about turning the Grangers' world upside down, so he just started talking. “He was never this friendly with me before, but I have a fair idea why Crooks is doing this. I asked to visit you so that I could tell the strangest story you'll ever hear. It took me six months to work up the nerve, because I know I wouldn't believe a word if I were you. Before I start, though, there are some basic things you need to know if it's to make any sense whatever – certain things that happened along the way, sequences of events, that sort of thing. Er... where to start... hmm... how much did Hermione explain about what happened at the end of our second year?”

“Do you mean when she was in hospital? It was something to do with sleeping sickness, if I recall the school's letter correctly. We were terribly worried at the time – couldn't imagine what would put a child in hospital for two weeks,” Mr. Granger said.

“I take it this is one of the things she kept from us?” Mrs. Granger asked.

Harry rolled his eyes and said, “The school said that she was sick? For two weeks? She never explained it to you? Well, Hermione can't lie to save her life, but she's always been able to keep a secret. If she didn't tell you even that much, then she must have held back nearly everything. I'll have to tell you our story from the very beginning, then. After that... who knows, perhaps the rest of it won't seem entirely mad?”

Over the next six hours, Harry cleaned up after four spills, repaired two shattered teacups, conjured a box of tissues, and used a charm Sirius had taught him to neatly open a bottle of whiskey. At the end of it, he was spent, Mr. Granger was ashen and Mrs. Granger had filled several pages of a notebook with questions.

Harry was quiet for a few moments before he offered, “I'll tell you anything else that I can, explain anything that I'm able, but I don't have all the answers – far from it. The person who I've studied with in Iceland, she probably knows as much about this sort of magic as anybody on Earth, and even she said from the start that this is beyond her experience.”

“I can't believe this, I just can't... she's really right there? She's in this room?” Mr. Granger said.

Mrs. Granger said matter-of-factly, “This is why you didn't come for the services.”

“I couldn't tell you any of this until I was absolutely sure. I just couldn't do that to you,” Harry said.

“And you're certain that it's actually Hermione? Could they be detecting some sort of... I don't know... an echo? Given what you've said about portraits and ghosts and such...?” asked Mrs. Granger.

Harry answered, “I wondered about that, too. Siggy – er, Madam Gisladottir – she performed all manner of detection rituals on a portrait, on a ghost and then on one of the healers for comparison. There was a big difference between the results – you couldn't miss it. When she performed the same rituals on me, she found two complete... souls, I guess you'd say? They call it the 'insubstantial self'. Apparently everything that made Hermione who she was is in there: memories, emotions, knowledge, opinions, all of it.”

“But no one knows how to... how to put her back into her body?” Mrs. Granger clarified.

“There are fourteen known ways to put her into one body or another, and they're all out of the question,” Harry admitted.

Mr. Granger leant forward in his chair and glared at Harry; “You said that you would do anything it takes,” he hissed.

Harry had been on a razor's edge for a very long time, and some days it was all he could do to keep from falling. He didn't mince words. “Very well, sir. I could use classical necromancy to create a body for her. All I would need is blood forcibly taken from one of her female enemies, a pound or two of freshly-cut flesh from one of her servants, and one of Mrs. Granger's long bones. The body might – might – look normal on the outside, but inside... well, it certainly wouldn't be human.

“Or maybe you'd prefer a spirit transference? I'd have to cut the hearts out of twelve thirteen-year old virgins, put the hearts in a cauldron along with every drop of all twelve girls' blood and some other things even more horrible, bring the lot to a rolling boil whilst stirring anti-clockwise for precisely seven minutes, let it simmer until the peak of the next full moon, and then put another thirteen-year old virgin into the cauldron and hold her under as I perform a Sumerian exorcism chant, which would allow Hermione to permanently possess the soulless body. Or instead, how about –”

Mr. Granger couldn't get a word out. All he managed was to wave his arms frantically so that Harry would stop.

Mrs. Granger stammered, “If... if they... oh, dear God... if those things are written somewhere... that means someone... someone tested them...”

Harry pressed on, “Voldemort used necromancy for himself: blood, flesh and bone. Spirit transference or anything else that uses an actual body has to be performed on either someone who's living and unwilling, or someone willing who is on the edge of death or who just died – and I mean just died; it can't be more than five minutes or so. If you wait too long, then the spirit ends up bound to a dead body. That's another of the options, actually. A good part of the magical world would call it a zombie. Your idea of a zombie, the one from movies, is actually an inferius – a reanimated corpse. A true zombie would be completely aware of what's going on, that she's trapped in a decomposing body that can't be completely repaired. Do you think Hermione would choose any of those things?”

“She'd rather be dead,” Mr. Granger forced out.

“Please, promise me you won't –” Mrs. Granger pleaded.

Harry said firmly, “Never.”

Mrs. Granger tried to collect herself before she asked, “But if you try some other way, some new sort of ritual or what-have-you... there's... there's no chance of those things accidentally happening to her...?”

Harry insisted, “None. I won't attempt anything until I'm certain that there are only two options: either it works, or nothing happens at all. I don't care if it takes five years, ten years, twenty years, or longer. I won't take any chances with this. She's too important to me.”

After a long silence, Mrs. Granger blurted out, “Can she hear us? Can you talk to her?”

Harry thought about that for a while before he said, “I don't know if she can hear us or not. I can't really talk to her, but I can feel that she's there. It's a bit like having someone read over your shoulder, I suppose? Actually, sometimes when I'm reading something really deep, I get this... this sense of excitement about it. It's that hopping-up-and-down-in-a-chair feeling that Hermione got when we were revising in the common room and she happened on some new theory or what-have-you. I'm not a reader by nature – it's something I do because it has to be done – so that's not coming from me, I can tell you.”

Mr. Granger, who had recovered a bit of his colour, asked, “You said you'd give twenty years to this. Do you honestly mean that? What will you do for work?”

Harry said, “I'm from an old family. I took my trust vault out of Gringotts when the war started, and I've a fair bit of gold by right of conquest. I'll never need to earn a wage, sir. This will be my work.”

“In twenty years, you'll be almost forty. Would Hermione still be eighteen?” Mr. Granger asked.

Harry said, “There's no telling, but everything I've read so far would support that. Any sort of light-oriented ritual should recreate her body at least at the same age as when she was cursed, and possibly in exactly the same state as it was at the time. I think I understand what it is you're asking, sir. I won't quit on this if I'm a hundred years old. I'm not doing this for me. I'm doing this for her because it's the right thing to do.”

“None of us are getting any younger, Paul. I think we all want this to be done quickly,” Mrs. Granger said to her husband.

“It has to be you that does this? You can't just hire a room full of experts?” Mr. Granger wondered.

Harry said, “There aren't a room of experts to hire. As I've said, this is a truly unique situation. Also, I was there at the time and I'm carrying her around, so there's a good chance I'll have to be the one who performs any rituals involved.”

Mr. Granger's eyes bore into Harry. “Can you do this?” he asked.

“Yes,” Harry said simply, because Siggy had made him believe it to be so.

“How can we help?” Mrs. Granger asked him.

Harry sighed, “I honestly don't know. There aren't enough hours in the day to find all of the magics that might be involved in this, let alone understand them or figure out how to put any of it to use.”

“What, there aren't spells for making copies of yourself? You'd have all the time you needed then: just send Number 2 and Number 3 off to the library,” Mr. Granger joked.

“It's a shame Hermione couldn't keep that thing that Miss McGonagall arranged for her – a Time-turner, was it? That sounds as if it would be useful,” Mrs. Granger said.

Harry let his mind gnaw on that, and his eyes narrowed; he said, “Supposedly they were all destroyed when we went to find Sirius at the Department of Mysteries. Then again, the Department of Mysteries told us a lot of things that weren't true... at least two of their people were working for Voldemort... they hid entire levels of the Ministry during the War. Well, I know where I'll be going next. They're not going to be happy to see me.”

November 15, 1999      Ninth level, Ministry for Magic of England and Scotland, London, England

As soon as Harry left hospital after the end of the War, peculiar things began to happen. He had stood on the hospital rooftop and wished that there was somewhere he could call home. In a trice, he found himself on the shore in John O' Groats: a 600-mile blind apparation with no conscious deliberation whatever. Since then, he had apparated more than 2,000 miles in a single attempt; his return from Ottawa to the Ministry's English port-of-entry at Bristol came via Newfoundland and Iceland, with only a minute's pause between each jump. The customs officials told him that no one, not even Dumbledore, had ever apparated into the Bristol port-of-entry from anywhere beyond Ireland; they didn't believe him until he abruptly side-alonged a startled Auror back to Reykjavik.

He had been able to wandlessly summon small objects – at least when under duress – since his fifth year and perhaps before, but now books and glasses and biros often came to his hand by simply reaching for them. Beyond apparation and summoning, however, this 'New Magic' had been unpredictable and inconsistent; it wasn't something he had ever counted on in a tight spot.

As such, he was very surprised to walk past the security desk of the Ministry for Magic without receiving so much as a glance, and to move through the corridors and down the lifts stood shoulder-to-shoulder with people who apparently had no idea he was there. He wasn't going to complain about it, though.

Seeing clearly into the hoods of Unspeakables' cloaks was another pleasant and very useful surprise. One Unspeakable seemed to sense his presence for a moment, but immediately lost interest. It took him twenty minutes of wandering through rooms he'd hoped never to see again before he found the wizard who he was seeking out.

“Hello, Croaker,” Harry said.

The old Unspeakable whirled around with an expression of genuine shock; he gasped, “Good heavens! Mr. Potter, how did you identify me through this cloak? For that matter, how did you make your way into this facility? We should have been notified at the instant that you entered the Ministry.”

“You set up specific wards for me? I'm touched,” Harry said with a smirk. He had a fleeting thought that it was getting awfully easy to summon his inner Malfoy.

“Surely you know that you are persona non grata here?” Croaker said.

“I'd be disappointed if it were otherwise,” Harry returned.

Croaker schooled his features and regained the detached and all-knowing persona he had shown in the corridor just prior to the last battle. He said, “There are those amongst my brethren who believe that you should receive the Dementor's Kiss for releasing the magical energies that had been collected here. Had I suspected you would do such a thing, I would never have given aid to you and your company. In any event, the Minister would never countenance your execution, nor would the common folk. I warn you that some of my brethren would be eager to carry out such a sentence of their own accord, now that you have ventured into our territory.”

“This isn't your territory. It belongs to the people of Britain,” Harry said.

Croaker returned with a small smile, “How charmingly naïve of you, Mr. Potter. You are at risk of grave harm in this place. I urge you to take your leave.”

Harry said, “Funny, that. It's interesting that your 'brethren' haven't come to fetch us.”

Croaker's eyes went glassy for a moment before he acknowledged, “It is interesting, isn't it? It seems that they are in a tizzie over my apparent disappearance. They can be contacted by me but cannot locate either of us. Each time that I attempt to give a location, the nimbus of energy that surrounds you shifts very rapidly in my direction and the contact with my brethren is broken. I have experienced that particular magical energy once and have no desire for a second encounter, nor am I under the illusion that we could ever re-capture it. It appears that you are at less risk than I anticipated.”

“I'm not counting on that, so I'd rather not hang about,” Harry admitted.

“...Which brings us to the reason for your visit. Surely you want something. Alas, my brethren would rather give you a rabid crup than any sort of aid. Your adventure with Tom Riddle caused untold damage to this facility. More than that, it brought an intolerable level of scrutiny. That has been disappointing,” said Croaker.

“My 'adventure'? It was the last battle of a war, Croaker. As for scrutiny...? That's your own doing, mate – I'd get used to it if I were you. I don't recommend trying to magically persuade either the Ministry or Her Majesty's government. It won't end well,” Harry said.

Croaker pursed his lips and said, “It is unnecessary to magically persuade Muggles, when one can instead re-write the tapestry of events. There are no exemptions from the Statute of Secrecy merely because one is born to, or in the employ of, the House of Windsor. Wartime exemptions were stricken in 1947, and were not revived by the International Confederation during the recent turmoil. We should not have to demand that the Ministry above carry out its legal responsibilities.”

“Where were you when Voldemort was attacking London with dragons and giants in plain view of five million Muggles? Did you send a paper aeroplane upstairs with a complaint? No? Right, I didn't think so. In any event, my ultimate loyalty is to the Crown, Croaker – so is yours, whether you like it or not,” Harry returned.

Croaker put on a false smile; “You refer, of course, to the current legal fiction that our Department is accountable to the Muggle Queen's Lord Chamberlain,” he said.

Harry laughed, “Legal fiction? Have you triggered any of the minor compulsions yet?” When Croaker flinched ever-so-slightly, he went on, “I'll take that as 'yes'. That 'legal fiction' has been there for five hundred years. It hadn't been used, that's all.”

“You will have this rescinded, Mr. Potter. This is not a request,” Croaker said flatly.

“You'll be needing King Henry VII for that. I can recommend a good Necromancer, if you like?” Harry said with a smirk.

Croaker's reserve cracked; he glowered, “Do not patronise me.”

Harry laughed, “Do you think that I can wave my hands and make a five hundred year old treaty, two Royal declarations and an Act of Parliament disappear? I suppose you could try asking Kingsley, but asking for things isn't part of the Unspeakable code, is it? If you'd just learn to play nicely, Her Majesty wouldn't be so inclined to throw out the lot of you.”

“We would resist, of course, assuming that Her Majesty or any in her government would remember the treaty at all,” Croaker assured him.

Harry snorted, “And then you'd die, either from the contract's magic or from a bullet to the head. I'm a Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order, Croaker. I doubt you know what that is, but let me be clear about what it means for you and yours: if anyone spells Her Majesty or the PM, then everyone involved will die at my hand.”

“Strong words for a wizard who struggled through Hogwarts and has yet to complete his NEWTs,” Croaker dismissed him.

Harry laughed out loud at that; he said, “Yeah, about that... I was too busy getting rid of this nasty dark wizard. You may have heard about him: took over the government, killed a few thousand witches and wizards, almost destroyed your precious secrecy...? Tends to get in the way of revising, don't you know?”

“Nonetheless... 'all bark and no bite', I believe, is the proper phrase,” Croaker scoffed.

“I just walked around your Department unseen for 20 minutes. A darker sort might have picked you off one at a time. Silencio , Incarcerous , and a knife to the throat... not more than ten seconds each, I expect,” Harry said with far more ease than he actually felt.

“And you dare to criticise our conduct?” he said.

Harry shrugged and pointed out, “I've done nothing. You people committed treason to both the Ministry and the Crown, and at least two murders as well –”

“Obliviators are allowed to defend themselves against hostile Muggle subjects,” Croaker said flatly.

“Firstly, you aren't Obliviators. Secondly, it's hard to justify the Killing Curse as a defence against a Muggle in a body-bind,” Harry fired back.

“Trivialities. We took action when the so-called law enforcement personnel failed to uphold their responsibility. We committed no treason. We protected the mysteries of magic, as is our charge – a charge that transcends mere bureaucracy, a charge that is above the comings and goings of those in the levels above or in the Palace of Westminster,” Croaker returned.

“You could have expelled Voldemort from this building and we both know that. You were collaborators, as I see it, and that isn't even getting into how you people keep perverting the fabric of magic itself,” said Harry.

“So you say. It is you yourself who is a perversion of magic, no matter what you believe you have learned from the cantrips of Nordic barbarians or the nonsensical ravings of Oriental folk magicians. You are in no position to judge what we do or have done. Now then, you will ask for what it is that you want, we will deny your request, and then you will leave,” Croaker said.

Harry laughed, “That was really embarrassing, Croaker. If we had the time, I'd demonstrate how to properly imbue your speech with magic. I learnt it from, what did you call it...?  Right... from the ravings of a folk magician...”; before the Unspeakable could get a word out, he went on, “Let's cut to the chase. I think you'll give me what I want, because I've got something you want. You just don't know it yet."

Croaker snorted, “You are of no value to us. We no longer have an interest in your survival of the Killing Curse, we have absolutely no interest in your unnatural relationship with that thing you removed from its cage, and because of your actions we were unable to study Voldemort's necromantic form.”

“Why don't you turn on that magical vision – or whatever it is that you're using to see the grœd – and take a close look at my forehead?” Harry offered.

Croaker's eyes went glassy for nearly a minute before he babbled, “Impossible... that's... soul magics aren't... but... how ?”

Harry said, “I've a reasonable theory of how, and I'm working on the means of proof and a way to fix the situation. We both know that you can't capture me alive, not when you can't even track my comings and goings. You bloody well know I'll never cooperate with your lot, willingly or unwillingly. You also know that if I were to die, then that would be the end of it: you'll learn nothing. Soon, I'll have a light-oriented ritual that can re-embody an intact soul, an explanation for how a soul can be disembodied yet remain intact, and all the knowledge that comes with those things. What will you have, Croaker?”

Croaker licked his lips and then let his eyes glass over for several minutes. Finally he said, “Very well. What is it that you require from us?”

Harry relaxed ever so slightly. He said, “I need more time.”

Croaker went quiet, and something in his expression softened. He seemed genuinely concerned when he at last said, “Meddling with time is fraught with danger.”

“I do know the rules, and I promise not to cause any world-ending paradoxes,” Harry assured him.

Croaker shook his head; “Some magics are unnatural by any measure, Mr. Potter, and time-turning is chief amongst those. It is not the world that need be concerned; the danger is to yourself. It wears upon both body and soul. It changes people, brings out their best and their worst.”

“She's worth it,” Harry said.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
In Its Own Time

SEVENTEEN
In Its Own Time

DAVEY SINCLAIR

August 17, 2004      The Brown Bottle, John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

Davey Sinclair had seen thirty-nine seasons of holidaymakers and a good part of three generations of local folk come and go from John O' Groats, first as the barman at the once-famous hotel and then as proprietor of the Brown Bottle. There wasn't much to the village proper: council housing, some cottages, a small market, a sports park for the football club and the lads in youth development, and the tourist shops at the pier. The hotel was “slated to reopen any day”, as it had been for years. The entire area was regularly shat upon by traveller's guidebooks and that suited Davey fine.

In season, there were a thousand or more visitors a day. They would take their photo at Journey's End and go on their way, some on to the Orkney ferries and some back toward Wick or on to Thurso. He never saw the people with the coach parties, as his pub wasn't large enough to receive groups. Davey saw the travellers who escaped the scrum at the pier in twos and threes and fours. These were ordinarily easy to please, generally polite, and always profitable. The nicer the patron, the more likely that Davey would give shrewd advice on places to stay and places to see.

Local patrons were the bulk of his business. He knew their like and dislikes, families, feuds, aches and pains. There were fewer each year; the youth were ever more prone to leave for better work and ever less likely to return. It was noteworthy when someone new settled in John O' Groats.

John Black had rented a cottage for a time in the summer of '98 but Davey hadn't met him then. Black purchased the note on another late in that same year. It was no more than a quarter mile west of the old hotel. The first time Davey drove by Black's place, Davey could have sworn that the cottage had appeared overnight and that the shore property had always been a grassy field, but that made no sense whatever and he had quickly put the thought aside.

Black came to the Brown Bottle for the first time just after an early winter squall. He helped Davey board up two storm-broken windows, and the Brown Bottle hadn't been his first stop of the day. He was quieter than most, quick to help someone down on his luck, and not afraid of hard work. Nearly every woman under forty or so had a flutter over him at first, but he was quick with the polite brush-off.

Dottie McLaren had known a bit about him from the start but didn't give up much, other than to let it be known that he'd lost his childhood sweetheart and just didn't have it in him to move on. Davey figured she was trying to help by that, but it only raised more flutters. Something about women made them want to fix broken men, Davey figured, not that he understood how women thought – he was down 2-nil in that particular match.

There was never a doubt that Black had money. He had laid out cash for the cottage and the land, or so Dottie told it. His work was 'research' – physics or some such thing that Davey didn't even pretend to understand. When he wasn't holed up in his cottage or travelling for his work, he and his books took up a table at the Brown Bottle. Now and again he tended to pensioners' properties. The fellow could fix anything and he never wanted paying for it. He was a middling card player but didn't mind losing. Now and again he came to Robbie Fairbourne's Friday card nights, where the hosting duties rotated between regulars. The one and only time Black had hosted Friday card night was not long after he had moved in, and it was burned into Davey's memory:

“Have yeh ever seen a place this clean?” Davey asked.

Robbie shook his head and said, “Not since I were a swabbie. Helluva job wit' the floorin' and trim, innit? Mebbe I should have Dots hire him, eh? Get me out o' keepin' up tha' mess of a house.”

“Damned if he don't love his books, though,” said Davey as he took in the overstuffed floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

“'Struth. Never known a person ta read so much,” Robbie agreed. He pointed at a framed photo and said, “That's the lass Dots was tellin' about, the one he lost.”

“Sad thing, innit? How old do yeh think Black is, anyway?” Davey asked.

Robbie stroked his beard for a minute and then said, “Dunno, never thought ta ask. Young, real young... even with tha' bit o' white in his hair, has ta be on the short side of twenty-five. Why yeh ask?”

Davey pointed to the mantle. “Then explain that, would yeh?”

Robbie crossed the sitting room and peered close at the two clear glass cases set there; “Bloody effin'...! Do yeh know wha' these are?” he said.

“One on the left looks a hell of a lot like a VC from here,” Davey said.

Robbie said, “Nae, it's a George Cross... get over here, yeh old goat...”

Davey said, “Budge over, then,” and put on his half-glasses. He looked to the brass plaque set before the Cross and read out, “For acts of the greatest heroism and the most conspicuous courage... blah, blah... old man Lowell and Queen Maggie awards to John James Black the George Cross, fifth of August, 1998... sure enough, you're right.”

Robbie stared at the case on the right. “What in the hell is that one?” he asked.

“Dunno, looks like a badge of office, don't it...?” Davey muttered. The badge, attached to a blue neck ribbon, was a silver Maltese cross with silver rays, and a central medallion topped with a crown and surrounded by a blue ring bearing the word VICTORIA.

Robbie whispered forcefully, “Screw me black an' blue! Read this!”

Davey squinted and said aloud, “For distinguished personal service to the Crown, Her Majesty Margaret the First, by the Grace of God... and so on... hereby inducts John James Black as Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order, on this day, the 25th of September, in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and ninety eight... our Johnny lad's a knight?”

“What do yeh suppose he did ta earn this?” Robbie wondered aloud.

Black came in from the back just then. “All right, who's ready to take my money...?” he trailed off.

“Err... just admirin' the room,” Robbie said too quickly.

“Yeah, nice place, it's, ehh... very clean,” Davey said.

Black's expression slipped for just a moment. “I was... involved in the London War,” he said; “The beer's been set out – help yourselves. It's better than that stuff you serve the tourists, that's for sure.”

It was the Monday after that card night when Davey and Robbie – and later Bruce Ross, who was retired SAS, and Jimmy Swanson, who had been infantry and served in both the Falklands and the Gulf War – became John Black's unofficial honour guard. Dottie, who was Robbie's older sister and the village gossip in addition to a property agent, was something of a mother hen to the lad. Together, they'd be damned if John O' Groats wouldn't treat a man like John Black as one of its own. It was a worthy task; for the first time in many years, Davey felt like something more than a pint-filling glad hander.

Black didn't always make it easy. As time passed, he began to travel much more often. He became rougher around the edges, with ever-rumpled clothes and on occasion a mood to match his name. His eyes were harder and he was visibly aging, which seemed damn strange for a man so young.

Black took few visitors. There was a big man, easily as tall as Robbie, with a heavy beard and a broad chest that made him look like a Viking of old; he had a wife who appeared much younger, and recently an infant in tow. There were several red-headed folk that Davey figured were related. The red-headed girl was always joined at the hip with a young sandy-haired man. Bruce Ross had recognised him, to Davey's surprise. Bruce had allowed that the man was Danish and that he had worked with the man's father in the past; beyond that, he was forcibly silent on the matter.

None of the visitors had ever stopped at the Brown Bottle, so it was a surprise when two men asked after Black. Davey remembered having seen the red-headed man with the cane on more than one occasion. When he told them that Johnny hadn't been in for three days, the one who was new to Davey – a bald man in his fifties with very dark skin and very white teeth, turned out in a Savile Row suit and possessed of a senior officer's bearing – smiled and said they'd take a pint and wait for a while.

Black walked in at half six and gave a friendly wave. “And how are Scotland's finest today?” he asked.

Davey said, “Up to the eyes wit' footballers for the Premier openers, we were. Yeh haven't been around for a while.”

“I arranged a box for the Man U at Chelsea match – sort of a favour for an old friend,” Black said.

Davey was startled but managed to hold it in; he merely said, “Can't be an easy thing ta come by, an opener at Stamford Bridge.”

“I know a few people in the right places,” Black returned.

Bruce Ross perked up at the end of the bar; he said, “Still, that's a hell of a favour. This friend wasn't a Man U fan, I hope?”

Black gave a small laugh at that; “My friend's lifelong for West Ham but a few of his mates are Chelsea through and through. He made a little wager last year, you see...” he explained.

Bruce started, “Romance is an affair of the heart. Gambling, on the other hand, is an affair of the head. Never –”

“I know, I know: never wager on your favourite team. I didn't make it entirely easy for him, either. It's true I took care of the box, but he had to pick up the bill for concessions. Programmes, beer, food... more beer... team caps... still more beer... ten lads can run up quite a tab,” Black chuckled.

“It seems that getting out and about suits you, John. Haven't seen you in this fine a mood for quite some time, and it's a welcome sight. Does an old man's heart good, you know?” Bruce ventured.

Black sighed but a lopsided grin stayed on his face as he returned, “I think that's the nicest 'I told you so' I've ever heard – gets me right here, it does.”

“Why thank you, lad! It's a good thing for you to reconnect a bit, as well. Running from the past rarely ends well... not that I've ever said that to you, of course,” smirked Bruce.

Davey cut in, “Speakin' of reconnectin' and all... them two have been waitin' for yeh, near ta two hours now.”

Black turned and muttered loud enough for Davey to hear, “Well, screw me black and blue.”

“Didn't mind the waiting, mate, but another hour or two and we'd have been well and truly pissed,” the red-headed one said as he hoisted his glass.

Black said, “This isn't high on the list of places I'd expect to see either of you – especially you, Shack. It's been a long time.”

The older man gave a toothy smile and said, “It's good to get out and about.”

Black squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Davey, Bruce... I seem to be ripe with old friends of late,” he said; “This is –”

“Kingsley Shackleton's the name. I used to work with John,” the older man introduced himself.

“I worked for you,” John said.

“Oh... yeh did, did yeh?” Davey said uncertainly.

“That wouldn't have been, say, six years ago?” Bruce asked.

Shackleton's smile didn't waver as he said, “On a different note, I'm told that northern Scotland has had an exceptionally warm summer.”

Bruce raised his glass and said, “Message received, sir. I thank you most sincerely for your service.”

“Damn straight. Bruce here, he were a career man, and me, I served under 'Mad Mitch' in Aden long ago. We've at least a small sense of what yeh were about,” said Davey. Shackleton's expression tightened just enough to be seen and Black's shoulders rose.

The red-head said, “I'm Ron Wilson, by the way. Er... John and I go back, what, twelve years?”

“Thirteen at the end of the month,” Black said evenly.

Shackleton relaxed and said to Bruce, “Please don't mistake this as a lack of appreciation for your words. Those were dark days for all of Britain.”

“Indeed they were, and I'd not sleep well tonight if you were to pay for those beers,” said Bruce.

“That's the truth of it. Yer money's no good here, gents,” Davey chimed in.

“Well, that's the sort of thank you we like, isn't it?” Wilson said, which drew chuckles all around.

“Now, John... we are here for a reason,” Shackleton said.

“Figured it wasn't a social call,” Black sighed.

Shackleton said, “We're in search of something rather important.”

“I don't have it,” Black said.

Wilson said, “It's not that we think it's actually in your hands –”

Black cut him off, “Once I heard about it, I figured you'd be around eventually. I may not have it, but I've a few thoughts on the matter.”

Shackleton said mildly, “I find it curious that you 'heard' anything at all, living at such a remove.”

Black shook his head and said, “And now is when we take a tour of my cottage – too many interested ears around here.”

Davey put his hand to his chest and pouted, “You wound me, laddie!”

Bruce said, “Just because you're the most interesting person in a ten-mile radius doesn't make us eavesdroppers.”

Black frowned at that. “Someone in Wick's more interesting than me? Now I'm wounded,” he said.

“Begone with the lot of yeh,” Davey laughed.

Black chuckled and said, “I'll be back after I'm rid of these two.”

Davey nodded and then said to Shackleton and Wilson, “Yer welcome any time in this establishment. There'll be no more questions ta answer and no tab ta fret over, this I can promise.”

“That's very kind of you, Mr. Sinclair. Provided we keep it under twenty-five pounds per visit, we're pleased to accept – anything more, and we really would be obligated to make good on it,” Shackleton said.

“Honest government officials... what's the world comin' to, ehh?” Bruce laughed, as Davey made solid eye contact with Shackleton and ever so slightly shifted his head toward the hall that led to the loo.

“I need to stop at the facilities, and then we'll head for your cottage,” Shackleton said.

Black said with a smirk, “Getting pretty old when you can't hold it for that long, you know?”

“Sod off. I'll be back shortly,” Shackleton returned.

Davey slipped into the kitchen and came out the side door into the hall, which was hidden from John's view. “Glad yeh got the message,” he said to Shackleton.

“What can I do for you?” the government man asked blandly.

“First off, I'm Davey Sinclair an' me an' Bruce Ross over there, we consider Johnny ta be one of us. We joke sometimes with the lad 'bout being a spy, but it's only that: jokin' with him. We don' know nothin' and we don' care ta try. Early on, we figured it were Official Secrets, and that's the end of it fer me and Bruce and the other two – that would be Robbie Fairbourne an' Jimmy Swanson, ta save yeh the trouble of checkin',” Davey started.

“I'm pleased to know that,” Shackleton said.

“Second... och, this is hard. All right, level with me. Yer not just Johnny's old C.O., but yeh care about what happens ta the lad – am I right so far?” Davey asked.

“That is absolutely and unquestionably true, sir – on my honour,” said Shackleton.

“He's becomin' a drinker, and I mean a drinker . When he first come here, I topped his glass like anyone else – that's my business, after all – but it were just a casual thing. These last months, I'd say he were surely drinkin' ta forget. Not the first time I've seen it, won't be the last. Difference is, Johnny gave his all fer his country when he weren't much more than a boy, and it's not right that he drink himself ta death,” Davey said.

“But you do say it wasn't like this from the start, is that correct?” Shackleton confirmed.

Davey explained, “Aye, since the first of this year or a bit after. Lately... 'struth, we aren't knowin' if the lad always remembers ta eat. Dottie – that's Robbie's sister – she and her hens have taken ta leavin' him baskets of food. Here's the thing, sir: I went along with her ta Johnny's place, and there's enough spirits ta land a whole squad in the brig.”

Shackleton frowned at that. “Was this recently?” he asked.

“Not more than a week past,” Davey said.

Shackleton said, “What are you asking me to do, sir?”

Davey wiped his brow with one hand. “I don' exactly know. It aren't just the drinkin' – he used ta be a bit of a snappy dresser, and he's been showin' up a temper now an' again, never done that a'fore... If there's folks the lad can talk to or somethin', even if yeh have ta take him and clean him up... we don't like Johnny doin' this ta himself. I'd cut him off, but he's only been here, his place and the Tesco in near ta six months, 'cepting fer this trip ta London the last few days. We don' want him ta sit in the dank and drink alone – that's a far greater danger than servin' him here, I'll tell yeh,” he said.

“I have some thoughts on how to approach the matter,” Shackleton said in a cautious way.

“A fair few of us here care about the lad. Anything yeh can do fer him, we'd be obliged,” said Davey.

Shackleton hesitated for a moment before he said, “I assure you that many people care for him where I come from, as well. A number of his friends from years past have been increasingly concerned, myself and Mr. Wilson included. It's a relief to know that you and yours have seen the same and have been looking after his welfare, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Dottie's had her eye out fer him since the first day he were here. Didn' take us long ta follow suit. We take care of them what be deservin' it, sir – that's our way,” Davey said.

“Nonetheless, thank you for what you've done and I do thank you for speaking with me about this. I'll ask Mr. Wilson his opinion this evening, and then we'll see about taking action,” said Shackleton.

After the three men left, Davey returned to his tasks and Bruce turned his eyes back to whatever was on the telly hung in the corner. It was a quarter-hour before Davey stopped abruptly.

“What's on your mind, then?” Bruce asked him.

Davey frowned and said, “Gettin' too damn old. It slipped past me: that Shackleton fellow, he knew my name a'fore I said it.”

“Would you move into new territory without advance reconnaissance? Sorry, but that doesn't surprise me in the least,” said Bruce.

“I suppose so. Guess we've seen enough strange business 'round Johnny that this one don't stand out, eh?” Davey allowed.

Bruce took a long pull at his beer before he said, “However... at the risk of adding to the long list of truly odd things that crop up when John's around... Go to the window and have a glance toward his place, and then have a look out front. Be sure to look up and down the street. What do you see?”

Davey did as Bruce asked, and then shrugged as he said, “Nothin' other than Johnny and his mates goin' inta the cottage, and yer car parked in front.”

“Precisely,” Bruce said.

Davey looked at him askance and asked, “What are yeh gettin' at?”

“Any tourists still hanging about must be at the pier. Everything else is shut for the evening. I've been here since half two and no one's come in besides John's friends. Even accounting for the rain, I don't believe I've seen a summer day this quiet in years,” Bruce pointed out.

Davey said, “Afraid yer right about that much – even ol' Wallace hasn't come around ta whinge, an' that's a rare day indeed.”

“There's not a car parked at John's. There's only mine on the High Street. If you look toward the pier there's nothing at the kerbs between here and the car park. So you tell me, how did those two arrive?” Bruce asked.

The only sound in the Brown Bottle came from the telly, because neither man had an answer to give.

RON WEASLEY

August 17, 2004      The Black Cloister, John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

Harry's kitchen and sitting room were well maintained and Muggle-safe. The rest of the Black Cloister, as Harry called the cottage, was lined with overflowing floor-to-ceiling shelves, and there were more books and scrolls in piles. The desk in Harry's study was littered with a mix of parchments and Muggle notebooks, and there was a similar scene in all three bedrooms. A quick glance at some of the papers left Ron with a headache; it was like looking in on a Mastery exam for arithmancy.

“This is a lot of alcohol, Harry,” Shacklebolt called from the kitchen.

“Always be prepared, right? You never know when you'll have unexpected or uninvited guests,” Harry snapped.

“Clearly you know why we're here,” Shacklebolt said.

Harry said, “It's good to see you as well, Minister.  Six... no, seven years is rather a long time.”

“Seven years...? You were down for V-Day three years ago – and it didn't have to be a long time, you know? There's always been a place for you; that has not and will not change,” returned Shacklebolt.

Harry motioned for both Ron and Shacklebolt to come into the sitting room. “Let's just get down to business, right? I don't have it. I don't steal books; I purchase them,” he said.

“Business it is, then. Obviously the Minister for Magic doesn't come calling over a simple book, so let's not mince words. The Codex Nefastus is one of the most horrible things ever written. The Unspeakables call it 'The Black Hole' because the book's so dark that light can't escape it. It's incredibly dangerous and should never have been in private hands in the first place,” Shacklebolt said.

Harry sighed and said, “You know how I feel about that, Shack, and the Unspeakables can bugger off. The Ministry hoards secret knowledge and decides who was and wasn't worthy to have access – that's the whole point of the Department of Mysteries, isn't it? You haven't been able to fix it because it's not repairable. The problem wasn't just Fudge and Umbridge and their sort, either. Any organization based on secrets was doomed to be corrupt from the start. Holier-than-thou bastards like Dumbledore didn't help –”

“Harry! He was a great man, despite everything,” Shacklebolt protested.

“The more time that passes, the more I hate him. In the name of trying to redeem one Death Eater, Dumbledore virtually drove a decade of Slytherins to Voldemort and made a travesty of Hogwarts for three-fourths of the students. How many potion makers or herbologists had their careers ruined before they even started? If you think about it, Snape was directly responsible for the shortage of Aurors when the war started: the people he favoured in Potions class were mostly on the wrong side of the conflict, and a lot of good Auror candidates couldn't get a Potions NEWT thanks to him.

“In the name of trying to make sure that Draco Malfoy had a chance to 'return to the light', Dumbledore let Hogwarts be attacked from within by people who would have happily murdered students if given the chance! Bill Weasley ended up permanently scarred that night. Katie Bell almost died that year because Dumbledore refused to put a stop to Malfoy... and for what?  He left three teenagers to end a war, with no resources and a few scraps of information.  How many people were sacrificed upon the altar of that old man's ego in the end? Thousands? Tens of thousands? He was a bloody menace, and I wish I'd never met him,” Harry snapped.

Shacklebolt visibly sagged; he allowed, “I honestly don't know what to say to that.”

Harry went on, “Enough of this... can't even talk about him without getting stirred up. Look, as soon as I heard that the Codex went missing, I made some enquiries. Do either of you know Alexei Bulokov?”

Ron said, “The surly bloke who's been sitting on the trade commission for the Ukrainians?”

“That's him,” Shacklebolt confirmed.

Ron snorted, “If he's a trade minister, then I'm Merlin resurrected – he looks like a nasty piece of work.”

“He's that, all right. He's also a direct link into the magical artefacts trade, both the legal parts and the underbelly. Before you ask, I'll tell you that he's located a few interesting books for me over the years. Anyway, he said that there's been talk of an available copy of the Codex for the last two or three weeks amongst the shadier sorts in his line of work. When Bulokov says a person's 'shady', it's worth paying attention,” Harry told them.

“Do you think he'd talk to any of our people?” Shacklebolt asked.

Harry looked to Ron and said, “Give a shout to Anders and ask him to arrange something; that's how I met Bulokov in the first place.”

Shacklebolt perused one of Harry's shelves; he said, “Harry... you know, my grand-mere was from the West indies.  She was trained as a witch but raised to be a vodouisant – a practitioner of vodou. My family never drew the distinctions between types of magic that most Englishmen are raised with, so I've either seen or know of most of the books you have here. It's not simply a matter of hiding information, or controlling knowledge, or what have you... some of these books are hazardous to read , let alone put to use. Le Veritable Dragon Rouge ... The Black Pullet ... good lord, you're sitting on a copy of the Picatrix ! Technically, I should have you brought up on charges simply for being in possession of the Munich Manual , but the truth is that these books are safer in your hands than anywhere save perhaps Hogwarts or the Ministry. Still... in the name of all that's holy, look at these shelves! Do you see why I came to you about the Codex ?”

Harry said flatly, “You're looking well, Minister. Perhaps the office suits you after all?  Thank you for the visit. If I come across anything else, I'll be sure to send it along. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm three days behind with my work.”

Shacklebolt sighed, “Despite your best efforts, I'm aware of what you're attempting to do, Harry. If you do insist on continuing to pursue this, please understand that you don't have to do it alone. You certainly shouldn't invoke anything in these books unless there's someone to monitor you. To be blunt, it isn't even safe to study magics of these sorts when you're alone.”

Harry stood and headed toward his study; he said, “There isn't a wizard in Britain with enough training to monitor my work. You have no idea how much I've read, how much I've studied, the things I've learned, the mentors I've had, the knowledge I've sought out. There are times I can't believe it myself. It's been a very, very long road. I'm no genius, not like Hermione is; I've had to work hard for all of it. Finally, though, finally I can do this. I've got it this time, and the irony is that the key was in my hands almost from the beginning.”

Shacklebolt wiped his face in frustration before he said, “I know you won't care to hear this, but... look at yourself, for pity's sake: you're a wreck. This isn't the first time you've been 'on the verge', or so I understand. It's time for someone to step up and say this aloud... perhaps it's time that you allow yourself to grieve for her, and then let it go and move forward with your life?”

Harry stopped walking but didn't turn to face his visitors; with teeth clenched, he said, “Even if I agreed with you, will you tell me how I should do that? She's stuck in my forehead, for God's sake! She is literally with me all the time. Could you let that go? Of course you couldn't, so don't patronise me. I'm sure you can see yourself out.”

Shacklebolt left without another word but Ron followed him into the study and said, “Settle down, mate; Kingsley means well and you know it. I didn't put him up to saying that, either. I said I wouldn't bring it up any more and I meant it. It took a while to accept, but I understand why you can't quit on this. I get it, I really do,” Ron said.

Harry sat behind his desk and fixed his friend with a frosty look. He said evenly, “Ron, you were my first friend. You've been good to me these last few years even when I've told you to bugger off. You haven't just gained my friendship; you've earned my deepest respect. You're a good man. That's why I'm going to stay calm and promise you that you don't 'get it'. You can try and try, and you still won't 'get it'. You can't possibly understand what it's like to live with this. The only other person who 'gets it' can't exactly come out for a chat and a spot of tea, can she?” and then poked at his white lightning-bolt scar to emphasize the point.

Ron stood there in silence until something brushed against his leg; he said, “What the... Crookshanks?” The cat clawed at his trouser leg and hissed, and he confirmed, “That's Crooks, all right. I didn't realise he was with you.”

Harry said, “This is where he belongs.”

Ron scowled at the petulant cat and said, “He's always been a nasty beast, but look at him now: fat and old. What do you suppose, he's fourteen? Fifteen, maybe?”

“We're all getting fatter and older, mate. Besides, Kneazles live longer than cats. Even a half-Kneazle will see thirty with a bit of luck. He's got at least four lives left in him – don't you, Crooks?” Harry said. He pulled Crookshanks onto his lap, scratched behind the cat's ears for a few moments and added, “I'll get your mistress back for you, that's right.”

August 19, 2004      Dróttkvætt Hús, Lítla Dímun, Faeroe Islands

Ron appeared with a pop! in the interior courtyard of his home. Apparating to Lítla Dímun was interesting, even though the distance across the ocean from the village of Froðba was less than fifteen kilometres. There was an elevation change of more than 300 meters, and by building on the southern side of the island, he and Gudrun had exposed a portion of their home to near-constant and powerful winds from the south-west. He insisted on the courtyard after he had been literally blown off his feet upon his first apparation there.

Despite the rugged climate, Ron liked the site and loved the house. It was in the spare style common to Nordic wizards' homes and its open areas were dominated by huge south-facing windows. A wind turbine provided electrical power for their “Muggle room”. They had a remarkable view of the island to the south – Suðuroy – and the roiling silver-blue North Atlantic. The bulk of the wizarding enclave was on the eastern side of Slættirnir, the mountain at the centre of Lítla Dímun, so they had neighbours but weren't pressed by them. The small island was perfect for wizarding occupation: uninhabited and nearly impossible to reach by water, owing to rough seas and the massive cliffs that formed the island's perimeter. A few hardy Muggles scaled the cliffs from time to time, but they were easily kept from the homes by aversion wards.

Gudrun met him at the door with a kiss. “How was Scotland?” she asked.

“Scottish,” he said wearily, and then took his luggage from his pocket in the unlikely event that the shrinking charm failed. On a trade visit in '02, Dennis Creevey's trunk had accidentally expanded in his trousers; the poor bloke ended up in hospital overnight and would doubtless be the butt of jokes for years to come.

“And Harry, he welcomed you into his home?” she asked him.

He went to the cold box for a Tuborg Green. “I wouldn't exactly say 'welcomed', but yeah, we saw him,” he said.

“He did not have that foul book, did he?” she asked.

He said, “Not that one, just a thousand others like it.”

“He did not, ehh, pick a fight with you?” she confirmed.

Ron chided her, “That was four years ago, Gudrun.  I let it go a long time ago and so has he, more or less.”

She asked, “How does he look?”

He took a pull on his Tuborg and said, “Like someone who's always in a foul mood and lives alone with a house full of books, enough liquor to open a pub, and a mangy old cat.”

She asked, “His drinking is as you saw before?”

He sighed, “It's probably as bad as in April, but at least he was making sense this time – he knew where he was, the month and year, that sort of thing. He actually went out for a few days. He bought a box to take to one of those foots-its games... dunno why he needed a box, maybe the benches are too low...? Steady on, do you suppose he meant a box like the prime seats at the World Cup? He must have been talking about doing a favour for Dean Thomas, then. Dean's mad for foots-its.”

“It's football, dear,” she said absently; “And Harry, he continues to, ehh, chase his tail?”

He told her, “He said that he's 'on the verge'. There was something different about him this time, something more... certain, maybe? Look, Harry has a lot of faults, but he's never been a liar and he's really not one to boast. Want to know the truth? For some reason, I was scared out of my socks when he said it this time. Do you think...? Could he could actually pull this off?”

“It has never been completely outside of the realm of possibility. It is, however, well outside of his formal education. The sort of magic that would be needed to restore the insubstantial self into a body, I shudder to think of it,” she said.

“He wouldn't go dark to do this. I don't think he has that in him, not even after the War and everything else,” Ron said firmly.

“On this I agree with you. Despite his behaviour, Harry is at heart a good man, a just man. Grœð would never have remained with him if that were not the case,” she returned.

Ron sat quietly for a while and considered Harry's situation. Gudrun was more tolerant of silence than anyone he'd ever known. After seventeen years in a boisterous household, he had been surprised to find that silence was not only useful but at times desirable. She had also taught him to think before he acted, though it had been a long time coming. His mum had loudly proclaimed more than once that Gudrun had worked a miracle.

At length, he said, “I thought for a while about asking you to visit him – I know, I know, there would be fireworks, at least at first – but someone needs to take a look over his shoulder. This isn't a paper for Charms class; this is serious business, dangerous business. None of the Hogwarts teachers besides Vector or Babbling could follow any of it, I figure, and they'd probably call Gawain Robards over his books. That's a headache Shack doesn't need, not with the Wizengamot acting up again.”

Now Gudrun took the opportunity for quiet. Ron sat back comfortably, sipped at his Tuborg, and watched the winds drive the sea. She tended to close her eyes and purse her lips when she thought and he often took the opportunity to just look at her. He was a fortunate man and said exactly that to anyone who would listen. Their relationship wasn't a roaring bonfire like Ginny and Anders Twing, who fought and made up too much for his taste. He and Gudrun were a bluebell flame: constant and enduring.

Their life together had every good thing he could imagine save for children. The old woman – the faúra-gaggja – had said back in '98 that it could be ten years or more before Gudrun was once again capable of bearing them, if ever at all. Neither of them were in a rush to become parents, and they could always adopt if it came to that. There was no pressure for grandchildren from his mum, thanks to Bill and Fleur. Gudrun's parents had never expected to have contact with her after she was selected for the grœðari , let alone to receive grandchildren. At her first meeting with them in twenty-three years, she had to inform them that her brother Einar had been killed, that she was leaving the Healing Order, and that she was engaged to marry a British war hero – that was how she had described Ron to them over his objections.

“Harry is not ready to see me about this ritual of his, but there is one that he will receive. I must journey to Iceland,” Gudrun said.

He said, “You're thinking of calling in the old lady, then?”

“Show the proper respect, please,” she sniffed.

He gave a small smile at that, and then agreed, “It makes sense, love. He won't turn her away and even if he tries to be rid of her, she's too stubborn to agree. We can make a quick visit to your parents while we're there, right? Your dad would like that,” he said. She nodded in agreement. He took her hand and they watched the clouds come in.

HARRY POTTER aka JOHN BLACK

September 13, 2004       The Black Cloister, John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

Harry tried to move his head; his mind struggled to function. The first thing that snapped into place was his location: at the table in the second bedroom. The books before his eyes were sideways, which meant that his head was lying on the table itself. A puddle of drool usually meant that he'd passed out, and the empty bottle of Brennivín confirmed it.

Drooling on his runic formulae did them no favours, but they could still be read. His shirt was stained and he couldn't go another day on cleaning and freshening charms alone. He stumbled down the hallway and checked the other bedrooms and the study as he passed to be sure that they were vacant. He made it into the loo without falling. By the end of his shower – during which he only fell asleep once – he at least felt clean, if not revived.

There was no food left in the cold box, merely things that had once been food. He remembered sending Dobby to pick up a scroll in Malaysia but couldn't remember how long ago. The only thing for it was a trip to the Tesco in Wick, but he needed a clearer head and steadier stomach. Fish and chips at the Brown Bottle and a Newcastle to go with it were the quicker and easier option. He was rooting around for a pair of trainers when someone knocked at the door. It wasn't knocking so much as pounding, perhaps with a cricket bat.

“Enough! I'm coming!” he growled. He flung open the front door to face a very old woman wielding a gnarled staff. She was familiar but his mind was too fogged to put a name to her.

He reached for his absent wand and demanded, “Who er you?”; he then winced at his own volume.

“Your wand is on the mantle, Mr. Potter. We have spent many hours talking of many things,” she said.

He squinted at her and stammered, “Iceland... the gah-gah lady for the healers... umm... aw, shite!... erm... hullo, Siggy...”

She said, “I am Sigurrós Gísladóttir, once the faúra-gaggja of the Healing Order of Halla, as you well know. Only when you have come to your senses will I allow you to refer to me as 'Siggy'. You have been drinking strong spirits, far too many and far too often.”

He blustered, “What of it? It's your fault, you and your cursed white light. What do you want with me now?”

“I am saddened that you have become so angry with me and with my people. I am saddened to see what has become of you, but your circumstances are not a matter of grœð or græð . Only you can change this. It is a difficult and dangerous path that you took upon yourself, and so I have come to give aid. Everything must change now, Harry. You cannot reach the end of the path alone and certainly not on unsteady feet,” she said.

“My feet are fine,” he grumbled.

She went on, “I am told that you have had a breakthrough of some sort. If this is true, then it may soon be time to grant your boon.”

“My boon...?” he managed.

“Will you allow me entry?” she asked him.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said.

She walked slowly into the entry. “You have accumulated many more books,” she said.

“Mistress of the obvious,” he muttered.

She shook her staff back and forth twice and then tapped it three times against the floor. All of the drapes and blinds in the cottage opened in unison. A visible vortex drew in the dust throughout the house, even as loose parchments remained still. Piles of books flew through the air and filled half-emptied shelves. He peered into the kitchen, which was in the midst of cleaning and reorganising itself.

“What do you think you're doing?” he snapped.

She said, “This place, it is uninhabitable. It is likely a den for magical illnesses, though I suspect that you have moved beyond the reach of any of these. Now I will ask you to sit in whatever seat that you find most comfortable.”

He flopped angrily onto his sofa, even as he groused, “Why should I?”

“This is because you will be in great discomfort and then unconscious shortly thereafter,” she said.

She was telling the truth. He was gripped by a terrible pain that started in his belly and then ripped through his head. He thought he was going to spew so he leant to one side and then promptly passed out.

September 21, 2004      The Black Cloister, John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

A voice cut into the blackness.  “Oh, you are most definitely waking this time,” it said.

He tried to clear his throat.  It sounded like a ramshackle car struggling to start.  “Wha' happen?” he asked.

A second voice told him, “You have been either unconscious or incoherent for a long while due to acute alcohol poisoning.  You are moderately dehydrated and have had nothing more to eat than a few servings of broth since the 13th  of this month.”

“Haven't eaten...?” he managed.

“Thusly we introduced intravenous fluids,” said the same voice; “I would like you to attempt the opening of your eyes, please.”

His eyes fluttered of their own accord.  He tried to force them, but it was almost painful.  “Bright,” he said.  He heard the sound of curtains being drawn closed.

He tried a second time and it was a bit easier, though it was still like opening his eyes to a flood of intense white.  “Still bright,” he said.

“It will seem bright at first, Mr. Potter; there is no avoiding this,” the first voice insisted.

He groaned and opened his eyes at the same time as he lifted his head.  “What day...?” he asked.

The first voice belonged to Madam Gísladóttir.  “It is now the 21st of September,” she told him.

“Eight days...?” Harry said.

“You were in such poor condition that I wondered if was your intention to die,” said the owner of the second voice.  It was Gudrun.  Harry's shoulders rose and his jaw clenched despite himself.

He looked to his side table, now clear of everything save two potion vials.  “No books.  Dobby won't move my books,” Harry said through his teeth.

“Much cleaning was required,” Gísladóttir said; “You should also know that there is a cheque in the kitchen for your spirits.  The gentlemen from the nearby tavern purchased the unopened bottles.  The remainder was poured into the sink.”

“You took everything?” Harry ground out.

Gísladóttir said, “That is correct.  Mr. Sinclair will no longer serve these things to you.  All of the nearby sellers of spirits have agreed to the same.  Your body will not welcome further intoxication, Harry.”

Harry snapped, “My name is John Black .”

Gísladóttir shook her head at him; as she ambled away, she said, “Black, Potter, as you prefer – the truth is that you have forgotten who you are.” 

Gudrun remained in place, silent.  After a quarter-hour passed, Harry said, “Think you can outlast me, do you?”

Gudrun shrugged and said, “I have nothing to say that you do not already know.”

“Oh, come on – you don't have an opinion you're dying to share?” Harry sneered.

“You seem to be recovering rapidly,” she said.

He coldly returned, “Listening to you always reminds me of Dumbledore , Gudrun.  Holding back, being so clever with your words, giving half-truths, playing with other people's lives for the greater good...”

Her voice sharpened as she told him, “Very well, Harry Potter, or John Black, or whatever name you choose – you shall have my opinion.  I pity you.  I pity you, because you are too consumed by your own sorrow to see that your life has become a shambles; too proud to seek help when needed; too angry to maintain friendships; too bitter to recognise that many people were as damaged as yourself by the War; too blind to see that many people's childhoods were as ugly as your own, if not more so... and your monochromatic wardrobe, it only contributes to the air of depression.”

He said, “Huh.  You really don't like my clothes?”

“I also wonder what Hermione should think were she returned to a lover who has become a cynical drunk?” said Gudrun.

“You've no right to say that.  Get out,” he snarled.  He tried to leap out of the bed but instead fell on his face.

“Let me help you from the floor,” she said.

“Bugger off!” he bellowed.  Gudrun stepped away from him, even as Madam Gísladóttir waddled back into the room. 

“She shall leave if you wish it, as will I, but you are in no condition to care for yourself.  Look at what you have done to your arm,” the old woman said.  He had managed to pull the IV line loose and blood dripped from the inside of his elbow.  It was a brilliant red and his head swayed. 

He mumbled, “Fine, you can stay, but I don't have to listen.”

“You are hopeless, Harry Potter.  I grow tired of seeing my husband hurt by you.  Hurt yourself if you wish, but you will leave him out of it.  If you do not, then I will ensure that you regret it,” Gudrun grunted.

Madam Gísladóttir said in the coldest tone Harry had ever heard pass her lips, “Though you are free from the Oath of Obligation, you are never free of the Oath of Healing.  Harry is a patient – he is a fellow creature in pain.  Your conduct is shameful.  You forget yourself.  Reflect upon that as you will, but be gone from this bedside now .”  Gudrun paled instantly; she bolted from the room. 

“Now I will attend to your arm,” Madam Gísladóttir told him.

Harry's lip curled into a sneer.  “Don't bother, I've already healed it myself.  That was between Gudrun and me.  It wasn't your business,” he said.

Madam Gísladóttir seemed to deflate.  Harry expected he would hear an apology.  Instead her eyes looked through him as though he wasn't there, and he knew that she had a tale to tell.  He settled himself as she began to explain, “The elders of our Order have thirteen personal charges at any moment in time: five novices, four adepts, three apprentices, and one fully trained healer seeking mastery.  As faura-gaggja , other responsibilities come into play.  My four predecessors gave up all of their charges and took no more.  Healer Stefánsdóttir... Gudrun... came to us in my third year of service.  My colleagues saw a slip of a girl with a mop of hair, large eyes and a cherub's cheeks.  I saw a headstrong child with startling intelligence, raw power, and little sense of or respect for limits. 

“This is a combination that by its nature sits on the razor's edge of justice and injustice.  I had need of a pupil if I was remain vital and relevant.  She had need of both firm guidance and unfettered opportunity for learning.  She was my last: my last novice, last adept, last apprentice, and last master candidate.  Gudrun was the greatest joy in my nineteen decades of service.  She also caused me to commune more in the last two decades than in the seventeen that came before.  I knew almost from the start that she was not suited for a life within the confines of the Inn, but nowhere else could she learn that which she needed to know. 

“At the age of twelve, she could diagnose illness without the use of runes or tonics or herbs.  Even amongst elders of the Order who are ten times that age, this ability is rare.  It would be as if you had worked the Supreme Mugwump's magic as a young student, and had done so without a wand.  It was simply impossible to release her into the ordinary world without proper training.  Her hands literally glowed when in the presence of græð . 

“As an adept – she must have been aged thirteen or fourteen then – she was present to assist with the treatment of a brain tumour.    With no runes or rituals or advance warning, she translocated the tumour from inside the patient's head onto a surgical tray.  Apparently she overheard that it needed to be removed as soon as possible, so she simply willed it to come out.  The patient nearly died because the rest of us were too surprised to act.  Not a single cell of healthy tissue was removed.

“So that she could continue, Gudrun gave up part of who and what she is.  We helped her to deaden her own abilities.  If she had not, then she could not have become a healer.  For that matter, she could not have become an ordinary daughter of magic, or a woman of science, or even a wild crafter in the hinterlands.  Someday she would have injured someone without conscious thought, and it would have destroyed her.  It did not occur to me at the time that her own sense of loss could be just as destructive.

“This is why I decided that she was most suited amongst our young healers to provide service outside of the Inn when it was required.  She needed something more than the Healing Order could provide.  For three years, she worked closely with medical practitioners in the wider world and learned how to live as an independent woman.  I saw her assignment to assist your resistance as another way for her to find her place.  I did not anticipate young Mr. Weasley.  Gudrun's relationship with him changed her connection with groed in ways that we had never before seen and to this day do not fully understand.

“Today... despite what was done, for good or ill... she has greater control over her healing work than any other healer I have ever known.  She is also more intuitive in her practice now and more impulsive in her thoughts and actions.  In some ways, it is a relief that she has come to rely on such a large measure of non-magical technique.  I am strict with her in a healing setting because this is a place where to this day she must maintain total discipline.  This is for her own safety and for the safety of all those around her.  So you see, this is very much my business.  I will remain responsible for her conduct as a healer and physician until my dying day.  I will not, I can not allow you to interfere.”

Harry wiggled his fingers and a chair appeared behind her; it was rickety, short-legged, and far uglier than anything he would ever keep in his home.  He glared at the old healer and said, “Sit.”

She looked at him blankly for a moment, but then broke into a low chuckle.  “Without wand, without words and with the slightest of movements... perhaps you and Gudrun are not so different?  Still, your conjuring could stand improvement,” she said.

It took him a moment to realise what she meant, before he returned, “No, that's exactly the chair I asked for.”

She looked at the chair, shrugged and uncomfortably sat.  “You address me in my native language.  I was not aware that you had studied the Old Tongue,” she said.

He said curtly, “I spoke to you in every language at once; you heard the one you wanted to hear.  Now, I allowed you entry to my house eight days ago but I haven't re-affirmed it.  If you intend to stay here, then I have questions and I expect answers.”

“And how is it, then, that Gudrun entered your home?” she asked.

He said, “Gudrun's a Weasley.  Like her or not, she doesn't need my permission.  Here's the thing... I'm no healer – Dobby's picked up more of it that I have – but I do know that an alcohol purge doesn't take eight days.  Someone's lying, but which one of you?”

“No one is lying.  The Higher Runes were ineffective, as were all of the relevant tinctures and tonics.  I have not regularly practised medicine, and thus sought the assistance of Healer Stefánsdóttir.  In addition to her own abilities, she has also taken up some of the practices of the English – potions and spells and such things.  The English methods were somewhat effective, but the key factors of recovery were the body's capacity to heal itself, the passage of time, and the administration of fluids,” she explained.

“Careful, Siggy, your prejudice is showing,” Harry said with a smirk.

She quirked an eyebrow and returned, “I have not yet permitted your silly nickname.”

“I never asked for permission in the first place,” he countered.

She snorted, “You are still... ehh... how do the children say in these times...?  Ahh, yes: geðveikur .”

“Think I'm mad, do you?  Hmph!  Probably right about that,” he said.

She said seriously, “If you are mad, it is of your own doing.  One should not meddle with the flow of time.”

He was caught flat-footed; “Erm... how did you know?”

She said, “I will set aside the obvious evidence and tell you instead that I sensed the strong presence of græð in this place at the moment I entered.  This would be expected in some measure given your selection of books, but this presence, it is too much.  I used Runes of Sight to examine more closely.  Tendrils of græð surround you now, and these were not present five years ago.  They have not penetrated the grœð that protects you and I doubt that they are able.  Few things could cause these tendrils and none of these are so simple as a spell, even the most evil of spells – all of these conditions emerge over repeated exposure, over a period of years.  From there...?  Simple deduction, my young friend.”

“I'd forgotten how perceptive you are,” he mumbled.

She sighed and went on, “I assume that this was arranged by the English... by the fools who trapped the grœð ?  They treat the fabric of the universe with such little regard, so it follows that they would do such a thing.  Did they explain the consequences of this meddling?”

“There haven't been any paradoxes,” he said.

She gave him the sort of piercing look reserved for a particularly stubborn child; “And how would you know if a paradox had occurred?” she asked him.

“Erm... because the world's still here, and not reduced to a cloud of sub-atomic particles?” he ventured.

“I see.  So instead of an apocalyptic paradox, you have merely caused a continuous series of paradoxes that were individually too insignificant to draw notice but that collectively may have altered the course of the universe beyond recognition?” she countered.

He said, “Bugger,” and she laughed at him.  He felt a flicker of the camaraderie he had once shared with the old healer – something less than grandparent and grandchild, but more than mentor and pupil.  It bothered him that it had to return before he recognised how much he'd missed it.

After a long silence, to which he was now well accustomed after having spent years alone, she asked, “Do you know of the thing called 'jet lag'?”

He said, “I've heard of it, sure... never flew far enough for it to hit me.  I don't know if you can get it from a portkey, but it's never hit me with one of those, either.”

“I have used an aeroplane on rare occasions.  The most memorable was a trip to Japan.  This was three decades ago, prior to the resumption of magical travel there,” she said.

He perked up at that.  “I've read some of the research on that.  It's hard to imagine that a couple of atomic bombs prevented portkeys and apparation for thirty years.  You know, at one point, I thought that Clarke's research on magical wavefronts might lead me to... um... sorry, I can get carried away...”

“The effect did not stop with your portkeys or apparation.  Our runic travel simply came to a stop within two hundred miles of the bombing sites.  The flight charms on artefacts such as carpets or brooms would fail without warning.  Returning to the point... there was a time difference of three hours between my home and Germany, from which the aeroplane departed, and another eight hours between Germany and Japan.  My sense of time was badly upset and no combination of runes or tinctures provided relief.  After several unpleasant hours, a colleague from China applied an acupuncture treatment that returned me to a normal state,” she explained.

He said impatiently, “All right, I get it: jet lag turned around your days and nights.  Where are you going with this?”

“You have not upset your days and nights.  You have done this to your months and years,” she told him.

He went silent for quite a while to let that sink in; his thinking was still fuzzy, as though he'd been shaken awake from a sound sleep.  At length he admitted, “I hadn't thought of it that way.   Hermione used a time turner for a whole year, though, and she was fine.”

“And why in heaven's name was a child allowed to tamper with the fabric of time and space?” she asked.

He said, “Erm... the thing of it is... she took extra tuition that year, so some of her classes overlapped... don't say it, Siggy, I know that it was stupid for them to allow it, mad even.  In our defence, we were thirteen years old and our Head of House arranged it.”

She gave a sigh and a baleful look, but merely said, “The young lady was unaffected by this, or so you claim.  This I doubt.  She was tired and irritable and unusually impulsive, at times to the point of behaving as two different people...?”

He hedged, “Erm... well...”

She snorted at that and went on, “As I thought.  Let us say that your young lady was repeating time for two of your courses of study and the associated practical or written work?  It follows that her days were of anywhere from 28 to 30 hours in length.  The human body is not made for such a thing.  Surely your abuse of this turning of time was far worse?  Tell me, Harry, what is today's date – day, month and year, please?”

“It's 21st September, 2004,” he said quickly; after a pause, he added, “You gave me 21st September earlier, and I was at the Premier League opener not long ago.”

“And before this 'opener'?  Would you have said it to be 2004?” she pressed.

He couldn't meet her eyes; “It's 2010... or 2011... erm... I thought it was one of those,” he said.

“You are fortunate to be alive,” she told him honestly.

He said, “Sometimes I wonder about that.”

“If you were to die, your beloved would die with you,” she pointed out.

“I didn't let myself think about that,” he admitted.

“You will rest.  You are still weak from what I have done to you, and you are still damaged by your twisting of the fabric of reality.  Be thankful that neither is a permanent thing,” she said.

He closed his eyes, but sighed and said, “No one believes that I can bring her back.  I've solved it, you know?  I understand it now.”

She said, “I am not surprised.  You are a determined young man, dangerously so.”

“The truth of it all... it almost broke me, Siggy.  I started drinking to forget, then I started questioning myself, and then I dug deeper into the books.  I knew I was doing too much with the time-turner, but I couldn't stop it.  I haven't said it... but I'm glad you're here,” he told her.

“Together we will walk the last steps of your path – your quest – now that you have glimpsed the truth of magic,” she promised.

He said, “I think it's more frightening than you know.  It turned upside down everything that I thought I knew, that I thought I'd learned.  I feel like I've wasted ten years...”

“I may know more than you believe, but I did not see so quickly as you nor was I quite so isolated as you,” she said.

He concluded, “It was Gudrun, wasn't it?  She made you think differently.”

“Her nature challenged my way of thinking, but theories came after years and conclusions after decades.  This was not a simple journey.  Only in these last months have I happened upon the enormity of it all.  So I must ask, could you have understood without walking the path?” she asked him.

“No,” he said.

“Will you share your understanding with me?  I am curious to compare it with my own,” she said.

He began, “You're still using structure, still looking at everything through the system you learned.  That will give you glimpses – flashes of how things actually work – but it keeps you from seeing it all at once.  You'll question everything you've ever learned, everything you've based your life on.  That's an awful lot to unlearn.  I... well, I'd feel horrible if you ended up regretting...”

She cut him off, “Only the young and the foolish believe that they know all there is to know.  I have questioned my beliefs each day for all of twenty decades.  In that time, I have healed thousands of people and my charges have healed thousands more.  I would not change the essential nature of my life even if I lived it a second time.  Do not worry about my regrets, for Gudrun is the only one of those.  I fear that I have done too much and that she is broken.  I fear that I have done too little and that she is dangerous.  I know that I will not live long enough to see if either is true.”

“We have a lot to talk about, then,” he said.

“Have you committed your theories to writing?” she asked.

He gave a small, tired smile and said, “There are ten years' worth of journals you could read, but I guess that's just evidence now.  I did sum it all up in... I suppose you'd call it a paper on the nature of Magic, I suppose.  Took me six pages to cover it.”

Her expression was both knowing and a little mischievous – something like Dumbledore but without that accursed twinkle.  She said, “Six pages, you say?  I am fascinated but this shall wait.  I will be here when you awaken.  Others will be coming here soon, of this there is no doubt.  You will hide no longer.  That time is past.”

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
Reaching the End of the Path

EIGHTEEN
Reaching The End of the Path

October 13, 2004     The Black Cloister, John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

Harry leant against the outside of the cottage.  He was out of breath, wet to the skin, and mud-splashed to the knees.  He reached for his wand and took advantage of the seclusion to clean and dry himself before entering.

Gudrun was preparing a particularly foul potion.  “You will not recover all at once, no matter the effort,” she said without looking up.

“I have eighteen more days to try.  Besides that, it'll be more than a little overwhelming to have her back.  I need to be healthy enough to manage everything,” he returned.

“If the ritual design is not complete, remember that Samhain will come again in 2005,” she pointed out.

“I know you told Siggy that you understand what I'm doing, but I don't think that you do,” he said.

Gudrun's whole being tightened; “Permitted or not, it is disrespectful to call the faúra-gaggja 'Siggy',” she bit out.

Harry said, “Would you lighten up?  Have you heard from Ron today?”

Gudrun turned from her potion making and crossed her arms.  “Do not attempt to fool me.  You cannot be as well recovered as you show to others.  I am closely watching,” she said.

“There's no pretending here.  I haven't felt this weak since the end of the War,” he admitted.

She said, “You suffered an alcoholic blackout that could as easily have been described as a coma.”

“That wasn't a blackout; it was Siggy's doing and you know it.  It's true I needed to stop drinking.  She dried me out and you called me out on my behaviour.  I needed both, and it's honestly that simple,” he said.

“It was not the faúra-gaggja 's doing, despite her tales,” said Gudrun.

He said, “I thought Siggy was your mentor.  Are you accusing her of lying?”

“She has become erratic.  This is not just my observation; more than one elder says the same,” she explained.

“You think she's off because she began to recognise the true nature of Magic.  You know... in a way, you're not very different than the Unspeakables,” he said.

“You insult me!” she growled.

He returned, “Prove me wrong, then.  All of you see the world in absolutes – it's just that you have a different set of absolutes.  You apply a concrete framework to the grœð, which is a total contradiction.  Siggy knows better.  I think she's always known better, but couldn't admit it to herself until the last couple of weeks.”

“It is grœð , not the grœð .  It is an energetic force, not a being,” she said.

He shook his head and said, “There you go again with the same crutch.  Sorry, but you just don't get it.”

Gudrun gestured to the stove.  “This is for you.  It is a Detoxifying Potion.  This will be the only time that I do this for you,” she said.

“I haven't been drinking!  I've not had a single drop in over a month.  Even if I wanted to drink – which I don't – how would I manage it with everyone hovering all the time?” he snapped.

“Your behaviour is altered.  Given your recent habits, it is an obvious conclusion,” she held firm.

He fired back, “I'm cold sober and I'm tired of your superiority complex.  It was Hermione's worst trait, too, but she was growing out of it.  What's your excuse?”

She went quiet for a while before she suggested, “There are times that... people who have a life-changing experience, an ecstatic experience.  ... sometimes their behaviour will appear strange to others.  Perhaps this is what I see?”

“All that's happened is that I can see the solution even more clearly than before.  The Magic behind all of this was right there in the very first chapter of Ravenclaw's grimoire, sitting there on my shelves from the start.  I didn't know enough then to understand the truth of what I was reading, let alone act on it,” he told her.

She said, “Your ritual design is incomplete, Harry.  It doesn't pass first proofs, let alone second proofs.”

“Of course it does.  The independent variable, if you need to give it a name, is identical in both instances.  Your definition of design is too narrow – it doesn't even scratch the surface,” he disagreed.

“Your independent variable is not a variable.  It cannot be defined.  It identifies nothing.  It is a repeating error in your calculations,” she said.

He said with a sigh, “Of course it defines something; it's just that you can't measure it, at least not in the ways you've learnt.  I was hoping you could be included in this, but you don't believe in Magic.  I wonder, do you actually believe in anything?”

Her face coloured and she said sharply, “Sharing in the gifts of the Healing Order is in and of itself an expression of belief!  Of course I am capable of belief!  As for magic, the existence of this does not require belief; it is a matter of fact.”

He explained, “Being part of the Healing Order is an expression of faith in a system of belief, which isn't the same at all.  Ron's no different.  He has faith in the system of magic he's been taught.  You don't need to learn how to use magic by shouting out incantations that imitate Latin.  Most of the magic that you Icelanders perform is nothing like that at all.  What Chen Lu's adepts or the Watanabe school teach is nothing at all like either the Roman or Norse systems of magic, and the indigenous people in America have an affinity to magic different than all of those.  That's a big hint to the reality of Magic, by the way.

“To be a part of this, you have to believe in Magic.  Period.  Not in an incantation, not in a rune, not in a force that you can name and study... you just have to believe .  You have eleven days to decide if you're able to do that.  It's entirely on you,” he added with a friendly pat on her shoulder.

Gudrun took a chair from the dining table and sat heavily.  After a long pause, she ventured, “I knew from the first that you were of considerable practical intelligence, Harry, but you were not a scholar in any way.  Now you speak of mysterious things, just as the elders do.  You also speak of Chinese mages and Japanese schools and the magic of my homeland with great familiarity.  How is this possible?”

Harry laughed softly and then asked, “Did you think I sat here all this time, reading books and getting pissed?   Where do you think all of these books came from?  These aren't the sort of thing you pick up from Flourish and Blotts.  I don't like sounding arrogant, but I own the broadest magical library on Earth – maybe even the most complete in some fields.  Dobby and I have found books that were nothing more than ancient legends and rumours.  For a very long time, I studied eighteen hours a day and seven days a week.  I was in China for two months; Chen Lu himself gave me two full weeks of one-to-one instruction.  I spent a summer at Watanabe with masters of arithmancy and charms; a few weeks in the American west; a few months in Eastern Europe; studied warding with a master runesmith...  I've seen things you can't imagine.  Hell, I've seen things that I still can't imagine.”

Gudrun rolled her eyes; “Please, Harry, it is not possible to accomplish all of these things in merely five years,” she said.

“That's true, I'd have never managed it in five years,” said Harry.

“Then how... oh... you didn't... you couldn't !” Gudrun insisted.

Harry smirked and said, “Didn't take you long to figure it out, eh?”

“How did you convince the English Unspeakables to grant you a time-turning artefact?  In fact, how did they obtain such a thing?  It was my understanding that all were destroyed some years ago,” Gudrun asked.

Harry's smirk broke into a full-on smile.  “And you even guessed where it came from... I'm impressed,” he said.

“Well...?  I am waiting for you to explain,” Gudrun said impatiently.

Harry said, “They kept several in their hidden levels.  These are a lot better than the one Hermione used at Hogwarts, too.  I think they've always kept the most interesting stuff down there – a second layer of misdirection, right?  As for how I got them to give it over...? I participated in the casting of an Unbreakable Vow that said I would share the re-embodiment ritual after we've invoked it.”

Gudrun gasped, “You can not do this!  You can not give such knowledge to those... those beasts !”

Harry shrugged; “I wasn't planning on it,” he said.

“But you submitted to an Unbreakable Vow!  Is it your plan to lose your magic or to die?” Gudrun demanded.

Harry's smirk returned.  “I said I participated in the casting of an Unbreakable Vow.  Nobody will lose their magic over this.  Unbreakable Vows are intent-based magic, and I never intended to follow through.  Therefore, I vowed nothing,” he said.

“But... if the Vow did not take hold, then the Unspeakables would know this,” Gudrun reasoned.

Harry said, “They know that the Vow was cast, of course – there's a lovely little light show throughout.  The only way to truly know if any kind of spell works is to see its effects.  For most wizards, testing an Unbreakable Vow wouldn't be much different than testing a Killing Curse.  They expect it to take their magic, and so it does.”

Gudrun stammered, “That is... it is... but... vows and oaths do not work in such ways... you can't...!”

Harry crossed his arms and said in a very formal way, “I, Harry James Potter, also know as John James Black, hereby state that I will never share a re-embodiment ritual of any sort with the Department of Mysteries or with anyone that is currently or has previously been an Unspeakable in the Ministry for Magic of the United Kingdom.”

“STOP!” Gudrun shouted too late.

Harry said, “ Nee! ” and a beam of light projected from the tip of his wand; “Still a wizard and still breathing,” he pointed out.

Gudrun's mouth dropped open in shock, and Harry snorted at her, “If you're going to do that, the least you could do is floss... you've a bit of plaque right there...”

“But you can not do what you have just done! It can not be so simple... this is not possible...” she spluttered.

“What, you didn't think I could say ' nee '?  We don't really need to use fake Latin, remember?” he said.

“No!  The Unbreakable Vow – how did you defeat the Vow?” she growled.

Harry said, “Like I said, vows and oaths are intent-based magic.  While the Unbreakable Vow was being cast... are you really sure you want to know how I did it?  I can guarantee you're going to have a headache, probably the nasty sort at the back of your head that just keeps hanging on.”

“You will explain,” she growled.

He sighed, “All right, then.  I put my other hand behind my back and crossed my fingers.”

Gudrun's eyes threatened to pop free of her head as she shouted, “ You crossed your fingers ?”

Harry explained, “I said the words and then I did something completely opposite at the same time.  Give magic a paradox, and the paradox wins.  It's the same with a time-turner.  If you try to change something that isn't supposed to be changed, then it simply doesn't change... had that happen to me once, and it's the damnedest thing.  If you see yourself, then it was intended for you to see yourself; you don't suddenly cease to exist or blow up the universe.

“As for intent-based magic, it only works if you intend it to work.  If you use an Unforgivable Curse and don't intend it to work, even subconsciously, then it won't work.  I can personally vouch for that one.  Now if you do actually believe that you've made a vow under pain of death, then the magic behind it will kill you if you break the vow.  If it's made under pain of losing your magic, then Magic won't respond to you any longer.  If you don't intend any of that – if you don't actually believe the oath will hold firm – then you won't die or lose your magic.  That doesn't prevent you from participating in an oath casting.  You do have to have very, very clear intentions in mind, or it might not work out the way that you plan.  Here's the heart of it, Gudrun: the stories about paradoxes always being fatal or Unbreakable Vows always being unbreakable...?  Fairy tales, that's all.  The stories are mostly to keep wizards honest, or at least keep them from getting them killed if they're weak-willed.”

“But this is impossible...” Gudrun weakly protested.

Harry smiled and said, “Not if you believe in Magic... and besides that, it would be impossible for any Unspeakable to recreate what I'm going to do.  I doubt they could even understand it, and if they could, they would never accept it.”

After she settled herself, Gudrun asked, “Have you read every book in this cottage?”

“Some of them more than once,” Harry said.

“How long have you possessed the time-turner?” she asked.

He said, “Since November 15, 1999.  It was a memorable day.”

She asked, “How often have you put it to use?”

“It's been something like ten years since I started doing this, maybe a bit longer than that.  Honestly, it wasn't easy to keep track of things.  I owe Dobby more than I can say.  There were almost always two of me, and we had four of me living here at the same time from last December until... hmm... it must have been a few days after the last time Ron came here alone.  Was that in June?  July?  I can't remember,” he said.

She took several long and slow breaths before she said, “The world has not ended despite your best efforts.  All of this, your view of magic... this is difficult for me to accept.  It is opposite to everything that I have been taught.”

“You believe what you've been taught.  That's fair enough; I believed what I was taught at Hogwarts.  Can you believe in Magic ?” Harry asked.

After a long period of silence, Gudrun said, “It is dangerous, choosing to believe in magic.  Evil men, those without morality... these could become worse than Voldemort.  That which we are taught, it places limits upon such men.”

“What about the people making the limits?  The Ministry controlled the Aurors, practically owned the Daily Prophet – that bloody rag, good riddance to it!  They set the rules for everyone based on a dozen people's opinions and a few bags of gold.  Voldemort didn't even use his wand to take over Britain.  He walked through the front door, and the Ministry had set the table for the rest of it,” Harry countered.

“But magic is a powerful tool, a terrible tool –” Gudrun started.

Harry cut her off, “You know that Magic isn't a tool.  People see it as a tool because we're trained to use it that way.  Magic just is .”

“It is not so simple as that.  Form relates to function for a reason.  Structure serves a purpose,” Gudrun insisted.

Harry asked her again, “Do you believe in Magic, Gudrun?”

“It is dangerous for me to do this,” she protested.

He said, “Only if you go it alone.  I know we've been at each other's throats for a long time, but I've had enough of it.  I'll be there for you.  Even if I wasn't willing to stick by you, Ron would gut me like a fish if I didn't.  Besides, you're more than stubborn enough to keep from losing yourself.  Let me put it this way:  Do you think you're able to believe in Magic?”  

Her breath hitched before she managed to say, “I... I don't know.”

“Honesty to one's self is the beginning of your path, grasshopper,” he said.

Her brow furrowed; she said, “A grasshopper is an insect, is it not?  I am certainly not an insect.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders.  “It's just one of Chen Lu's sayings, he has hundreds of them.  His adepts thought it was funny for some reason; they laughed like lunatics whenever he called me Grasshopper... never did understand why,” he told her.

“I know that the ritual structure that you allowed me to review was incomplete.  It was as though I was seeing one floor of a tall building.  I would like to see the full formulae and diagramming, if you are willing to allow this,” she said.

He said, “You're more right about that than you realise.  When I put those together, I was still looking at all of this the old-fashioned way.  This wizard in Poland showed me a completely different way to go about ritual design.  He was older than Siggy, I think, and completely mad... looked like a house-elf without the long ears.  Anyway, the runes are plotted in a series of three-dimensional arrays but the equations were seven-dimensional out of necessity."

She spluttered, “But... but... runes are inherently two-dimensional constructs... and... you... the equations... seven dimensions...?”

“Why not?  We're talking about applied rune work; far too much arithmantic calculus for my taste; some fuzzy logic here and there; and a dash of quantum mechanics thrown in for good measure.  It's magic, silly!” he chuckled.

“You... ARGH!” was all she could manage.

He snorted, “Ron wouldn't be very happy with me if your brain explodes.”

She growled at him, which only made him laugh louder.

Finally he said, “Look, you can see all of it if you like, but the design's a guideline.  At this point, it's basically an indirect image of a portion of a ritual.  Most of the runes won't actually be inscribed; they'll be invoked.”

After a thoughtful pause, she said quietly, “I am frightened by this.  What you describe is so very dangerous, Harry.  I don't know if I can... I may be unable to accept this.”

He said, “I'm telling you, you're stronger than that.  If you can't believe in all of this mess, you should at least believe in yourself.  Look... if it helps, remember that I spent ten years figuring this out – ten years without any sort of life getting in the way.  If you insist on looking this over, try really hard to see it with open eyes.  There's a fundamental principle in the background – one that gets at your independent variable – but if you blink, you'll miss it.”  

“What is it that I will miss?” she asked.

He gave a wry smile that belonged on a man seven times his age and said, “I won't deny that you're one of the brightest people I've ever met, and I've been around some pretty sharp sorts.  If you can keep your mind open for just long enough to get out of your own way, then you might not need me to answer that.”

October 24, 2004      The Black Cloister, John O' Groats, Caithness, Scotland

“He never comes to the door.  We're just to walk in and announce ourselves,” Ron said.

Luna sing-songed, “How lovely to live in a place with no need for locking charms or wards!”

“It might not be anything to do with need,” Neville suggested; “I know he still intimidates me, and that's without meaning to do it.”

Ron pushed open the front door and sighed, “He's been at it again.  Every night the place is cleaned up, and a few hours later it's like a poltergeist had the run of the place.  I never would have guessed that Dobby was with him for all these years.”

“There are books everywhere...” Neville murmured.

Luna mused, “I never pictured Harry as a bibliophile.  Clearly he is infected with Hermione.”

“Er... Harry?  We're here!  Where are you?” Ron called out.

“I'm at the back,” Harry returned from somewhere on the other side of the crowded sitting room.

“Where's the back?” Ron asked.

“Behind the Paracelsian Compendia – you know, the stack of books with the blue bindings?” Harry said.

“Why don't you just pop up so we can see you?” Ron snapped.

“Thought you had a decent sense of direction...” Harry said distractedly.

“I'm just going to start knocking down these piles of books, you know?” pouted Ron.

A bit of Harry's unkempt hair appeared above one stack.  “Don't even think about it,” he mock-growled.

Ron, Neville and Luna picked their way around books and half-open boxes filled with scrolls until they stood facing their dishevelled friend.  He was unshaven and his hair was a bird's nest. 

“Bloody hell, mate, I thought you were starting to take care of yourself?” said Ron.

“Just revisiting some assumptions... there isn't a lot of time left, you know?” Harry said.

“Did you not greet me with the same assessment last year?” Luna asked.

Harry rubbed at the bridge of his nose and said, “Really?  It seems longer than that...”

“I have not seen you since December,” Luna said.

“I'll take you at your word.  Erm... I'd cook some tea, but I'm not sure that I have a kettle anymore,” Harry said.

“There is food.  Fortunately for you, it was the villagers who brought the food and not I,” Luna said.

“Dottie and her hens really have been good to me... I should give a proper thank-you.  There's still some table space in the kitchen, I think,” said Harry.  

Ron rooted through one of Dottie's baskets of food as Harry took stray books and parchments off the dining table and stacked them in a corner.  Luna went for for plates and such.  Neville enlarged a short case of butterbeer that had been in his pocket.

“Be careful with that shrinking business.  Surely you've heard about Dennis Creevey?” Ron said.

Neville winced and said, “That was wicked awful, but it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't stuffed up the shrinking charm in the first place.”

“To suddenly find a loaded trunk where one's todger belongs must be very disorienting.  I suppose that it might be a quick cure for someone with todger envy, though I suppose that the three of you wouldn't know about that.  Surely you are all secure in your manhoods?” Luna said.

As Ron choked and spluttered, Harry told her, “You're supposed to wait until the butterbeers are open before you spring that.  It's all in the timing.”

Luna said, “I shall strive to do better.”

Harry said, “Never change, Luna... we love you just as you are.”

“Gudrun's en route, by the way – an uncooperative labour, she said, and that's all I need to know about it,” Ron announced.

Luna added, “I spoke to Ginny earlier today and she expected to arrive at about this time.”

“So, Harry... you, me, Ron, Luna, Ginny, Gudrun... that's six.  For a ritual, I'd figure on either three or seven participants.  I suppose you might not figure into that number as the caster, so perhaps we're waiting on two more?” Neville reasoned.

Harry said, “Well thought out, Neville.  I do figure into it – or I can, at least – so it's one more.  He's around here somewhere...”

“Harry Potter, sir, is the messiest wizard there ever was!  It is like taking care of a dozen grown wizards to work for the House of Potter!” came a familiar squeaky voice.

“...and there he is,” Harry said.

Luna said serenely, “Greetings, my elvin friend.”

“Dobby remembers Miss Lovegood and Mister Longbottom most fondly.  Welcome once again to the Black Cloister, Mister Weasley – Harry Potter is surely happier for your presence,” the house-elf said.

"We're waiting on Ginny Weasley and Gudrun,” Harry told Dobby.

Dobby said, “Dobby will wait at the front door.  Mister Longbottom, is it the butterbeers that you are bringing?"

“That's right,” Neville said.

“Very good, sir.  We are taking any spirits or Muggle beers and dumping them in the loo, but the butterbeers may stay,” Dobby explained.

Neville squinted at Harry and asked, “What's this...?”

“Gudrun and her old boss dried me out,” Harry said.

Luna chimed in, “Harry was drinking heavily the last time that I saw him.  It was clear that he was not ready to change, but now he has stopped.  Things do tend to happen in their own time, you know?”

Harry's eyes widened.  “What did you just say?” he asked.

“That you were drinking in excess –” she started.

“No, no, at the end,” he said.

“Oh!  Things tend to happen in their own time, no matter how hard we might press,” she said.

“It keeps coming back to that, doesn't it?  The grœð said that years ago, more or less,” he said.

Luna regarded him for a few moments with a particularly hard-to-read expression before she said, “Gudrun's grœð spoke to you?  This should be an interesting story, but it will wait until the others arrive.”

Ron nibbled on a sandwich, swallowed carefully and then asked, “So how's life at Hogwarts, Nev?”

Neville stopped eating to answer, “It's the best choice I've ever made.  I think this is the first year that really feels settled, and that's nice.  The castle's fully functioning now – better than before, to my way of thinking.  I know I don't miss those sodding moving staircases.  The Founders should have sacked their architects, if you ask me.”

“Is it true that the Board of Governors proposed to rename Slytherin House after Harry?” Luna asked.

Ron laughed, “No offense, Luna, but that one's too mad for the Quibbler .”

Neville looked to Harry and said, “I'm afraid that's not a rumour, Harry.  There's not much sentiment for old Salazar these days, not in public at least.  It failed by a two vote margin.”  Harry's jaw dropped at that; admittedly, he did live at a remove from magical Britain, but that particular manoeuvre hadn't reached him. 

Ron huffed, “Harry, mate, you're a smashing wizard but you have to admit that's a bit rich.  I suppose the Board figured a new sign over the door would change everything?”

Luna changed the subject and said to Neville, “I have always wondered about this, Neville: what is it like to be employed by a ghost?”

Neville gave a wry smile and said, “If I had a sickle for every time I'm asked about that, I'd be a wealthy man.  It's like working for anyone, I guess, except that she's at it twenty-four hours a day.  She does give the Board fits, I'll say that for her.  They can't say no to her because she just ignores them and then they look pathetic.  They can't sack her because she's in charge of the entire system of wards, and there's still no good explanation for that.  Most of the students love her, excepting the ones who like to make real trouble.  If you thought old Dumbledore knew everything that happened at Hogwarts... even though she's a ghost, I still can't get used to the fact that she knows where everyone is and what they're on about.  I'll tell you this much: being her Deputy leaves me feeling as useful as an ashtray on a broom.”

“Don't you have to sign everything for her?” Ron asked.

Neville shook his head; “She just points at a parchment and then her signature appears, like she wrote it with silver ink,” he said.

“Does Headmistress McGonagall have an appointed assistant?” Luna asked.

“Why, are you interested in the job?” Neville asked.

Luna said, “I was only thinking that she might need someone to turn pages in books, pick up parchments and such.”

“She doesn't need any help with that,” said Harry.

Neville's brow creased in thought.  “No, she doesn't... and how do you know, Harry?  I didn't think you'd been to Hogwarts in years?”

“Actually, I've been there for the library a few times.  The thing is, Minerva and I exchange post every few days; I'm just not comfortable being seen by the students.  She doesn't need an assistant because she isn't a ghost,” Harry said; before a shocked Neville could manage to get out a sound, he added, “Ahh, Ginny and Anders are here.”

Neville blurted out, “Ginny's not here, and you can't just throw something like that out there –”

“Hello?  Hello?” Ginny called through the front door.

“See?  I told you she was here,” Harry said smugly.

Ron said, “You've set proximity wards at last.”

“I don't have any wards, you know that,” said Harry; “I felt her apparating in and it was obviously a side-along.”

Ron said in disbelief, “You felt her apparating... are you joking?”

“W-what in Merlin's bloody bordello do you mean, McGonagall's not a ghost?” Neville spat out.

Luna sat up straighter at that; “Merlin did have his own bordello, then?  Did he hire Turkish witches, and is it true that they had round heels?” she asked.

“They were mostly Welsh and had perfectly ordinary heels,” Harry said without batting an eye.

“They... Welsh... huh?” Ron spluttered.

Neville pressed, “What are you playing at?  She's a ghost – I work with her every day, so I ought to know!”

Harry explained, “Minerva pledged herself to Hogwarts just before she was killed, not just to save the students but to save the castle itself.  It's the only place she's ever thought of as her home.  Basically, she did what my mum did for me.  She died to protect her children, and she did so with crystal-clear magical intent.  Now, Dumbledore turned my mum's sacrifice into the basis for a warding scheme anchored by blood.  The old man was a classical alchemist, but certainly  not a warding expert.  If he'd known what he was doing, he'd have left well enough alone and I'd have had more protection than I ever got through that botched binding to my harpy of an aunt. 

“Here's the thing, Neville: when Hermione bound herself to me by ritual, we were also bound together by an ancient curse-sharing charm.  The Killing Curse tore her loose and the first ritual sent her through me like a slingshot.  She would have been gone forever if it wasn't for that charm.  Instead she forced Voldemort's horcrux out of my head and you know the rest of it from there.  When Minerva bound herself to the castle by way of providing protection for the students, she created a second tie to the wards; the headmistress is already connected to them.  The Killing Curse tore her soul loose but the second binding to the wards held onto her.  It's the same as Hermione, more or less – she's still Minerva, minus the body of course.”

Ginny took that moment to cross the room and pull Harry into a warm hug.  “You look better than the last time,” she said.

“People keep saying that,” Harry said.

“Perhaps because it is true?” Anders called from the entryway; “...and please unhand my wife.”   

Harry stepped to one side of Ginny and reached for Anders' hand.  “Good to see you, old man,” he said in a posh voice.

After a quick handshake, Anders sniffed loudly, buffed the nails of his free hand against his shirt, and said, “Such a simple home, old chap, not at all befitting of a man of your stature... and you're even more bookish, which I wouldn't have thought possible.”

As one, Ron and Harry said, “What's wrong with bookish?”

Harry's brow quirked and Ron said quickly, “Talking about Gudrun, of course – she's bookish...smarter on her worst day than me on my best,” to which Harry stifled laughter.

Ginny turned to Anders and asked, “Did you bring the package?”

“Ehh... package?  To which package do you refer?” Anders returned.

“The package – you know, the reason we came here?” she shot back.

“Ahh, you refer to the case ,” he said briskly.

“Case, package, whatever – I don't care what it's called, you prat.  Is it here ?” she snapped.

Ron rolled his eyes and said wearily, “Bloody hell... tell me you're not going to start arguing?”

Neville took a pull on his butterbeer before he said, “It isn't arguing, it's foreplay.”  Ginny's mouth formed a silent “O”, Anders laughed loudly, and Luna had to pound on Harry's back when he inhaled a bit of sandwich.

“Nev, did you just say that?” Ron managed.

Neville shrugged; “It's Hannah's fault, really,” he said casually.

“You have left Ginny speechless.  Will you teach me this?” Anders said with a smirk.  He had an unusual smile, Harry thought; his upper lip barely revealed his front teeth.

Gudrun joined them a quarter-hour later, shortly followed by Madam Gísladóttir.  After she was introduced around as Siggy – which drew groans from Gudrun – the ancient witch conjured a stiff-backed chair that even McGonagall might have found austere. 

Harry spent the next forty minutes providing a meticulous explanation of the ritual he had planned and his thinking behind it, including a hint of his greatly revised views on magic itself.  He didn't reveal all of it, because he honestly wasn't sure if anyone present save Gudrun and Siggy could handle it.  No one made a sound save Madam Gísladóttir, and she merely gave approving noises in the right places.

Luna was the first to break the silence.  “It is obvious that you are holding something back, but I am certain there's a good reason for it.”

“So it was all there for the taking in Ravenclaw's Grimoire... wow...” Ginny breathed.

“Hard to imagine, isn't it?  She realised the truth of Magic, but went on to build a school that obscured it,” Harry sighed; with a wave of his hand toward the nearest set of overflowing shelves, he added, “All of this work, all of this studying, and it was in my hands almost from the time I woke up in hospital.”

“Now I understand what you meant about things happening in their own time.  You had the information in hand from the beginning but could not have put it to use,” Luna said.

“Certainly the ten years of additional studies were required, Harry; we have discussed this,” Gudrun pointed out. 

“Um... ten years...?” Ron began.

Harry rolled his eyes and chuckled, “That's a story for another time.”  Then the room went silent again for a full minute while the group mulled over everything they had learned. 

Neville broke the silence; “I won't even ask how you figured out all of this, but I believe all of it,” he said; “Just tell me what I can do to help.”

“Talismans,” said Harry.

After blank looks from Ron and Neville and several nervous hops from Dobby, Madam Gísladóttir cleared her throat and clarified, “As young Harry told us, each who takes part in this ritual will give of their own free will something that they believe to represent a part of Miss Granger.  Each must interpret this in their own way, but the elements of the ritual are to be represented in total.”  Gudrun didn't yet know enough to argue with that, and Harry was glad that Siggy followed on to his limited explanation.  It was for the best, even though it bound him into a more strict ritual than he liked.

Luna looked to the parchment before her, littered with notes strewn in all directions.  “There are ten elements and seven participants.  Hermione is of course Spirit.  This leaves Form; Bone; Flesh; Blood; Magic; Fire; Earth; Water; and Air,” she said.

“I'm responsible for everything that the rest of you don't cover,” Harry said, thus binding himself further.  Luna nodded and scribbled something.

Ron asked, “Do we have to keep it a secret from each other, or do we work together on this?”

“You ask an excellent question, Mr. Weasley,” Madam Gísladóttir said with a smile.

“We must work together, of course, so that we address as many of the elements as possible,” said Luna.

Ron pointed out, “You must have given Ginny and Anders the list earlier, if they brought something today.”

“I had a pretty clear idea of what should be used for Fire and Ginny agreed with me,” Harry said.

Anders put a long and narrow wooden case atop the table and told them all, “We have come through in a big way, as they say.”

Ginny leant across the table and opened the case; she explained, “These are no ordinary dragon heartstrings – we could have asked Charlie for that, after all.  These are from the same dragon's heart as the string that was in Hermione's wand.”

“Bloody hell...” Ron breathed.

“I must agree with Ronald on this,” said Gudrun.

Harry was in shock.  He gathered himself and asked, “Anders, I know you say that you can find anything, but Ron's right.  Bloody hell, man... how ?”

Ginny grinned and said, “From your own papers, actually.”

“I've never given you any papers, have I?” Harry said.

“Ginny refers to the records of Mr. Ollivander, old bean.  They fell to you as Hermione's heir of record.  They have been most helpful to us, as we have been able to support much of the English demand for wands in the absence of a suitable wandcrafter.  We will of course return the records to Hermione following the ritual,” said Anders. 

Harry's throat tightened at the certainty in Anders' voice.  Ginny and Anders truly believed in Magic even if they weren't ready or able to call it that, he realised, and the weight on his shoulders lifted slightly.

Ginny went on, “I don't know about the rest of you, but I figured that Ollivander didn't actually keep records.  It seemed like he just knew things.  As it turned out, he had very detailed notes – more detailed than anything we ordinarily keep in the course of business, and that's saying something.  He had identified the individual dragon that gave the heartstring in Hermione's wand.  From there, Charlie was a big help.  We finally found out that Gregorovich had three strings left in his stock.”

“He did not want to part with unmatched raw material, but with some persuasion he decided to sell us all three of the strings,” said Anders, and Harry decided that he didn't want to know anything more.

“Why couldn't you just use the one from Hermione's wand?  Don't you have it, Harry?” Ron asked.

Harry shrugged and said, “I figured Kingsley had all the stray wands burned.”

Dobby tugged at Harry's sleeve.  He began, “The wandmaker Ollivander was the destroyer of unclaimed wands, Harry Potter.  Several family wands were taken to the wandmaker by Dobby for old Master...” but stopped and abruptly began to beat his head against the side of the table.  Ginny snatched the house elf by the shoulder to stop him.

Harry was startled, as Dobby hadn't punished himself in years.  “You heard a lot of things in that place.  It's in the past, my friend,” he said kindly.

Dobby sniffled, “Dobby's old habits are hard to break, but they will be broken one day.  Dobby remains honoured to be called friend by Harry Potter, for Dobby calls Harry Potter best friend instead of master.”

Harry patted the house elf on the back and said, “You've come so far, Dobby, and it's all right to be proud of that.  I know I am, and you know that Hermione will be over the moon.  You're probably the most learned house-elf that's ever lived, my friend,”; he looked to his friends around the table and added with pride, “Dobby was the first to go through most of these books.  He took notes – bloody good ones, too.  He organized everything, from scheduling to travel to food.  I'd have been lost otherwise.  Truth be told, he knows more about classical Arithmancy and charms theory than I do, and he's absolutely world-class with runes.  His approach is unlike anything I've ever seen or even heard of.” 

Then he turned his attention to the house-elf and added, “Sometime you should show Gudrun and Siggy what you can do, Dobby.  I'm saying this again because I really meant it.  When this is finished, we're travelling to America or Brazil, or even Japan if we have to – somewhere that those cowardly bigots at the Runeworkers' Guild don't have any say.  You're going to sit for oral exams and get that Mastery, because you've damn well earned it.”  Dobby's greyish skin flushed a pale green and he bowed his head.

Neville had been in deep thought, staring at something no one else could see.  He asked abruptly, “I was thinking, could the talisman for Earth be made of wood?”

“Plants are of the earth so there is a natural connection,” Luna said.

“I know what happened to Hermione's wand, Harry,” Neville said.  When Harry's eyes bored into him, the Master Herbologist went on, “Right after the War ended, Kingsley told me that he was looking for something to do with all the, you know...  um... extras.  There were so many of them.  No one ever told me that Ollivander used to handle it.  Everyone else was so busy, so I agreed to do it.  It wasn't long after that when McGonagall asked me if I might come to Hogwarts and develop a plan for restarting the greenhouses.  

“I brought in some Druids to survey the grounds and asked them to help me figure out what to do with the wands, too.  Yes, I know most people don't think much of the Druids these days, but the grounds and the original greenhouse – it was Greenhouse Three when we were in school – they were blessed by the Druids in 1022, and we were trying to recreate things the way they were before...”

“That was brilliant, Neville,” Ginny said.

Luna gave an ethereal, pearly-white smile and added, “The only one who doubts you is yourself.”

“Go on, Nev,” Harry encouraged him.

Neville cleared his throat and said, “Right, then... the Druids believe in returning everything back to nature, see?  We took apart all of the wands and extracted the cores.  We ground the dragon heartstrings and put the grindings into dragon dung for fertilizer.  We buried the animal hairs.  We burned the feathers to ash and scattered them to the winds.  We thought about burning all of the wand wood and churning under the remains, but that's when it struck me: all of that wood was imbued with magic, and had been for years.  I thought that if any of it would take root, the trees and plants would make for bloody powerful wand stock.  Not only would we be returning it to nature, but someday the magic would be used again as well.  I figured it was a way to remember all of our people who died and... well... I figured that for the other side, it was sort of a second chance, right?  The wood gets chosen by a new wizard eventually, and then maybe dark becomes light. 

“The trees were planted at the edge of the Forest nearest to the castle.  The shrubs and vines take up the whole central section of the Gardens of Remembrance, around the folly.  We identified the owner for every wand that we could, and I recorded the owner and wand core for each plant that survived.  There's a vine that was cultivated from Hermione's wand, Harry.  I wouldn't have wanted to take a large cutting until now – we weren't sure how hardy the plants would be – but the entire garden's coming along better than anyone expected.”

Harry smiled at him and said, “Things happen in their own time, right?  That's the perfect talisman for Earth, Neville.  Thank you.”

“The Ministry's taking care of it again for, you know, anyone that doesn't pass their wand to family.  I... well, I was thinking that the Garden should be the place we take the wand of anyone who fought in the War, if that's what they want.  Muggles do something like that, a special place in their cemeteries for people who fight for their country.  Since we don't have cemeteries, I figured this was the next best thing,” Neville said.

“Bloody brilliant,” Ron said, and not a few eyes went suspiciously watery.

Harry told Neville, “I want that done for me when the time comes.  You should get Kingsley involved and see what comes of it.”

Luna said without warning, “Hermione's greatest mental gifts are her prodigious memory and her dedication to a cause, no matter the difficulty or reasonableness of it.  Therefore, Air will be represented by a Jobberknoll feather.  I will provide it.”

Dobby drew himself up and announced, “Dobby will provide the talisman for Magic, Harry Potter.  Dobby is a magical being and so it is right that Dobby does this.”

Gudrun said, “The base fluid for the cauldron should itself be the talisman for Water.  I know of a way to provide the ideal fluid.  Please allow me to do this.”

“Do you believe in Magic?” Harry asked her.

“I believe in you, Harry.  I believe that you can do this.  Belief in yourself, anchored by the belief of the coven, is the variable in the proofs of your ritual,” she returned.

Harry let out a nervous breath and said, “That's not exactly how it is, but you're close enough.  I'm glad you can be a part of this, Gudrun – you... you can't know how important that is to me.  For Ron to do this and you to be left out... it wouldn't have been right at all...”  Gudrun stood, walked to Harry, leant down and embraced him.

“Are we good, then? Are we finally good?” Ron asked.

“We're good, brother – all three of us,” Harry said.  Gudrun let out a small sob and tightened her grasp on Harry until it was Weasley-worthy; he whispered into her ear, “I know you're taking a risk.  We won't let you fall – you know that, I hope?”

Ron didn't smile as Harry expected; instead he let out a slow breath and said, “I'll take care of the flesh.”  There was something quite odd in Ron's tone but Harry accepted the offer on its face.

Madam Gísladóttir said, “I will assist Harry with the remaining talismans.”

“I have an idea for Form and Bone, but I'll need your help in being certain about Blood,” Harry said.

“And I shall provide that help,” the ancient witch returned.

Harry looked around the table, from one friend to the next.  “I can't thank you enough for doing this.  It's been a long road to get here,” he said.

“You're not alone in this, Harry.  I hope you're going to stop turning everyone away,” Neville said.

Harry's throat tightened; he said thickly, “You've come a long way from the boy who couldn't keep hold of his toad.”

“And you're not a skinny midget anymore, Potter,” Ron said lightly.

“You were never alone, Harry Potter – you just forgot that you had friends,” Luna said.

“Why did I forget?  It wasn't the Glumbumbles, was it?” Harry asked with a straight face.

“No, you were just being stupid.  Men are especially good at that,” she returned, and the serious part of the gathering came to a sudden end.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
The Last Alchemist

NINETEEN
The Last Alchemist

October 31, 2004      Hogwarts Castle, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

6:00 AM

Gudrun threw a small stone against the floor and a granite table erupted from it.  She opened a travelling case and drew out a glass vessel several times the size of the case, filled with roiling amber-coloured liquid.  An assortment of instruments joined the vessel atop the table; Harry could only guess at their purpose.

“That's the base, then?” he asked.

“Correct,” she said distractedly.

Harry moved to the enormous cauldron at the centre of the room as she continued to organise her table.  It was nearly five feet across and sat on a low-slung iron stand; its lip came nearly to his chest.  He checked the anti-sepsis spell that protected the empty cauldron for a third time and then verified for the fifth time that the stand was exactly thirteen inches high.

“I have never used a steel cauldron,” Gudrun said.

Harry admitted, “I haven't either.  Brass would have been enough – it's certainly effective for healing and basic protections – but steel has all the properties of brass as well as general protections from nightmares and offensive magic.  I figured there was no sense in leaving a risk of backlash, and she might need the nightmare protection if this is as disorienting as I'm expecting,”; he added with a grimace, “You can't imagine how much trouble this bloody thing has been.  It took a dozen tries for the manufacturer to get it right, and then it had to be transported all the way here with no magic at all because steel is so temperamental.  Even with all of that, it can only be used once.”

Gudrun picked up one of her instruments and closely checked it, even as she pointed out, “If your scheme is accurate, then you could use an old wooden bucket and it would matter not.”

“Everyone's intent is important, not just mine,” said Harry.

“If you believe in the need, then the need exists,” Gudrun agreed.

Harry smiled and said, “You really are beginning to understand.”

“I understand that you are the only living wizard for whom this ritual could succeed.  As I say, I believe in you ,” she said.

He said in agreement, “The circumstances are awfully unique, aren't they?”

Gudrun stopped her work and leant against the edge of the table.  She said, “This is true, but not what I intended.  You have the, ehh, affinity with magic like no other.   I understand why you speak of  grœð as you do.  For you, it is a living thing.  You are  grœð and grœð is you.  Combine this with the ten years of study that you pressed into less than five – which I will again remind you that you should never have done this – and the result is a true Sorcerer.   I believe that you are one of those.”

“Dumbledore was a Grand Sorcerer.  It said so on his stationery,” Harry told her.

Gudrun snorted at that; she explained, “Your Mr. Dumbledore held the title of Grand Sorcerer.  That title is given by a self-appointed club of pompous wizards after the completion of trials that would have amused the mages of old.  I have studied the True Sagas, and I tell you that some of those who today are granted the title of Sorcerer would have been quite ordinary mages in those times.  Very few modern mages are true Sorcerers.  Your Mr. Chen is certainly one of those, and your Mr. Dumbledore may have been so given what is said of him.  I believe that the faúra-gaggja is a true Sorceress, but I have heard of no others in my lifetime.”

“Wish I'd never met the man, but I can't deny that Dumbledore was ten times the wizard that I am.  I can't actually do most of the things I've read about,” Harry insisted.

“I doubt this is true.  You no longer cast spells; magic does as you ask of it.  I doubt that you require a wand or any other focus.  It is used from habit alone,” Gudrun stated matter-of-factly.

It was true that Harry hadn't incanted a spell out of necessity in years.  As he considered her words, he realised that he didn't even think in the form of incantations any more unless he was poking fun or making a point.

“I am correct,” Gudrun confirmed when he stayed silent.

“Not many wizards can do that, I suppose,” Harry admitted uncomfortably; it had never had seemed right to him when others claimed themselves superior, even when it was true, and it wasn't a habit he wanted to acquire.

Gudrun told him, “It is beyond nearly all.”

“When Chen Lu was testing me, he said that I ask magic and magic answers.  I guess he was right... it's not something I think about, I just do it,” Harry said.

“Consider as well that even when taking into account the time-turning, you have lived for little more than two decades.  Many years must pass before your true mastery will be understood by you or anyone else.  Mr. Dumbledore had lived for more than six decades when he bested Grindelwald, and Mr. Chen was older still at the time of his greatest known deeds.  The faúra-gaggja  is born of a family prone to short lives; by embracing the grœð , she outlives her twin by more than eleven decades.  Taking into account the history of true sorcery, you are a very young man,” said Gudrun.

After a long pause, he blurted out, “I can't cast first on anyone in a fight, or even in a set duel.  It's like all of the magic dries up.  If I'm attacked first then I can return with practically anything, but otherwise...”  No one but Dobby had known that before.

“What of the darker magics?” she asked.

He struggled for an answer, and finally responded, “I told you I can't do most of what I've read.  I could never cast a lot of what I learned in Eastern Europe – never even tried it.  It's not a dark magic issue, exactly.  I don't think that I can cast with dark intent now.  Does that mean Voldemort couldn't have been a true Sorcerer?”

Gudrun returned, “Voldemort could not have possessed a true affinity to magic.  He demanded of it, forced the power to match his will.  I ask you this: has an unrepentant dark wizard ever held the reins of power until the end of his natural life?”

Harry thought hard on that.  Voldemort, vanquished by Harry... Grindelwald, defeated by Dumbledore... Li Zhang, defeated by Chen Lu... Tramposo, defeated by de Maupassant... Racine, ultimately redeemed by Nicolas Flamel... Marmuk the Horrible, assassinated by his own inner circle after they were turned by Akhtet... he was no expert in magical history as Binns' incompetence cost him six years of useful studies, but he couldn't come up with a single example.

Gudrun read the conclusion in his eyes and said, “No dark wizard can stand against a true Sorcerer and succeed in the end.”

She was making it harder to deny what he was, and he didn't like it at all.  His chest tightened and the room felt as if it had closed in on him; “What does Siggy think about all of this?” he managed.

“ Madam Gísladóttir would not attend to you for weeks upon end if she did not believe you are of great importance and great potential.  We have not spoken of my views on this matter, but I do think that she would agree,” she said with confidence.

Harry quickly changed the subject.  “Are you ready to start the base?” he asked her.

“We should begin, yes,” she said.  The four-foot-high glass vessel lifted slowly into the air and moved across the room until it hovered above the centre of the cauldron.  With a small flick of Gudrun's wrist, the bottom of the vessel disappeared and the fluid within spilled out.  It had a scent that Harry couldn't place,  in turns earthy and vaguely metallic.

“What is this, anyway?” Harry asked, uncertain whether he actually wanted to know the answer.

“Liquor amnii,” she said.

“I'm sorry...?”

“You would know it as, ehh... amniotic fluid,” she added.

Harry's brow rose; “The stuff that surrounds a foetus?” he asked.

Gudrun said, “That is correct.”

“But that's hundreds of gallons of it!  I can't imagine that you conjured or transfigured it, so where did all of this come from?” he asked her, unsure whether or not he wanted an answer.

She said, “Amniotic fluid consists of water and organic compounds.  In very general terms, the organic compounds were grown and added to the mineral contents and magically purified water.  I can explain this in more detail –”

“Please don't; I doubt I'd understand it,” he cut her off.

As she cast a series of spells – Harry could feel that all but one were monitoring charms – she told him, “Liquor amnii is a unique fluid, Harry.  It is different for each mother and child.  This particular fluid incorporates genetic material freely given by Hermione's mother and father as well as genetic material extracted from hair found on Hermione's brush.”

Harry was surprised; “You went to see her parents?” he asked.

Gudrun said, “I did.  I had not know that you were reconciled with them.  They are truly in awe that you have devoted your whole self to bringing this about – you know this, do you not?  There was no hesitation to offer assistance.  They choose to believe in magic, as you say.”

He confirmed, “Erm... you're certain it was her hair?  It could have been from someone else, even from Crookshanks.”

“This was carefully verified.  I was told of Hermione's accident with Polyjuice potion the hair of a cat,” she returned; “I will put aside the details and tell you that in functional terms, this is identical to the fluid that surrounded Hermione in the womb.”

Despite having studied enough healing theory and practice to match a St. Mungo's intern, Gudrun's efforts were so far beyond him that he couldn't even wrap his head around the idea; he could only say, “That must have been bloody hard to manage.”

She admitted, “This was more complex than anything I have ever undertaken as either a healer or physician, but... you see, this felt as if it were the right thing to do.  Does this make sense to you?”

He smiled and assured her, “Yeah, it does.  It makes perfect sense.”

9:00 AM

“This whole thing is beyond me, I must admit.  You're certainly not the same young man who left my care.  I understand that you won't appreciate this, but you remind me of the Headmaster just now.  I am of course referring to his better qualities,” Madam Pomfrey said.

Harry winced at that but went on, “This is asking a lot – I suppose it's right on the edge of your healing oaths – but it's necessary.  It's critical, in fact.”

Pomfrey returned, “I know that Gudrun Stefánsdóttir is here, and I'm not ashamed to tell you that she's more qualified to do this.”

“Gudrun's already involved in the ritual, and... well... it needs to be you.  I can't give a rational explanation for that, I just know that it's right,” Harry admitted.

The corner of Pomfrey's mouth quirked ever so slightly and she said, “There's no getting around it, Harry: that sounded exactly like something Albus would say.”

“Poppy...” he gently chided her.

“And there you go again,” she chuckled.

“I need your help,” Harry said.

Pomfrey chuckled again and said, “You can't charm me with that pout of yours, Harry – I'm immune to such things.”

Harry said, “You know that I'm deadly serious about this.”

After a long pause, Pomfrey asked him, “Are you certain?  You truly believe that you can bring Miss Granger back?”

“This isn't necromancy.  She's not dead, just disembodied through no intention of her own.  It will work,” Harry said.

“I believe in you, Harry, and I've seen too many strange and wonderful things across too many years to suffer doubts.  I'll do it,” she said.

Harry hugged her, which caused the gruff healer to freeze for a moment; “Thank you,” he said honestly.

She shook her head and sighed, “I can't believe that I'm about to remove a rib from a perfectly healthy wizard.”

8:00 PM

Madam Gísladóttir shuffled into the room and slowly bent forward to peer into the small cauldron set on the floor.  “Your potion is coming along, child?” she asked Luna, who nodded in return.

“Are you all right, Siggy?” Harry asked.

“I am old, Harry; I am so very old,” Gísladóttir sighed.

Harry said uneasily, “Dunno, you seem pretty spry to me.”

Her lips quirked and she said, “You are a nice boy to say this.  I will remain here until I have fulfilled my purpose, this much I promise.”

“That'll be a long time, then,” Harry said firmly.

Gísladóttir returned her attention to the cauldron.  She said, “The appearance of this is as described in the text.  I have never before seen this potion.  Such a thing is not a part of our magics.”

“Not only is the colour proper but the surface sheen is fully developed, Madam.  The Polyjuice Potion is as intended,” said Luna.

The ancient witch said, “Your eccentricities are many, young Harry.  Great mages are truly unique persons, and such behaviours are natural consequences of seeing the world in a different way.  Still, I must ask... what is the purpose of finishing this potion in this wash-room, given that it is the home of a very temperamental spectre?”

Ron cut in with a barking laugh; “It's a special place for us – let's just leave it at that,” was all he could manage.

The ancient witch wrinkled her nose and said, “I take you at your word, young Weasley.  This potion requires a lengthy period in which to brew, if the text is correct.  How is it that you have brought it to completion, child?”

Luna explained, “As with all things, there are formal and informal means to finish a task.  Few wizards know that Polyjuice Potion can be started in a half-finished state through the careful combination of four completed potions.  Fortunately for our purposes, I am not a wizard; I am a witch.”

“Indeed you are,” Gísladóttir chortled; “Harry, this potion... it is to represent Form?”

Harry said, “That's the plan.  Polyjuice Potion is activated by adding a hair from the person whose form you want to take.  Hermione's mum and dad gave Gudrun quite a lot of her hair, from an old brush.”

“This potion is consumed by the wizard and then transforms the wizard's body to resemble the other?” Gísladóttir confirmed.

“That is correct – it affects a complete transformation,” Luna said.

“Do you mean to say that this change is metamorphic in nature, or is this change to the level of cells?” Gísladóttir asked.
Luna answered slowly as though she was puzzling out the question; she said, “You are asking if the result is a surface likeness or an actual duplicate?”

Harry offered, “Some wizards in Australia studied Polyjuice Potion pretty extensively.  They examined blood before and after taking the potion.  After the change, the make-up of the drinker's blood was identical to the person who gave the hair and not the drinker.”

Gísladóttir said, “Then the potion does indeed create a cellular duplicate, a clone.  This is a remarkable achievement but I see a great danger of abuse.  The nature of this also explains why the potion lasts merely an hour, and why the drinker remains in the changed form if she dies during the course of the potion effect.  Is the duration affected by the magnitude of the change, such as a change in gender or from young to old?”

Luna and Harry looked to each other, and Luna gave a shrug.  “The potion's duration is sixty minutes; that is the nature of the potion,” she said.

Harry added, “I don't know about duration, but it does makes sense that a bigger change would be harder on the drinker than a smaller one.  I've never run across any information about that, but it's not a question I've ever asked.”

“What is it that you intend to transform?” Gísladóttir asked Harry.

“Bone and Flesh,” he returned.

“Your plan is to create a skeleton and layer of flesh, upon which Form will be imposed?  This is an interesting use of the potion,” she said.

Ron chimed in, “We figured that with Harry giving the bone and me giving the flesh and Hermione giving the form in a way, we'd be calling on the connection between all three of us, and... um... Harry figured that, actually.  I'm just along for the ride.”

“What of the Blood?” she asked.

Harry closed his eyes and sighed; “I'm still working on that one.  If I have to, I'll use my own,” he said.  After a moment's pause, his eyes snapped open and he added, “You don't agree?”

Gísladóttir hesitated before she asked, “May I think on this?” 

Harry felt uncertain for the first time in a week; he asked, “We have four hours left.  How long do you need?” 

Gísladóttir gave the wizened smile that Harry had come to expect of her.  The condition of her teeth was really quite remarkable for her age: well-formed, nearly white in colour, gums barely receded.  They were clearly her own, Harry thought... and then he recognised, not for the first time, that he was paying unusually close attention to other people's teeth.

“I must confirm two things, and the library of this castle may be a useful source of information.  If not then I shall use your fire-calling arrangement to contact my fellows at the Inn.  You will have your solution in three and three-quarters hours,” she said firmly.

“Let me walk you to the library,” Harry said.

They walked in silence for several minutes.  He wasn't sure if he had come to appreciate silence, exactly, but he thought that silence had made him aware of everything around him – sights, sounds, smells, the presence of others, and the presence of Magic itself.  It made him aware when people were looking for him, or when they were about to speak.

“You did the test again?” he said.

She smiled at him.  “Good, very good!  So much more useful than Legilimency, is it not?  Precognitive awareness is not something that can be blocked by another – remember this.  Yes, I was about to tell you that I performed the comparative test yesterday.  You are still the bearer of two completely distinct insubstantial selves.”

“Then why am I thinking like she does?  I've been reading everything I can get my hands on, and for no reason.  I've been noticing people's teeth, for goodness' sake!  Yesterday, I kept saying 'honestly'.  I don't understand it!” he sighed.

“The traditional mages of your land viewed Samhain as the time when the barriers between ourselves and the spirit world are at their thinnest.  Was this not the basis for the timing of your ritual?  Perhaps this proves the rightness of your choice?  It seems that the barrier between you and your beloved is growing thinner,” she suggested.

“Makes as much sense as anything else,” he said.

She stopped walking, seemed to consider something, and then made a point of looking him in the eye.  “I require a promise from you.  You will either agree or not agree, as we both know that it is pointless for you to make a magical oath,” she told him.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, though he wasn't inclined to refuse her anything.

“You have treated Gudrun well, you have tried to teach her and she has been open to this.  Promise me that you will continue.  Promise me that you will lead her to understand that which you understand.  It is only that which will assure her safety and a full life,” she returned.

He said, “I'll try to guide her there, but it's something she has to accept on her own – I can't make that happen.  I can't promise she can put any of it to use, either.”

“I ask that you make the attempt,” she said.

He told her, “I've already promised Gudrun that we won't let her fall.  I meant that.”

She went silent for a while before she said, “That is enough,” and continued on her way.     

11:40 PM

Harry laid out the talismans on Gudrun's granite table as his friends gathered around the cauldron.  Anders stood at the back of the room, his shoulders against the wall.  The rest stood in silence.

Harry began by saying, “You're my closest magical friends.  There are others – Magnus, Seamus, Dean, Susan, Hannah – but it's not the same, no offence to any of them.  Some of the people in John O' Groats are almost like family to me, but obviously they can't be a part of this.”

“You couldn't keep me away, mate,” said Ron.

Neville said, “I wouldn't be at Hogwarts today if it weren't for you and Hermione.  I have to be here.”

Dobby bowed at the waist and said, “Dobby is deeply honoured to help return Miss Granger to Harry Potter.”

“We are here because this was meant to be,” said Luna.

Ginny said quietly, “I want my sister back.  You can do this, Harry.”

Gudrun, who was checking the contents of the cauldron, stepped back and looked into Harry's eyes for a long while before she said, “I believe in magic, Harry.”

Harry said with a catch in his throat, “Well... erm... thank you for doing this.”

Ron asked, “Where's Siggy?”

Gudrun groaned, “ Madam Gísladóttir will be here.  She does not break her promises.”  Harry gave his watch a nervous glance.

Ron filled the silence by asking, “It's the four elements first, isn't it?”

Harry said distractedly, “Water, Fire, Air and Earth; then Magic; then Bone and Flesh; then Form and Blood; and Spirit is last.”

The temperature in the room dropped ever so slightly as McGonagall entered through the wall.  She said, “Madam Gísladóttir sent Tilly, our Head House Elf, to inform me that she will arrive five minutes later than planned.  I was also asked to remind Harry that he should commence the ritual now, as some of the ingredients are to steep before the final element is added.  Now if you will excuse me...?”

“Please stay,” Harry said.

“I had thought that I was unable to be here,” said McGonagall.

Harry said,”No, you just can't take an active part in what we're doing.  Hermione would want you here, even if you can't give a talisman.”  A silver tear ran down McGonagall's cheek as she drifted to the wall opposite from Anders.  He looked to his watch a second time.

“Midnight closes upon us,” Luna said.

Harry nodded and waggled his finger at Ginny.  “Come and take the heartstring,” he said; after a moment's hesitation, he added, “Anders, you come here as well.”

“Harry, my friend, you do recall that I am not a wizard?” Anders said lightly.

“Your mother was a witch.  Besides, there's enough Magic in you for this – I can see it,” insisted Harry.  

Anders hesitated for a moment but did as Harry asked; he noted, “When you say the word 'magic', it is in the way of a proper name.  I find myself curious.”

Harry tried not to visibly wince and promised, “We can talk about that later if you like.”

Ginny took one end of the dragon heartstring.  She confirmed, “You're certain that the wording doesn't have to be exact?  It's just that in Runes, Babbling told us –”

Harry gave a lopsided grin and reminded her, “I wouldn't know; I didn't sit for Runes.  Look, even though the floor and the cauldron are rune-struck, we're not performing a runic ritual here... not in the way you'd understand it, at least.  The words are just a guideline: use them, don't use them, I don't care.  What's important is that what you say feels right to you.  Trust me, once you start talking you'll understand what I mean by that.  Now, Anders, hold the heartstring by the other end.  You can say something after Ginny if you'd like, but you're not obligated, right?”

Ginny stood atop a box set out for the occasion so that she could stand with her hand above the cauldron's lip.  Anders stood beside her and they held the heartstring above the warm liquid,  She began from the words she had memorised, “Dragons are creatures of fire, and a heartstring from a dragon brings fire to a witch's magic.  With this heartstring, given by the same dragon that gave Hermione her wand, we return Fire to Spirit...”

She stopped and collected her thoughts before she went on, “Hermione... she was the sort of witch who burned bright, you know?  She didn't do anything halfway – even when she should have – and heaven help you if you stood in her way because she was going to charge forward.  I suppose it makes sense that her wand core came from a dragon.  She gave me fits sometimes but she was my sister in every way that matters.  I didn't really understand that until a few days before... before the end of the War. 

“I wanted to save Harry, I honestly did, but I wasn't the right one to do it.  She let me help her, though.  I don't know if I could have done the same if I'd been in her shoes.  It's been six years now and I'm married to a man I love more than anything, but I still feel the pull to Harry from that ritual we did.  It's time to hand him back to you, Hermione.  Come home, all right?”; her hand shook and she put her free arm around Anders and leant into him.

Anders cleared his throat and then said, “When we set after that monster, I told Harry that I wished to share a pint when it was finished.  It was not long before we did so, but it is well past time that the four of us – Ginny and me, and Harry and you – head off to the pub, yes?  Let us finish this now.  Tonight we put the War behind us.”  With that, they let the heartstring fall into the cauldron.  Harry raced through his part of the ritual in a near-whisper; he had no intention of letting the rest of them hear what he said.  A red eldritch fire briefly erupted before the liquid settled. 

Luna stepped to the table, picked up her feather, skipped to the cauldron's edge and then hopped atop the box.  Harry couldn't help but smile and Ginny barely stifled a giggle.  She held the feather just above the liquid and said, “Hello, Hermione.  This is a Jobberknoll feather.  I know you can't see it just now... although maybe you can see it through Harry's eyes, but you're the only one who can tell us how this truly works.  Anyway, trust me, it's not a Fwooper feather; it's definitely from a Jobberknoll.  Your memory is very impressive.  Is it eidetic?  I suppose that doesn't matter much at the moment, does it?  There were times when it seemed as if you had swallowed all of your schoolbooks, which would surely cause a terrible stomach ache and you would have to spew up the answers to write your exams.  Is that why your futile attempt to free the Hogwarts house elves was called 'SPEW'?  I suppose that doesn't matter much right now either.

“Jobberknoll feathers also symbolise truth and you've always been interested in that.  Mind you, your definition of truth has been oddly narrow, but you have always meant well.  I suspect you may have gained a new sense of the truth these last few years.  It's great to have friends and even now I have very few of them, so quit messing about and come back.  If you throw a Jobberknoll feather high into the air, it spins anti-clockwise as it drifts downward.  I suppose you never threw a Jobberknoll feather in your Potions class, did you?  Professor Snape might have thrown you into your cauldron if you had.  Anyway, here comes your feather.” 

With a flick of her wrist, the feather flew nearly to the ceiling before it settled into a slow spin and came downward just as she had described.  As the feather reached the liquid and was absorbed, there was a burst of steam that was blown away by a inexplicable breeze. 

“Don't forget to mumble your gibberish, Harry!” she added happily as she skipped back to her place.

“Oi, Neville, didn't that plant of yours mumble?  You know, the one on the Express?” said Ron.

Neville took on the expression universal to teachers when they are faced with incompetence. “ Mimbulus mimbletonia , Weasley.  Good grief, it's no wonder you never managed better than an A,” he sighed.

Ron huffed, “Just lightening the mood, you know?”

“I think that Harry has run out of gibberish to mimble now,” Luna said in her sing-song way.

Neville took a deep breath and strode forward.  He said, “Right, then.  I've gotten better at this sort of thing when I know the subject, but I'm not exactly at my best making it up as I go.   I looked at the notes, Harry, and I just couldn't feel the words...”

“You know what to say; the words are already inside of you,” Harry assured him.

“That wasn't cryptic or anything, was it?” Ron muttered.  Gudrun elbowed him hard enough to draw a groan.

Neville held the vine wood uneasily.  He said, “So I guess I talk to the cauldron like I'm talking to you, Hermione?  Harry's changed a lot.  I think you'll like him even better now, though he's gotten a bit stodgy.  Who knows, maybe you'll be the one to loosen him up?  At any rate, we grew this vine from what was left of your wand.  Astounding, isn't it?  I don't think that anyone in the field thought that we could make it work – cultivating seedlings from cuttings of wand wood, I mean – but I believed it and the druids believed it, and it happened. 

“I've been thinking a lot about belief this week, you know?  This thing Harry's doing here, it should be impossible – anyone could see that – but he's always been a dab hand at impossible things.  I read somewhere that belief is thinking something is true when there's no solid evidence to back it up.  I think I've always believed in Harry and I've always believed in you, too.  So... erm... Ginny and Anders brought the core, and here's the rest of your wand.  Um... see you in a few, then?”

He lowered the wood until it was inches from the bubbling liquid and then let it loose.  The surface of the liquid crusted over with a dark layer of soil that quickly dried and cracked.  The soil broke up into pieces that sunk back into the liquid and disappeared.

Harry said, “The elemental base is finished.  Now we add Magic... Dobby?” 

The house elf snapped his fingers and the box grew tall enough that he could stand atop it and lean at the waist over the edge of the cauldron.  He said with an unexpectedly powerful tone, “Dobby is honoured to help Harry Potter put Miss Granger back into her body.  No wizard has ever been so kind to a house elf as Harry Potter.  He is the greatest of all wizards, but this is not because Dobby is saying so.  This is so because it is the truth, and Dobby sees the truth – it is plain to all house elves with the eyes to see.

“Harry Potter lets Dobby give the Magic to do this.  Before, he did not understand what house elves is, even though Dobby tried very hard to explain.  Dobby thinks that Harry Potter understands now.  House elves does not use magic, house elves is Magic.  Magic to Dobby is like the white light to Harry Potter.” 

Then Dobby drew a very familiar rough-hewn knife, one that Harry hadn't seen in years.  He went on, “Harry Potter nearly binned this knife but Dobby knows that it could never be replaced, for it is from the tooth of the King of Snakes.”

Ginny's eyes bugged out; she stammered, “T-that knife is from the basilisk...?”

“Snape gave one to me and one to Voldemort,” Harry said coldly.

Dobby explained, “Dobby knows that Professor Snape crawled through nasty pipes for a long, long  time to reach the Great Snake, and Professor Snape could not be seen or heard unless he wanted to be caught out by Voldemort.  Professor Snape understood that Harry Potter might someday need such a thing.  Dobby thinks that Professor Snape planned for Harry Potter to plunge it into He-Who-Is-Most-Sincerely-Dead.  It could be that Harry Potter was to use it against  the most foul anchors of the soul?”

Harry sagged and stumbled to one side.  “We could have been rid of all the horcruces if I'd used that bloody thing...” he said softly.

“Don't go there, Harry.  You did use it on Ravenclaw's book.  It probably couldn't have cut into the Cup, and it's a sure thing you couldn't have used it on the last one,” Ron pointed out.

Dobby nodded furiously and said, “Harry Potter must not be despairing, for he and his coven will make right what was wrong.  Dobby helps in this because it is the right thing.  Dobby is Magic, so Dobby now gives Magic to Miss Granger.”

With a speed no human could match, he swung the basilisk knife.  His left ear dropped into his free hand, and the room erupted.  Even the Headmistress let out a ghostly shriek.  Harry said nothing, but only because he couldn't manage a single sound. 

Dobby acted as though nothing happened.  He deposited the ear into the cauldron.  A bright white light rose into the air and then sank into a glowing fog that flowed over the cauldron's lip and roiled along the floor for a few moments before it disappeared.

Ginny squeaked, “Dobby, you... it... the knife... your ear!  You cut off your own ear!”

“Yes, Dobby did that,” the house-elf said proudly.

“But... but... it was your ear !” Ginny went on.

Dobby stared at her and said, “Of course it was Dobby's ear.  Did Miss Weasley think that Dobby would cut off the ear of Harry Potter or Professor Longbottom or Mister Weasley or perhaps her Mister Twing?”

“Of course not!” Ginny gasped.

Harry finally managed to get a word out: “Why?”

“Dobby is Magic.  Dobby gave Magic to Miss Granger,” Dobby said, as if it was obvious.

“There's no b-bleeding... why is there no bleeding?” Neville stammered.

Dobby looked at him askance; “Dobby is Magic, Professor sir.  House-elves is only bleeding if attacked or if the bleeding is desired by master,” he said patiently.

“You really do need your ear, Dobby,” Harry said as calmly as he could.

The house-elf blinked several times and cocked his head to one side.  “Why would Dobby not have his ear?” he asked.

Harry ground his teeth before he bit out, “Because you just cut your ear off.”

“Dobby cut off the ear because the ear comes back quickly.  Dobby hated losing fingers to the ovens when the old master gave punishment.  Dobby could be several days without them,” he returned.

“I never saw anything like this in all of my studying...” Harry managed to say.

Ron smirked and said, “Not all knowledge can be found in a book, you know?”

Harry grumbled, “Sod off.”

Dobby scrunched up his face and trembled as though he was lifting a heavy weight.  A loud pop! echoed through the room, and an ear erupted from the ragged cut on the side of his head.  It was about half the size of the other and tightly curled at the tip.  His body sagged with relief and he announced, “Dobby's ear will be good as before within two days.”

Harry didn't wait for the rest of his friends to settle themselves; he reached into a pocket and withdrew his talisman.  Gudrun's eyes locked onto the thin curved bone and her brows shot up. 

He held his hand over the edge of the cauldron and said, “Here's mine.”

Ron scowled at him; “What are you on about? 'Here's mine'?  There's nothing else to say?”

Harry sighed and said, “The next talisman is Bone.  It's mine.  I had Madam Pomfrey remove one of my ribs this morning.”  He drew as many gasps as Dobby had.

“That is a most appropriate symbol, Mr. Potter.  Full marks for your thinking,” McGonagall said with not a little pride.

“Ehh? Harry's rib means something special?” Ron asked.

Anders patted him on the shoulder and said, “It is a Muggle thing.  I will explain it later.”

Harry gave a curt nod and lowered the rib into the cauldron.  A surge of power climbed up his arm nearly to the elbow before he could take his fingers from the bone.  He barely managed to back away before a hard white shell formed over the fluid.  Like the earth before it, the bone shell broke up and the pieces disappeared into the bubbling liquid.

After several quiet moments, Ron withdrew a cloth sack from within his robes.  He walked up to the cauldron and let his hand graze along its edge before he started, “I told Harry that I'd take care of the Flesh part.  This is going to be even stranger than Dobby's ear, but let me explain myself, right?

“You all know what happened to me while we were hunting for the horcruxes... er, horcruces it was, horcruces ... thought she was going to kill me every time I said 'horcruxes'.  Anyway... ehh, this isn't easy...”

“You don't have to justify anything.  You don't have to say anything at all,” Harry told him.

Ron shook his head and said, “Oh, trust me, I do.  Anyway, when I made it to hospital, I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.  I've never felt so guilty in my whole life.  Most of you don't know that Harry almost got himself killed getting me out of there.  Hermione tried to shield us from the rocks when the tunnel started to cave in.  I told the both of them to leave me behind, but they wouldn't go.  Hermione said later that they couldn't leave me there.  All three of us could have died, and the rest of you would still be in a war.

“I've never been the same since that day and it isn't just because I was hurt.  Gudrun finally got through my thick head.  She reminded me that I went for that horcrux because I was the best one to try for it.  I did it so that I could keep the two of them safe.  I saved them and they saved me.  She said that I did my best and that I willingly paid a price, and then she ended up sticking around in the bargain as well – how lucky am I, right?”

Everyone gave a small laugh and he went on, “There were a few things I kept when they discharged me from hospital.  Some rocks fell into my robes on the way out of the caverns.  One of those rocks is still on my desk.  Every time I see it, I remember what happened and that we all did the right thing even when it was damn hard to do.  I wanted to keep my shoe but one of the healers tore it to bits when they were trying to save my foot... so... um... I kept this instead.  Gudrun put a preserving rune on it for me.  She says she understands why I did it, but I figured anyone else would think I was crazy.  Don't know that I completely understood it myself, really.  It just seemed like the right thing to do.  Guess everything happens for a reason, eh?”

He reached into the bag and when his hand came back out, Ginny let forth with a high-pitched scream.  Everyone else managed to hold their ground, although Neville looked like he might spew up. 

Anders was made of stronger stuff.  He said, “You... ehh... you kept your foot, I see... it was an interesting choice.”

Luna said, “I understand, Ronald.  I don't think you're crazy, not at all.”

“Err... dunno if that's reassuring...” Ron said nervously.

Harry pursed his lips and thought about it for a while before he said, “You were the one who finished the job in the caverns, mate, and only a crazy Gryffindor would have done what you did.  Hermione was right, we couldn't have left you there and lived with ourselves.  I figure you lost that foot for Hermione and me.  Keeping it was, ehh... erm... unexpected?  Using it for this, though...?  That makes all kinds of sense to me.  It's the right choice for this, I can feel it.  Gudrun, you need to cancel the preserving rune first.”

Ron was obviously unsettled – and Harry would have been concerned otherwise – as he let the foot sink into the cauldron.  The liquid churned furiously for almost a minute.

When the cauldron finally settled, Harry broke the silence by saying, “Right then, Form is next... Oi!  Gudrun, did you move it?”

Gudrun turned to the table and quickly looked to Harry with alarm; she shrieked, “It was there!  I swear to you on all that is holy, Harry – the flask was right there!  Luna, there was surely another dose in the cauldron?”

Luna shook her head and said, “I placed the entire batch into the flask, for fear of the remainder being misused.  The Polyjuice Potion is not really necessary to the ritual, is it?  None of this is truly necessary, I suspect.”

Harry said quietly, “Symbols of intent, Luna... symbols of intent.  Someone didn't believe this will work.” 

Dobby's eyes squeezed shut for a moment and then he announced, “There is three house-elves waiting in the corridor, Harry Potter.  Shall Dobby open the door?”

“Three house-elves, you say?  Hold for a moment,” McGonagall ordered, and then passed through the wall.  After a few moments, she returned and gestured Dobby toward the door.

The three house elves stood before a large bundle set in the corridor.  The elf in the centre stepped forward and said, “I is Tilly.  I take care of the house elves at Hogwarts.  The Great Witch of the Fire and Ice ordered Tilly to seek out the Alchemist when the time comes, and the time has come.”

Gudrun said hesitantly, “The Alchemist... she must mean you, Harry...?”

The house elf began, “Tilly is to deliver... she is to...” but then thrust herself at the floor where McGonagall's feet would have stood had she been embodied.

“What's this?  Tilly, get up from there!  There will be no punishment, but you must explain yourself immediately,” McGonagall said firmly.

Tilly sobbed, “The Great Witch of the Fire and Ice... she knew what the house elves are, she knew the ancient spells... the Great Witch put the geas on us and we must obey, must keep her secrets as she asks and do what she says... Tilly would have stopped her, would have come for Madam Headmistress – Tilly swears!”

Harry squatted before Tilly so that he was at her height.  The title of 'Alchemist' threw him off, but it surely referred to him.  He was also sure of what was happening – though he truly hoped to be wrong – but had to play out the situation for form's sake if nothing else. 

“Tilly, I am the Alchemist.  I'll take your delivery now,” he said.

The house elf struggled to tell him, “Tilly is bringing three letters first, and there is a trunk given for Madam Healer, and then... and then...”  She managed to summon three envelopes.  The first was addressed to “Harry” and the second to “Mr. Ronald Weasley”.  The last was made out to “Miss Granger”.

Dobby moved to stand beside Harry.  He asked, “What more have you brought for the great wizard Harry Potter?”  She nodded but couldn't get out any more words.

The shorter of the two house elves in the corridor was ancient, far older than the Black's elf Kreacher had been.  In a surprisingly strong and deep voice, he intoned, “Dobby of Potter's House, will you accept this burden on behalf of Mr. Harry Potter, the True Alchemist?”

Harry watched as Dobby stood ramrod straight – he seemed several inches taller in that moment – and returned, “Dobby of Potter's House accepts this burden, Eldest One.  You do Dobby great honour by allowing him to act on behalf of his House.” 

Dobby gave an elegant wave of his hands and the bundle in the corridor rose several inches from the floor.  The 'Eldest One', as Dobby called him, raised one gnarled hand and the bundle moved forward toward Harry.  He hobbled behind it, and the third house-elf who had not spoken fell in behind. 

Harry didn't need to open the bundle to know what was inside, but he untucked one end of the cloth nonetheless.  “Oh, Siggy...” he said softly.

Gudrun saw hair spill from the opened cloth and shrieked, “ Siggy! What have you done? ” but that was nothing against the bedlam when Harry pushed aside the cloth completely.  Ginny let out a keening wail and Anders swore in Danish.  Ron kept Gudrun from falling as her knees buckled.  Neville went stock-still, his mouth agape.  Dobby repeated, “Oh, dear!” again and again.

Harry didn't expect to hear a rasping chuckle and he quickly went to his knees and leant in.  “I didn't hear you,” he said.  In a trice, the room went silent.

Madam Gísladóttir forced out, “At last, dear Gudrun calls me 'Siggy'.”

As Gudrun broke into sobs, Harry unsteadily placed his hand on Gísladóttir's cheek  – her teenaged cheek.  Hearing Hermione's voice was a shock to his system; he had begun to forget how it sounded.

“Why?” was the only question that Harry thought worth asking.

She said, “Wouldn't work... skeletal structure from rib, flesh from foot... the time to build the organs, form blood from marrow... she would have drowned before the ritual was completed.”

“Bullshit,” he blurted out. 

“This is your boon: the absolute assurance that this will succeed,” she explained.

Gudrun sounded more frantic with each word as she insisted, “Madam Gísladóttir – Siggy – we can counter this potion.  If you allow me to examine you, then this can still be remedied!”

Gísladóttir couldn't move but managed to shift her gaze to Luna; “You know the ending, do you not?” she bit out.

Luna didn't frown – Harry wasn't sure she was even capable of frowning – but her mouth fell to a flat line before she answered, “You will not survive the potion's effect and your remains will be locked in Hermione's form, but you know this.  You asked about it earlier this evening, but I believe that you knew the answer even then.”

“Insightful, child,” Gísladóttir whispered.

“I'll ask it again: Why?” Harry demanded.  She looked at Harry with her lips quirked into a half-smirk.  It was an expression that Siggy had never made in his presence but which he'd seen a thousand times on Hermione's face, and he barely held himself together.

“It is the right choice... you know this,” she told him.

“Damn it, Siggy,” he said softly, for he knew it was true.

“Close the cloth, too bright,” she muttered.  He did as she asked.  It was easier for him after that, with Hermione's face hidden away.  She was just Siggy again: the batty, brilliant old woman who had healed him and set him on the right path.

She rasped out, “I shall call upon Albus Dumbledore... impress upon him the error of his ways.”

He gave a barking laugh and gently shifted her from the floor and into his arms, into the cautious embrace that the young share with the old; “Thank you.  I don't know what else to say,” he told her.

She shifted in his arms and seemed to draw strength for a moment.  “It is enough.  We shall see each other again,” she said.

He whispered, “I hope so.”

Gudrun cut in, “May I assist you, Madam... Siggy?  I can ease any pain...” 

The ancient witch didn't answer and Harry knew that she never would.  Her body sagged in his arms.  Gudrun joined him on the floor and Ron gingerly followed.  They eased the body away from Harry, and he took the first letter from Tilly without a word.

Harry,

Your mentor guided you through the use of misdirection and omission.  These are the tools of hubris.  Thousands upon thousands, both magical and mundane, give their witness of his hubris from the grave.  I will not repeat the Supreme Mugwump's mistakes.  You deserve to understand where your path may lead, be it good or ill or merely just, and I shall not take the knowledge of this to my grave.

My most favoured apprentice deduced that you are a sorcerer.  I know this because despite the keenest of intellects, she broadcasts her thoughts as if she was a wireless.  She is correct.  The nature of sorcery is not quite so absolute as young Gudrun believes it to be.  Having said this, the number of sorcerers who today live upon this good Earth can surely be counted by the fingers of two hands.

You are about to undertake something far rarer than sorcery.  I tell you this not to discourage, but to give name to that which you already know.  You are not the last sorcerer on this earth, but you may be the last True Alchemist.

True alchemy requires four things of its practitioners.  First, the alchemist must understand that he asks of magic and that magic asks of him.  This understanding escapes the majority of mages.  This is valid for practitioners from all of the major magical traditions, as the very act of instruction constrains practise which in turn constrains discourse and transforms art into craft, practise into performance, sacred gift into personal property.

Second, the alchemist must understand that magic is instinct and emotion and intention and belief, not rune stones or numerology or wand-waving.  Magic is not a system, despite the best efforts of scholars to render it so.  Moreover, the alchemist must be able to act upon that understanding.  Few ever develop this understanding, fewer still can put it to practice.  It is these first two things, in combination with a healthy amount of skill and a great body of knowledge, that define a sorcerer.  For you to have achieved this awareness and ability in only your third decade is a remarkable feat, albeit one accomplished at great cost to yourself and those of your company.  

Third, the alchemist must give up darkness of intention and must accept, at least implicitly so, that he will no longer be able to commit injustice through the actions of magic.  A sorcerer who makes this sacrifice will nearly always prevail over another who does not.  The wand of elder imposed this conclusion upon you, but you have come to accept it.

Fourth, and most significantly, is the opposite of the third: the alchemist must also accept that there are no limits to the just practice of magic.  To accept this paradox is truly extraordinary.  For all but the strongest of mages, the rejection of limits leads to the acceptance of all forms of intention; or the rejection of dark intent leads to the unconscious imposition of limits upon just magic; or the reckoning of individual and collective justice is too difficult to balance; and thus the sorcerer's magic becomes self-limited.  Though I understand this, our work together these last weeks proved that I was too bound by the system of my instruction and practice to achieve this in any meaningful way.

When all of these things are in place, then a sorcerer can perform True Alchemy: the permanent transfiguration not just of physical structure, but of the essence of being and non-being, of the physical and metaphysical.  In the language of science, True Alchemy is the Grand Unified Field Theory put into practice.  As you continue to study and learn, you will see the proof of this.  I have left you some written thoughts on your studies to consider at your leisure.  Much of this you already realise, even though you can not and would not articulate it as I have done so.  Philosophy and erudition and other such trappings will come to you with time if you wish.

No one else could carry out this ritual in the manner that you have prescribed.  Another sorcerer could create a healthy form that could house an insubstantial self.  They could even place your young lady's insubstantial self into that form and that form would live, but the result would not be truly her.  They could carry out the ritual using the same coven that you have assembled, but the result would still not be her.  You are using the power of your own intention and the intentions of your coven in combination to reconstitute the proper Miss Granger. 

The last publicly known True Alchemist was Mr. Nicolas Flamel.  Your mentor was Mr. Flamel's pupil at one time, although he took pains to be seen later as Mr. Flamel's colleague.  The Supreme Mugwump ultimately lost his way and did not achieve the alchemical potential that Mr. Flamel must have seen in him.  His life illustrates why one of your strength and capability should be wary of politics.  He largely eschewed the public reins of power yet allowed himself to treat the world as if it were a grand chess match assembled for his pleasure.  How shall you keep from losing your way, my young friend?

This does not mean that you must hide your light as Mr. Flamel did.  I say  that there is a middle ground which will come as second nature to you.  Teaching and guidance come to you as easily as drawing breath.  Take on apprentices, or work through a school if you prefer this.  Guide those under your care to explore the fullness of magic.  Few will be able to reach beyond system and rote, but all will benefit from what you have to offer.  Act not for the greater good but rather for that which is just, for these are not one and the same.  Serve the grœð and allow the grœð to serve you.  I know that this is not how you view the nature of magic, but it is how my people speak of it.  Most will never know that you are a sorcerer of old, let alone a True Alchemist, but all may know you by your words and your deeds.  This is as it should be. 

Your studies over this last handful of years have accomplished what was required but now is the time to engage in the fullness of life.  There is no need for you or any of your company to ever again tamper with the flow of time.  You will fully recover from the ravages of these magics but should not tempt the fates again.

It is fitting that 31st October will now mark beginnings in your life rather than endings.  I give you this final talisman.  The shell left to your care is no longer meant for me.

With great respect and affection,

Sigurrós Gísladóttir

“You did see the shape of it, didn't you... couldn't quite let go of the grœð , though,” he whispered too quietly for anyone else to hear.

By the time he finished reading, Gudrun had assumed a stiff upper lip worthy of Britain's finest.  She said to Harry, “This gift must not be wasted.  There is little time.”

Harry drew Ron, Neville and Anders to one side of the room, whilst Gudrun, Ginny, Luna and the house elves did him the great favour of preparing the body.  He honestly didn't know if he could have done it. 

He felt as if he should be more upset, but Siggy didn't seem troubled by her choice.  She had lived a long life.  He had chosen to enter into her confidence, to accept her as a teacher and guide.  He understood that any ongoing grief would be about him being left behind rather than her choosing to move on.  In his younger days Harry would have been crushed, but he wasn't an ickle fifth-year now.  Death was no longer new to him nor was it a source of fear.

Gudrun's hand came to rest on his back.  She said tightly, “We put... that is, we added Form and Blood to the cauldron.  Do you speak an incantation or cast a rune?”

Harry looked to the letter still in his hand and returned, “It's all been said.” He pulled her into a one-arm hug that turned into an embrace suited for a wake.

She was visibly tense; “And what comes now?” she asked him.

He sighed, “The hard part, I'm afraid.  Everyone should clear off a bit.  A small ward will come up when I've activated the ritual, but still... we're all in uncharted waters, aren't we?”  With that, he drew himself up and strode to the cauldron; then he set his bare feet atop specific runes struck into the stone floor and then braced himself against the cauldron's lip.  It was then that something unexpected happened. 

“Bloody hell, Harry, your scar's glowing !” Ron warned him.

“Um... maybe Hermione's in a hurry to get out?” Neville offered.

Harry bit out, “That's good, Neville, I like that.  Keep it positive...”

“Is there any way that we can help you?” Gudrun asked him.

“Just keep believing...” he managed; under his breath he added, “...because I expect this is going to hurt...”

ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´ ï´

Harry had been the very definition of a survivor at seventeen, but not much of a wizard.  Then again, that was true of nearly every wizard he had ever met.  He overcame an indifferent upbringing that taught him to be invisible and to avoid asking questions; a magical education that could be charitably described as uneven; and the orchestrations of an arrogant old man who offered him up to an ungrateful world as a human sacrifice.  He had lived a very closely-held life by any standard, be it wizarding or ordinary; as of his seventeenth birthday, he had spent more than fourteen years restricted to the grounds of two buildings.  He had never been outside of Britain, or even beyond the south of England excepting school and travel to and from.  He had lived on an island for his entire life – albeit a large one – and had only seen the ocean once.  The year of wartime had broadened his horizons, but even the best of days were spent in the shadows and most days were spent on the run or under fire.  Harry made it to the end of the War thanks to loyal and talented friends, good timing, the sacrifices of others and sheer dumb luck.  His principal skills in those days were improvisation and persistence. 

At twenty-four – or perhaps thirty, depending on one's point of view – he had studied and trained on six continents.  He had explored dozens of different systems for the practice of magic, from the British framework taught by Hogwarts to the rune-dominated Nordic methods to the ancient magical arts of the Orient to indigenous magics like dream-walking.  He had visited more than forty magical cultures around the world; he figured that he was better travelled than anyone from the International Confederation of Wizards.  He had delved deeper into the nature of magic itself than all but a handful of living mages.  He had few legitimate magical peers, and nearly all of those were elderly.

He had learnt so much that he could no longer escape a horrible truth:  most of what he had been taught prior to the age of twenty was irrelevant at best, often distracting, and dangerously wrong at worst.  It was true that a focus like a wand or staff or rune stone or didgeridoo was necessary for the practice of the most intensive magics and could be helpful for lesser efforts.  Incantations, on the other hand, were a crutch for a mage with clarity of intent and sufficient will.

He would never tell McGonagall or Flitwick that all of the wand-waving they taught – the Bachman Twist, the Truman Waggle, the Merkle Manoeuvre, the Anti-Clockwise Wrist Whip and all of the rest – was unnecessary.  The only reason a Hogwarts alumnus needed to cast an engorgement charm with a Fosbury Flick was because they were taught so from the start.  An English wizard never saw it cast any other way as a child unless they had a family member who studied abroad.  The same method was taught in classes, rigorously practised, reinforced on tests, and required by the Wizarding Examination Authority for the OWLs and NEWTs.  It had occurred to Harry more than once that there would have been no hope of bringing Hermione back if he had paid more mind to his Hogwarts tuition.

Intention lived within the wizard but it could be fuelled from without.  That was at the heart of the ancient magics – the 'old magic' or 'higher magic' that Dumbledore oft mentioned without explanation.  Even those who practised 'old magic' were too abstract in their thinking.  His Icelandic friends believed that grœð was the magical manifestation of justice.  Justice and injustice were abstract concepts that described emotional states or beliefs.  They were ideas that could anchor or even fuel a wizard's intention.  They were not sources of magic in and of themselves.  Harry had loved Siggy to pieces, but she had thought too small.

Dobby had it right from the start, though it took Harry nearly ten years to understand.  The grœð was Magic, or at least the positive manifestation of it.  It wasn't justice or rightness or wrongness or fairness as a human understood those things.  Magic sought balance.   What Siggy and her people called græd was also Magic; it was merely the counterweight of the scale. 

The mages of old were right when they had said that powerful magics always exact a price. That was why sacrificial magic was at once great and terrible.  The invoker paid an intentional personal price at the outset.  Magic was left to restore the balance.  Harry's mother had given her life for him with clear ritual intent.  Voldemort had been at a double disadvantage: not only was he on the wrong end of the sacrifice, but he also lacked respect for Magic – even as he accepted some of its truths, he effectively denied its existence.  On that fateful night in Godric's Hollow, he had never stood a chance.

It took Harry the best part of a year to identify and perform a basic analysis of the tangle of spells, rituals and bonds that had connected him to Hermione, Voldemort and the horcruces.  After another year, he had solidified a sequence of events and created a billboard-sized table of interactions.  From those, he worked backward through the sequence and carefully eliminated each element that was ineffective, each pair of effects that countered one another.  It was like drawing a picture by sketching the empty spaces – painstaking, tedious, and never quite right no matter the effort.  Through all of that and beyond, he constantly studied and trained and hoped to effectively and safely reverse what had happened. 

Once he recognised the truth of Magic and taught himself to consistently act upon it, it was brutally obvious what had to be done.  His friends weren't going to like what they were about to watch, not in the slightest.  He had tried to mislead Siggy as to his plan, though it now seemed as if she might have understood all along.  There was no time left to consider how the ancient witch's own sacrifice might affect the next few moments; he could only hope that it would work to Hermione's favour. 

As long as he stayed true throughout and his coven stayed firm in its belief, he didn't believe that the real ritual in play – the invocation of Magic itself – could actually kill him.  However, he had long ago decided that he would rather die along with Hermione if Magic balanced in opposition to them.  He took several slow breaths and focused his thoughts.  His intentions couldn't be more clear – they had been honed for a decade, after all. 

He peered down into the cauldron.  Hermione's body floated just beneath the surface of the liquid.  She wore a simple white shift that had gone slightly transparent once soaked.  She had naturally drifted into a foetal position as though waiting to be re-born. In his arms, the body had looked more like Hermione as he'd last seen her: gaunt, with visibly greying hair.  Now her hair was shorter than he recalled it, and without a single trace of white.  She looked so young that it startled him for a moment, but then it occurred to him that this was likely how an eighteen year old, uninjured and properly fed Hermione would have looked.  

He drew his wand, pointed it at her forehead and began to weave Magic.  He rebuilt the equivalent of the flawed connection that had formed between the two of them and Ravenclaw's false grimoire – theurgus valere – with a series of runes on the cauldron in place of the long-destroyed horcrux.  Once that was in place, he forged the links to the runes, and stopped briefly to test the results.  There was a noticeable drain on him after that, since he had to provide all of the energy that sustained the connection, but it was otherwise identical to the connection as it had been in the end.

Next, he re-established the curse-sharing bond – excratio pensare – that had likely kept Hermione's soul from being flung into the ether.  The drain on him grew stronger, but it was manageable.

Then, he slowly lowered his wand into the liquid and touched it to her upper arm.  He silently asked for her to be caught in a firm body-bind, and then carefully placed a series of runic tattoos that precisely matched the ones she had burned into him six years prior.  With that done, he silently cast an enervation charm.

The body's eyes shot open and it thrashed against the binding but to no avail.  He heard a commotion in the room but was far too focused to respond.  He had to act quickly now, or Siggy's last concern – that Hermione would drown before the ritual was completed – could possibly come true.  

Just as you couldn't truly verify the strength of an Unbreakable Vow without breaking it and suffering the penalty, you couldn't demonstrate the intention to pay the price for Magic's balance without actually doing so.  He had re-established the necessary connections.  All that remained was to surrender his own fate.  He raised his wand from the cauldron and placed the tip at his own temple. 

The commotion was clearer now, as some of his friends had moved closer.

“HARRY!” 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh, God... you can't – ”   

He almost stopped, but then he heard what he needed to hear.  At first he thought it was Luna, but then he realised that it was Gudrun – the least likely of them all.

“Ronald, you can not stop this now.  Harry! I am scared for you but I understand now!  I know what it means to believe in Magic, and I want to believe.  I will care for the two of you when this is finished and then you will teach me.  It is as simple as that.”

His intention was strong as steel and honed like a blade.  The last thing he saw was a brilliant green flash.  The last thing he felt was the lip of the cauldron; he struck it as he pitched forward.  Then there was darkness, followed by endless white.

What do you want? he heard.

Harry didn't give voice to his answer as he had done in the Room of Magical Energies and at the Inn of the Healing Order.  Instead he packaged his intent and cast it like a Patronus into the mists.  Magic didn't speak in return, but he recognised that it found him worthy.

What is the price? he asked directly.

The price is paid , he heard.

He wanted to ask what the price had been and how it had been paid, but instead focused his intentions on giving thanks.  As it happened, he didn't need to ask.

You understand now, and that cannot be undone , he heard.

It took a moment or a day or a thousand years, but he puzzled out Magic's balance.  The ritual was going to succeed and it wasn't going to kill him, but his path for the last decade had nearly destroyed him.  He now knew the truth of Magic, and it wasn't something that could he could simply forget – it couldn't be undone.  Eventually Gudrun would see it as well and would probably be able to act on it.  She had the necessary intelligence, curiosity, determination and relationship with Magic.  He couldn't decide what Hermione might do with the knowledge if she understood it; he did know that she was less prepared to cope with it, at least for the moment.  As for others...?  Pandora's Box hadn't  opened, but it was unlocked and he was now its minder.  It was quite a price indeed, but one that he would have paid a hundred times if it brought Hermione back. 

There were no more words after that.  He was left with a strong sense that while Magic would always respond to him if he treated it with regard and respect, it would never speak to him again.  That was reassuring, he decided.  Then the endless white receded into darkness and he knew no more.

November 1, 2004      Hogwarts Castle, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

His first thought was that his chest hurt.  That led to a powerful coughing fit.  His second thought was that his chest hurt even more.  Something made his nose tickle.  He reached up to scratch at it, and his third thought was that everything hurt.  His nose tickled again.  This time he recognised the feeling of hairs brushing against it, which was something he hadn't felt in a very long time.  He tried to shift his weight and painfully confirmed his third thought.

“I am never doing that again,” he croaked.

”I certainly hope not,” said the owner of the hair.

He opened his eyes – which also hurt – just enough to squint at his surroundings: the Hogwarts Hospital wing.  “Ugh... deja vu,” he managed to say.

Hermione's head rested against his shoulder, and she had a smile that he'd never before seen on her face; the only word for it that came to him was 'peaceful'.  “Good morning... good afternoon, actually,” she said.

He let go of a breath that he hadn't know he was holding, and the tightness in his chest eased a little more.  “It worked,” he said.

Her strange smile didn't waver as she agreed, “It did indeed.”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She faltered slightly at that.  “I'm perfectly healthy according to Gudrun, and she honestly meant to say 'perfectly'...”

“What is it?  What's wrong, then?” he asked.

She bit her lower lip in the way she always had when she was uncertain.  “Everything is so... it's so... everything's bright, and loud, and just... everything is so intense ... but we're both still alive and he's gone.  That's enough, isn't it?” she decided.  The odd, peaceful smile returned; she closed her eyes and burrowed into his shoulder.  He winced but wasn't about to complain.  Each breath seemed to ease his chest a little more. 

He sensed that Gudrun was there before she said, “He has awakened at last.  Welcome back, Harry.”

“You believed,” he said.

“I did.  I wanted to throttle you, of course, but I did believe,” she admitted.

“Why?” he asked.

She said, “Why did I believe?  Anyone who can evade an Unbreakable Vow by crossing his fingers can surely survive being struck by his own Killing Curse.  The throttling, it should be self-evident.”

“Killing Curse?” Hermione hissed in his ear; “No one said anything about a Killing Curse!  And what's this about a vow?”

“How do you say...?  'Oops'?” Gudrun said.

Harry sighed; he turned gingerly to Hermione and said, “It wasn't really a Killing Curse, just a lot of green light.  It's all a matter of intent.  I don't hate myself and I didn't want to die, but I was willing to sacrifice myself to bring you back.  As for the Vow...?  That's a long story.”

Gudrun chided him, “I wish that you had given more thought to the aftermath.  We could have been in a better place to assist you.  Instead you fell face-first into the cauldron and we could not reach you.  Hermione was struggling and disoriented, and this only made matters worse.  By the time we could dispel the ward, you had taken in two lungfuls of the contents.”

“So that's why my chest hurts,” Harry realised.

Gudrun nodded; “The pain should be gone by tomorrow,” she said.

“Gudrun's told me a few things.  She said that you've spent the last ten years studying,” Hermione said.

Harry chuckled, “Wait until you see my library.”

“Does the sensory overload lessen?” Gudrun asked Hermione.

“It's getting better, yes” Hermione said.

Gudrun pointed out, “Consider the change in environment that a newborn experiences.  This is surely a similar thing.  You lacked physical form for a very long time.  In the span of a few minutes, you regained not merely consciousness but also the five principal senses, hormonal activity, proprioception, pain response... considering all of this, you are in excellent condition.” 

“Damn it, why am I so tired...?” Harry said.

“Listen to your body.  If you need to sleep, then sleep,” Gudrun told him.

“Don't want to...” he protested.

Hermione pressed closer to him; “I'll be here,” she said.

He gave in.

Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux [final]
On The Seventh Day

Twenty

ON THE SEVENTH DAY

November 4, 2004     Hogwarts Castle, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

Harry was lost. Again. The castle was a much more sensible place than it had been in his day, but nothing was where it was supposed to be. A hand came down on his shoulder from behind. He whirled around and planted the tip of his wand under the chin of his assailant, all in the span of a single heartbeat.

“All right there, Harry?” Neville said calmly; he hadn't so much as flinched.

Harry blinked. His mouth moved and he blinked twice more before he blurted out, “You didn't move!”

“I didn't wet myself, either,” Neville chuckled.

“But...”

Neville said, “I've seen you practice, remember? Nobody's more in control than you are. I figured you might react like that, but I knew you could stop yourself.”

“In control? I did that without a thought – it just happened! I'm hardly in control at all,” Harry said.

Neville shook his head; “If you weren't in control, you'd have taken my head off. I wasn't worried about it. Now, having said that, I do hope my students won't need a change of robes if they cross paths with you...?”

“I'll do my best,” said Harry with a snort.

“How about breakfast, then? No one does a full English like the house-elves – excepting Hannah, of course!” Neville offered.

“Is the Great Hall in the same place, at least?” Harry asked.

Neville returned, “Four days, and you've not been there yet? What have you been doing with yourself?”

“I thought we were trying to avoid the students,” Harry said.

“Well, we surely didn't want anyone to stumble across, you know... that ... but there's no point in keeping to yourself now. Trust me, almost everyone knows that you're here,” Neville told him.

“What about Herm –?” Harry started.

Neville cut him off, “She's kept herself scarce, but I doubt anyone would recognise her anyway. Think about it: none of our students were even in school when she was here. Our seventh years would have been firsties the year we were all on the run. Wait... you don't know where she is? Where have you been hiding, then?”

“Oh, I've been here and there... in and out... unfinished business, that sort of thing,” Harry allowed.

“Everything falls under Official Secrets, is that it?” Neville huffed as they entered the Great Hall.

The space was nearly unrecognisable. The wall adjoining the castle proper was made of the original stone as were the supporting columns, but the rest was formed from massive timbers. There were more and larger windows, fitted with ordinary panes rather than stained glass. Though the ceiling was half as high, the Hall was brighter and it had an excellent view of the grounds. An additional set of doors opened outward to a massive covered promenade that was magically protected from the elements. The familiar long tables were still in place, but there were round tables on the promenade as well, where a mixed group of students from Gryffindor, Slytherin and Hufflepuff were studying. He was surprised when they started demonstrating spells to one another, startled that there were no staff to be seen, and stunned to see two house-elves in plain view. They were tidying up but also seemed to be keeping an eye on the students.

“The design is basically an update of the original Great Hall. The basic plan dated from the 12th century, I think. I miss the ceiling once in a while, but it does grow on you,” Neville said, and Harry realised he'd stood there like a great lump for most of a minute. He moved automatically toward the end of the Gryffindor table – or what had been the Gryffindor table in his student days, at least – but Neville smoothly redirected him toward the front.

Professor McGonagall had replaced Dumbledore's elaborate throne with a rather austere chair, where she managed to appear as though she was actually seated. No other members of staff had yet arrived for breakfast. She seemed to cast several spells, and Harry felt the presence of a small ward as well as something along the line of Muffiliato ; clearly she didn't wish to be overheard.

As was her nature, the Headmistress then came straight to the point; “Good morning, Mr. Potter. You have been hiding from Miss Granger. I had thought better of you,” she said as he took a seat.

Harry managed to keep from wincing, but gathered scones onto his plate and lathered them with marmalade before he admitted, “I'm not sure that either of us know where to start.”

“Miss Granger is an eighteen year old witch who is surely confused by all of this,” she returned; after a pause, she continued with narrowed eyes and thinned lips, “whereas you – if recent reports are to be believed – are somewhere in the vicinity of thirty years old, and far beyond most of our faculty and staff in terms of skill, training and experiences.”

“Fair enough... been a hermit for years, though,” he said between bites of scone.

“Yes, and it shows! Manners, please!” she demanded. Neville chortled at that before he was silenced by an arch glance from the Headmistress.

Harry rolled his eyes. “I'm too old for a scolding, Professor. If you've a suggestion to make, then make it,” he said. McGonagall's glance turned to a glare and Harry merely grinned. She huffed at him in frustration, and he couldn't help but laugh; her expression quickly softened.

“It's a good thing we're early, Minerva, because the smile on your face would send the poor firsties to the Hospital Wing. The older students might think you were under the Imperius Curse,” Neville joked.

“I'd end up being blamed, of course,” Harry said.

“A shame Malfoy isn't around to conjure up a few buttons, right? 'Headmistress smiles! Potter stinks!' or something like that?” Neville went on; he paused for a long moment, before both he and Harry blurted out, “'When my father hears about this...!'” and burst into more laughter.

“That will be enough, gentlemen,” McGonagall chided them; “Mr. Malfoy's puerile posturing was unworthy of note at the time, and it is unworthy of recollection now.”

After taking a moment, Harry said seriously, “You're right, of course. Say what you want about old Lucius, but the man was smooth – I mean, he was welcomed in the highest circles of power for years, even though everyone knew exactly what he really was. Draco must have been a disappointment; he was just a bully, and not a very good one at that. Honestly, by the end, I saw him more as Ron's nemesis than mine.”

Neville agreed, “That makes sense, looking back. Ron's a great guy now, but there was a time when he was... well... he could be as offensive as Malfoy in his own way. Don't get me wrong, Ron never set out to hurt anybody – can't say the same about Malfoy – but they both... erm...”

“They were both loud-mouths who saw the world in absolutes?” Harry finished for him; “I haven't forgotten why Hermione ended up in that bathroom with a troll, you know? Ron needed something to push him into growing up... wish it had been something less horrible, though. Gudrun's been good for him.”

“You're truly on better terms with her, then? That wasn't just something in the moment?” Neville asked.

Harry nodded; he said, “It's all settled. In fact, she'll be studying with me a bit.”

McGonagall straightened at that. “You're going to take up teaching?” she asked.

“Something more like training than teaching, I think,” Harry corrected her.

“That would be a pity. You have considerable natural abilities in the area of teaching, abilities that I would like to see directed in service of Hogwarts. 'Professor Potter' has a nice ring to it in my opinion, and as it happens, it is largely my opinion that matters,” the Headmistress said.

Harry blushed in spite of himself. He tried to explain, “Erm... nice of you to say... the thing of it is, I'm not sure that what I know can be taught. The things I've... learnt, discovered, tripped over, what-have-you?... they couldn't be picked up from a textbook or by listening to someone like me prattle on about it. It's more of a way of thinking... a way of living, really.”

“I had rather thought that you would take up one of the major subjects. It wouldn't have to be Defence, of course. Given the breadth of your studies, I have little doubt that you could earn a Mastery in Transfiguration or perhaps Charms with little effort,” McGonagall countered.

“Sorry, but I couldn't do that,” Harry said.

“Humility is an under-appreciated trait, but self-deprecation is another matter entirely. You could sit a Mastery examination in Transfiguration this afternoon, and we both know it,” McGonagall insisted.

Harry shook his head and took another bite of scone. “Wouldn't happen... don't do Transfiguration any more... sorry...” he managed with a mouthful.

McGonagall clearly reached the end of her patience; she demanded, “What are you blathering about? I have seen you employ highly complex magic with casual ease!”

Harry drew the battered bit of wood that he carried for form's sake and set it atop the table. After a frustrated sigh, he said, “'Complex magic', you say... and already, we have a problem. Neville, I'll wager that you know as much about wand crafting and wand lore as anyone in Britain. Give this a look, and tell me what you see.”

Neville picked up the wand, rolled it between his fingers, sighted down its length, and otherwise manhandled it before he said, “I'd be a bit sore at you if you showed this little respect for wand wood... good thing it's just a stick, then, isn't it?”

McGonagall was so startled that she accidentally drifted up from her chair and slipped into a bit of her native brogue; “I've seen you use that wand – it cannae be a mere stick,” she protested.

Harry couldn't resist a bit of a smirk as he raised his arms, rolled his sleeves past his elbows, and – without a wand, a waggle, or even a whisper – proceeded to turn the long staff table into a glass patio table fit for four. He broke the profound silence by saying, “I'm afraid it's just twelve inches of oak. I really should put on a protective coating or something like that – you're right, Neville, I haven't taken very good care of it.”

Neville's eyebrows had nearly reached his hairline; “But... but... bloody hell, Harry!” he choked out.

McGonagall stared at the table, then at the oak stick, and again at the table before her narrowed eyes fixed on Harry. “That is impossible,” she said flatly.

Harry's lips twitched before he returned, “You're an incorporeal soul who's bound to the magical wards of a thousand-year-old castle, and you're calling this impossible? Just a bit ironic, that!”

“Well, he's got you there, Minerva...” Neville said hesitantly.

McGonagall slowly shook her head as she told them, “At his best, Albus's wand-less work amounted to sophisticated parlour tricks. You know, of course, that he merely cued the house-elves to deliver food to the tables. It continues to amaze me how many students believed that he was summoning an entire feast with the wave of a hand. The wand-less conjurations of chairs and such...? Those were actually cancelled transfigurations. The lemon sherbets on his desk were for consumption, but the ones he kept in his robe pockets were transfigured furnishings and a trunk or two. In fifty years, I never saw him wandlessly conjure or transfigure anything larger than a pocket mirror!”

“Either you didn't read my thoughts on the nature of magic, or you thought I was all wet,” Harry concluded.

McGonagall hesitated for a long moment before she sighed and admitted, “The latter, I'm afraid.”

Harry couldn't help but frown; given her state of being, he had somehow expected more of the Headmistress. He schooled his features before he returned as tactfully as he could manage, “We believe what we're taught. Practice reinforces belief. British wizards dismiss nearly everything that wasn't created on our own soil. That would be a lot to unlearn for a second year student, let alone someone as accomplished as you.”

“You did, in fact, attend this very school for six years. You undertook the same basic education as all other witches and wizards in Britain,” McGonagall pointed out.

“True enough... and then I left your world for ten years and explored realms of magical practice that not many Englishmen could even name. With all that, it still might never have come to this, but I've identified three things that make me fundamentally different from every other wizard you've ever met,” Harry said.

“I can think of a dozen things without even trying,” Neville chuckled.

Harry mock-growled at him and – with a wriggle of his fingers and the incantation 'Oogedy-boogedy!' – changed his spoon into a foot-long wildly wriggling cod.

“Potter! Return that spoon – and the Head Table! – to their rightful states and continue with your explanation!” McGonagall urged him on.

“That isn't transfiguration, by the way. You could eat that fish if you like,” Harry pointed out before he clapped his hands sharply and ended both transformations.

“Explain!” McGonagall hissed.

Harry cleared his throat and went on, “Right, then: three things. Firstly, I've never really had the same limits imposed on me as other wizards. No one close to me ever seemed shocked when I would do something unexpected... like, say, my Patronus? Don't get me wrong, I was praised for it, but no one ever told me why it was off for a thirteen-year old to drive off a hundred Dementors with a single Patronus casting. Neville, if you'd been in my place, I imagine your Gran would have given credit to your Dad's wand before she spent an entire afternoon telling you why you couldn't possibly have done it?”

“What about Hermione? She was always one to insist on the rules, right? No offence, Minerva, but I'd probably never have learned Gamp's Laws if she hadn't drilled them into us for weeks,” Neville countered.

Harry couldn't help but smile a bit. “She always thought I was different – unique, I suppose. She expected everyone and everything but me to follow the rules, whether it was curfews or the supposed laws of magic,” he answered.

“You may find that Miss Granger's perspective on such things has changed a great deal, should you bother speaking to her … but do continue,” McGonagall said without a trace of warmth.

Harry silently berated himself for reacting to the Headmistress as if he was still eleven, even as he pressed on, “Erm... all right, then... secondly... uh... yes, secondly: having a Horcrux in your head from the age of one seems to have an effect on the way one accesses magic once that Horcrux is gone. I haven't exactly studied the differences – there's only one of me, right? – but believe me, they're quite real. Within a few days I was already more powerful, at least in the sense that British wizards view power. I've always been able to cast longer than other wizards without fatigue, but even before I stumbled onto the truth of Magic... um... have I ever told either of you that I can apparate to Iceland in one go, and then on to Canada after a few seconds' rest?”

McGonagall's silvery sheen faded in a trice – she literally paled; “Harry... you're talking about apparation jumps of thousands of miles... surely you haven't...?”

“Erm... it's a regular thing for me, really. Actually, a few years ago, I side-alonged an Auror from Bristol to Reykjavik and back – the bloke threatened to bring me up on charges for falsified entry documents, so I took him with me back to the Icelandic exit point. Now... well, I can side-along someone directly through Hogwarts' wards. I'm almost sure that I'm not Apparating, but I've stopped trying to put a name to it. Dobby says that it looks something like what house-elves do. Whatever it is, I'm definitely unaffected by wards,” Harry said.

“I'd say that's impossible, except that you've taken the idea of impossible and ripped it into tiny bits more than once in the last few weeks,” said Neville; “So what's the third point?”

“When my mum protected me from Voldemort, she created some sort of connection between me and Magic that other wizards don't have. Other wizards don't survive the Killing Curse, after all. Gudrun actually spotted it the first time she examined me, years ago. I think the connection between me and Hermione either used that same connection, perhaps even magnified it somehow. If that connection wasn't there, I don't think I would have been able to directly access Magic in the first place. Gudrun can do some of what I do, but the Healing Order's initiation creates a permanent connection between the healers and what they call grœð – which is really just one face of Magic itself – and even within the Order, her relationship with Magic was unique. Anyway, once I knew that I could directly relate to Magic with the application of sufficient will and intent, the rest came along rather quickly,” Harry explained.

“I see. Have you considered that Miss Granger might now possess the same abilities or affinities?” McGonagall asked.

After a moment's pause, Harry allowed, “That makes sense, really. You're directly accessing Magic each time you perform something that looks like a spell, Minerva, and you're in a similar state to what Hermione was in.” And then there's the matter of the ritual itself and the magical properties of the talismans , he thought to himself.

“When you properly speak to her , then perhaps you can confirm it?” McGonagall growled.

“Wow! Will you look at the time? Cuttings to prepare, classes to teach... busy, busy, busy!” Neville suddenly piped up.

“ Coward ,” Harry muttered.

“Professor Hagalaz! Good morning!” Neville called out. Harry at first thought it was another distraction on Neville's part, but a middle-aged witch unknown to him approached the head table. McGonagall gave a complex wave of her silvery wand and the privacy scheme unravelled.

The witch squinted sharply and then her eyes widened. “Mr. Potter? The rumour that you're paying us a visit is true, then,” she said; “Edda Hagalaz, Ancient Runes.”

Harry brought his left arm across his chest in a formal way and bowed at the neck. “Good morning, Learned Peer,” he said.

Her eyes widened even more. “Well, where are my manners? Be welcome here, Honoured Peer,” she said as she brought her right arm across and mirrored his bow.

Neville gave Harry a hard stare. “You have a Mastery in Runes,” he said flatly.

Hagalaz shook her head and said, “No, no, Mr. Potter is a Rune-smith. It's not really the same thing to the Guild, though the Ministry doesn't distinguish between the two. Think of a Rune-smith as... well, as having earned a Mastery by challenge, I suppose? Instead of sitting for written and practical examinations, a Rune-smith defends a completed practical application before a panel of peers – it's called a 'don rag'. I'm told that some of the Muggles do something similar to assess advanced learning. It's rarely done these days, as anyone sufficiently accomplished to pass a don rag could easily pass the examinations. Don't misunderstand me, of course – a Rune-smith is perfectly legitimate and worthy of respect!”

“Er... thank you for that. I don't know how I would have done on the exams – my education in runes wasn't exactly traditional. I wasn't going to spend months revising material I hadn't learned when I could take the challenge instead,” Harry said.

“Who were your panellists, if I may ask?” Hagalaz asked.

“Oh, I didn't go before the British Guild. I challenged in Brazil, a couple of years ago. Bruno Escrivão was the chair... don't know if you've heard of him? It was... well, it was on a bet, actually. I wouldn't have bothered, honestly, but there were some rather rare books on the line,” admitted Harry.

Hagalaz gasped, “Escrivão! Of course I've heard of him! How did you manage for someone of his stature to... no, never mind – that's a foolish question, isn't it?”

The Ancient Runes professor took a seat next to Harry and proceeded to pepper him with questions about his Runesmithing challenge project. Harry took a deep breath and proceeded to utterly confound her with a brief description of multi-dimensional and extra-dimensional runic arrays. He took her protests ('But that's...!' and 'You can't...!' and 'It doesn't...!') as gracefully as he could. McGonagall made no effort to intercede, even as more of the staff arrived and students began to fill the tables. He had a sinking feeling that this was the Headmistress's punishment for leaving Hermione to herself.

A few minutes later, there was a sudden pop! before the table. The current Defence professor – a young, cocksure, Durmstrang-trained wizard whose name kept escaping Harry – was instantly to his feet.

“Lower your wand before you hurt yourself!” Harry barked at the professor, which set off a few giggles amongst the student tables.

The man stared forward dumbly for several moments before he demanded, “What the devil is that house elf wearing ?” and the entire Great Hall went dead silent.

“Ohayo gozaimasu, Sensei,” Dobby said as he bowed formally to Harry. The house-elf was clad in a very straight robe, secured by a sash – almost, but not quite, a kimono. It was mostly silver but heavily decorated: there were floral patterns, Japanese hiragana, Norse runes, and lengths of spun and knotted threads that Harry knew to be Incan quipus, among other things. The robe was garish in a way that only Dumbledore could have loved but it was remarkably appropriate for the circumstance.

Harry tried and failed to keep a straight face. “And good morning to you, Dobby. I assume you have good news?” he returned.

“Dobby brings Sensei greetings from Gakusha-sama. Dobby is to present Sensei with the official record,” Dobby announced. He held forth a roll of rice paper tied with a silk ribbon, but was bouncing on the balls of his feet so forcefully that Harry could scarcely take it from him.

Harry opened the scroll, read the contents, nodded, and then brought his left arm across his chest. “Greetings, Honoured Peer,” he said with a bow.

Dobby brought his own left arm to his chest and bowed in return. “Dobby returns... I return your greetings, Honoured P-Peer,” he stammered. Professor Hagalaz's eyes rolled up into her head and she slumped in her chair.

Harry turned to a flabbergasted Neville; “Like I said... unfinished business,” he told him with a wink. Before anyone could speak and ruin the moment, Harry rounded the table, shook Dobby's hand, and escorted him from the Great Hall.

November 6, 2004     Hogwarts Castle, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

“We are nearly finished. Cough once more, please,” Gudrun said.

Harry did as he was told and tried not to glare. “This is an awfully thorough physical,” he grumbled.

“And a well-warranted one, considering everything that you've done to yourself,” Madam Pomfrey added.

“Be glad that it is a physical and nothing more. Those savages beneath the Ministry would perform a gross dissection upon you if allowed,” Gudrun muttered as she took notes on paper with a fountain pen.

“They'd do that to me for sport. I'm not the most popular fellow when it comes to that particular Department. Nice pen, by the way. Did you know Mont Blanc makes one with a reservoir specifically for charmed ink?” Harry said.

Gudrun shook her head. “I did not. That would be a useful thing. We do not... rather, the Healing Order does not teach the use of quills. There is no need,” she said as she finished writing and passed the paper to Madam Pomfrey.

The older healer nodded approvingly as she read; “This is very interesting, very interesting indeed. Some of these diagnostics would be rather useful to know. I'm able to derive the same information, but yours are much more efficient. I suppose they're secrets of the trade...”

“They are not, but a specialised rune set is required for some – this one, and this, and this as well. If you wish to learn, I am willing to teach,” Gudrun said.

Harry huffed, “So, what's going on? Am I dying...? You know, rotting away as we sit here?”

“Rotting away, all right – starting between the ears. You're fine. You're better than fine, actually. You've no right to be, of course, but that's nothing new with you,” Madam Pomfrey said briskly.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Harry grumbled.

Madam Pomfrey seemed to deflate. “I'm not disappointed! It's just that... goodness knows that you've lived through your share of injuries, but how many times can one person muddle through on sheer luck? I worry for you, Harry,” she said.

Harry was completely caught short by that. He stammered, “I... I... it's really nice that, erm... that you care, right? I mean, I knew that you cared... it's just... umm...”

Gudrun let her hand rest on his shoulder and shook her head slowly; “How is it that you are so surprised by the feelings you inspire in others? This is not something that I can understand,” she said. Harry shrugged his shoulders in reply.

After a long moment, Madam Pomfrey ventured, “Now... there is still the matter of this connection between you and Miss Granger –”

“Is it harmful?” Harry cut her off.

Madam Pomfrey admitted, “I don't honestly know. Perhaps you should answer that yourself?”

“It is what it is. There's no undoing it,” said Harry.

Gudrun said, “It would be best if the both of you avoided exposure to harmful magics... curses and such things. This is no different than the connection you shared before the end of the War.”

“That connection caused Miss Granger's soul to be disembodied and held in place for years. What's to say that it couldn't happen again?” Madam Pomfrey said darkly.

“I don't think either of us plans on standing in the way of a Killing Curse,” Harry returned.

“Yes, well... I doubt it was the desired outcome before, was it? The... the whole thing is more than a little disconcerting. It's as though you've become phylacteries for one another,” said Madam Pomfrey.

Gudrun scoffed, “Phylacteries? You imply that Harry was a soul jar for Hermione? That is ridiculous. It implies that they planned for such a thing to happen, and it discounts what Ski-madr did to Harry. Phylacteries do not work, in any case. They are known to hold back an imprinting only – it is like your portraits, or perhaps a ghost. Souls cannot be divided, they can only be crudely copied. Ski-madr thought it different and this cost him everything.”

Harry smiled at her and nodded in agreement. “That's it, exactly. Look, Poppy, I can diagram the whole thing for you if it would help. What happened to Hermione and me – or to the Headmistress, for that matter – is almost impossible to duplicate, and it won't happen again. No one is a soul jar for anyone else, and Horcruces aren't what Voldemort thought that they were. My guess is that I'll live as long as Magic wants me to live, and the same's true for Hermione,” he said.

Gudrun's eyes bore into him; she insisted, “You need to speak to her.”

Harry protested, “I've been taking care of a few things –”

“Such as Dobby's accreditation as a master of Runes?” Gudrun cut in.

Harry fished through his trouser pockets as he said, “Among other things.”

“And you will soon be prepared to see the woman who loves you?” pressed Gudrun.

He wanted to protest at that – if Hermione still felt that way, then those feelings were for someone who didn't really exist any more – but instead he said, “Soon enough. I've only two things left to be put into place.”

“Could she not help you to do this?” Gudrun asked.

His expression darkened; “One of them won't be pretty,” he said.

November 6, 2004     Department of Mysteries, Ministry for Magic, London

Harry first felt Croaker's approach when the old Unspeakable was about two hundred feet from the entry to the Room of Death. He took a moment to set himself for a confrontation, but didn't stop his work.

“Just wait there – I'll be with you in a minute or two,” Harry called out when Croaker was stopped by the runic ward placed on the entry.

“Some of my brethren had hoped you would destroy yourself last Sunday,” Croaker returned.

“Really? What about you? What were you hoping for?” Harry asked as he completed a long, sweeping bridge rune and moved to close a seventh circle of characters.

Croaker said, “I did not wish you ill, if that is what you wish to know. We cannot defeat you, Harry Potter; it has been foreseen. You could have defeated yourself when we put the time-turner in your hands, but it was not to be.”

Harry stilled his wand to avoid a costly mistake. “Foreseen, is it? Are you telling me that I'm part of another prophecy?” he growled.

“In so far as I know, there are no other prophecies in play,” Croaker answered him.

“Hmph... well, that's something, at least,” Harry grunted, and then he launched into the final elements of his work – a truly novel bit of rune-smithing, if he did say so himself.

“I had expected that you would return the time-turner several days ago,” Croaker advanced, but Harry ignored him in favour of checking the quality of his finished product.

After three minutes, Croaker said, “I believe that you said it would be a minute or two?”

“You've caught me out: sometimes I'm a bit of a plodder. All right, you can come in now,” Harry announced, and the ward tumbled down.

Croaker strolled around the room with unmistakeable admiration in his eyes as he inspected what Harry had wrought. “If only you saw the world as we do, young man... we could do so much together. This is truly magnificent. I have held a Mastery in Norse Runes for more than eighty years, and yet I must confess that much of this is utterly beyond me at first glance,” he acknowledged.

“Thank you, that's very kind of you to say,” Harry said honestly.

“You could have simply written out the ritual design and thus satisfied the Vow, although it is true that the resonance of a rune-struck ritual environment can present a variable in and of itself,” said Croaker.

Harry strode toward him in a genial way and placed the time-turner in the old wizard's hands. “You were right about this thing. It's dangerous, too dangerous. It should be destroyed, but I did say I'd return it when I was done,” he said.

“I'm afraid that you are too powerful to be brought down by a mere bauble such as this. We will not be issuing it to anyone ever again, if I have anything to say about it. The sole reason to protect and preserve this device is so that we retain the knowledge to undo any catastrophes should others stumble upon the means of its creation,” Croaker explained.

“I think I might actually agree with you on that. Shocking, isn't it?” Harry said with a smirk.

As Croaker continued to look over the vast array of runic circles surrounding and intertwined with the Veil of Death's stone dais, he said casually, “I am mildly surprised that you have not yet departed these chambers. With the Vow satisfied, my hands are no longer bound, nor are those of my brethren. Though I see that you will not be defeated at our hands, my brethren do not necessarily agree.”

Harry waited several seconds before he said, “Oh! You thought that this was the re-embodiment ritual! No, I'm afraid that this is something completely different.”

Croaker froze in place; in a monotone and with barely a breath, he asked, “And what sort of runic ritual have I found myself reading for the last several minutes?”

“One that protects something more important to me than my own life,” Harry said.

“The Muggle Queen's influence over us is not sufficient protection?” Croaker countered.

Harry casually drew his oak stick and held it aloft before he said, “No, it's not enough for this. By the way, before I forget... I, Harry James Potter, also known as John James Black, do declare that I will never knowingly provide the Department of Mysteries of the Ministry for Magic of England and Scotland or any of its so-called Unspeakables, current or former, with the knowledge required to carry out a ritual intended to re-embody the insubstantial self or soul of a human being, such as the ritual carried out at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on October 31, 2004.” He waited for five seconds before adding, “ Lumos ,” which caused the tip of the stick to erupt in bright, coruscating light.

Croaker's brow shot up in disbelief. The Unspeakable tried to speak but couldn't seem to get any words out.

For his part, Harry began to dance – or so it appeared to Croaker. With a skipping, bouncing, lilting stride, his bare feet moved from rune cluster to rune cluster in a very specific way. He chanted under his breath as he moved, even as he opened himself up to Magic and apologised for taking such severe action to limit the Unspeakables' next moves.

Immediately upon the sixty-third step, the outermost runic circle erupted in bluish light. Croaker bolted toward the entryway until he was well clear of any rune-struck stones. Harry held his place as the next circles lit up, one rune after the next.

“Do you feel it?” Harry asked loudly.

Croaker slumped against the wall beside the entry. “Wh-what have you done?” he asked.

Harry said, “Compared to the rest of your lot, you're a decent man, Croaker. I suppose it feels like a dull ache to you? Something like indigestion, perhaps? Some of your brethren are probably begging for a pain potion right now. None of them have joined us here, and that's a good thing. It means that none of you were actively planning to drag Hermione Granger here against her will or otherwise do any harm to her.”

Croaker steadied himself and took several long, deep breaths before he said, “It is some sort of binding ritual. Most of those are Sumerian or Egyptian in derivation, but many of these are Nordic characters.”

Harry said coldly, “Don't worry, Croaker, you're no one's servant... well, other than Her Majesty, I suppose? This is very limited and very specific. Don't hurt Hermione, don't wish her ill, don't try to engage anyone else to hurt her, and you'll be fine. Wish her ill and you won't like the sensation. Actively try to harm her or have her harmed, and you'll be forcibly apparated to this room from anywhere in the world, at which time you'll develop an uncontrollable urge to walk through that Veil.”

“My brethren will decode the ritual eventually,” Croaker said evenly.

“You're the Runemaster – won't you decode it?” Harry returned.

Croaker shook his head; “I have no need to fear your ritual,” he said.

Harry allowed a small smile before he agreed, “No, I don't think you do. Your brethren won't be decoding anything, though.” He turned to the innermost circle of runes, pointed his oak stick and shouted, “ BAM! ” Both he and Croaker had to avert their eyes as a brilliant white flash of light filled the room. By the time either of them were able to look once again, not once trace of a single rune was visible – the Room of Death looked exactly as it had for centuries.

Croaker slowly broke into a smile and said, “Oh, well done!”

Harry looked at the Unspeakable thoughtfully for a few moments before he began to gather up his ritual supplies. “You're really not like the others, are you?” he said.

Croaker searched Harry's eyes for permission before he drew his wand and conjured himself a chair. After he settled into it, he said, “I do not need to agree with you or even to understand you in order to respect your abilities. You are only... thirty years old, perhaps? At thirty, Albus Dumbledore was an itinerant Transfiguration tutor whose reputation was built on admittedly remarkable NEWT scores. Chen Lu was an herb farmer at that age, and Nicholas Flamel was two years from completing his alchemical apprenticeship. Tom Riddle was only recently removed from work as an errand boy for a middling antiquities dealer. Merlin was a mercenary, barely more than a hedge wizard; he was in his fifties when he aided Vortigern at Dinas Emrys and nearly ninety when he met Uther Pendragon. Consider what you have already accomplished, Harry Potter.”

“I've only done what I had to do,” said Harry.

Croaker nodded; he said, “Fair enough. As I said, I have nothing to fear from your ritual because Miss Granger has nothing to fear from me. My brethren will know what they risk should they choose differently.”

“Will they listen?” Harry asked.

Croaker said, “A few will die. It will be of their own accord.”

“That's awfully cold, isn't it?” said Harry.

Croaker returned, “The role of this Department is to maintain a certain balance in our world. We are pitted between the Ministry and the people, between light and dark, between change and safety, between magic and Muggles. As of this moment, you are the most powerful magical being in Britain, and you are very young. That is tolerable provided that you remain good, or at least well-intentioned. The prospect of a dark Harry Potter terrifies me, and your actions today show that the loss of Miss Granger could easily put you on that road. Any of my brethren should be able to reach that conclusion. Any who cannot are fools, and thusly are dangerous in their own right. Is that cold? Perhaps. It is also practical and it is a necessary perspective for those who do what we do.”

Harry said, “I couldn't do what you do, I know that much. We shouldn't need anyone to do it.”

“That day will come,” said Croaker.

Something about that struck Harry oddly. He said, “You seem awfully certain of that...?”

“It has been foreseen,” Croaker said.

Harry's eyes widened; he gasped, “By you – it's been foreseen by you. It happened when you went into the grœð , didn't it? I remember you said something when we first met... that you were still haunted by it, I think?”

“Would you not be haunted by the knowledge that your world is going to end?” Croaker asked.

“My world did end ten years ago, so I think I understand at least a little bit,” said Harry.

“But now you have it back, do you not?” Croaker pointed out.

“It isn't the same... we're... we're really different now, we both are,” Harry said.

“One cannot go backward, I suppose,” Croaker sighed.

“That's true for you, too, isn't it?” Harry pointed out.

Croaker stood slowly and vanished his chair. “I look forward to following your accomplishments, to the extent that you make them known. I look forward to following Miss Granger's works as well; it will be interesting to see how she has been tempered by this very singular experience,” he said.

Harry impulsively stepped forward and shook the old wizard's hand; “If you ever decide that you're interested in knowing what I know... I'm not sure that you'd understand it, and I doubt you could accept it, but for some reason I feel as if I could trust you with it. All you need to do is ask,” he offered.

Croaker seemed to ponder that for a few moments before he said, “It is an intriguing offer, and one so very ripe with implications, but for now I must decline. I am willing to correspond with you and your young lady from time to time, but I am in no hurry to meet her personally... particularly within these halls...”

After a moment's thought, Harry caught the implication; “You'd like to tell me what you saw in that Room, wouldn't you?”

The old man gave an enigmatic smile and returned, “You should understand better than anyone the dangers of foresight. It is enough to know that you will be at her side, wouldn't you agree?”

Harry couldn't help but smile at that.

November 7, 2004     Hogwarts Castle, Perth & Kinross, Scotland

McGonagall drifted toward Harry, hands on hips, and said, “Mr. Potter, as you appear to have been regularly lost for the last few days, I will conduct you to your destination myself.”

“You'd think that with staircases that don't move, it would be easier to find my way...” he grumbled.

The Headmistress drifted along at Harry's side, pointing out the occasional change here or new feature there. More than once, when he mentioned Hermione's name within earshot of passing students, she shushed him. When they were well clear of anyone, Harry chided her, “We really aren't keeping this a secret, you know? It's not exactly practical to try.”

McGonagall didn't look his way as she said archly, “Miss Granger has been legally deceased for more than six years. It won't be a simple thing to explain away, and you can never acknowledge the means by which she has returned.”

“I'm leaving the public announcement to Kingsley. Hermione's been in hiding... she left the country and couldn't be found... she's been in coma from injuries... that one's good, don't you think?” Harry said.

“Few will believe that. A fair number of people saw her body,” she countered.

He scoffed, “Please! How many 'gas explosions' have there been in London over the years, do you suppose? It's amazing there hasn't been a ban on cooking gas with all the lies over the years, but the explanation still passes anyway – and not just with the people who are Obliviated, but with all the rest of them. The fact remains, Minerva, that wizards are about as clever as the rest of the human race. If an explanation makes the slightest sense and there's no evidence against it, then it'll be accepted. Besides, it would be even harder to arrange for a permanent unbreakable glamour and all the particulars of a new identity in both worlds – that's the alternative, you know? Well... unless you're expecting Hermione to leave Britain and never return, and that hasn't come up.”

McGonagall stopped moving and waited until Harry came to a halt before she said, “Really? Are you certain of that? You have spoken to her a total of two times since her return, so I rather doubt that you are privy to her future plans.”

A chill ran through Harry; “Are you telling me that she's planning to leave?” he blurted out.

McGonagall put on a flinty expression that Harry knew well from his school days – it left little doubt that she thought he was dim. “I rather think she should would have sought you out if that were the case. I do require a more complete explanation for your behaviour. You have spent a decade, subjectively speaking, determining how to re-embody Miss Granger. Now that she has returned, you choose to avoid her?”

“There were things that I needed to do. She needed the space,” Harry said.

The Headmistress rubbed the bridge of her insubstantial nose in frustration and huffed , “I love you as if you were my own... most of the time... but there are occasions, Potter, when you can be a daft twit. Did or did not Miss Granger ask you to meet with her today?”

He gave her a blank look and babbled, “Erm... well... the elf brought me her note... she didn't give a time, you know, just said 'the Astronomy Tower'... erm, so I was looking for the Tower – just had to reorganize the whole place, didn't you?... the new Library is pretty remarkable, by the way, and we really could have used those dedicated practice rooms for defence and charms... umm... it wasn't that long ago... was it?”

“Daft, Potter – utterly daft. Pick up the pace, please,” she snipped.

Harry stopped at the base of the Tower steps. “This is the Divination Tower,” he said.

“The loss of the old Astronomy Tower turned out for the best. This tower is in a better position for clear observations – less light pollution, as Professor Herschel tells it,” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders; “Oh, well, it's not as if Trelawney needs a tower any more.”

“That's rather unkind of you,” McGonagall upbraided him, though it seemed as if it was for form's sake.

As they climbed, he said, “Did you know that the old bat died on the same day that Hermione and I finally got together? That Christmas – while we were on the run? – we visited Oslo to thank the Norwegian Ministry for their help. Hermione decided that I should give out Christmas gifts to everyone that was part of the leadership-in-exile, and she added the Hogwarts staff to the list. Trelawney was living in Copenhagen then, I think. Anyway, I sent her a bottle of sherry. So, seven months later, she apparently had too much to drink and fell out the window of her own flat. The prophecy said '...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives'. That bit doesn't say anything about a Dark Lord – I mean, it follows logically that it was either Voldemort or me, but the words aren't actually there. I've thought about this more than once, you know: I gave the bint a bottle of sherry, she died drinking that very bottle of sherry as it happens, and Hermione and I figured out where we stood with each other within a few hours of her death.”

After a long silence, McGonagall said, “Well, that's quite a stretch. I would also advise a greater respect for the dead, even those who were very, very frustrating during their lifetime.”

He shrugged his shoulders; “Her stupid Inner Eye got thousands of people killed... well, that and Snape's big mouth. I'll never be able to forgive him that, no matter what he did later. Anyway, these stupid prophecies never seem to make any sense until after the fact, so why not? She got thoroughly pissed by my hand, died as a result, and I started to actually live on that very day.”

“In truth, I might have expected you to interpret Albus as the Dark Lord of the prophecy,” McGonagall admitted.

“No... that occurred to me once, but he didn't die from the potion I fed to him in that cave. Any way that you think on it, Dumbledore either died by Voldemort's hand or by his own. It all comes back to Voldemort, honestly. That prophecy was nothing more than Trelawney's blathering until he decided to act on it. Then, after everything, the bloody bast... erm... well, he cost me ten more years of my life, but at least there's another chance, right?”

“That is true enough. No matter what the prophecy actually described, it is no longer in force. What happens next rests in your hands. Don't stuff it up, Potter, or we will have words,” the Headmistress said with a flinty burr in her voice.

They passed a door that opened into a planetarium too large for the diameter of the tower. A group of Ravenclaws and Slytherins who looked to be in second or third year were taking notes on the massive star-field projected above them. Harry recognised the Southern Cross. They continued up the spiralling stairs until they came to an end at a metal door. McGonagall waved her hand and the door opened to reveal a high domed room with enormous doors on one side. The biggest telescope Harry had ever seen took up most of the room.

He didn't spotted Hermione until she was moving toward him. She said, “It's one of the largest reflecting telescopes in the U.K... didn't you say it was the second largest in Scotland, Professor McGonagall?”

“That is what Professor Herschel tells me. Apparently there is one at St. Andrews that is slightly larger,” McGonagall confirmed.

Harry slowly circled the room, his eyes on the massive framework. “A NEWT in Astronomy might be worth it now,” he said appreciatively.

“This is mostly for the benefit of the upper form students. I have agreed to let the Professor take on three apprentices for Mastery beginning next year. There have been more than two hundred applicants,” McGonagall said.

“If you keep this up, Minerva, Hogwarts is in danger of becoming as superior as Albus claimed it was,” Harry said with a smirk.

“Ten points for cheek, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall sniffed.

Harry pretended to look about in a panic and exclaimed, “Oi, was that Snape's ghost I just heard? Where's a necromancer when you need one?”

“Perhaps you should make it twenty points, Professor?” Hermione said.

“What will it take to convince you to call me by my given name, Miss Granger?” McGonagall asked.

“I could say the same, Professor,” Hermione returned.

Harry said, “This could be good fun: who can out-stubborn the other, I wonder?” He was met by two equally penetrating glares and immediately broke into laughter.

McGonagall crossed her arms and then included Hermione in her glare. “Now then, Harry is finally here, despite an absent-mindedness only rivalled by Albus –”

“Oi!” Harry protested; it was virtually a reflex for him to be angered by the sound of the old man's name.

“– and thusly the first half of my task is completed,” she finished.

“It was more than a little rude for you to be forty-five minutes late after inviting me here,” Hermione threw in.

Harry said, “Invited you ... I'm sorry? I mean, I was going to seek you out today, but –”

McGonagall cut in, “As I said, the first half of my task is completed. You see, I have less tolerance for foolishness than was once the case –”

“Good lord, is that actually possible?” Harry muttered, and Hermione smacked his arm.

“– and watching the two of you these last several days has been maddening. It would be barely excusable behaviour if you were third-years. Therefore, you may consider yourselves assigned to an indefinite detention,” she went on.

“You're joking,” Harry said flatly.

Hermione started, “With all due respect, Professor –”

McGonagall waggled a silvery finger at them and said, “This is no laughing matter. Potter... Granger... you will attend to this room until such time as either you have resolved all outstanding matters between you. The elves have been told that the Observatory is off limits. I will instruct Madam Pomfrey to ignore all messages from either of you, so hexing one another will solve nothing. Do not waste my time or yours by trying to evade this, Potter – though you are obscenely powerful, this is my thousand-year-old magical castle and not yours.”

Harry sighed, “This isn't up to you –”

“Perhaps, but what can you do about it? Kill me? I think not,” McGonagall said.

“Minerva! That's horrible!” Hermione gasped.

McGonagall gave an uncharacteristic grin – it was almost impish; “So that's what is required for you to invoke my name? I'll be certain to remember that,” she said.

“This really isn't necessary,” Harry insisted.

“Until later, then?” McGonagall said as she backed through the wall.

The smallest noises carried within the Observatory. Hermione kept her eyes to the floor and shuffled her feet nervously.

Harry nearly flinched at the sound. “This is silly,” he said.

Hermione sat against a railing that blocked access to the telescope's controls, her arms tightly crossed. “I suppose that it is,” she agreed.

“I... I'm sorry that I haven't been around. There were things that needed to be done, arrangements to be made...” he floundered.

She put on a small smile and said, “Like Dobby, you mean? You took him all the way to Japan to sit a Runes mastery... it's really remarkable.”

“I hoped you'd approve. He didn't sit an exam, by the way – he's a Rune-smith, like I am. You should see his project: it'll revolutionise potion-making... well, probably not in Britain. It wouldn't surprise me if someone in the Ministry tried to have him put down over this, not that I'd ever let that happen,” he said.

She crossed her arms even more tightly; “I did look at the first part of his work. It... it was beyond me, honestly. You should be very proud of him, he's brilliant.”

“He's had a lot of time to focus on rune crafting. Don't feel badly – I'm not sure I completely understand how it works,” he told her.

“I doubt that's true,” she returned.

“Look, I do know a lot about traditional runes, the Nordic classes especially. But Dobby... he's on a completely different plane with his work. He decoded Incan quipus that entire teams of rune masters have been poring over for almost a century, and he managed it in just a few weeks' time. Proud? That doesn't come close to how I feel about him. He's... well, he's family. Ask him to show you his certificate from the Japanese Guild. No, actually, ask him to show you his Certificate of Identity from the New Zealand Ministry of Magical Affairs,” Harry said.

Hermione's brow rose. “His... what? What does New Zealand have to do with any of this?” she asked.

“Well, Dobby is basically stateless. There isn't a house-elf nation, and under magical law here in Britain he still can't be anything but property. Did you know that it's illegal to own a house-elf in about half of the magical world? So, we took a trip to New Zealand a few years ago and had him declared a non-citizen refugee. As long as he spends at least ten days there every two years, they issue him what amounts to a passport. As far as the government in New Zealand is concerned, he is a free magical being by the name of Dobby Potter,” Harry said with not a little pride.

Hermione gasped at that. She stared at him in a daze for a few moments, then burst forward and pulled him into a smothering embrace. “Dobby... you... he... you gave him your name !” she babbled.

“Damn right I did – he's family, remember?” Harry said into her hair.

She nodded fiercely at that, but showed no sign of letting go. It was the most physical contact he'd had with her since he first awoke from the ritual – the most contact he'd had with anyone in a very long time. After a long minute, she abruptly let him go.

“I... I didn't mean to... I wasn't trying to... it's just that...” she stammered.

“You can do that any time you like,” Harry managed to say.

Her breath hitched as she said, “I... umm... I'm not sure that...”

Harry took a quick step backward. “No, I wasn't trying to... I don't expect anything from you, not like that,” he insisted.

She looked down, almost as though she was afraid to meet his eyes. She blurted out, “That's not what I was trying to say. I just don't understand why... don't you see? I didn't understand Dobby's project, not even the slightest bit of it beyond the third page or so. I... I haven't even sat my NEWTs. I have six years of schooling to fall back on, that's all, and quite a lot of it wasn't very good. You're a Master , for goodness' sake, and I'm not... I'm not even...”

Harry tried to take her hands, but she pulled away from him. He said, “You're not even what – finished with school? Fair enough. Hermione, you've been gone for a long time. I thought Gudrun explained at least some of what's happened since we were at the Ministry? What are... are you afraid that I don't need you any more, or something like that? Is that it?”

She moved away from him frantically and snapped, “ No! Well... yes, but that isn't what I... damn it, Harry! I'm not even human any more, all right?”

“Not even... what are you on about? Of course you're human,” Harry scoffed.

She shot back, “I wanted to talk to Dobby, I wanted to hear him at least try to explain his work, but I couldn't. I couldn't get past this constant feeling when he was near me. It was like... it was like finding a long-lost brother, and I just wanted him to be there, like... like a protector, or something of the sort! Honestly! He's remarkable, and I am proud of him – and of you – but he's a house-elf ! He can't be –”

Harry tried to cut in, “That's unexpected but not really surprising when you think about it. He did give the Magic –”

“And then there's this! ” she went on. Before he could say anything, she cupped her hands together and a familiar bluebell flame appeared two inches above her palms.

“Outstanding!” Harry said, but she ignored him.

“Or this! ” she bit out. With a wave of her hands, the flame dispersed and a rather nice Queen Anne sofa and side-table appeared. She reached forward as though grasping for something, and a silver tea service popped into existence atop the table.

“I'm... I'm not human any more... I'm just a freak...” she managed. He reached out and pulled her to the sofa before she could crumple to the floor.

With one arm around her shoulders, he said, “First of all, I never want to hear you say that word again, understand?”

“But –”

“Never again. You know how I feel about that word,” he insisted. When she nodded, albeit reluctantly, he reached for the teapot with his free hand and raised it close enough to catch the scent.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Hmph... you actually conjured PG Tips ? Well, then... builder's tea it is, then,” he said.

Hermione laughed despite herself; “You haven't gone posh on me, have you?” she asked.

He said with a shudder, “No... just reminds me of Vernon, that's all. At least you didn't brew it in the mug – ghastly, that. Milk and two sugars for you?”

“No! None for me, thank you! I realise that we're English, but tea is not going to fix this!” she huffed at him.

He said with a shrug, “Oh, well – you didn't ask for any scones, so there's not really a point, is there? Look, Hermione, you're not... that word you were using – you're not that. You are, in fact, a human being. You are Hermione Granger, all the way down to your quarks or whatever might be smaller than those. If you don't want to believe me, then you should have Gudrun explain it... just be sure you're ready for a medical school lecture on the subject. Say, do you want to get out of here for a while?”

Hermione gaped at the change of subject for a moment before she protested, “What? You heard what Professor McGonagall said: we're stuck here.”

Harry laughed, “That's a good one! She can't keep me here, and she knows it. I want to show you something – a few somethings, actually. I think it might change your mind, or at least help you understand some of what's happened.”

“But how –?” she started.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

She met his eyes and said, “Of course I trust you.”

He opened his arms and stood there until she hugged him, much more awkwardly than before. “Close your eyes,” he said. She did.

November 7, 2004      The Black Cloister, John O' Groats , Caithness, Scotland After a split-second of disorientation, he said, “All right, you can open them.”

She pulled away from him and her eyes immediately began to dart around the room. “Wh-where are we?” she asked nervously.

“Why don't you look outside? I think you'll figure it out straight away,” he said.

“I... I think I'd rather look over these shelves. This... there are so many books... very, very rare ones...” she murmured.

“One peek out the side door first, and then you can hit the stacks,” he chuckled.

She followed his gesture and disappeared into the kitchen. A few moments later, she gasped, “John O' Groats? We're in John O' Groats?”

“I've been living here since a few days after the end of the War. At first, I let the same cottage that we used... built this one a few months later. So, erm, welcome to my home,” he said.

“But we were just in Hogwarts –” she started.

“And now we're not,” he said.

“But you can't –”

He said, “I can, and we did. Hermione, let me ask you something? You've always been one of the most observant people I know. Have you seen me use a wand since you came back?”

She went silent for several seconds before she admitted, “No, I haven't.”

“Fancy a treacle tart?” he asked.

“A... what?” she managed to say before he pointed at an empty spot on the cluttered kitchen table and wiggled his index finger. A simple plate appeared, topped by two servings of treacle tart, prepared exactly to his preferences. She let out a long breath and sagged into one of the table's chairs.

He said, “All right, then, let me have it: no wand, no incantation, no source material for transfiguration, food can't be conjured... what else?” Before she could answer, he sampled the tart.

Instead of lighting into him, she held out her hand and said, “Give it over.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I said, 'Give it over'. You asked me if I wanted a tart, after all,” she repeated.

“No lecture?” he asked.

“Well, it's clearly there, isn't it? You aren't choking, and the world hasn't been shattered by any of this, so I may as well have a snack,” she said.

“I really did expect a rant, you know?” he admitted with a grin.

“Considering that I did the same with a full tea service, I'm not exactly entitled, am I? Do you have an explanation for... well, for whatever this is?” she asked.

He said, “Well, it isn't because we're both, you know... that word . In part, it's because we've both had the benefit of large magical sacrifices – courtesy of my mother and you for my part, and courtesy of the two of us for your part. We're uniquely connected to Magic as a result. If you're asking about the mechanics behind the treacle or the tea service...? At some level, it's the conversion of Magic to matter, with some sub-atomic transfiguration thrown in for good measure, but that doesn't really matter.”

“What do you mean by that? Of course it matters! We have to figure out what we're doing, what's happened to us!” she insisted.

He shook his head and said, “Why? So we can fix it? So we can use it as a proper tool? So we can teach it? I want you to read something, Hermione.”

“But –”

“It won't take but a minute. It's only six pages,” he told her.

“Fine, but I won't have you putting me off,” she harrumphed.

Before he set the papers on the table, he said, “You don't have to read this, all right? I feel like I need to warn you or something. This will change everything.”

She snapped, “Do you want me to read those or not?”

“I'm not sure that I do. It's more that I think you have to read this,” he said honestly.

She impatiently snatched the papers from him and began to read. The first pass took a little more than three minutes. The second pass took far longer. He waited for her to begin asking questions, but they never came. When she finally lifted her eyes from the table, she gave him a look that was absolutely unexpected: it was almost pitying.

“So you spent ten years with all of these books and with teachers from all over the world, and after all that you realised this . I'm... I'm so sorry, Harry,” she said.

“Why?” he asked, feeling a bit defensive.

“Because you're right – I know you're right... I can feel it. I doubt I'll ever watch a wand waved or a spell cast without wanting to tell them that they've got it all wrong. Is that why you live away from wizards and witches?” she returned.

He said, “I had too much to be going on about. Even at that, I couldn't have walked down Diagon Alley after the War without being hounded, and I wasn't about to solve all the Ministry's problems for them. It was bad enough that I had to deal with the goblins and the Department of Mysteries –”

“The goblins? What... hold on, sorry about that. I have a feeling I might be doing that for a while. It seems I've missed a few things,” she said ruefully.

He went on, “Understandable. Anyway, I'm just a regular bloke in John O' Groats. They took care of me, and they went out of their way to make it seem as if they weren't taking care of me. That's worth more than a cavern full of gold, I think. As for watching other people casting and such...? Even though I think this is the fundamental truth of Magic, it isn't something most people will be able to use. It takes a certain mindset and a certain... relationship with Magic.”

“So you have to survive a Killing Curse or be resurrected from one?” she asked.

“No, Gudrun is another example. Her people forge a connection to Magic via ritual. I don't really know if that's necessary; it might be that if you taught someone from the beginning with this in mind, they could do it. Maybe someone could approach Magic this way but still need to use a wand? Truthfully, if the connection isn't needed, even non-magical people might be able to invoke some aspects of Magic.” he mused.

“Well, the only way to find out would be to start teaching,” she said.

“Even if I could teach it, I'm not sure that I should. Can you imagine how badly this could be misused? One of the books Siggy had me read was by a man called Oppenheimer – he was responsible for America's first atomic bombs. I've thought for a while that the ethical issues he raised are spot-on in this case as well,” he countered.

“If I'm following your paper – and I think I understand enough to say this much – then Magic would desert anyone who tried to misuse it as badly as you're worried about. Why couldn't you just set up some rules? I'm thinking of a more formal version of what we did with the D.A... or perhaps something like the rules for Masteries?” she said.

“Guild Oaths, you mean? Erm... have we talked about how oaths actually work...?” he said hesitantly.

Hermione chuckled at that; “Gudrun and I had a chat about Unbreakable Vows and crossed fingers. I thought you deserved a good hexing until she pointed out that it worked exactly as you thought it would. Now that I've read this, I think it's fair to say that vows and oaths still apply to nearly everyone. I think a covenant of some kind would work, especially if you were teaching children and introduced it from the start; they would probably take it at face value,” she said.

“A covenant, huh? I'll think about it,” he allowed; “So how do you feel about all of this?”

She puzzled over his question for quite a while, and he watched a dozen emotions play across her face. He was surprised how easily he could read her, but chalked it up to her being younger and still innocent in ways that he had surrendered long ago. Finally she said, “A bit relieved, honestly.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Your paper, it's a relief. I've been really worried about how far behind you I am, about how much more you know. I still have a lot of catching-up to do, but I suspect there's as much unlearning to do as there is learning,” she said.

“What you study is up to you. You'll never have to take a job unless you're interested in it,” he told her.

She edged toward him as she said, “Another thing I've realised is that even though you've stayed outside the wizarding world, you've stopped hiding.”

“Erm... I have no idea what you're talking about,” he said.

“Ron's a dear, but he didn't do you any favours in terms of school. I should probably lay it at the Dursley's feet as well – good riddance to that lot – but you always wanted to be normal, to blend in. I knew you were a good deal smarter than you let on. Everyone seems to know that you're brilliant now – a prodigy, really – and it doesn't seem to bother you. It's... umm...”

“What?”

She cleared her throat and finished, “I like it. It's an attractive trait... er... very attractive...”

Harry said uneasily, “I'm... well, I'm... I'm older, right? Not just older than you, I mean – I'm older than our friends, too...”

Hermione rolled her eyes at that. “And Gudrun is how much older than Ron? What about Bill and Fleur?” she pointed out.

“Gudrun doesn't look it, though,” Harry said quietly.

Hermione looked at him – really looked at him. He fought back the urge to flinch. After a long pause, she said, “Well, you're certainly not Gilderoy Lockhart.”

“Excuse me?!” he spluttered.

She went on, “Obviously you're not prone to gazing in the mirror? Gudrun had a photo of you and Ron that was taken a few weeks ago. I hardly recognised you in it, because you look at least ten years younger now. The white's even gone out of your hair. I can't believe you didn't notice that, at least?”

“I suppose I don't really bother with mirrors. I just finger-comb my hair – what's the point in fussing with this mess, right?” he admitted.

Hermione took on a thoughtful look. She said, “At the end of the ritual, you fell into the cauldron. Do you suppose that's it?”

“You're saying that I was indirectly restored...? That's possible, I suppose. I thought that the extra years were part of the cost... but I suppose that it didn't have to be a physical cost at all...” Harry said, as much to himself as to her.

She bit her lip, and it was a few moments before she said, “I knew I would have a lot of questions – that only makes sense – but I expected I'd at least know what questions to ask.”

He said, “It'll come in time. There are a lot of people you need to meet, maybe some light reading –”

“Light reading? Not from where I'm standing!” she blurted out.

“I'm just having you on, but I mean it when I say it'll come in time. I put ten years into this, and I was, erm, a bit obsessive. I've changed quite a lot. You don't really know me any more,” he said.

For the second time, she looked at him until he wanted to flinch. “That's not true. You're the same person in every way that matters,” she decided.

“But I'm not –”

“You decided to save me, and you put everything into it – it didn't matter what it did to you, what it cost you. You reconciled with my parents – Gudrun's told me all about that, so don't even try to pretend – because you wanted me to have my family again when you brought me back,” she said.

“Er... I was going to take us there next, actually. Your dad... for a while, this was what kept him going, you know? He was living for this day,” Harry said.

Hermione was instantly in motion; she gasped, “Is he all right? Is he sick? I was so angry with him – what if...?”

“Relax, Hermione – he's fine. He wasn't, mind you, and I think your mum will kill him herself if he ever tries to keep back anything from her again. They're both fine. In fact, I'd say they're the healthiest non-magical people on the planet,” he assured her.

“And what exactly have you done?” she said with a hint of a smirk.

“I made certain that you didn't lose six years with them,” he said.

She took his hands and said, “Like I said, you're the same person. You're the same Harry Potter that I fell in love with.”

“I... erm...”

“Harry, I wouldn't have said that if I didn't mean it.”

“But...”

“You don't have to say it in return.”

“That's not it... you know I do... it's just...”

“Harry...”

“Your parents are expecting us, actually –”

“They can wait.”

“And we're having dinner at Ron and Gudrun's tomorrow, and I want to introduce you to a few people here –”

“That's a good idea, since I'll be staying here.”

“Well, I had hoped –”

“You didn't think otherwise, did you?”

“I didn't want to assume –”

“Start assuming.”

“Okay, but we really should –”

“I know, I really do want to see them, but we have to establish proper priorities.”

“I... what?”

She looked deeply into his eyes, and flinching was the last thing on his mind. “I've had seven days to think on this, so I want you to be quiet and listen. I don't know what I'm going to do with myself, other than I've no intention of going back to Hogwarts. I can't pretend I'm an ordinary person, or an ordinary witch for that matter, and I'm as excited about being mobbed in public as you are. I do know that this is where I want to be, if you'll have me. That's what I wanted before... you know... and it's what I want now. It's not out of loyalty or obligation or anything of the sort, so put that out of your head right now. It's because I love you. That isn't something either of us is good at saying, but it gets easier every time I say it. As for everything else...? I suppose I've changed a bit from all of this. Patience comes more easily to me. There's something about this... this connection to Magic, I think you called it? There's a sense of... of calm, I suppose?”

“You feel like you're at peace?” he asked.

“Yes... yes, that's it, exactly,” she said.

“I'm starting to sense that as well, now that I've been able to accept Magic as it really is. You might be a step ahead of me, you know?” he said.

“I rather doubt that. So I'm staying here. You're not going to fight me on this?” she asked.

“Wouldn't be very smart on my part, would it?” he laughed.

“No, it wouldn't. I've no intention of having my own room, by the way,” she said.

“Your father will come after me with a drill,” he dead-panned.

She snorted, “I'll protect you.”

“Well, that's good, isn't it?” he said.

She said, “Proper priorities, Harry, in case you've forgotten?”

“So that means we're off to see your parents?” he asked.

“Oh, honestly! If you don't kiss me right now, I will be most put out,” she said archly.

He said, “Wouldn't want that, would we?” as he gave in to a different kind of Magic.  It was time to take the advice offered him by Ron and Gudrun, by Hermione's parents, by Siggy, and even by the grœð .  It was time to truly live.

I

FIN