
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4749584.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Hermione_Granger/Harry_Potter/Ron_Weasley, Arthur_Weasley/Molly_Weasley,
      David_Granger/Jane_Granger, Sirius_Black/Remus_Lupin/Nymphadora_Tonks
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Hermione_Granger, Ron_Weasley, Albus_Dumbledore, Arthur
      Weasley, Molly_Weasley, Cornelius_Fudge, Rufus_Scrimgeour, Sirius_Black,
      Remus_Lupin, Nymphadora_Tonks, Alastor_“Mad-Eye”_Moody, Kingsley
      Shacklebolt, Minerva_McGonagall, Poppy_Pomfrey, Dobby, Kreacher_(Harry
      Potter), David_Granger, Jane_Granger, Fred_Weasley, George_Weasley,
      Ginevra_Weasley, Angelina_Johnson, Padma_Patil, Parvati_Patil, Seamus
      Finnigan, Dean_Thomas, Neville_Longbottom, Draco_Malfoy, Vernon_Dursley,
      Petunia_Evans_Dursley, Dudley_Dursley, Arabella_Figg
  Additional Tags:
      The_Golden_Trio, AU, Hogwarts_Sixth_Year
  Collections:
      Table_for_Three, The_Quidditch_Pitch
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-07 Chapters: 27/? Words: 159207
****** "Harry Potter and the Unbreakable Bond" ******
by Leviathan0999
Summary
     When Hermione uses ancient magic to save Harry and Ron, the trio's
     lives are changed - forever!
Notes
     Many thanks to Thevina, my TQP Beta, and my Live Journal friends
     who've made this so much better: Mrs. Quizzical, HarryLvr,
     ElfWhistleTree, Xedra, Layla, Magnolia Lane, Ministry Chick, and,
     especially, Sarah Enany, who reviews like Woah! Every one of them
     made this story better.

     Note also, that this piece will eventually earn all its warnings, and
     it's rated as it is for a good reason, but the Prologue is pretty G-
     Rated, so don't be disappointed.

     One final note: as our story opens, Harry is almost sixteen, and he
     will shortly find himself in a marriage situation.
     =====================================================================
      
***** Prologue: "A Butterfly Flaps Its Wings In China..." *****

                                   Prologue
                     A Butterfly Flaps its Wings in China
===============================================================================

                A butterfly flapped its wings in China. The wings, deep brown,
were decorated with large circular patterns, which looked much like wide,
staring predatory eyes. This defensive coloring worked once again, and the
small brown bird that had been eyeing the butterfly hungrily, leaped, startled,
into the air, and flapped away, its tiny brain having forgotten the insect, and
looking for more food.
                The bird's dive, a half-hour later, for a grub on the ground,
startled a small vole, which elected to remain in its hole awhile longer. This
worked out very well for the vole, which would otherwise have been eaten, in
four hours time, by a falcon.
                The falcon, in its turn, ended up feasting instead on a mouse,
whose absence from a certain tree-branch four days later would cause a brown
owl named Wei-Dung to detour for food, delaying his arrival in the Chinese
wizarding village of Xai-Shou-Tse by an hour. In that hour, his recipient had
gotten drunk, and this, in turn, led to a hangover that kept him from replying
to the message -- from his daughter -- for another two hours. The two
additional hours it took Wei-Dung to return to the school owlery meant that he
was unavailable for the Divination master's note to his opposite number at
Durmstrang, so a different owl took that letter, and by a different route.
                And so way led on to way, this owl's delay putting that one to
work, that owl's speedy arrival causing messages to be read in a different
order, and effects began to spread like ripples in a pond.
                In the world that you and I know, the message outgoing Minster
of Magic Cornelius Fudge sent to Dumbledore was carried by a slow-witted and
slack-winged Ministry owl named Slomo, and took four days to arrive. By the
time it had done so, the date was too close, and there was no time to make the
necessary arrangements, and, anyway, Albus Dumbledore had received word that
poor old Tom Riddle had put a great deal of stock into something Dumbledore
didn't fully understand -- something called horcruxes -- so Fudge's note had
been replied to with a brief, polite, regret, while Dumbledore's concentration
was focused on finding Marvolo Gaunt's ring.
                But a butterfly had flapped its wings in China, and so had
begun a chain of events that put a sleek barn-owl named Hera in front of soon-
to-be-former Minister Fudge, and so Dumbledore received the message days
earlier, suggesting that the Ministry could begin in some small way to make
amends by holding an official inquest within the Ministry's offices, into the
death of Sirius Black. Fudge had further mentioned that, with the testimony and
pensieve evidence of young Harry Potter and his friends, the inquest would
likely also end with an official, if posthumous, declaration of exoneration for
Sirius Black.
                Dumbledore had sat at his desk for a very long time, looking at
that phrase. Posthumous declaration of Exoneration for Mr. Sirius Black.
                His blue eyes, moist behind the half-moon glasses, closed
briefly in regret, for he, like all the rest, had believed the lies of a moment
over the knowledge of a lifetime, and had thought Black guilty of a terrible
mass murder. Harry deserved to see his Godfather cleared of those charges.
Sirius, poor, dead Sirius, deserved it as well.
                Albus Dumbledore stood from his desk, and left his office,
walking with surprising speed and grace towards the Hogwarts gates, from beyond
which he could Apparate to the Ministry, and so changed forever the fates of
all the world.
                Because a butterfly flapped its wings in China.
===============================================================================
                "Mum, Dad," said Hermione, "This is fascinating!"
                She was studying unique magic among the ancient Peloponnesian
wizarding monarchs.
                David and Jane Granger exchanged an amused glance. They
cherished their daughter's intelligence, and her extraordinary drive to
knowledge, but they did have to admit that there was something of a delta
between her idea of "fascinating" and theirs.
                "Peloponnesian wizarding royalty used magic binding spells as
part of their marriage ceremonies," she told them. "Listen to this! The
Nuptialis Unumspell, used by the Regimagi upon their wedded offspring,
guaranteed long and faithful marriages, for, when performed upon two people, it
resulted in them being left forever touching, and no power in heaven or on
earth could part them." She looked up at her parents, eyes alight with wonder.
"I bet those Peloponnesians knew how to work at a marriage!"
                Jane chuckled. She'd been telling Hermione, the day before,
about a cousin, divorcing after six months of marriage, and they'd both tut-
tutted a bit about the lack of commitment. "I think that might have been
carrying things a bit far, though, don't you dear?"
                "Oh, but think of how Daddy would enjoy shopping expeditions!"
                David snorted, and reached over with the Times, bonking his
daughter gently on the head with it before returning to the crossword.
                Hermione grinned back at her dad, and returned to her book.
"The spell had to be used judiciously, though," she read. "One angry Regimagus
performed Nuptialis Unumon seven people at once, and they were, in the end,
only separated by a bloody and terrible knife battle, which left only one
survivor."
                David chuckled as he tried to think of a nine-letter word for
Cube, cubed. "Doesn't take seven to make a marriage like that. Just go in our
waiting room, and read any copy of the Sun."
                Jane leaned over his shoulder. "Tesseract, dear," she said.
"And I didn't know you'd ever made it past page three."
                David smiled as he filled in the word, and raised an eyebrow at
his wife. "My dear, I couldn't possibly spare the time for page three. Why
would I, with you working the drill in Room Two?"
                He turned his head, and nuzzled into his wife's neck, and
Hermione huffed. "Honestly! You're going to scar my poor psyche for life!"
                "Time you knew, sweetheart," her mother said, a little
distracted. "I'm afraid this isn't the first time either."
                "Oh, I completely don't want to know," Hermione responded, with
a fond roll of her eyes, and pretended to return to her book. She loved that
her parents were still passionately in love with one another, even if they did
indulge in these embarrassing displays on occasion. Her mother stepped away
from her father -- who, Hermione noticed from the corner of her eye, gave her
bum a little squeeze -- and ruffled her hair on the way by to the kitchen.
                "Oh, Hermione," her mother called, a moment later. "There's an
owl for you!"
                "Oh!" Hermione stood quickly, and her head swam for a moment.
She put a hand to her chest, feeling again the burn from Dolohov's near-fatal
curse. Her father's eyes narrowed with concern. "Is it from R--" Hermione
flushed. "I mean, who is it from?"
                Jane returned from the kitchen, her left arm held calmly
perpendicular to her, a sleek brown owl perched on her forearm, eating bacon
bits from her right palm. Hermione's heart swelled for a moment with pride at
her parents. They were kind, intelligent people, and had adapted so well to
their lives having plunged into the periphery of the magical world.
                "I don't think it's from your young man, dear," her mother was
telling her, and Hermione's blush deepened. "This certainly isn't Pigwidgeon!"
                Hermione shook her head in agreement as she removed the letter
from the owl's leg. It bore the official seal of the Minister of Magic, and her
eyes widened. She opened the scroll, and read, eyes widening. She looked up at
her parents. "It's from Minister Fudge himself!"
                "Soon to be Ex-Minister Fudge, didn't you tell us?" David
Granger asked his daughter, with no small satisfaction. Hermione had told her
parents about the Minister's campaign against Harry, and they had been livid.
                "That's right," Hermione told him. "But he seems to be trying
to make some form of amends. He's requesting my presence at the Ministry
tomorrow afternoon for an inquest into the death of Sirius Black, and for my
pensieve testimony as to Sirius' innocence of the crime for which he was
wrongly imprisoned! This is terribly exciting!"
                "Pensieve testimony?" asked her mother.
                "Oh, yes, Mother, that's the exciting part! It's a sort of
magical device for sharing memories! I've never used one, but I'm told that
it's an extraordinary experience. Anyway, since Harry, Ron, and I will all have
matching memories to display of the Shrieking Shack, it should exonerate poor
Sirius!"
                David smiled grimly. "Always the way, isn't it? Too late to do
the victim any good, the Government pulls its thumbs out and actually tries to
set the record straight."
                Jane tutted at her husband. "Too late for this Sirius Black,
perhaps, but I'm sure that it will be some comfort to Harry."
                David Granger paused, remembering the small, handsome, dark-
haired boy, quiet, green eyes intense through his glasses, at King's Cross.
"It's the least they can do, but I suppose it's all they can do, at this
point."
                "Anyway," said Hermione, "Apparently the ministry will be
sending a car for me tomorrow. Professor Dumbledore is supposed to meet us at
the Ministry. I'll want to confirm this with Professor Dumbledore. Do you mind
if we get a Floo call, later?"
                "Sweetie," said Jane, "You know it only frightened me because I
wasn't prepared. That's fine."
                Hermione had produced a quill, and ink, and a small roll of
parchment, and written down a quick note in her precise, flowing handwriting.
She tied it to the owl's leg, and told it, "That is for Professor Albus
Dumbledore, and it is fairly urgent."
                The owl hooted seriously, bobbing its head, and Hermione led it
to the kitchen window, and let the owl fly free.
 
===============================================================================

                Ron looked up from the small, official scroll in his hand. "So,
Dad, I guess I should just go into work with you in the morning, Yeah?"
                Arthur Weasley nodded to his son. "Yes, I think that would be
best."
                Ron stepped over to his father, looked down at the project he
was working on on the small living-room coffee table. Spread out over the
surface were parts of a Muggle flashlight. Arthur glanced over at his son and
smiled. "Extraordinary gadget, that." He pointed to a small glass ball with a
metal threaded base. "Apparently, that actually lights up because a tiny wire
inside it gets so hot it glows. And it doesn't burn up because there's no air
in there. And those--" he pointed to two cylindrical objects about as long as
Ron's thumb, but much thicker "--are supposed to store Eckletricity, just as if
it were jam in the cupboard!"
                Ron was intrigued in spite of himself. "Have you ever opened
one up? To see the Eckletricity?"
                Arthur blushed. "Don't tell your mother."
                Ron nodded understandingly. "Yeah. I guess it must be pretty
dangerous. I mean, if two of those have enough Eckletricity to make a wire so
hot it glows...."
                "Exactly." Arthur looked seriously at Ron, his gaze slipping
down to the runneled scars on his arms. "So, I, er... I guess you come by it
honestly enough."
                Ron stood a little straighter. "Is this where you give me a
talking-to about taking foolish risks?"
                Arthur held his son's gaze for a moment. "No," he finally said.
"I'll brave the wrath of Mollywobbles."
                "Oh, Merlin, Dad! I did eat today, you know!"
                Arthur chuckled at his son, then clasped a hand to his
shoulder. "You stood by your friends, Ron. I can only ever be proud of that."
                Ron held his gaze for a moment, then hurrumphed and look back
at the table. "So, what did it look like, then?"
                "I'm sorry?"
                "The Eckletricity. What did it look like?"
                "Well, that's the funny thing, Ron," said Arthur, rubbing the
back of his head. "There wasn't any in there. Just some nasty wet slimy smelly
dirty stuff, and a metal peg. Odd, that."
                Ron nodded, regarding the disassembled Muggle device. "Yeah...
Odd."
===============================================================================
                Harry sat for almost half an hour, re-reading the parchment
from Dumbledore. His eyes kept returning to that one phrase:
                "While justice would have had Sirius live to see his
vindication, his memory deserves it now nonetheless."
                Vindication.
                Harry looked down at his bed, at Minister Fudge's letter. "I
cannot begin to describe my regret for this office's -- for my -- treatment of
you. I know there are no amends I could make, even if I were in a position to
do so. But I hope that by inviting you to take part in his exoneration, I can
in some small measure begin to repay my debt by allowing him to be remembered
as he should be -- with honour as a hero in this dreadful war against evil."
                Harry bit his lip. Fudge. He wanted to hate the man, hate him
for his own suffering, hate him for Sirius' death. How much would have been
different if Fudge hadn't spent a year denying the return of Voldemort? How
many lives might not have been lost?
                But Dumbledore's cover letter said that Fudge's contrition was
genuine, that he actually wanted, in some small way, to make amends. And there
was the other thing Dumbledore's letter had said, as well, something that Harry
kept thinking about, over and over again, pulling and gnawing at it as if
trying to break it down into its component parts for easier digestion.
                I know, Harry, that this will be difficult for you to
understand, but it is, perhaps, the most important lesson I will ever try to
teach you: Forgiveness is not something you do for someone else. It is not a
boon to the forgiven. In the end, forgiveness is a boon to oneself, for it is
the laying down of a burden, heavy and unpleasant, that no-one deserves to
carry. It is perhaps Tom's greatest tragedy that he seems determined to bear
this burden through all eternity. You can do better.
                Harry tried to wrap his mind around that. To forgive Fudge
seemed unthinkable. The man should be punished! He had sat on his backside for
a year, responding to the return of this dreadful threat by persecuting the
teen-aged boy who was unfortunate enough to witness it. The people he was
responsible to were left to fend for themselves as their only defenders were
punished and ridiculed and forced into exile -- and death!
                But Dumbledore had placed great importance on the idea. To
forgive Fudge seemed unthinkable, but Dumbledore seemed to have done it, and
hadn't he suffered the man's cruel harassment as much as Harry had? Hadn't he
been mocked in public, called foolish and senile? Hadn't he been forced to
relinquish his position as Headmaster to Dolores Umbridge?
                Harry pulled out some parchment and wrote his replies quickly,
then tied them to Hedwig's leg. "Bring Dumbledore's to him, first. I may be
willing to give Fudge the benefit of the doubt, but let's not tempt him, all
right?"
                And he sent Hedwig out into the night, then headed downstairs
to tell his Uncle Vernon that Dumbledore would be arriving to take him out the
next day.
***** Chapter One: "A Trial, a Tribulation" *****
 

                      Chapter One: A Trial, a Tribulation
===============================================================================
            Scrimgeour was waiting for Fudge in the main entry hall. It was
chaotic and crowded, members of the press wrangling for position among the
workmen beginning repairs on the fountain.
            "This is a mistake, Cornelius," he murmured, as Fudge approached.
            Fudge smiled gravely, offering Scrimgeour his hand. "Perhaps it is,
Rufus," he responded as they shook. Flash-charms popped as cameras captured the
moment of genial collegiality between the outgoing Minister and his
replacement. "But for the next six hours or so, it's my mistake to make."
            Scrimgeour shook his leonine head as the two men turned to face the
press, hand in hand. "We shouldn't be calling more public attention to the
government's failure."
            "The public couldn't possibly pay more attention to our failure
than they already are," said Fudge.
            Scrimgeour grinned over at him. "Our failure?"
            Fudge's responding chuckle was warm and genuinely amused. Were it
not for the events later that day, the next day's Prophet headline would have
read, not entirely inaccurately, "All Good Friends at the Ministry."
            "I don't recall you leading a fervent opposition to my position on
You-Know-Who from the Back Benches at the time, Rufus," said Fudge.
            Scrimgeour's responding smile was no less genuine. "No, Cornelius,
I can't say I did."
            "What the public needs to see now," Fudge continued, "is that their
Government has recognized its error, and is taking steps to correct it. We
can't brazen this one out. Anyone out there can see that we stuffed the whole
thing up. Our only choice is whether or not we'll appear to be so stupid that
we can't see it, too."
            There came a shout from the Street Level lift, and the press corps
turned as one, flashes bursting as a slender young witch with bushy brown hair
stepped from it. Her lips gathered in a disapproving frown as she scanned the
crowd of cameras and reporters.
            "Miss Granger!," came a call from one of the reporters. He didn't
wait to be acknowledged. "How did you feel when Antonin Dolohov attempted to
fatally curse you?"
            Other voices instantly followed. "Will Harry Potter defeat You-
Know-Who?" "Is he a good kisser?" "Is it true that Potter and Viktor Krum
fought over you?"
            Another, younger voice cut through the others. "Miss Granger, is it
true that you're the bossiest witch of your age?"
            Her head spun toward the voice, and there was Ron, grinning
cheekily at her from the crowd, his father's hand on his shoulder. He was so
tall, she thought, as she usually did when she hadn't seen him for awhile.
Almost a man, and still, somehow, the eleven-year-old boy with the smudge of
dirt on his nose and the lap full of Chocolate Frog cards. Their eyes met, and
something within her clicked into place in a way she decided yet again to
leave, for the moment, unexamined. She placed her hands on her hips and glared
at him.
            "Yes," Ron called, as he and his father elbowed their way through
the press towards her. "I can see that you are!"
            As he came within range, she swatted his chest. "Ronald Bilius
Weasley, you stop that right now!" she hissed. "That is not funny!"
            Ron angled a brow up at his father. "See?"
            Arthur stepped back his hands up defensively. "Oh, no you don't,
Ron," he said. "I said I was willing to brave your mother's wrath. Hermione,
you must face on your own!" He smiled over at her. "Hello, my dear, how are
you?"
            She smiled at him, her hand sliding unconsciously to her
breastbone. "All right, Mr. Weasley. Still a little sore."
            He squeezed her shoulder. "I'm not surprised. That was a brutal
curse. Dolohov still won't tell the Aurors what it was, apparently."
            Ron took her other elbow, and his blue eyes locked to hers for a
moment, without pretense, without defense. "Thank Merlin you hit him with that
silencing charm," he murmured. "Otherwise... I don't..." He bit his lip, looked
down, and when his eyes returned to her, they were merry again. "Ready to go
meet the great and the good, then?"
            Hermione's smile embraced both Weasley men. "I already have, Ron.
Let's go meet the Ministers instead. And don't cheek them, Ron! Your father
still has to work for them!"
            "Only one at a time, thank goodness," came Arthur's sotto voce
reply.
            Hermione's heart swelled with fondness for this sweet-natured
wizard, so kind and eccentric, with his love of all things Muggle. Oh! Hermione
smiled.
            "I almost forgot, Mr. Weasley! My dad sent you a gift!" She fished
in the pocket of her cloak and pulled out a box. "It's a Crystal Radio Kit."
Arthur looked blankly at her. "It's a do-it-yourself kit to build a sort of
Muggle Wireless set!"
            Arthur Weasley's eyes widened, and he reached eagerly for the
package, "Oh, Hermione, please, thank David for this! What a wonderful gift!
Simply wonderful!"
            Hermione's smile widened, and she leaned up to kiss Arthur's cheek.
He grinned and demonstrated that Ron came by his blush naturally, then, winking
at Hermione, told his son, "I'm sorry, Ron. I seem to be stealing your girl!"
            Hermione's and Ron's cries of protest were simultaneous and their
own blushes nearly identical.
            Arthur chuckled warmly and took Hermione's arm, gesturing with his
head for Ron to take the other, and they made their way through the crowd of
reporters to the two ministers.
            Scrimgeour stepped forward first, his eyes fairly twinkling in a
photogenic smile. He took Hermione's hand in both of his. "Ah, Miss Granger!
Enchanting!"
            Hermione, unimpressed, nodded politely. "Chief Auror Scrimgeour."
            Scrimgeour's smile did not disappear, but it froze. "Surely you
meant Minister.'"
            Hermione looked him steadily in the eye, reclaiming her hand. "Not
for a few more hours, I should think."
            "Miss Granger," came a smooth voice. She turned to Minister Fudge,
whose handshake was simple and professional. "Thank you for agreeing to take
part."
            "I don't do it, Minister, for the Government or its employees. I do
it for my friends." Her eyes were caramel-colored diamonds, staring into
Fudge's. Mouthed platitudes would not overcome her anger over his treatment of
Harry.
            "As do I, Miss Granger. To try to make amends."
            "Amends, Minister? Or a photo-op? Harry's not going to be pleased
to see the press."
            Fudge looked seriously into her eyes. "Amends, Miss Granger. It was
to that very press that I called Harry Potter a glory-seeking liar. I think
it's only fitting that I apologize to him before them."
            She heard Ron gasp behind her. "You mean you're going to crawl? To
Harry? In front of them?"
            Hermione put a tired hand to her forehead, but Fudge was un-fazed.
"On my very knees, young Mr. Weasley, if that's what it takes."
            The minister held out his hand to the tall young man. "Rupert,
isn't it?"
            "Ronald, sir. Ron for short." Ron took the hand. "And if you're man
enough to look Harry in the eye and apologize, well, I guess I can do this."
            Fudge smiled in response, but if he'd been about to reply, a sudden
clamor from the reporters silenced him, and all five of them, seeing the press
corps turn, and flash-charms flare, looked toward the lift. There stood Albus
Dumbledore, his hand gentle on Harry Potter's shoulder. Harry was scowling at
the reporters, now shouting questions, shouting his name, trying to get his
attention. Dumbledore leaned down, murmured in Harry's ear, and the green eyes
turned towards him, still angry.
            The elderly wizard's lips quirked into a smile, and he spoke again,
and Harry nodded curtly, closing his eyes for a moment.
            Then Dumbledore's wand was at his own throat, and his genial voice
boomed through the chamber. "Ladies, Gentlemen, if you please! We are here on
business with the Minister!" He gestured gently with one hand. "If you'd be so
kind as to make way?"
            And, as simply as that, the reporters were silently parting,
opening a path for Harry and Dumbledore to walk unmolested, toward the
Minister.
            Hermione was still cringing slightly, her hands over her ears, and
Dumbledore tipped her an apologetic wink. Harry was staring coldly at Fudge.
            Fudge offered his hand to the angry young man. Harry merely glanced
down at it. Fudge stood for a moment longer, his face hopeful and disappointed,
his orphan hand untouched in the air as the flashes went off. Then he lowered
his hand again.
            "Hello, Harry," he said.
            "You called in the press?" Harry seethed.
            "In fact, I did," said Fudge. "You'll see why in a moment."
            He turned to Dumbledore. "Albus, thank you for coming."
            Dumbledore accepted the hand with a twinkling smile. "It is a
pleasure, Cornelius, to accept your most generous invitation."
            If Dumbledore disapproved of Harry's attitude, he gave no sign.
Fudge looked back and forth between these two men he'd so recklessly abused for
the last year, one young, just sniffing at the entrance to manhood, one almost
impossibly old, with all the wisdom the years could let him gather. Between
them, he thought, they held the future of every man, woman, and child, wizard
or Muggle, on the planet. Had he really been so foolish? Had he really done
this stupid, stupid thing? He met Harry's adamantine gaze. Yes, Fudge thought
bitterly. Yes, he really had.
            "I must speak briefly to the press," he told them. His gaze held
Harry's a moment longer. "I hope you... won't be displeased with what I have to
say."
            He moved his wand towards his throat, and paused. "I hate Sonorus.
I always feel so silly."
            Dumbledore chuckled at him. "Indeed, Cornelius. Every time I put my
wand to my throat, I must throttle the temptation to shout, Nobody moves or the
old wizard gets it!"
            Hermione's eyes widened as a guffaw was forced out of her, and
Dumbledore twinkled at her, whispering so low that only she could hear, "Yes,
Miss Granger, Mel Brooks is something of a genius, isn't he?"
            Fudge smiled, not understanding the reference -- something from the
Muggle world, no doubt -- and brought his wand to his throat, murmuring
"Sonorus."
            "Ladies and Gentlemen of the Press." His voice was rolling thunder
in the room. The silent reporters looked expectantly at him. Flashcharms fired
again. "A little more than a year ago, this young man was abducted from the
Third Task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. He witnessed the cold-blooded murder
of a friend, a gathering of Death Eaters, and the return of He Who Must Not Be
Named." He paused a moment, and there was the sound of dozens of quills
scribbling hastily across parchment. "He dueled the Dark Lord. He escaped with
his life, and reported immediately what he had witnessed, what had been done to
him, and what he had done. In the face of his testimony... In the face of the
irrefutable evidence that was the lifeless body of a teenaged boy -- the body
of the son of a close friend -- In the face of the absolute faith placed in
this young man by perhaps the greatest wizard of our age..." He nodded at this
toward Dumbledore, who humbly lowered his head. "This government -- I -- called
this brave boy a liar. An irresponsible, glory-seeking malcontent. This
government -- I, myself! -- called this great wizard, this titan, a senile,
feeble old fool, and sent a... a criminal... to watch him, to control him, and
eventually to replace him."
            He gazed out over the crowd, glanced to his left, to Scrimgeour,
whose face was carefully neutral. Poor Scrimgeour, who couldn't let this event
occur without him, and yet could react neither with approval nor disapproval
until he saw how it played with the public. Fudge felt a moment of liberation.
He was in no need of winning any elections any time soon. He didn't have to
care what the voters might think, what might keep him in, or lose him, his
office. For better or worse, that was all gone now, and he was left only with
doing what was right, and it was somehow exhilarating. He knew the depression
would return. He'd been a politician for far too long to be anything else now.
Although he hoped he might, for these next few hours, perhaps be a statesman.
Perhaps.
            "To merely say that I -- that the Ministry of Magic itself! -- was
wrong, does not begin to address the foolishness of my actions. In my defence,
I can say... nothing. Nothing defends, nothing excuses, the choices I made, the
things I did and said. In my defence, I can say nothing, and my only, very
poor, explanation is that I simply wished that the grave news Harry Potter
brought back to us from that terrible place were not so. I did not want to
believe that that evil had returned. I did not want to believe that I could not
protect and defend you. I did not want to believe that Voldemort--" There was a
collective, cringing gasp from the assembled press "--had returned."
            He took a step back then, positioning Dumbledore and Harry somewhat
to the fore. "There is nothing I can say, no apology I may make, that is equal
to the task of addressing the injustice I have done these two brave, honourable
men. Still, I must try. So to you, Harry James Potter... To you, Albus Percival
Wulfric Brian Dumbledore... I offer the apologies of this government. I offer
my own, most heartfelt and abject apologies as well. As members of one Muggle
religion put it, Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa. It is my fault, it is
my fault, it is most grievously my fault.
            "The wizarding public has held me accountable. I wish you to know
that I, too, hold myself and my Government accountable."
            He looked over to Scrimgeour. "In a few short hours, you will have
a new Minister, a new government that will not be bound by, nor responsible
for, the errors of the old. But I... I continue to hold myself to account. I
will continue to hold the government to account for the choices it makes. I
trust that all of you will do the same."
            He lowered his wand, and looked back and forth among them again.
His gaze paused a moment on young Ronald Weasley, who smiled and offered an
approving nod. Motion drew his eye back to Harry Potter, and he saw the young
man standing before him, his face solemn, his eyes unreadable, but his hand
offered before him.
            "I don't know if I can forgive you, Minister." His eyes flickered
down to red welts on the back of the proffered hand, and the minister glanced
down, and saw they formed the words I must not tell lies. "The scars are still
too fresh. But I guess I can return some common courtesy."
            Fudge smiled, his eyes flickering again to young Weasley, and
solemnly shook the proffered hand.
            "Now," he said. "I believe we have an inquest to attend."
===============================================================================
            Harry had been expecting to once again visit the tenth level, with
its forbidding courtrooms. Instead, when the lift released them on Level Nine,
the Minister led them past the steps to Level Ten, and down a long, terribly
familiar hallway.
            "Oh, no..." he heard Hermione breathe. He himself lacked the power
to voice the same thought. Fudge heard her moan, stopped, glanced back, and saw
all three young faces blanching. "I'm sorry. Genuinely. But for this inquest to
hold legal weight, it must be held where the... Where the fatal event took
place."
            Harry's eyes closed slowly, and he drew a long breath. I can do
this. I can do this for Sirius.
            He looked Fudge in the eye, and nodded. Then it was a nightmare of
corridor and that awful circular room of many doors, and Harry found himself
again in that massive indoor amphitheater. There was a judge's bench set up
near the central platform, a number of officials seated at a table before it,
facing the rows of benches that were arrayed around the room. 
            Behind the bench stood that innocuous-looking stone archway, ragged
black curtains fluttering across the opening.  So simple; shabby-looking, even.
It filled Harry with sadness and rage to look at it. It was death. Sirius had
done nothing more complicated than fall through that hole. He was gone forever,
not even a body to be buried.
            Harry and his friends were shown to a section of the benches, where
they were seated together.
            The Minister nodded solemnly to them, and stepped away, taking his
seat behind the judge's bench.
            Harry turned to Dumbledore. "He's the judge?"
            "It is the Minister's prerogative, Harry," Dumbledore told him, "in
any court function presided over by a representative of the Ministry. This is
not a trial. There are no sides, no opposing councils. Merely an inquiry to
find the truth."
            Hermione leaned across Harry, and murmured to Dumbledore, "Why
aren't Neville, Ginny, and Luna here? They were part of this battle, and, after
all, only Harry and Neville actually saw Sirius..." Harry nodded re-assurance
to her, and she smiled gratefully, and finished her sentence, "saw Sirius, er,
fall."
            Dumbledore smiled sadly. "Those three young people do deserve the
recognition, Miss Granger. But you must remember, this inquest, while formally
about Sirius' passing, in truth has another focus."
            He seemed about to say more, but Fudge gaveled the hearing to
order. There were details of date and time, couched in officious language Harry
could barely follow. Very shortly, the Minister leaned forward, looked towards
the benches.
            "For our first witness, I call Miss Hermione Granger. Miss Granger,
would you please approach?"
            Hermione swallowed, then stood, and walked down to stand before the
bench. A wizard stepped forward from the "official" table, and extended his
wand to her. "Miss Granger, please take hold of my wand."
            Hermione reached out, took hold.
            "On your Magic, this is an Unbreakable Vow. Do you make it freely?"
            "I do," said Hermione, firmly. Red fire flowed from the tip of the
official's wand, and wrapped in a line around her hand.
            "Will your testimony here today be true?"
            "It will." Another snake of red fire bound Hermione's hand.
            "Will you conceal or obfuscate facts germane to the matter of
inquiry?"
            "I will not." Another tendril of flame entwined her.
            "Are you under any constraint or restraint, prior vow or influence,
that would invalidate or interfere with, or affect in any way the validity of
this vow?"
            Hermione's voice was clear. "I am not."
            "Then your Vow is hereby sworn under the law and bound by magic.
You may release my wand, and be seated."
            As Hermione's fingers released the wand, the red fire seemed to
sink into them. She gazed with interest at her hand, flexing her fingers. She
looked over, her eyes found Harry's, and she smiled solemnly at him. She then
turned and took her place in the witness' chair.
            Fudge leaned toward her slightly. "Please state your full name for
the record, miss?"
            "My name is Hermione Jane Granger."
            "Now, I would like to ask you to answer this next question
incorrectly, Miss Granger, to test the magic of your vow. How old are you?"
            Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but only a vague choking sound
emerged. Her eyes widened, and she tried again. Again, nothing.
            Hermione smiled. "How extraordinary! Minister, I am unable to
prevaricate for you."
            "Very well, then, Miss Granger," said Fudge. "Would you be so kind
as to truthfully state your age?"
            "I am sixteen years old, Minister."
            Fudge smiled. "Your place of residence?"
            And the questions rolled smoothly along, flowing seamlessly from
administrative minutia to the details of that terrifying night. Harry was so
proud of her. She was so collected, so in command of herself and her answers.
He felt a swell of affection for this magnificent girl he was so lucky as to
call friend, and glanced over at Ron.
            Ron was perched at the edge of his seat, his eyes intent on
Hermione. Harry could see the tension humming through the muscles of his
friend's back and shoulders. Harry gave one of those shoulders a quick squeeze,
and Ron's eyes flickered gratefully to him for a second.
            "And you don't know which curse Dolohov used, Miss Granger?" Fudge
asked.
            Hermione shook her head. "No, sir. I cast a silencing charm on him,
which prevented him from incanting it, so I couldn't tell which one it was."
            "But even without the incantation, you were injured by the curse,
quite severely, weren't you?"
            In answer, Hermione opened the front of her robe, and began
unbuttoning the top few buttons of her blouse. Harry glanced over at Ron, saw
his eyes widening, and looked back to Hermione. Her eyes met his for a long
moment, then moved over to lock with Ron's, the barest hint of an exasperated
smile playing momentarily with the corners of her mouth. She held her blouse
open a few inches, and Harry saw -- and, peripherally, saw Ron see -- the livid
red welt, scar shining white within it, that started a few inches below the
hollow of her throat, and wandered, in an irregular line like a drunkard's
walk, down towards the base of her breastbone, interrupted by the simple beige
cotton of a sports bra.
            Harry saw Ron's hands clench into fists on the railing ahead of
him, and lay a hand atop them. "All right, there, mate?"
            Ron's Adam's apple worked, and he nodded.
            On the platform, Hermione had turned toward the Minister. "You can
see the scar, Minister. Madame Pomfrey tells me it will fade some, but I'll
have it forever." Harry could see the Minister's eyes widen, see the slight
movement of Hermione's elbows as she calmly buttoned her blouse again. "What
got through of Dolohov's curse fractured my sternum down its length. It's what
Muggle physicians call a hairline fracture. Around that fracture the bone was
burned, its outer layer charred. There was also blunt trauma and burn damage to
much of the soft tissue of my chest. My--" She drew a deep breath. "My right
breast suffered a lot of internal cell damage -- cells ruptured from the
shockwave -- and much of that soft tissue had to be removed and re-grown. If
I'd had to depend on Muggle medical techniques, I'd have lost that breast." Her
shoulders moved as she straightened her robes. "I overheard Madame Pomfrey
telling Professor Dumbledore that, if I'd not hit Dolohov with that silencing
charm, I'd likely have been opened from throat to crotch, and watched my heart
beat its last on the floor in front of me."
            Harry made a choked sound, heard a whimper from Ron, and squeezed
his shoulder again, while looking over at Dumbledore. The ancient wizard's face
was turned downward, his eyes closed.
            Fudge sat back in his seat, his hand thumping boneless down to the
bench, and Harry looked back toward him again. The Minister's eyes were wide.
"I..." he took a breath. "I had no idea."
            Hermione was silent.
            "Did you realize that that's what you risked by coming here?" Fudge
finally asked.
            There wasn't a moment's hesitation in Hermione's answer. "Yes,
Minister."
            "Why, then--"
            She didn't let him finish. "My friends needed me. How could I let
them face this kind of danger without me?"
            The Minister actually smiled at that. "I don't think that hat has
ever been wrong."
            "I daresay it hasn't Minister," said Hermione, and Harry smiled.
            "Did your friends all know, do you think, the risks they faced?"
            "I believe that each of us knew them."
            "And you were all willing to face those risks for Harry."
            "Yes, Minister."
            "Why? Why would all of you, Harry included, take such a risk?"
            Again, Hermione answered without hesitation. "To save Sirius,
Minister."
            "I understand that, Miss Granger. What I'd like to know is, why
would you take such a risk to save a convicted murderer?"
            Harry stiffened, but felt Dumbledore's hand on his shoulder. He
glanced back at the Headmaster, and Dumbledore nodded gravely to him.
            Hermione cleared her throat. "First, Minister, as a point of order,
Mr. Black was never convicted. He was arrested and sentenced without trial to a
life sentence in Azkaban."
            The Minister looked uncomfortable, cleared his throat.
            "In any case, Minister," continued Hermione, "Sirius Black was not
guilty. I know this for a fact, sir."
            Fudge smiled. "And how do you know this, Miss Granger?"
            "Because I've met the man he's supposed to have murdered,
Minister."
            Fudge's smile widened. "Would you be willing to show us your memory
of that? In a pensieve?"
            "I would, Minister."
            Dumbledore's hand squeezed Harry's shoulder. A pensieve was brought
forward, larger and more elaborate than Dumbledore's with five deep blue
crystals set equidistantly around the rim.
            "That, Harry," murmured Dumbledore, "is a forensic pensieve. It
will project the memories into the air for all to see, and those crystals can
detect all known forms of memory-tampering, as well." He stood, and spoke up.
"Minister, I would offer my services to any witnesses needing help learning to
use the pensieve."
            The Minister nodded his assent, and Dumbledore approached Hermione,
went down on one knee beside her, and spoke quietly. She held his gaze,
nodding, her expression intent. He smiled and placed a hand upon hers, nodding
confidently at her.
            Hermione closed her eyes, her face a stone carving of
concentration, lower lip sucked between her teeth, a single vertical line
evident in her forehead, and brought her wand to her temple. She swirled the
tip of her wand for a moment against her temple, and then drew it back, and it
brought with it a long, silvery tendril, which coiled and moved gently in the
air, as she brought it over and lowered it slowly into the pensieve.
            The blue crystals glowed coolly from within. Fog began to billow
from the bowl of the pensieve, roiling into the air, looking to Harry like a
much more successful version of the steaming "volcano" Herbie Battlespoon had
made back in his third year in the Muggle school in Little Whinging. The fog
poured into the air, solidified into a nearly spherical cloud, perhaps ten feet
in diameter, and suddenly, Harry was looking into the upstairs bedroom of the
Shrieking Shack.
            There were Remus Lupin and Sirius Black. There were himself,
Hermione, and Ron, barely holding himself up with one broken leg. His first
thought was how heroic Ron looked, overcoming his pain to stand up to Sirius in
his defence.
            In the cloud, Sirius seemed to charge for Ron, but Ron's rat,
Scabbers, ran. Wands were pointed, spells were shouted, and as he tried to dive
through a hole, Scabbers suddenly stretched, engorged, changed, and the man
Remus and Sirius drew back from the floor, watery-eyed and pointy-faced, was
Peter Pettigrew.
            Harry barely watched it all unfold again; it was still so vivid in
his own memory: Sirius wanting to kill Pettigrew, Remus Lupin consenting, and
Harry himself, standing up, convincing Sirius not to do it.
            Harry bit his lip. Damn me!
            Ron leaned over to him. "You did the right thing, mate. You
couldn't have known."
            Harry felt a hand squeeze his shoulder, looked back to see Mr.
Weasley nodding solemnly. "Listen to my son, Harry. He's wise beyond his
years." Mr. Weasley tipped them a wink. "Occasionally, that is."
            Both boys grinned at him, and turned back, in time to see Fudge
tell Hermione, "You are dismissed, Miss Granger, with the Ministry's thanks."
            Dumbledore helped her retrieve her memory, and she stepped from the
stand before returning to the bench where Harry and Ron waited. Harry smiled at
her. "You were brilliant, Hermione!"
            She smiled her thanks at Harry, and stepped past him. Ron was
standing, looking at her. His large left hand gently took both of hers, and his
right seemed to reach, of its own accord, for the top button of her blouse,
above which the red skin could just be seen.
            Their eyes were locked on one another's, Ron's hand reaching, his
voice quiet, almost reverent. "I didn't..." He suddenly seemed to notice his
hand, and it changed course, squeezed her shoulder. "I didn't know, Hermione."
            She freed her hands from his and touched the sleeve of his jumper.
"You've got your own scars, Ron."
            "Yeah, well..." Ron looked at his trainers. "They're not as bad.
It's just my arms."
            Harry covered his face with his hands. That wasn't the thing to
say, Ron.
            Hermione's voice when she replied was very kind. "It's all right,
you know, Ron. Madame Pomfrey regrew the tissue. There's a potion and a charm."
She paused a moment. "And a salve I have to rub on."
            Harry's gaze snapped up from his palms. Did she just--?
            Her face showed nothing but concern... but was there a glint of
amusement in her eyes? Ron's ears were now bright red as he studied his
trainers.
            Their attention was captured by the rapping of Fudge's gavel.
            "If you'll be so kind," said the Minister. "I call Mr. Ronald
Bilius Weasley. Will you approach, sir?"
            "Y--" Ron suddenly looked a bit green. "Yes, Minister."
            His testimony went much as Hermione's did. He was sworn in with an
Unbreakable Vow, and started with answers to simple questions about his name
and age and address, and the questions segued quickly to the battle there in
the Department of Mysteries.
            Ron's face was bright red with embarrassment as he described his
conduct. "Everything seemed funny. I couldn't stop laughing. I was pretty
bloody useless, if you want to know the truth."
            Harry heard Hermione's breath catch, and saw Mr. Weasley's hand
come to rest on her shoulder. Her eyes closed for a moment, and she leaned her
cheek over onto that hand.
            Ron talked about the tank of brains -- "Accio Brain. Yeah, that's
the smartest thing ever done in this building." -- and pushed up his sleeves to
show the runnelled maze of angry silver-purple scars the brain he'd summoned
had left him with.
            Hermione's lower lip was pulled into her mouth, and Harry reached
over to take her hand, as Arthur Weasley squeezed gentle reassurance to her
shoulder.
            "Doesn't matter," Ron was saying. "My own bloody fault, innit?
Bought and paid for with my own stupidity."
            Fudge shook his head. "You were under a serious befuddlement curse,
Mr. Weasley. You can't hold yourself to account for that."
            "What? Only you get to do that, Minister?" said Ron.
            Fudge's eyes met Ron's, and they were silent for a long moment.
            "So, Mr. Weasley, did you know when you chose to accompany Harry
that it would be dangerous?"
            "Well, yeah. I mean, we thought there were Death Eaters here,
torturing Sirius. Not much more dangerous than that, is there?"
            "But, still, you came."
            "I've faced worse than that for Harry, Minister," said Ron. "I've
been chased by an Acromantula!"
            "I see." Fudge raised an eyebrow. "So you only took the risk for
Harry."
            "Nah." Ron shook his head. "Sirius was a friend. I mean, he wasn't
my best mate or anything, but I liked him. I wasn't sure I believed Harry's..."
he paused a moment, "Harry's information was correct. But I couldn't chance it.
Sirius was a friend."
            "Now, you also witnessed Peter Pettigrew's transformation? His
confession?"
            "Oh, yeah!" said Ron. "Right in front of me! I'd cared for that
miserable git-bastard for years -- years! -- and what's he do? He turns out to
be a bloody Death Eater!" Ron huffed in the witness' chair for a moment, then
finished, "Sir."
            Fudge was actually smiling now. "I can see that it would be
upsetting," he told Ron. "And would you be willing to share that memory with
us?"
            "'S why I'm here, innit?" asked Ron, and Dumbledore approached him.
            Hermione leaned over to Harry. "He's awfully upset. I hope he can
concentrate, retrieving a memory for the pensieve is surprisingly difficult."
            Harry watched Dumbledore leaning in to speak with Ron, and nodded
confidently to Hermione. "He'll do fine."
            And indeed he did, drawing out the memory more quickly than
Hermione. Harry was amused to note that Hermione looked prettier in this
memory, and the details of her appearance -- patterns of freckles, runaway
strands of hair -- were all thoroughly defined in a way they hadn't been in
hers. He grinned cheekily over at her, and watched the pale pink blush rise up
her face.
            Harry had a moment then, watching Hermione blush, watching the
magnificent willfulness of  her hair, the warmth and depth of her brown eyes.
It wasn't the first time it had happened, and it wouldn't be the last. She
really is beautiful. He felt his heart filling with affection for her, with a
warm envy for Ron, who so completely owned her heart. Harry let the thought
roll around in his mind for a long moment: Arthur and Molly, five brothers, and
a clever, courageous sister, and the love of Hermione Granger. No question
about it, it was good to be Ron.
===============================================================================
            Hermione glanced again at Harry, and paused. There was something in
his gaze, something she'd seen before. It was puzzling. She thought it should
make her feel flustered, or uncomfortable. He was looking at her almost as Ron
sometimes did, when he thought she didn't notice. Harry's gaze held affection,
attraction, even desire. But she didn't feel flustered by it, any more than she
did with Ron. She felt safe in Harry's gaze. Their friendship was so strong,
she felt such love for him, that those moments of hormonal teenaged desire were
all right, somehow, just another part of the process of becoming adults
together. She realized that his hand was still holding hers, and smiled.
            She turned back to Ron's memory as it replayed in the pensieve, saw
Harry interceding on Wormtail's behalf. She smiled. In Ron's memory, Harry
looked so noble, so heroic, standing up to his godfather.
            She glanced again at Harry beside her. He looked downcast,
miserable, and she remembered something Ron had told her, last spring,
something that Harry had muttered, awakening from a nightmare, not knowing Ron
was awake and listening in his bed in the fifth-year boys' dorm. Ron had awoke
hearing Harry cry Cedric's name, and then heard the gasp, the rustling sound of
Harry sitting up in his bed, and then the words: I should have let them kill
him. This is down to me.
            Hermione squeezed Harry's fingers, and he looked up at her,
grateful.
            "Ron keeps telling me I couldn't have known," he said.
            "Well, Ron's a lot smarter than he gives himself credit for."
Hermione lifted an eyebrow at Harry. "And if you tell him I said that, I'll hex
you!"
            Harry grinned, and they looked back to Ron's memory. Wormtail,
trying to wheedle her for his freedom. She blushed again, seeing how regal she
appeared in the memory, her face a mixture of pity and disgust, but her body
language somehow above Wormtail's petty pleadings. She looked like a wise
queen, tolerant of her subjects, but too clever to be taken in by their
flattery. Oh, Ron!
            Then Ron was dismissed, and returned to them. His eyes seemed to
pause as he took in their clasped hands, but he moved past, to sit beside
Hermione, as Fudge called Harry to the stand. Harry kept her hand as he stood,
and Ron glanced up at him. "All right, there, mate?"
            Harry gulped. "Yeah, I--" He suddenly seemed to realize his fingers
were twined with Hermione's. He released her hurriedly and moved to the
witness' chair.
            Ron cocked a glance at Hermione's hand as she returned it to her
lap, and she flushed, but Ron was smiling. "This has to be hard for him. He
needs all the support he can get."
            She reached shyly, and took his hand. "Me, too."
            Harry was sworn in quickly, and soon he was describing, in a cold,
dispassionate tone that frightened Hermione, the events of the battle of the
Department of Mysteries, that awful conflict that ended, for Sirius, in this
very room.
            "Is it your view that Ms. Lestrange deliberately sent Mr. Black
through the veil?"
            Harry looked back at him for a long, silent moment, his lower lip
pulled between his teeth.
            "I don't know, Minister," he finally said. "I believe she meant to
kill him. I'm sure she'd have been as happy to do it with a curse as to knock
him through..." he glanced at the veil, fluttering behind him, "through that."
            "But you are certain that Sirius Black's fall through the veil was
a direct result of Lestrange's curse."
            "Oh, yes, sir!" Harry's eyes and jaw were firm.
            "Now, this battle, Harry. It was very dangerous, wasn't it? Your
friends were injured, some of them, quite severely."
            Harry's eyes closed, and he angled his head downward. Ron's fingers
squeezed Hermione's, even as she was squeezing his.
            "Yes, Minister." The voice was tiny, forlorn.
            "And you were, yourself, possessed briefly by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-
Named."
            "I was, Minister."
            "Did these dangers surprise you?"
            Harry shook his head. "Of course not, Minister. It's like Ron said.
We were here to face Death Eaters who we thought were torturing a man. We knew
it was dangerous. But it was... it was important."
            "To save Sirius Black." The Minister's voice was kind.
            Harry's jaw was firm again, his posture upright. "Yes, Minister.
Sirius was my godfather and my friend. He was an innocent man, unjustly
imprisoned. I loved him, and I was happy to put my life at risk for him." He
looked over at Hermione and Ron, and they could see in his green eyes that his
gaze included Luna and Ginny and Neville, as well. His words rang out with
moral authority, and Hermione sat spellbound by him. "I hate that my friends
were so grievously injured, Minister. I hate it. But I'm just incredibly proud
of them, for standing at my side. I can't explain how much I'm proud of them.
How much I love them. We all put our lives at risk, Minister, and we did it to
save an innocent life. We were -- I was -- misled, pulled into a trap, through
my own arrogant carelessness. But as far as we knew then, an innocent life was
at stake. Sirius was innocent."
            "Merlin's balls!" breathed Ron. He glanced over to Hermione. "Did
you see that?"
            Hermione jerked slightly, and nodded to him, and there was a bit of
a chuckle in his voice when he said, "I guess you did!"
            "...and you'd be willing to share that memory in the pensieve?" the
Minister was asking.
            "Absolutely, Minister."
            Dumbledore huddled a moment with Harry, and then Harry was drawing
out the long, silvery strand of his memory, laying it in the stone bowl of the
pensieve.
            The geyser of steam again erupted from it, and again they were
looking into the Shrieking Shack. Hermione gasped and pulled Ron's boneless
hand into her lap, clutched it in both of hers.  In the view within the
pensieve she and Ron stood side -by -side between Harry and a mad-eyed Sirius
Black.. They were, quite simply, beautiful. There was no exaggeration of their
features, no noble glow nor heavenly choir. Just two tired, ragged-looking
teens, beaten, bruised, both of their bodies showing just the barest beginnings
of the transformation from child to adult. But still, they were beautiful in
Harry's memory, heroic and true. They were the flame of truth, the light of
courage.
            Then Wormtail was transforming again, Pettigrew confessing and
excusing, explaining his treachery as if it was the expected thing, and Remus
and Sirius were advancing on him.
            And there was Harry, interceding on his behalf, and Hermione let
out a choked little sound. The Harry they saw now was weak-willed, indecisive,
simply too cowardly to watch even the rankest villain die in front of him.
            "Oh, mate..." she heard Ron breathe beside her, and she squeezed
his fingers again, glancing over to see him shaking his head in sad wonder.
"Oh, that's not the way of it, mate. That's not it at all!"
            Harry was excused. He retrieved his memory, and trudged back to
them. Hermione was standing to meet him, and she pulled him into an embrace,
Ron's long arms surrounding both of them.
            "You did right, Harry," she breathed in his ear. "You did the right
thing!"
            "Listen to her, mate," Ron told him. He quirked a half-smile.
"After all, this is Hermione we're talking about, and you know she knows
everything!"
            This surprised a chuckle out of Harry even as Hermione started to
scowl, so she quashed that impulse and put her hand to his chin, bringing him
around to face her determined stare. "You'd better believe it, Harry! You'd
just better believe it!"
            The rap of Fudge's gavel sounded, and the trio turned toward the
Bench.
            "If I may," the Minister was saying. "I know that this hearing has
been, in fact, something of a trial for you, but we're almost done. Please, be
seated."
            The trio sat, Harry in the middle, Hermione holding his hand while
Ron's arm lay across his shoulders, squeezing Hermione's shoulder
unconsciously.
            Fudge wrote quickly on a couple of parchments before him, then
stood.
            "It is the finding of this hearing," said Fudge, "that the death of
Mr. Sirius Black was caused by homicide, that homicide having been committed
deliberately. It is ordered that a warrant on a charge of murder be sworn out
against Bellatrix Lestrange, that she may be arrested and brought to trial.
            "It is the further finding of this hearing that this government
carried out a most grotesque miscarriage of justice nearly fifteen years ago. I
therefore issue from this bench the proclamation that Mr. Sirius Black was
innocent of all charges held against him. This parchment"  --he gestured
towards his desk-- "is an official declaration from this government of
exoneration for Sirius Black. The record will show, from this day forward, that
Mr. Black was a hero, who stood firm against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, not only
in the battle that ended for him in this very room, but fifteen years ago as
well."
            Harry smiled, then, his eyes filling with tears.
            "This hearing is declared at an end," intoned Fudge. "One and all
are dismissed."
        ;& bsp;   Various officials and functionaries stood and shuffled from
the room as Harry sat, tears pouring freely down his smiling cheeks.
            Dumbledore approached quietly and let his hand rest on Harry's
head. "As an old friend of mine has pointed out, Harry, not all tears are an
evil. I am very proud of all three of you this day. And all three of you" --at
this he patted Harry's head significantly-- "should be very proud of
yourselves. You have acquitted yourselves this day with a grace and candor that
is very rare indeed."
            Ron and Hermione smiled gratefully at Dumbledore, both leaning
slightly into Harry, offering him the support of their warmth and their touch.
Hermione noticed Mr. Weasley's hand from behind, gently patting Harry's back.
            By the time Harry's tears had stopped and Hermione looked around,
she saw that the room was empty save for the five of them, and, near the door,
Minister Fudge.
            Harry nodded at his friends and rose, and they rose with him,
beginning to make their way down the steps alongside the benches. The Minister,
seeming to take this as a signal, approached and held his hand out to Harry.
            Harry paused, looking at the hand for a moment, and then Fudge
spoke quietly. "I don't pretend to have undone in an hour the damage that I did
in a year. I don't pretend that I can ever undo it. But I hope you will at
least see, Harry, that I truly wish I could."
            "I do see that, Minister," said Harry, and if his smile was so
small as to be merely the suggestion, it was, at least, quite genuine. He took
the offered hand once again. "I can't-- I can't say I forgive you just yet,
Minister. I don't think-- I don't think it would be right to barter my
forgiveness, like Sirius' good name was some sort of bargaining chip."
            The Minister's head drew back from Harry, eyes slightly wide, brows
a bit elevated.
            "But I do thank you," Harry continued. "For myself. For my friends.
For--" his voice hitched. "For Sirius."
            Fudge's hand touched Harry's shoulder, and Hermione watched with
some approval as he nodded. "We should be going."
            Harry looked back at him. "I'd like a few more minutes here,
Minister, if I may."
            The Minister looked a tad uncomfortable. "Er... Well, that is..."
            "Come now, Cornelius," said Dumbledore, smiling. "Surely between
myself and Arthur, we can consider these young people well enough supervised
for a few minutes?"
            Fudge considered a long moment, then nodded. "I'm very much afraid
I cannot leave you here, Albus." Fudge drew a breath. "But I will wait at the
door, and provide you all the privacy you need." He turned to Mr. Weasley.
"Arthur, it has been a pleasure working with you."
            Arthur Weasley smiled and nodded. "At this juncture, Minister, I am
able to say the same."
            Fudge chuckled. "Arthur, with a gift for politics such as that,
it's a wonder you're not Minister yourself."
            The moment the two men shared could certainly not be called warm,
nor friendly, but it was a moment of recognition, of sorts, of shared humanity.
            Fudge turned again to the three of them. "Harry, Ron, Hermione... I
can't tell you what it means to me to look at the three of you, and see the
next generation of the Wizarding World. You and your friends who were here with
you that night. If you're typical of what Hogwarts is turning out these days,
then I'm grateful indeed to know that our future is in much better hands than
our present."
            He bowed to them, and turned, and walked to the door of the
chamber, where he stood, out of earshot, in respectful silence, his hands
clasped behind his back..
            Hermione shook her head. "I honestly don't know whether to believe
half of what he says or not."
            "I'd say half seems about right, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore
with a twinkle. "Employed or not, after all, he is still a politician."
            Arthur Weasley smiled at that.
            Harry nodded over toward the Veil. "I think I'd like..." He
stopped. "No, that's not right. I need to..."
            "Come on, Mate," said Ron. "We'll come with you."
            Harry looked a trifle annoyed. "I'm not going to throw myself in
after him!"
            "Too right, you're not!" Ron replied, with a cheeky grin that took
the edge off the words.
            Harry couldn't help laughing. "All right, Mr. Tough Guy, all right.
Come on, you two."
            He turned and walked slowly toward the Veil, his two friends at his
side, and Arthur Weasley leaned close to Dumbledore. "Albus, are you quite
sure..."
            "With your son and Miss Granger? Yes, Arthur, I do rather think
so."
            Hermione shot a grateful glance at him over her shoulder, and they
approached the Veil.
            They stood silently for a long time before the rustling cloth, and
then Harry quietly began to speak.
            "Hello, Sirius. I feel kind of stupid here, in front of my friends,
talking to this archway as if I'm talking to you. I guess, in a couple of
weeks, Professor Lupin will be having a funeral, and then there'll be a
tombstone somewhere, and I'll go talk to that, and that'll be just as stupid,
'cause you won't be there, either.
            "I wanted to tell you you're a free man, now. There are no charges
hanging over your head. You've been officially exonerated. Fat lot of good it
does you now, I guess."
            Harry drew a deep, ragged breath.
            "After you left Hogwarts with Buckbeak, Professor Dumbledore told
me that no-one we love ever truly leaves us. He told me that I'd always carry
my dad in here." He held his hand, for a moment, over his breastbone. "So now,
there's mum, and dad, and, and you in there." He essayed a wan smile. "I guess
it's getting a little crowded, huh?"
            He took another breath.
            "I love you, Sirius. And, and I'll always miss you. And I'll always
be grateful that I got to know you."
            He reached his hand out, held it, palm-first, toward the Veil. Ron
put a steadying hand on his shoulder, and the look Harry turned on him was
equal parts irritation and gratitude.
            "Goodbye, Sirius," said Harry, quietly, and a pale-skinned hand
darted out, quick as snake-strike, through the Veil to grab his wrist and pull!
            Just that quickly, Harry's hand had disappeared into the Veil, and
Ron grabbed his forearm in both hands, braced one foot against the arch, and
began trying to drag him back.
            Time dilated as Hermione shrieked, and events passed with stately,
slow-motion grace, like a particularly well-executed figure-skating move,
replayed on television for finer appreciation. She saw her hands reaching to
grab Harry and Ron, as she looked back over her shoulder at the adults. Six
wide eyes stared back at her from faces shocked into immobility. Harry's arm
was disappearing inexorably into the archway, Ron's foot sliding by centimeters
as he tried to pull him back, both of them slipping out of her grasp.
            Part of Hermione wondered why she was trying. Something within the
Veil had got Harry, and was pulling him in, and Ron along with him, because
he'd never let his friend go, never give him up, and no power in Heaven or on
Earth could stop it.
            She felt them slipping away under her fingers.
            No power in Heaven or on Earth...
            Hermione's fingers slid up shoulders, and she let them go, until
she felt herself touching skin, where their necks met their shoulders. She
concentrated on that touch, on her love for them, on keeping them together, and
it seemed like it took hours for her mouth to form the words:
            "NUPTIALIS UNUM!"
            She felt in her eyes a kind of impact, as if a painfully bright
light had been turned her way, but there was no light to see. On her skin, as
if the door to a furnace had opened, spilling its heat into the room in a wave,
but the temperature did not change.
            She did the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life. She loosed
her fingers as they clutched her boys' shoulders, and felt a moment's
heartbreak as the soft skin of their necks slipped from beneath them, as she
began to fall backwards. Then, as the very tips of her fingers were all that
still connected her to them, she felt her fall jerking to a sudden halt that
pulled at her arms as if she'd caught herself from a fall on a trapeze, and the
boys' bodies jerked back at their necks. She looked back again and saw that
Arthur Weasley and Cornelius Fudge were charging towards them, Mr. Weasley in
the lead, and he was suddenly wrapping his arms around her body in a great
bear-hug.
            Incredibly, he blushed deeply, and stammered an apology while
adjusting his grip. She realized that one of his hands had fallen at first over
her left breast. Of all the silly-- she thought, as he hauled back on her,
gaining Harry perhaps another half-inch before the inexorable slide resumed,
and then Fudge was upon them, wrapping his arms around Ron, and they were
halted for a moment yet again.
            Hermione looked back over her shoulder again, at the still-frozen
Dumbledore, saw him force himself into action as their feet slid again toward
the Veil, and his wand was pointing at them, and he hesitated, closed his eyes,
and finally cried out, his voice hoarse, "By the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak!"
            Hermione had time to think, What is that supposed to mean? when
bright, glowing red ribbons of light spouted like streamers from the end of
Dumbledore's wand, and writhed, snakelike, through the air towards her.
            The crimson bands wrapped around Mr. Weasley, around her, around
Fudge and Ron and Harry, even snaking down to wrap around the pale wrist and
hand that held Harry's arm.
            Dumbledore made a motion with his wand, not unlike a fisherman
pulling in his catch. His hands didn't mime turning the handle on a reel, but
he was pulling the wand-tip up in great, slow pulls, which tightened the bands
around her, around all of them, and then lowering it more quickly while the
wand withdrew the newly-created slack. At the second pull she felt herself
being pulled backwards, and her arms and shoulders took the strain, her
fingertips still impossibly touching the backs of Ron's and Harry's necks,
pulling them back with her. It felt like her shoulders were going to pull out
of their sockets, but the bands were still writhing, and they wrapped their way
back up her arms and around her shoulders, re-enforcing them.
            Dumbledore took another pull, then another, and now the pale hand
was exposed up to a forearm, and there was the beginning of black robes, and
Dumbledore pulled again, and the ragged fabric of the Veil seemed to bow out
toward them, and there was a sound, a kind of sucking Pop! and Hermione had an
impression of black hair and dark robes being spat out of the archway, tumbling
through the air, across the benches, to disappear behind the back row. Even as
the shape flew, Hermione and her boys and Arthur Weasley and the Minister
tumbled over backwards.
            The crimson bands disappeared, and Dumbledore sagged to his knees
as Hermione looked at her hands, realizing she was no longer touching the boys'
necks. Had the Nuptialis Unumended when the danger had passed? That didn't seem
right! Then she realised that Ron's left hand had ended up a few inches up her
right pant-leg, his fingertips touching the skin of her calf, while Harry's
left hand was touching Ron's neck.Skin to skin to skin.
            The boys were starting to stir, so she sat up, took hold of Ron's
hand, and pulled it effortlessly way from her leg before reaching over to take
Harry's right hand in her left.
            As they started to clamber to their feet, Ron tried to release her
hand, and found that he couldn't break contact. "What the--?"
            "It's all right, Ron," said Hermione. "It's a spell I used to help
us both keep a grip on Harry. We're kind of all stuck together until the spell
is broken."
            "Well, let's break it then!" said Ron.
            Hermione blushed. "I, um... I sort of don't know how to break it,
Ron."
            His eyes widened for a moment, then he smiled. "Well, that's not so
bad then. We're all mates here. We can hold hands till Dumbledore can get us
loose." He looked over at his mate. "All right, there, Harry?"
            But Harry was staring, eyes wide, at the back of the room.
            "Harry?" Hermione shook him by the hand, and his eyes snapped to
her and Ron. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, fine."
            The Minister and Mr. Weasley were groaning to their feet, as well.
            "You're all right?" Mr. Weasley asked his son.
            "Sure, Dad, we're fine." He glanced over at Hermione and Harry.
"Yeah?"
            "Fine," said Harry, and Hermione, glancing at the boys' hands in
hers, nodded. "Fine."
            Arthur Weasley nodded at them and trotted to Dumbledore, who waved
him off toward the back of the chamber. Fudge approached  and helped Dumbledore
to his feet.
            Dumbledore thanked the Minister with a curt nod, and hurried over
to Hermione and her boys. His eyes were concerned.
            "Miss Granger, I apologize to you. Nothing remotely like today's
event has ever happened. I'm still not entirely certain I can comprehend what a
shocking change to everything we know and think we know has just occurred in
this room. I was quite simply shocked into immobility. You should never have
been pu int this position."
            "Really, Professor," she said, reassuringly, "We're all fine."
            "Indeed, Miss Granger, and that is thanks entirely to you. Your
quick thinking unquestionably saved the lives of Harry and Ronald." He turned
to them. "I beg you boys to bear in mind how fortunate you are. Without Miss
Granger's quick action, you would surely be dead now."
            Harry grinned. "Well, it's hardly the first time, is it,
Professor?"
            They heard Mr. Weasley gasp, "Merlin's Beard!" and started to turn,
but Dumbledore's raised hand arrested them. "A moment, please. Miss Granger,
did I correctly hear that the spell you used was Nuptialis Unum?"
            "Yes, Professor. It's an ancient Peloponnesian Marriage Spell. I
was reading about it the day I received your and the Minister's messages about
this hearing."
            Dumbledore's eyes closed.
            Hermione was apologetic. "I'm sorry, Professor. I know it was a bit
extreme, but-- It was all I could think of. You can break the spell, right?"
            Dumbledore was silent.
            Hermione felt as if she'd been punched in the gut: the air whistled
out of her, and her eyes went wide, as she felt Harry's hand and Ron's tighten
on hers.
            The voice that spoke next was Ron's, hushed, stunned. "You can't
break the spell."
            "No," whispered Hermione. "No no no no no no..."
            "I'm sorry," said Dumbledore.
            From the back benches, in a tone of mixed joy and stunned
amazement, Mr. Weasley cried out, "I simply do not believe it!"
            "The Nuptialis Unum,” continued Dumbledore, his voice grave, “is
tied intimately to the very life-force of those bound by it. It can only be
broken by death."
            "Believe it, Arthur!" cried a deep, familiar voice, full of danger
and merriment, and the rest of them suddenly turned, eyes wide, and stared as
the tall, rakish figure, black-haired and black-robed, grabbed him in a hug,
and then vaulted over the benches, ran down them like a line of steps. He
lifted Dumbledore by his armpits like a child, spun him happily, set him down
and rounded on Harry, Hermione and Ron. His strong arms pulled them all
together into a mighty embrace, their trainers leaving the ground, and then he
stepped back, smiling, and looked around at the stunned faces, his eyes bright,
sparkling with mirth.
            "So..." said Sirius Black,  clapping his hands and rubbing them
together as he looked from one stunned face to the next. "Lunch?"
===============================================================================
 
***** Chapter Two: "Mrs. Weasley Goes Spare; Miss Granger Comes Clean" *****
        Chapter Two: Mrs. Weasley Goes Spare; Miss Granger Comes Clean
===============================================================================
                                        
            "I forbid it!" Molly Weasley's palm slammed down on the table with
a loud smack!
            They were seated around a conference table in Dumbledore's office
at Hogwarts. It had taken a frantic hour to assemble them there by Floo. The
Grangers had been at work, and had had to be interrupted and summoned by
Kingsley Shacklebolt, canceling their afternoon appointments. They sat side-by
side between Hermione and Professor Dumbledore. On Dumbledore's other side sat
Minerva McGonagall, now looking to her right at Molly Weasley with wide eyes.
Arthur Weasley sat by his wife's side, trying to hold her hand, and beyond him
sat Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks, who kept looking, with an odd smile, at
Remus Lupin, who was grinning in amazement at Sirius, who seemed torn between
grinning at the lot of them and sinking his face into his hands. Beside Sirius
was Harry, the back of his right hand against Ron's left.
            Dumbledore had explained to the gathering the nature of the spell
Hermione had used to save Harry and Ron, and Molly was shrieking, her voice
hoarse. "This is simply unacceptable, and I will not allow it! My son issixteen
years old! He will not be spending his every hour-- Sleeping with--
 Bathing with-- Oooh!" Her words collapsed into an inarticulate cry of rage.
            "Mrs. Weasley," said McGonagall into the sudden silence, her voice
as commanding as if this were a classroom, "this is not a matter you can allow
or forbid! It has happened, and that is all there is to it! There is nothing
for us to do but decide how we are going to deal with it."
            Molly spun at her. "What do you know about it, you dried-up old
spinster?" she shrieked. "You'll never know what it is to have a son, to have
him taken away from you and corrupted by some little tart!" She wheeled towards
Hermione. "Oh, you love this, don't you? I know how you've wanted my boy, you
little strumpet, and now you think you've done it, don't you?" Hermione burst
into tears. "Now you think you've taken him from me! How dare you!"
            Every adult eye in the room had turned with some alarm toward David
Granger, but he seemed content to let Molly scream out all her bile and have
done with it, his left hand squeezing his daughter's right in re-assurance.
            But Ron Weasley was on his feet, and his voice shook with rage.
"That's enough, Mum! That's e-bloody-nough!"
            His mother wheeled toward him. "Don't you take that tone with me,
young--"
            "Shut it!" Ron was purple with rage. "You've already lost one son
'cause  he's a fucking git! Well, you're about this far" --he squeezed a
centimeter of air between thumb and forefinger, Harry's hand dangling comically
from his exposed elbow-- "from losing another one, and this time, it'll be your
fault! Do you ruddy get that we'd be deadnow, Harry and me? Do you get
that?!? We were going in through the fucking Veil, and Fudge and Dad and even
Albus Sodding Dumbledore were just standing there, with their gawps open and
their thumbs up their arses, andHermione Granger was fucking acting! She saved
our fucking lives!"
            McGonagall's voice was a whip-crack : "Mister Weasley! We will
thank you--"
            But Dumbledore's gentle hand on her arm stilled her. "No, Minerva.
Mr. Weasley's assessment is quite right, and colourful though his language may
be, I daresay he's earned the right."
            Ron still stood, staring at his mother, his eyes hard and blazing,
and Arthur was staring back and forth between his son and his wife as if unable
to quite comprehend the confrontation.
            Hermione was staring at him, mouth open, eyes wide, tears still
flowing. On his other side, Harry looked miserably at the table.
            Ron drew a breath, and his voice, when it came again, was quiet,
but as hard as the stone walls that surrounded them. "You'll think about what
you just said, Mum. You'll think about what you just called Hermione, and
you'll apologize to her, and you'll bloody well mean it! 'Cause, if you don't,
that's it. We're quits, and I have no mother."
            There was silence then, and the tension seemed to spark between
Ron's eyes and his mother's with an almost visible crackle.
            "Now, son," Arthur began, but Ron's head shook, once, decisively,
his eyes never leaving his mother's.
            "No, Dad. That was just... No."
            They were all silent another moment, locked in that awful tableau
of anger and conflict. "Mum..." Ron's voice was softer. "Think about what you
just said to Hermione. Really think about it. Do you really think that?"
            For another brief moment, Molly's eyes stayed locked defiantly with
her son's. Then, miraculously, one couldsee her thoughts turning inward, see
her considering her words.
            And suddenly Molly Weasley's face fell into her arms. "Oh, Godric,
what have I--"
            And she was on her feet, running around the table to kneel by
Hermione, to take her hand from her father's, her own eyes moist with tears.
"Oh, you poor sweet girl! Oh, what have I done? You know I love you, don't you?
I love you as if you were my own, and of course I don't think that of you! Oh,
of course I don't! I just--" She drew a breath. "I look at Ronnie, at what a
tall, handsome man he is, and I see how much he loves you, and I'm always
afraid that I'm going to lose him to you. That you're going to take him away
from me. Oh, Hermione, do forgive a foolish old woman!"
            And Hermione stared for a long moment at Molly Weasley before
leaping to embrace her, her words spilling out of her in a rush, "Oh, Mrs.
Weasley, I'm sorry I didn't think of another way, I really am! I was so scared,
so scared I was going to lose your boys, my boys, and it was all I could think
of, and it never occurred to me that the spell couldn't be broken, but what
could I do? I was losing them, I was losing them and I was so scared!" She took
a deep breath. "And you know what, Mrs. Weasley? I'm even more scared now! How
do I do this? How do I live mywhole life always with these two boys? Every
second of every minute of every hour of every day, sleeping and bathing and,
oh, my God!"
            But Molly Weasley had tucked a finger under Hermione's quivering
chin, and turned the girl up to face her. "The same way you do everything else,
child. With intelligence and grace and good heart, and a courage I can't even
imagine! And sometimes you'll panic, and sometimes you'll go wrong, but in the
end, everything will be all right. Because you and the boys love each other
very much, and love can always find a way through."
            She turned to her son. "I'm so sorry, Ronnie. I should never have
insulted Hermione, or your friendship."
            Ron smiled gratefully as he hugged her. "Thanks, Mum."
            Molly stood, then, and turned to face McGonagall. "Oh, Minerva, I
should never--"
            "No, Molly, you should not." Her eyes were hard. "I know more than
you seem to think about losing a son."
            "Oh, Minerva!" Molly's eyes were heartbroken. "I'm so sorry! I
didn't know!"
            "Apparently."
            "Oh, Minerva, I do apologize! Please do forgive me!"
            McGonagall's eyes flickered to the table, and she regarded the
surface for a beat, then looked back up. "It's forgotten."
            But there was a reserve in her tone which suggested that it indeed
was not, and might never be. Molly looked at her feet for a moment, then walked
toward the door. "I've... I've done enough here, said enough here. I'll go to
the Three Broomsticks, and Floo home from there. Arthur can speak for me.
Probably, it would have been better for all of us if he'd done so from the
beginning." She looked again at Hermione. "My dear girl, I am so, so very sorry
I spoke to you as I did. You saved my boys' lives,  Ron and Harry both, and I
am forever grateful. And I daresay, dear girl" --her gaze flashed for a moment
to her husband-- "that at your age, I was far more of a strumpet than you've
ever dreamed!"
            And with that, Mrs. Weasley was gone. Those remaining sat, silent,
for a moment, then Sirius chuckled. "Well, I'd say that went well, wouldn't
you?"
            Remus Lupin shook his head at his old friend, but Ron wheeled
round, pulling Hermione awkwardly with him as he pointed an irate finger at
Black. "Yeah, and you can ruddy well shut up, too, Sirius!"
            Sirius sat back away from him, his face shocked. "Ron, I'm sorry--"
            "You're bloody sorry!?!? You almost killed us! You tried to pull
Harry through the Veil!"
            "I didn't know!"
            "Well, you knew it was bloody somebody! You had to, you'd pulled
his hand through!"
            Sirius shook his head. "No, Ron. It-- It wasn't like that. It's
not-- It isn't-- It isn't like that beyond the Veil. I can't describe it, I
can't explain, but it's not like bodies and robes and people and places over
there. It's like concepts and ideas and metaphors. All I knew was that
everything -- everything -- was trying to make me move on, move away from the
Veil, and, and on. But I knew Harry was here, and he still needed me, and I'd
failed him for so long, and I couldn't fail him anymore, so I waited, wanting
to find a way back... And then I felt something, and it was right there, and I
could feel that it was... It was permanent. It wasn't going anywhere, but it
also wasn't going to be there for long, and I knew if I could just somehow hold
onto it, it would bring me home to Harry." He paused, then laughed. "Godric,
listen to me, I'm talking gibberish!"
            "A bit, yeah," said Ron, quietly.
            "Yeah." Sirius smiled at him again, then at Harry. "I promise you,
Harry, if I'd known it was you I'd grabbed, known the danger I was putting you
in, I would never--"
            "I know, Sirius," said Harry. "It's Okay. Well, you know, with me."
            "Yeah, me, too," said Ron. "I mean, I'm pretty hacked off an' all,
but I'm glad you're here, mate."
            "'Sides," said Sirius, with a wicked grin, "there are worse fates
for a couple of healthy young wizards than to be attached to a beautiful teen-
aged witch!"
            "Sirius!" scolded Lupin, and Hermione dropped her face into her
hands, dragging Ron's hand to her face with her own, and shook her head. David
Granger leaned forward past his daughter, and silently raised an eyebrow at
Sirius.
            Sirius raised his hands in surrender. "No harm, Mr. Granger, I'm
just playing. Your daughter knows I have the greatest possible respect for
her."
            Granger eyed him for a moment, then smiled. "I can see that you
do."
            "Hard not to, really," said Sirius. "Extraordinary girl." Hermione
still hid her face, and Sirius leaned far across the table to reach out and
touch her hand. She looked up at him, half-prone on the table-top. "And I'll be
eternally grateful to her, as well, for saving my godson, and my friend" --he
jerked his head toward Ron-- "and saving me from the consequences of my
recklessness. I knew what I was holding would stay anchored outside the Veil. I
had no idea that that would be thanks to the brilliance and quick thinking of
the brightest witch of the age."
            Hermione smiled gratefully at him, and McGonagall cleared her
throat.
            They turned to her, and she gazed severely around the table. "Now,
I appreciate that this has been a most... emotional day for all of us. This is
not, however, an encounter session, and we have important business to conduct.
These three young people will have an education to pursue, and their plans for
it have just irrevocably been altered.
            "Now, clearly, they won't be able to stay in the Sixth-Year
Dormitories. I do think I have a solution. We have already selected next year's
Head Boy and Head Girl. Head Girl will be Galatea Bucket, of Hufflepuff.
Therefore, the Gryffindor Head Girl's suite will be vacant. As  Head Girl's
room, it has a most comfortable attached bath, which should prove somewhat less
awkward than using the communal facilities as well. I propose that you three be
housed there."
            She took a breath. "I must warn you, there could be trouble
teaching you here this coming year. We shall have to ask the Board of Governors
change the school's by-laws. Currently, they allow for coeducational housing
only for married students. The Board is a notoriously conservative and rigid,
and it may prove difficult to persuade them."
            Remus Lupin leaned forward. "Have those rules changed since Sirius
and I were students?"
            "No, Remus, nor for over fifty years before that."
            "Then I think you'll find, Minerva, that there's no need to speak
with the Board."
            Sirius chuckled. "That's right!"
            McGonagall frowned. "Whatever do you mean, Remus?"
            "Well, Minerva, you remember, when we were in Seventh Year, Lily
came down with a rather nasty stomach virus?"
            "Yes....."
            Remus grinned at the memory. "I'm very much afraid Sirius, here,
convinced himself that James and Lily were, er, going to find it necessary to
avail themselves of communal quarters."
            "Oh, my God!" Harry covered his face with his hands. "I don't want
to hear this!"
            Sirius chuckled. "No, Harry, I was just a dirty-minded little sod
in Seventh Year. Still am, come to that! Anyway, I had Lupin help me research
the school's by-laws. They state that coeducational housing is available only
for Married Students, Minerva, precisely as you said. It doesn't
specify Couples."
            "Exactly!" said Remus.
            Hermione looked back and forth between the two Marauders. "You
expect me to marry Harry and Ron? Quite aside from personal issues that could
be involved, such as whether I wish to marry either of them or vice-versa,
doesn't marrying both present legal problems of its own?"
            "That's the beauty of it, Hermione," said Sirius. "You already
have!"
            Remus leaned forward to her. "The spell you used: The Nuptialis
Unum."
            Understanding dawned in her eyes. "It's a marriage spell!"
            "Exactly!" said Sirius. "It's a magically binding marriage! And
what's the first law of Magical Contracts?"
            Harry and Ron looked blankly at one another, but Hermione smiled
triumphantly. "What's magically binding islegally binding!" She looked back and
forth between them. "But Harry..."
            Sirius grinned again. "Well, yes, technically, he's not of
marriageable age until his birthday, but once he's sixteen, you're covered by
the first law!"
            "Waitaminite!" said Harry. "I thought I wasn't of age until I
turn seventeen!"
            "No, Harry," said Hermione. "That's the Age of Majority. We're
talking about the Age of Consent. That's sixteen for wizards." She wrinkled her
nose, and her voice was suddenly venomous. "Fourteen for Witches. Must keep
those child brides!"
            Ron chuckled at his mate. "Blimey, Harry! Fancy that! You're our
Child Bride!"
            Harry turned to Shacklebolt and Tonks, who'd been watching the
meeting in silence. "Would one of you please just kill me?"
            "Oi!" cried Ron. "Never mind grievously insulting your groom, who's
going to protect us all from Ol' Wossname?"
            "You're on your own," said Harry.
            Ron gave Harry a shove, and Harry turned to respond in kind, when
Hermione spoke up. "Before you two drag one another to the floor for one of
your childish wrestling matches, I'd like to point out two things. First, we
are, in fact, in the midst of a meeting deciding important matters on our
behalf."
            "Thank you, Miss Granger," said McGonagall.
            "You're quite welcome, Professor. And second..." She shook her left
hand, jiggling Ron's right arm along with it. "I don't particularly want to go
down there with you."
            "Now," said McGonagall, "we shall have to make some arrangements
with your class schedules. Miss Granger has been taking a far more demanding
course-load than either of you. Her grades in Advanced Arithmancy and Study of
Ancient Runes demand that she continue with these courses. I don't expect
either of you boys to pick those up as Sixth-year level classes, so you will be
using those as study periods to work on your homework assignments for other
classes. Some classes, we will have to decide later, as there are staffing
issues to be considered."
            Dumbledore leaned suddenly forward. "Indeed, Minerva, I have a
thought regarding one of these staffing issues. It occurs to me that a
candidate has become available to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."
            "I thought that you had decided..."
            "Ah, but that was before this candidate became available. Besides,
he is awfully valuable in his current position."
            "But, Mr. Potter's O.W.L. scores..."
            "I was thinking, Minerva, that we could bring in a tutor for these
three students. Evening classes, I think."
            "But, sir," said Harry, as Ron's eyes widened, "Won't that
conflict--" He suddenly stopped, and exchanged looks with Ron. They looked at
one another, then at Hermione, then at each other again.
            "Oh, bugger me!" cried Ron.
            "Mr. Weasley," said McGonagall, "Please do try not to develop bad
habits regarding language within this school. We are not currently in session,
I know, but I am still strongly tempted to begin docking you House points. Even
if, in this case, I cannot disagree with you. I'm afraid that Dolores Umbridge
will have her wish after all. Your Quidditch careers are over."
            Ron's face reddened, and he said, "Ah, d-- er, bu-- oh, h--" He
stopped, drew a deep breath in through his nose, let it out through his pursed
lips, then turned and said, conversationally, to Dumbledore, "Who's your new
victim, then? For DADA?"
            Sirius leaned forward, looking interested. "I've been wondering
about that myself?"
            Dumbledore winked at Ron, and smiled sweetly at Sirius. "You mean,
you don't know? Truly?"
            Sirius shook his head. "No, I--" His eyes widened. "You don't mean-
- You can't  mean..."
            "Of course!" cried Remus Lupin. "Sirius, it's perfect!"
            Dumbledore smiled widely at Sirius. "Do you accept?"
            Sirius sat back, a stunned expression on his face. "Me. Teaching at
Hogwarts."
            "You'd be brilliant, Sirius," said Harry.
            Sirius smiled at him. "But, Harry-- I'm... I'm a Marauder! I'm
the wild Marauder! And if I accepted, I'd be becoming... The Man!"
            David Granger laughed warmly. "Welcome to the club, mate. We've got
jackets and everything!"
            Sirius laughed and pointed at him. "You and me, mate. We're going
for a pub-crawl."
            David glanced at his wife, who smiled, and patted his arm. "Make it
a Friday or a Saturday, dear."
            "Thanks, darling," said Granger, pecking his wife on the cheek.
            Sirius turned back to Dumbledore. "Well, Albus, if you're silly
enough to offer me the job, I guess I'm just silly enough to take it."
            "Done!" said the Headmaster with a smile. "Welcome to the staff."
            He turned back to the table as a whole. "Now, we'll need to speak
about living arrangements for the summer."
            Arthur spoke up. "Harry and Hermione have always been welcome at
the Burrow, Albus. They're welcome still."
            "Then, Arthur, I think you will have them starting the first of
August. Does that suit you as well, Mr. and Mrs. Granger?"
            David and Jane exchanged glances. "I think that would be fine,"
said Jane. "But we'd very much like to bring them home with us for tonight."
            Dumbledore looked taken aback. "I do appreciate that, Mrs. Granger,
but there are security concerns in the Muggle world."
            David leaned forward and regarded him for a moment. "Mr.
Shacklebolt and Ms. Tonks would be most welcome to stay, as well. And Mr. Lupin
and Mr. Black. Hell, you can bring out a hundred of the toughest people you can
find and stand them in a circle around our house with their elbows linked, if
you want.
            "But our sixteen-year-old daughter is going to be spending her
every night from now on in a bed with two healthy, randy teenaged boys.
We will be having a very long and entirely embarrassing talk with them."
            Hermione had her face buried in her hands, and Ron was staring at
his trainers, his face bright red, but Harry spoke up.: "Mr. Granger, we're
not--"
            But David only laughed, not unkindly. "Oh, of course you are,
Harry. You're fifteen years old."
            And Jane smiled down the table at him to show there was no
judgment. "It's axiomatic."
            Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I do appreciate your position, Mr.
Granger. Very well then. Kingsley, Tonks, you've seen the Grangers' home. Can
you secure it?"
            "Piece of cake!" said Tonks, and Shacklebolt nodded.
            "Excellent! For tonight, Harry, you and your friends shall stay
with the Grangers. That will give me an opportunity to speak with Vernon and
Petunia, and help them with, er... preparations."
            Harry couldn't stop himself snorting aloud. "Now that's going to be
fun!"
            David Granger leaned forward. "They'll be staying with the
Dursleys, then? What about security in the Muggle World?"
            Dumbledore smiled. "Forgive me, Mr. Granger. There are matters
involved here which simply can not be discussed. Suffice it to say that there
are extraordinary reasons, having to do with Harry's safety, why he must stay
with his aunt and uncle during the summers. And you may rest assured, sir, that
only the most pressing of requirements could persuade me to permit it."
            David nodded. "Very well."
            Dumbledore smiled benignly around the table. "Very well, then. I
think our business here is concluded."
            Hermione cleared her throat. "Not entirely," she said. "I would
like very much to see the Gryffindor Head Girl's suite, and for us to have some
privacy there. We've had a fairly long day. We're tired, we're sweaty, and I,
for one, am beginning to need to urinate, plus I'm past due for my potions and
salve, and before any of that can be addressed, I need to speak with Harry and
Ron in privacy."
            "Sweetheart," began David Granger, but Hermione turned to him, laid
her free hand on his forearm.
            "Dad, Mum... Trust me, all right?"
            "All right then," said David.
            Hermione turned to McGonagall. "May we have the passwords?"
            Minerva McGonagall regarded her student severely for a moment, then
nodded. "Butterbeer will get you past the Fat Lady. For the Head Girl's room,
the password shall be... Catseye. Your medications will be waiting for you,
along with towels and a change of clothing for each of you. You may return to
the Great Hall when you have finished your... ablutions."
            Hermione stood, and looked back and forth between Harry and Ron,
who had stared, wide-eyed and silent, through this last exchange. "Well, come
along, boys."
            As they left, McGonagall turned to Dumbledore. "The Crimson Bands
of Cytorrak, Albus?"
            Dumbledore chuckled, patted her hand. "And you thought my choice of
reading material would rot my brain!"
            She eyed the ancient wizard fondly. "The jury's still out on that
one, I think, Albus."
===============================================================================
 
            The door into the Gryffindor Head Girl's suite was under the steps
up to the girls' dormitories. The torches were burning merrily on the walls,
and on the twin-sized bed were three sets of clothing, school uniforms, in
their sizes. There was also a sofa, a desk and chair, a small fireplace, and a
door that led into the Head Girl's Bath. Hermione shrugged off her robes. They
caught at her hands, where the backs brushed against Ron's and Harry's.
            "Touch each other, boys," she said, and Ron reached a tentative
hand to Harry's, and Hermione was ready to let go, first of Ron's hand, then of
Harry's to let the robes settle to the floor.
            Under the robes were her loose blouse, the jeans it had never been
tucked back into after her testimony, and her black trainers. Under the blouse,
that sports bra. Under the jeans, Harry didn't yet know. He looked at the
clothing laid out on the unmade-up bed, the vials of potion and jar of salve on
the dresser by the bathroom door, and supposed he would find out soon.
            He and Ron went through the process of getting their robes off. The
choreography was already becoming familiar. They'd learned their limitations
almost immediately. Each of them was always in direct body-to-body contact with
at least one of the others. It didn't matter which, but there was never an odd
one out. Always, one or both of the others would be touching each of them.
Harry looked at Ron, tall, ginger-haired, in jeans and a t-shirt with a Muggle-
style cartoon on the front that Ron had transfigured to look like Gilderoy
Lockhart, grinning stupidly over the words "What, Me Worry?" His own t-shirt
was plain purple, his jeans black rather than blue. It was the uniform of
teenaged boys the world over. Ron's blue eyes met his, concerned, and Harry
nodded. They'd laughed and joked and played, but they were no less aware than
Hermione was of how drastically their lives had all been changed in the time it
took Hermione to say Nuptialis Unum.
            Ron looked down to Hermione. His right hand, the touch looking so
gentle, brushed along her jaw. "Hermione?"
            She pulled them over to the couch, sat in the middle, pulled them
down on either side of her. She glanced over at Harry, on her right. "Harry,
would you be so kind as to reach under my blouse, and touch my back?"
            Her voice was very quiet, trembling, and Harry was solemn as he
nodded and obeyed, and she swiveled away from him, took Ron's hands in hers.
Harry saw the tension in her neck and shoulders, the angle of her head, and
realized she was seeing again the livid scars on Ron's arms.
            He felt her expand as she drew another breath. "Ron," she said.
"I'm so sorry, Ron. It was supposed to be you and me. You know that, I know
that."
            Ron's eyes were almost panicked as he glanced over her shoulder at
Harry. Her small hand moved up to his chest, then his face. "I love you Ron.
You know that, don't you?"
            "Well, yeah," said Ron, easily, prepared to dismiss the sentiment
as friendly.
            "No, Ron." She shook her head, turned his face directly towards
hers. "I love you."
            He reached to pull her into an embrace, was stopped for a moment,
and then she moved one of her hands up to the back of his head, and he pulled
her close, his hand stroking up and down her back, bumping occasionally and
unapologetically over Harry's.
            Harry slid his hand to one side, out of Ron's way, and Hermione
giggled. "Bit ticklish there, Harry."
            "Sorry," said Harry, and she glanced back to smile over her
shoulder at him before turning back to Ron.
            "I love you, Ron. I've loved you since the troll."
            Ron leaned back, looked into her eyes. "The troll? Yeah? Honestly?"
            "Honestly, Ron. I've loved you since the moment I heard you
say Wingardium Leviosa." She smiled at him. "And do you know why?"
            Ron's eyes were wide and rapt as he shook his head.
            "Because you said it right, Ron. You listened to me.
You learned from me! You hated me, but you listened."
            Ron shook his head. "I didn't hate you, Hermione Jane."
            Hermione's voice was soft, her tone very kind, forgiving. "'She's a
nightmare, that one,'" she quoted. "'No wonder she doesn't have any friends!'"
            "Didn't mean it." Ron's voice was very soft.
            "You did," said Hermione. "That's all right. 'Cause even hating me
like that, you listened to me. You learned from me. And you used it to save my
life. That's when I fell in love with you, Ron. Twelve years old, screaming up
at the ugliest mountain troll you've ever seen."
            "I don't know when I did," Ron answered.
            Harry wished he could get up quietly and leave the room. This was
for them, such a private, intense moment for the two of them.
            "I don't know when I fell in love with you. I just know, at some
point, you were as necessary as air, and thinking to myself, 'I love Hermione
Granger' would have seemed as stupid as thinking, 'I believe in trees.' You
know? I mean, well, duh!" He moved his face over in front of her. "And then in
Fourth Year, you went with Krum, and I thought I was going to lose you, and I
was so scared, and I was such a git, I really was."
            "I know, Ron," Hermione said, and Harry could hear the smile in her
voice. "I know you were."
            "Hey--" Ron began, but his voice was interrupted, and Harry heard
the soft, wet sounds of their mouths together, and he just wanted to slink off
into the night, but his hand was there, under her blouse, her skin soft and
warm under his fingertips.
            He heard the breath rattle out of Ron, and then his voice, choked
with emotion. "Oh, Merlin, Hermione. So long. I've wanted that so long."
            Her voice was equally choked. "I have too, love. I have too.
Please, please, remember that. I'm sorry."
            She pulled one of his hands down her side, tucked it under her
blouse, and then turned, as Ron gasped in surprise, to face Harry. Her eyes, so
deep and brown -- Harry had once thought they were exactly the color of the
warm rich earth of the garden of the burrow -- he'd never tell her that, of
course: "You have eyes the color of dirt," even coming from a friend, didn't
quite strike the right complimentary note -- seemed alive with warmth. She
chewed a moment on her lower lip, clearly working herself up to something, and
then spoke.
            "It was Third Year," she told him.
            Harry blinked his incomprehension.
            "That night we-- I mean, the first time we saved Sirius. The night
with the Time Turner."
            "Hermione, I don't understand--"
            "You were so brave, so determined. I don't think you had any idea
how impressive you were!"
            "I was impressive? Hermione, you were weaving timelines like Doctor
Who! You were... You were commanding eternity!"
            "No, Harry, that was you. You commanded, and I was your tool."
            "Never that," said Harry. "My friend, my partner. You made it
possible."
            "This is what I mean, Harry. You just don't see it. I was already
half-giddy from being by  your side, and then, at the lake... I wish you could
have seen yourself conjuring that Patronus."
            "You saw that?"
            "Of course I did, Harry." She took a breath. "You were-- You were
amazing, Harry. You were confident, commanding, you were so straight and tall
and you walked out there, and then you-- Your voice rang, Harry, tolled like a
bell, and the power just blazed from you, you were the sun and the moon, you
were a godling out of legend, and that, that army of Dementors fled before you!
You, a thirteen-year-old Wizard, routed that terrible army single-handedly.
Adults who can produce a true Patronus are very rare, Harry, very rare, and you
produced one the likes of which hasn't been witnessed by the eyes of man
in generations!  I don't think there's another wizard besides Dumbledore who
could approach it.
            "The power blazed away from you, Harry, I felt it blow my hair and
my clothing back, and I felt it sluice through my body, and Oh, my God, Harry,
that's when I fell in love with you."
            Ron's eyes widened, and he barked out, "What!?" but she turned to
him, lay a gentle hand over his lips. Harry felt the soft, smooth skin of her
belly sliding under his fingers as she turned, and the knowledge that the skin
of her back was doing the same under Ron's lived in some part of his mind.
            "Hush, my love," Hermione murmured to Ron. "Remember what I told
you. I'm in love with you. I am."
            Ron's eyes were wide, now, as he looked from Hermione to Harry,
 and Harry met his gaze with his eyes wide, and his breath coming short.
            Hermione ran her fingertips across Ron's cheek. "Do you trust me,
Ron?"
            He stared at her a long time, then nodded, his eyes closed.
            "Then trust me just a little bit longer. Please, my love?"
            The breath he drew was deep and ragged, and his eyes turned to
Harry's for a moment, as he considered, before turning back to Hermione. "All
right, Hermione Jane."
            She leaned up and kissed him again, a light peck, then turned back
again to Harry.
            "Do you believe what I told you, Harry?"
            He laughed uncomfortably. "Well, yeah, sure, 'cause, you know, any
girl who tells a short, near-sighted, skinny guy that he's like a godling out
of legend is obviously to be trusted."
            Hermione rolled her eyes, and put her hand on Harry's chest. "Am I
clowning around, Harry? Or did I just pour out my heart to you?"
            Harry's eyes dropped, and he caressed lightly with the fingers on
her belly. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he said. He looked back up again, met her
gaze. "I'm just-- You never said. You never showed."
            "Well, I couldn't, could I? I was for Ron, I knew that. And I
couldn't love you both, could I? So I quashed it, Harry, and I stuffed it down
inside myself, and I told myself that my love for you was just platonic, that
the attraction I felt for you was just natural, and I didn't even let myself
know it was there."
            "You mean..." Harry's voice was quiet. "You mean feeling attracted
to you sometimes, that isn't just a normal part of friendship with a girl?"
            "Oh, Harry, of course it is. But we're so close, Harry, you, me and
Ron. That's what's not... not ordinary, not normal. How do we go through what
we've been through together, and not feel something more and deeper than you
feel for the kid you sit next to in History of Magic?"
            She took a deep breath. "And, you see, Harry, the thing is... When
Ron's mum yelled at me, when she called me--"
            "Don't, Hermione," said Ron.
            She looked back over her shoulder. "But that's when it happened,
Ron. That's when I thought, Now I have both of them."
            "You're not," said Ron, while Harry said, "You don't--" They
stopped, looked at each other with wide, frantic eyes.
            "I didn't do it on purpose!" Hermione cried. "I swear to you both,
I didn't. All I was thinking when I cast that spell was that it might keep you
from going through the Veil. But when she said that, said about bathing and
sleeping, I heard myself think that: Now I have both of them."
            She took another deep breath. "I had to think about that for a long
time. Why would I think that? And there was only one reason. I thought about
why I thought about having you, Harry, and I found myself remembering your
power blowing through me like a warm wind as you summoned that Patronus. And
then, oh, God, Harry, do you remember what we did right after that?"
            "We flew Buckbeak up to the tower to rescue Sirius."
            Hermione's eyes were slightly dilated as she remembered. "Yes,
Harry! Within about a minute of seeing you like that, I was pressed against
your back, with my arms around you, and that magnificent, beautiful, powerful
creature flexing between my thighs, as we flew like owls in the night! I know
you never knew it, Harry, but I came that night."
            He heard Ron groan behind her, and couldn't tell by his expression
whether it was with hurt or arousal.
            "And when Mrs Weasley said that to me, all those feelings came
boiling to the surface." She turned and looked back over her shoulder again.
"All that love I have for you, Ron, all the love I'd admitted to myself I have
for you." She turned again. "And all that love that I wouldn't let myself admit
I had for you, Harry."
            She drew a deep breath , and sat back on the sofa between them.
"What I'm saying is this: We're going to be together, all the time. We're going
to share every bed, every shower, every bath. We can't get away from one
another, so there can't be any reason to want to. That means..."
            Another breath. She was silent then, for a time, her chest rising
and falling with each breath.
            Harry waited patiently, glancing over at Ron, who bit his lip,
looking from him to Hermione.
            "That means I belong to both of you," Hermione finally said. "I
have to. It's the only way."
===============================================================================
 
            Ron lay his head back on the back of the sofa, his mind spinning.
It was like the Confundus Curse he'd been struck with by Dean in a DA meeting
last spring. It was all too much to process.
            Hermione loved him! She'd told him! She'd kissed him, and told him!
And he'd told her, too, he bloody well had, he'd coughed it right up and said
it: I love Hermione Granger. Okay, it was kind of buried in an example, but...
            That was important, Ron thought. It shouldn't be buried, shouldn't
be a rider to another thought.
            He opened his mouth to say it again, to tell her, and the memory
thundered back into him again. She loves Harry, too.
            He opened his eyes, lifted his head to look over at his mate, who
was ashen-faced, open-mouthed, his green eyes staring sightlessly into nowhere.
            Ron tried to imagine his life with his mate forever touching either
him or Hermione. He imagined making love to Hermione, with Harry there, facing
away, one hand brushing his back, Hermione's elbow, trying to make himself
small, and not interfere, and the thought filled him with sadness.
            Another image occurred to Ron: That slightly wicked, triumphant
smile that he and Harry would exchange over a successfully executed Quidditch
move, or some bit of business in the common room, but spread out beneath them,
not the Quidditch pitch, not the carpet with the Gryffindor crest. Spread out
beneath them, as they completed whatever mutual bit of legerdemain they'd pull
off, Hermione, her skin glistening with sweat, her back arched, her face a mask
of pleasure. Oh, Merlin!
            The thought excited him. More than that, it warmed him, and he was
suddenly realising that he liked -- no, he loved -- the idea of,
of collaborating with Harry in loving Hermione.
            He focused again on Harry, whose mouth was working now, though no
sound was escaping.
            "All right there, mate?"
            Harry's eyes snapped to his, seemed to be struggling to focus.
"I... Uh, that is..." He shook his head, and then his eyes were focused on Ron.
His voice, when he spoke, was clear, deliberate, but very hesitant, very soft.
"I dunno, mate. You tell me. Am I?"
            Ron looked to Hermione, who was watching him avidly, eyes wide. He
glanced back at Harry. "I'll put it this way, mate," he said, and turned his
eyes back to Hermione's. "I love you, Hermione Jane. I love you with everything
I have. There's no-one else I love as much as I love you... except Harry." His
eyes returned to Harry. "Mate, we're going to be attached to each other, all
three of us, from here on out. Will you-- will you help me love her, mate?
Because, I gotta tell you, now that we're like this" --he slid his hand across
Hermione's belly to touch Harry's fingers-- "I can't figure out any other way
to do it."
            Hermione had turned to watch Harry now, her lip pulled between her
teeth. Her hand found Ron's arm and squeezed. It actually hurt more than a
little: the scars left by the brain were very tender still. But Ron was
watching Harry and Hermione, his heart strung out on a keen edge of razor-wire.
            Harry stared at him a long time, then shifted his attention to
Hermione. "This is really what you want? Are you sure? You're not just--"
            "Oh, that's it, Harry," she interrupted him. "I zapped us with a
thousand-year-old spell, and sealed our lives together forever just so I could
get Ron to share me with you to make you feel better!"
            Harry's eyes widened. "I guess it does sound kind of stupid, when
you put it like that." He shifted his gaze. "Ron..."
            "Oh, don't even, ya great pillock! Would I have made that great
speech to you if I didn't mean it?"
            "I know you, Ron. You're a jealous type. You want Hermione to
yourself."
            Hermione gasped, looked over at Ron, and he shrugged. "Yeah, I do.
But that's not one of my options, is it?"
            Hermione's breath hitched, and she started, "Oh, Ron..."
            But he interrupted her. "No, Hermione. Don't apologise. You fixed
it so I get to live long enough to hear you tell me you love me. So I get to
live long enough to tell you I love you. This is the best of all possible
worlds, love."
            He looked back to Harry. "The way I see it, mate, these are my
choices: I can have you as-- as my partner in loving Hermione, or I can shag
her with you sitting perched on the edge of the bed, touching one of us with a
fingertip, trying to read a book or something."
            The image startled the beginnings of a laugh from Harry, and the
laugh died in his throat, as Ron saw it sinking in that it was no joke, but the
literal truth.
            He looked at them both for a moment, and then gathered Hermione up
in his arms, Ron's hand, on her belly, now trapped between them, and he kissed
her, hesitantly at first, and then with more enthusiasm. Ron watched, eyes
wide, pulse racing, and realized, with shock, that he felt no anger, no
jealousy, no possessiveness. Instead, watching Harry kiss the girl he loved
aroused him, deeply.
            Finally, the kiss broke, and Harry sat back away from her again,
looking from Hermione to Ron and back. "I love you both. You know that, right?"
            Ron reached across Hermione, started to touch Harry's shoulder, but
it wasn't enough somehow, and he moved his hand to Harry's face. "I meant what
I said, Harry. I love you too."
            "As do I, Harry," said Hermione, with a smile. "And I was right
last year. You are an excellent kisser."
            A bright-pink blush rose up through Harry's face, and Ron laughed,
giving him a small shove. "We'll make a Weasley of you yet, mate! Just have to
do something about that
hair!"                                                          
            Hermione brought Ron's hand back to her waist and stood, turning to
reach down and take the boys' hands. "I still have a salve to put on, and we
have to bathe first, because it's not as effective if it's not applied to clean
skin. Come on."
            She somehow switched their hands in hers behind her back as she
turned, and she led them into the bathroom.
            It was like a very slightly smaller version of the Prefects' Bath.
The walls were done in rose marble, veined with peach and gold, and on the
walls were paintings of water-nymphs and merfolk. The tub was smaller, but
still more than ample for the three of them, and there were fresh towels
hanging from racks.
            Hermione moved to the many spigots, murmuring to the boys, "I
suppose you want something all manly, like Mahogany, or something. No more
honeysuckle and Freesia for me!"
            "How about vanilla?" asked Harry. Hermione and Ron both looked at
him. "What? It's a nice, fresh scent, it's girly enough for Hermione, and we
won't be embarrassed to smell like it."
            Ron grinned. "Shit, that's a fairly good point, mate." He turned to
Hermione. "And maybe a dash of cinnamon, spice it up a little."
            Hermione smiled, and twisted spigots, and the air started to smell
like biscuits baking as the tub filled.
            She and the boys stood, for a moment, looking around at one
another. Their faces became solemn. They could no longer pretend that what was
about to happen between them wasn't enormous, wasn't life-changing.
            "Well," she finally said, and began steadily unbuttoning her
blouse, "no time like the present."
            Harry's and Ron's eyes met as she drew the fabric off her
shoulders, and the blouse slid down her arms and pooled around their joined
hands, and the boys reached as one to touch her shoulders with their off-side
hands, so they could release it. Then Harry shucked off his Tee-shirt, moving
around to let Hermione's elbow touch his back, and began unbuttoning his jeans.
Ron drew a breath and started stripping.
            In a few moments, they were naked, flushed, breathing quickly, as
if they'd just run up a flight of stairs. And they stood there, for a moment,
skin touching skin, and then, only then, did Hermione's Gryffindor courage fail
her. She didn't try to cover herself, and Ron thought that was somehow worse.
She just slumped, miserably, and began crying in great hitching sobs, tears
pouring down her face, and Ron stood there for a second, his eyes wide,
panicked, and Harry's eyes caught his, over her shoulder, and his mouth formed
the words, Hold her!
            Ron pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her, one hand
caressing her back while the other stroked her hair, and she sobbed onto his
chest, and Harry stood back, his arm stretched out, his hand rubbing her
shoulder, and that distance would not do at all, and Ron took his hand from
Hermione's hair, and grabbed Harry's arm, and pulled him, and now Harry was
embracing her, too, his body pressed against her back, his arms around her,
hands trapped between her belly and Ron's while Ron's hand moved between his
belly and Hermione's back.
            "Oh, Ron," she wailed, "you're hard! Both of you!"
            "Well, we can't help that, can we?" said Ron gently. "We're
teenaged boys, holding a beautiful naked girl in our arms. But look at it this
way: You've been with us in the dining hall when we were holding forks and
knives, loads of times, and we managed never to stick any of them in you,
didn't we?"
            Through her tears, Hermione guffawed, and said, "Ron, that's got to
be the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
            He reached up with a thumb and wiped tears from her cheeks. "That's
better, Hermione Jane. That's better. You've been more than brave, love. It's
OK." They heard the water shut off, the charmed plumbing knowing when the level
in the tub was just right.
            And Harry leaned around and kissed her cheek. "Lets just get in the
tub, sweetheart," he murmured. Ron raised an eyebrow at him. Sweetheart? But
Harry shrugged with a nervous half-smile at him, and leaned down to lift her
up. "Help me out, here, Ron."
            Ron smiled, and reached down, and together they gathered her up in
their arms, still weeping, and brought her gently to the tub. They stepped
carefully in, and lowered her gently into the water, murmuring soothing
endearments in her ears as they found soft washcloths, and cinnamon-scented
liquid soap, and began to gently wash her.
[In the bath]
===============================================================================
 
            She'd tried to be brave, she'd tried so hard. She'd brought her
boys here, and told them her deepest secrets, and begun to do what she knew had
to be done, to face what she knew could not be avoided. She'd led them to this
room, this world of marble and water and scent and steam, had spoken bracingly,
moved calmly, shedding her clothing as she'd shed her secrets, as the boys, her
boys, did the same, and then they were naked, and they were so beautiful, her
boys, so beautiful. Ron, tall and lean, large-handed and broad-shouldered, his
stance relaxed and confident. Harry, smaller and slender, lithe and co-
ordinated, almost delicate, but so strong, so strong, his green eyes bright
through his circular glasses.
            And there she stood, with her too-small breasts and her too-wide
hips and the hideous, revolting scar disfiguring her, and she wasn't ready for
this, wasn't ready to be seen as they'd see her, touched as they'd touch her,
because, no, she wasn't much, wasn't lush and well-proportioned like Lavender,
or slender and elegant and exotic, like Parvati, wasn't as beautiful as they
deserved, but they were blokes, teenaged boys, and even she would be enough to
make them randy, and oh, God, she'd only ever kissed anyone once before
tonight, that frantic and frightening few minutes with Viktor, and she hadn't
known what to do, and hadn't really pleased him, or herself. And now she'd
kissed both her boys, really kissed them, long and deep, and yes, it had been
wonderful where her kisses with Viktor had been awkward, it had felt right, but
this, this was so overwhelming. Now she was naked with her boys, her beautiful,
randy boys, and they'd want to shag, of course they would, and part of her
wanted to too, but, she'd never even seen a penis in person, and now here were
two, and it was too much, too soon, and it was so overwhelming, and suddenly
she was crying, weeping, heaving great, wracking, uncontrollable sobs.
            And Ron's arms were around her, and it was comforting, and then
Harry's as well, their warmth against her, supporting, and comforting, and it
was so good, so wonderful, and then she felt the pressure, the hardness,
against her belly, against her back, and there was the voice in her head,
maddeningly clinical, Those are erections, Hermione, erections, and they're
yours, you made them, you caused them, and they're yours.
            And she wailed aloud, "Oh, Ron, you're hard! Both of you!"
            And Ron was murmuring softly in her ear, and he was saying -- Oh,
Godric, he did not just say that! and the mirth escaped from her in one harsh
bark, and she breathed, "Ron, that's got to be the stupidest thing I've ever
heard."
            And Ron's hands were gentle on her face, his voice kind, and
loving, and there were Harry's lips on her cheek, his voice so soft, so sweet
in her ear, and she was being lifted, carried, and then lowered into the water,
luxurious, sweet-scented, and her world dissolved in the warm velvet of the
water, in gentle hands and warm, soft cloth, in cinnamon-scented soap and
loving, innocent touches, so kind and gentle even as they moved across her
breasts, her nipples suddenly standing as if they'd been called to attention.
Innocent even when Harry's cloth trailed down her spine and gently worked its
way into the furrow of her bum, even when Ron's cloth brushed soap through the
triangular nest of wild brown curls, and gently stroked across the musky crease
where her thigh met her vulva.
            She swam in their touch, floated on it, reveled in it. How could it
be possible? How could it be that two randy boys, their erections still firm
and steely -- for as they moved around her, she could feel them, sometimes,
brief touches of hardness against her side or her hip, never pressed, never
flaunted, but there nonetheless -- could touch her, touch her everywhere, so
lovingly, so reverently, so innocently? There were cloths and caresses, and
even kisses, all so loving, so gentle, so undemanding, and she sighed, and felt
herself rising again, rising up through the layers of wool over her
consciousness, the awareness she had allowed to shut down restoring itself, and
she looked back and forth between her two beautiful boys, and reached for a
cloth, and soap, and began washing them, moving back and forth between Ron and
Harry, washing arms and chests and backs, washing legs and then, with a deep,
steadying breath, their bums, one at a time, first Ron's, then Harry's.
            She looked back and forth between them again, then leaned, got more
soap on her cloth, and reached gingerly in front of Harry, cloth moving
tenderly down his belly, soaping its way through the nest of curls, sweeping
once along the length of him, gently, trying not to be too overtly sexual -
- but how could she avoid it? -- and he groaned, leaned his head against her,
kissed her shoulder, so gently, and she was soaping down, now, gently scrubbing
around his scrotum, now, and the folds where his thighs met his crotch. She sat
back from him, and they were staring, eyes to eyes, and she leaned to him,
kissed him, softly, on the mouth,  her tongue gently tasting his, just a
fleeting moment, and she tossed her cloth into the basket, and took a new one,
wet it, soaped it, and reached down into the water to wash Ron. He groaned, as
Harry had, as she stroked along the length him, and she smiled at him, and
continued to wash him, cleaning around his testicles, scrubbing gently along
those sweaty creases between leg and trunk. She leaned in and kissed him, as
she had Harry, and then set back, looking back and forth between them.
            "You're still both..." She blushed. "You know... hard."
            "Hermione," Ron's voice was gentle, "we're teenaged boys. We're
hard a dozen times a day."
            "On a slow day," provided Harry.
            "It's all right, really," Ron continued. "Well just, later on, you
know, go and have a-- Oh." The tips of Ron's ears were suddenly pink. "No, I
guess we won't do that, either, will we..."
            "Oh, man...." Harry's voice was troubled. "Oh, man."
            "Oh, dear." Hermione bit her lip. "I hadn't thought of that. You
boys will want to, to, to masturbate sometimes, won't you?"
            The two boys exchanged a long, silent glance, as if they didn't
know how to answer that. Finally, Harry said, "Damn, it sounds a lot more
serious than 'wank' when she says it that way, doesn't it?"
            Ron let out a strangled grunt of laughter.
            Hermione bit her lip. This was so much, so hard -- so hard, her
brain repeated the phrase now, with an entirely different connotation -- but
she loved these boys so much...
            "Do you..." Her voice was tiny, now. "Do you want me to help?" Her
hands reached down, grasped their erections, firm and soft-skinned and slippery
in the soapy water, and stroked along them, just once. "Like this?"
            "Oh, God, Hermione," groaned Harry, "oh yes."
            Ron's lips were by her ear. "Is it really what you want?"
            "Oh, yes," she said, very fervently, and was surprised to discover
that that was how she meant it. And she began stroking in earnest now, pumping,
her hands sliding soapily over the hard flesh, so different, so much the same,
Ron's a little stout and somehow jaunty, Harry's a little longer, slender and
lithe, and Harry asked, "Can, can we touch you?" and she leaned over and kissed
him, nodding as she did, and his hands were on her breasts, and then there were
Ron's, and they were kissing her, her face, her neck, her shoulders. Every time
she turned her head, there was a mouth there to capture hers, hands so gentle
and loving on her breasts, tongues tracing the lines of her neck, of her jaw,
of her collarbones. She felt her breath coming short even as theirs did, and
then Ron stiffened, crying out her name, and she felt his release, and Harry
grunted, "Oh God, so good, Hermione, love you," and he came too, and she was
almost quivering, now, and Ron looked her in the eyes, kissed her, long and
deep while Harry nibbled gently at her neck.
            "Your turn?" Ron asked her, and she took his hand in hers, guided
it down to her center, showed him where to put his fingers, what felt good, and
then she was pulling Harry's hand down as well, sliding one of his fingers into
her as Ron stroked at her clitoris. She moved back and forth, kissing,
instructing, "Harder, Ron, that's good," "Press on the front, Harry, Oh, my
God, yes!"
            She'd come before in her life, of course. She'd masturbated as much
as any sixteen-year-old girl, and there had been that time on Buckbeak's back,
with Harry in her arms. But none of that prepared her for this, this world of
pleasure, and caressing hands, gentle touches and soft kisses, these two
beautiful boys devoting themselves to her pleasure. The climax shattered her,
and she screamed their names, clutched them to her, kissed them, one and then
the other. Somewhere, she heard Ron's voice, stunned, reverent. "Bloody Hell,
Harry! Did you see that?"
            Harry's voice was hushed. "Oh, my God, Ron, oh, fuck yes!"
            When her eyes opened, they were staring at her, wide-eyed.
            "Hermione," gasped Ron. "That was the most fucking amazing thing
I've ever seen."
            "Oh, yes!" Harry breathed his agreement.
            They stood then, rinsed themselves, and moved over to the counter
with the towels, Harry dug out his wand, and cast a warming charm on them, and
Ron took the first, and began drying her with soft, gentle trokes. Harry
grabbed another towel, and joined in, and she took a towel, and began working
on Harry, then, once he was dry, Ron. Harry had turned and retrieved the salve,
which he opened, and offered to Ron, who scooped out a finger full, and began
gently applying it along the length of Hermione's scar. Harry took the next
glob, followed her directions as he massaged it into her right breast, and she
felt its healing magic sinking in, and she smiled.
            They used the toilet then, urinating in turns. "You go first,
Hermione," Harry told her. "We're blokes, we'll leave the seat up." When Harry
went, Ron wrinkled his nose. "Bloody hell, Harry, that's just not normal. You
need to drink more."
            Harry summoned their wands, handed them back, banished used cloths
and towels and dirty clothes to the laundry basket, and they returned to the
bedroom, smiling at one another, and dressed in the school uniforms that had
been laid out for them.
            They stood together again, and Hermione drew her boys once more
into an embrace, kissing them, one at a time. "I love you, I love you."
            And they murmured their responses, "I love you, Hermione Jane."
"Love you both, so much, so much."
            And they separated again, hand in hand, and walked out through
Gryffindor Tower, out the Portrait Hole, and down to the Great Hall.
            David Granger was waiting, reading a Daily Prophet and drinking
coffee. He put down the paper, and looked back and forth among them, his face
impassive. His eyes settled on Hermione's and she found herself blushing.
            "Well, come on," he told them, softly. "I'm sure Professor
Dumbledore would like to disconnect this fireplace again from the Floo
Network." He turned to his daughter. "Would you do the honors? I don't think I
can do it."
            And she took a handful of Floo Powder, spoke her address, tossed it
into the fireplace, and the four of them stepped into the flames.
===============================================================================
 
            
***** Chapter Three: "A Very Long and Entirely Embarrassing Talk" *****
           Chapter Three: A Very Long and Entirely Embarrassing Talk
===============================================================================
            Harry stepped out of the Grangers' fireplace, and tried to look
around appreciatively. It was a pretty nice living room, no question about it,
but Harry could no more pay attention to it than he could swallow a Rolls
Royce. He looked across at Ron, and saw the same expression there, the same
mixture of wonder and terror, and his eyes returned to David Granger.
            He wasn't a very large man, nor particularly solid. There was no
particular reason for Harry to be frightened of him. Other, of course, than the
fact that Hermione's father was, without a doubt, going to kill him and Ron for
what they'd just done, not half an hour ago, to his daughter.
            It was surreal. Half an hour from having his finger up inside
Hermione --  having his finger up inside Hermione!-- to standing in the living
room of her parents' house, with her father showing them to the sofa, and her
mother arriving from the kitchen with a tray bearing coffee, tea, milk, and a
plate of carrot sticks. He squeezed Hermione's fingers: the same small, slender
fingers that had reached under the water, and stroked him -- no, that was the
other hand -- stroked Ron to orgasm. She smiled back at him, squeezing his hand
in response.
            As they sat on the sofa, David Granger pulled a chair around,
facing them, for his wife, who was setting the tray on the coffee table in
front of them. He then another for himself, and sat, facing them across the
coffee cups and carrot sticks.
            "So," he said, evenly. "Coffee? Tea? Just milk perhaps? I believe
we have some diet cola in the refrigerator if you'd prefer."
            Harry stared at him, like a squirrel watching a lorry bear down on
it, while Ron managed to say, in a high, choked voice, "Co-- Coffee would be
lovely sir."
            Granger nodded to the tray. "Serve yourself then."
            Ron selected a cup, and poured, with a great deal of clattering
between cup and carafe, added a generous dollop of milk, and looked for sugar.
There was none. He looked up at Harry. Harry shook his head slightly, but
didn't dare mouth the word Dentists. Ron's answering nod was almost
imperceptible, and he took a sip of the unsweetened coffee. Harry saw him
suppress the grimace, but there was an echo of his shudder in his shoulders.
            "Now, then," Mr. Granger said, looking back and forth among the
three of them. He suddenly glowered and leaned forward, to bellow "What have
you two done to my daughter, then!?"
            Harry squeaked and pushed himself backwards, covering his face with
one arm, and heard Ron's gasp as his cup of hot coffee fell into his lap.
            The next sound he heard was a low, rumbling sound from Mr. Granger,
followed by a slap, and Mrs. Granger's voice -- so like Hermione's in its
irritation -- snapping, "David Granger, you behave yourself!"
            Harry opened his eyes, lowered his arm, as Mr. Granger started
giggling, and Mrs. Granger turned to Ron.
            "I'm sorry, Ron, dear, are you all right?" She started patting at
his lap with a dish-towel. "I'm afraid Harry's Godfather isn't the only so-
called adult you know whose sense of humor stopped maturing when he hit
thirteen!"
            David was chortling now. "But did you see their faces, Jane? Oh,
that was great!"
            "Honestly, David, you're not the one with second-degree burns on
his crotch."
            Ron's eyes widened, and he waved his hands, "No, no, Missus, I'm
fine, really, this is a school uniform, it's made to stand up to spills in the
potions lab, and stuff. It won't even stain."
            "More than I can say for my sofa," said Jane, glaring at her
husband.
            David raised a wry eyebrow at his wife. "I'm fairly certain, dear,
with all the magical folk who'll be trooping through here tomorrow, we'll be
able to find someone with a moment to Scourgify it."
            Jane Granger huffed, then sat down again, and David leaned across
the table to touch Harry's knee and Ron's. "Listen," he said, "I'm really
sorry. Well, no I'm not, it was really funny, but I promise you both, I'm not
angry."
            "You're not?" said Ron.
            "No," said Hermione and Jane, in identical, exasperated tones,
"He's not."
            "I'm not," he said. "I'm not at all. But, well -- and I know this
is terribly uncomfortable, and believe me it's at least as much so for me and
Jane as for you three -- the question, well..." He was actually blushing. "The
question stands."
            Harry's eyes widened, as he stared at Mr. Granger, and he heard
Hermione make a small, choked sound, and Ron squeaked just a little.
            "Mr. Granger," Ron managed to choke out, "I can't-- I don't-- A
gentleman-- You're her father, sir!"
            Granger smiled gently. "Yes, I am, Ron. And I care about her very
deeply, and I want to know that she's being safe, and being treated well, and,
well... properly." He leaned forward, touched Ron's and Harry's knees again.
"Now, see, the thing is, I know that there's no sort of Sex Education at
Hogwarts. And, I don't get the impression, Ron, that your mother will have been
all that forthcoming in educating you in this area." He turned. "And I'm dead-
bloody certain, Harry, that the Dursleys have been no less useless to you about
this than anything else."
            Harry gulped, and managed to squeak, in a high, girlish voice,
"That's true, sir."
            Mr. Granger gave the knee a little squeeze. "Relax, Harry. It's
fine."
            "We masturbated," said Hermione, suddenly.
            "Bloody hell, Hermione!" gasped Ron. He  and Harry turned to stare
at her.
            She looked back and forth between them. "Well, we did!"
            Harry buried his face in his hands. "This is not happening."
            "Come on, now, Harry, buck up. I did warn you, after all. A long
and entirely embarrassing talk."
            Harry looked back at him, tried to essay a smile, came up only with
a half-terrified grimace.
            David sat back. "Now, was this masturbation individual, or was it
mutual?"
            Hermione opened her mouth, but her father stilled her with a raised
finger, and touched Harry's knee again. "Harry, you can trust me. I'm not angry
with you. I'm not going to be. I'm trusting you and Ron with my daughter. I'd
like you to trust me with your answer."
            Harry bit his lip, looking down at his shoes, then raised his eyes
to Mr. Granger's. "It was mutual, sir. After we'd washed up, well, we were, you
know, excited, sir. That's when we realised that we can't just go off to bed
and..." he swallowed. "And have a quiet wank, sir. So Hermione, well, Hermione
very kindly offered to help us. Sir."
            An amused smile played with the corners of Mr. Granger's mouth. "My
daughter is almost always a very conscientious girl, Harry." He turned to Ron.
"So she, er..." That smile again. "She helped you both then. At the same time?"
            Ron was blushing furiously, the tips of his ears such a deep red
that Harry had some fear that they were simply going to burst open, spraying
twin jets of blood all over the Granger's living-room. "Y-- Yes, sir. At the
same time, sir."
            Hermione stammered. "I-- I-- I just love them both, Daddy, so much,
and I, well, I have two hands, after all, and, well, it seemed... fair."
            "You don't have to justify, dear," said Jane. "That's one of the
meanings of All's fair in love and war."
            "That's right, honey," Mr. Granger agreed. "I'm trying to gauge
your comfort level, is all."
            "By that time, Daddy, I was very comfortable."
            "Not at first, then."
            She shook her head, looking down at her feet, and, to Harry's
surprise, Ron leaned forward. "She was magnificent, Mr. Granger, you should
have-- Well, no. But she really was amazing. I didn't understand at the time,
but I think I do, now. She brought us into the room, sat us on the sofa, and
talked to us one at a time, poured her heart out to us. It was like... Sir, she
knew we were going to have to be naked together, so she was just going to get
that done, and get it done right. No deceptions, no hiding. She told me
about... About loving me, sir. Then told Harry about loving him! Biggest damned
shock of my life, I'll tell you."
            "And are you in love with our Hermione?" asked Jane, smiling
kindly.
            Ron's face lit up as he looked at his shoes. "Oh, I reckon so,
ma'am. Been since I don't know when."
            "Well, we knew that, Jane," said David Granger. "The way they were
always sniping at one another, rowing. Talk about unresolved sexual tension!"
            Jane fixed her husband with a steely gaze. "There is more to love
than sex, David Granger!"
            "He vomited slugs for her, Jane."
            She smiled fondly at Ron. "You did at that, didn't you dear?"
            "Well..." Ron was blushing again. "It wasn't as if I meant to or
anything. My wand was broken. The spell backfired."
            "You were defending our daughter, Ron," said Mr. Granger.
            Ron looked at his trainers, and Hermione leaned over, laid her head
on his shoulder. Ron leaned his head on hers, and smiled.
            Jane smiled at them. "And that's all the answer that question
needs."
            Ron sat up again. "Anyway," he said, "Once we'd sorted that all
out, Hermione brought us to have a bath. She said it was because-- Oh, hell, it
doesn't matter what she said. She knew that we were going to have to do that at
some point. We were going to have to bathe, we were going to have to piss, and
she didn't want it hanging over our heads. She's so brave, Mr. Granger. She's
so amazingly brave. But, you know, there's only so much you can ask in one day,
isn't there? Once we were undressed, well, Hermione kind of freaked out. She
was so-- I mean, she was just stood there, wasn't she, and crying? Oh, yeah!
She was so miserable. So Harry and me -- It was Harry, really, he kept his
head, I didn't know what to do -- well we held her, and then we brought her
into the bath, sir, and we, well, we bathed her."
            "Oh, Daddy, they were so wonderful to me! They just washed, that
was all. They washed everywhere, but it was just washing, there was no, no
groping or feeling or anything. I mean, they were randy, I could tell, as randy
as anything, but they-- Oh, Daddy, they were just gentle, and kind, and
wonderful, that's all." She took a breath. "So, then, well, they got me all
calmed down, and comfortable, and I bathed them the way they'd bathed me, and,
well, I touched them, you know, washing them, and, well, I knew...."
            "So she helped us," said Harry.
            "I see." David Granger looked at his wife, who was smiling warmly
at the three teens. He turned back to them. "And did one of you then, er, help
my daughter?"
            "No, sir," Ron began, and then stopped, as Granger started looking
offended.
            "It was both of us, sir," said Harry. "Her-- Hermione wanted it to
be both of us."
            Granger looked back and forth between the two boys. "Both of you.
Together."
            "Yes, sir," said Ron. "We, er, we've always worked well as a team,
sir."
            David Granger sat back in his seat, eyes a little wide. "...a
team..." he breathed. He looked over at his wife, whose lips were pressed
together as she smiled, her eyes glistening. "A team, Jane."
            Mrs Granger nodded. A single tear began to wander down her cheek,
which alarmed Harry a bit, but, intense as it was, that was definitely a smile,
so he supposed it couldn't be too bad. Mr. Granger chewed his lower lip for a
moment, looking, suddenly, remarkably like his daughter, and then turned back
to them.
            "Now," he said, briskly. "Was there any, er, anal insertion?"
            "Sir!" cried Harry.
            Ron gawped silently for a moment, before sputtering, "We would,
sir, we would never..."
            David Granger held up a hand, smiling. "Never say never, now, lads.
There's nothing at all wrong with it, in fact, I can tell you, the sensation
can be quite breathtaking."
            Jane leaned forward, nodding, "And I must say, the first time your
father tried it with me, it was, well, just the most wonderful surprise!"
            Hermione's eyes had suddenly assumed the dimensions of footballs.
            But Granger wasn't stopping now. He leaned in toward them. "Listen
to me. Life is too short, and love is too precious, to say no to things like
that because you think they're just for poofters or something. When you're
together, when you're in bed, you can't give ground because of what you're
afraid someone else might think of you. Never forget that. All you should ever
take to bed with you is your love, and your own sense of pleasure. Well, and a
nice warm jar of lube."
            "Oh, my God," said Hermione. "Oh, my God, Oh, my God."
            "Anyway," said David Granger, "the reason I ask is because, no,
there's nothing wrong with doing it, but there's an order to it, and it's
important. Always go from front to back. You can always put your fingers in the
anus after the vagina, but it's really important  not to go from the anus to
the vagina without cleaning them pretty thoroughly first. And that rule's as
important with penises as it is with fingers. The reason is that there are
germs and things that grow in the anus, that the anus can handle. It's made for
pretty nasty stuff, after all. But they can cause infections and stuff if they
get transported over into the vagina. And a germ doesn't care if it's under
your fingernail or in your foreskin, you follow. So the rule's the same: Front
to back is fine, but never back to front, unless you really wash on the way.
And I mean really wash."
            Harry glanced over at Ron and Hermione. They were simply staring,
open-mouthed, at Hermione's father.
            Mr. Granger patted Harry on the knee, and said, "Now, as long as
we're around the subject anyway, let's talk about anal sex. Given the
fundamental inequities involved with two boys and a girl, this is bound to come
up as an issue at some point. The same rule about front-to-back, never back-to-
front applies here as well, but the penis is really just as vulnerable to
infection as the vagina, so it's important to take precautions."
            "Precautions," said Ron. "You mean condoms, right? We have those in
the Wizarding world, sir."
            "Ah. I thought you might use a spell."
            "There is a charm, Daddy," said Hermione. "Well, a number of them
actually."
            "Right, then." Mr. Granger took a breath, considered a moment.
"There's one more thing I need to say about this topic, then. You absolutely
need to take it slowly, when -- or if -- you try this. It's not easy to do, and
who-ever is 'bottom' is going to need preparation. Start small, and slow. Just
a finger at  first. Use some sort of lubrication, and try to add a finger. It's
all about getting the recipient to relax. Only when they're really relaxed is
it time to move on to using your penis."
            Ron and Harry were staring, open-mouthed.
            David Granger looked among them for several long moments, and
smiled. "Look, I'm not blind to the fact that this is all a lot to take in, and
it's got to be a bit weird coming from Hermione's dad. But..." He chewed his
lip again. "Listen, you're teenagers. I know you're going to be sexual with
each other. In an ideal world, none of you would be dealing with this for a
couple more years. But here we are, and you're this..." He smiled at them then.
"This magnificent threesome. Can I tell all three of you how proud I am of you?
Of your courage, Hermione, of your gentleness, Harry, Ron? You three are, well,
you're amazing. You are. But you've been pulled, way too suddenly, into this,
and your bodies and hormones are going to be making demands on you, and you're
going to give into those demands. You're going to have sex, and you're going to
have it soon, and I fear maybe sooner than you're ready for. So I want to be
sure you understand as much as you can about it, about what it means, what it
feels like, what the dangers are, because there really are dangers, not just
physical but emotional. We can't protect you from your bodies, but we can arm
you to defend yourselves."
            They were silent for a long moment, then,  Mr. and Mrs. Granger
looking back and forth among the three of them, before Harry finally spoke.
            "Mr. Granger, how old were you when you first had sex?"
            "Seventeen and a half," he replied easily. "With an older woman of
twenty-two. She was the delivery girl for the curry place my parents ordered
from, and I was just mad for her. I'm sure I was pretty obvious. One day, when
my parents were out, I ordered in curry, hoping she'd be the one to deliver,
and, well..." He grinned fondly at the memory. "She did."
            "Were you scared?" Harry asked.
            "Terrified. Fortunately, for her the thrill seemed to be the thrill
she was giving me. I sure as hell didn't manage to do much for her."
            "Was she," asked Ron, hesitantly, "Was she tall, sir?"
            Mr. Granger's eyes flickered briefly to his diminutive daughter,
then back to Ron. "Yes, she was, Ron. Tall as me. I'd never been with a smaller
girl until Jane, here."
            Harry found himself looking back to Hermione's mum, who was really
not much taller than Hermione was, and she met his eyes and smiled. "It will be
all right, Harry, Ron. A woman is made to bear that weight, and you'll find
that you're mostly supporting yourselves on your knees and elbows. And when you
do just collapse, and lay your full weight on Hermione, well, she might have a
little trouble breathing if you stay too long, but I promise you, if she feels
half as much for you boys as I do for David, feeling your weight sprawled on
top of her will be one of the best things in her world."
            Hermione was flushed, probably with embarrassment, but she gave
Ron's and Harry's hands a little squeeze.
            "And, of course, Ron," added Mr. Granger, "You'll find that there
are lots of ways of doing it other than with you on top." He glanced over at
Harry. "Especially, I daresay, as there are the three of you."
            Mrs. Granger leaned forward with a smile. "Oh, yes. Especially, I'm
sure, with magic involved. I mean, with transfiguration and suchlike, why, the
possibilities are endless!"
            Hermione held her hands up. "Oh, Mum, that's-- I can't deal with
that!"
            "Well, Hermione," Mrs. Granger petted her knee, "I'm not advocating
that, we're not advocating anything. We're just talking about what there is.
It's up to you to decide what to do."
            David Granger sat forward again, patted his wife's hand on his
daughter's knee. "Boys, Hermione, can I have your hands here, please?"
            The three teens offered their hands, and Mr. Granger took them,
brought them together, lay them atop his wife's, and then lay his own hand over
them all. "I do want to advocate something, though. First, if you ever have any
questions about any of this, any at all, you can always come to myself or Jane.
Any time, day or night. I mean it. But I want to ask of the three of you this
favor: Wait. You're under a lot of pressure from your bodies, and your
proximity, and I can understand that. But you should give yourself time to
absorb things, to get used to the idea."
            He looked each of them in the eye, in turn. "What you did today in
the bath, that's fine, really, it's fine. But I'd like you to promise me that
you won't go further than that for a while. That you won't, er, won't use
anything but your hands. Say... Until Harry's birthday. Can you do that?"
            The three teens regarded one another for a moment, and Harry felt
himself breathing an inner sigh of relief. He felt like he ought to resist the
idea, or be upset, but it was sort of soothing, to be able to wait a bit.
            "Of, of course, sir," he said, quietly. "We'll do what you tell
us."
            David Granger smiled. "Oh, I'm not telling you, Harry. It's your
bodies, it's your choices. I'm asking you to do me -- and, I think, yourselves
-- a favor."
            "I think it's a very good idea, Mr. Granger," said Ron, looking
over at Hermione. Her expression seemed a little lighter, somehow, Harry
noticed, and he quirked an eyebrow at Ron, whose own eyes acknowledged, and
they smiled at each other.
            Hermione looked back and forth between them. "What?"
            The boys shrugged helplessly.
            "Well, then," Hermione said tartly, "I don't know about you two,
but I'm hungry. Mum, Dad, do you think we could send out for curry?"
            And suddenly they were normal people again.
===============================================================================
***** Chapter Four: "Souls Who Dwell In The Night" *****
                  Chapter Four: Souls Who Dwell In The Night
===============================================================================
            "Ron!" Harry was upright, flushed, eyes wide, staring sightlessly
in the dark as the cry was torn from him. "No, Ron!"
            In his mind, he saw it again: Ron, grabbing him, pulling him away
from the Veil, then suddenly wrenching Harry free, throwing him and Hermione
away from the opening, even as his own arms started to pinwheel, and he fell
backwards, toward the fluttering cloth, his eyes wide, his face a mask of
embarrassment, his mouth a perfect "O" of surprise.
            Suddenly, small, soft hands were touching him, stroking his back.
"Harry," came Hermione's voice. "Harry, it's all right." Then she was upright,
against him, her breasts soft and warm through her t-shirt on his bare skin,
her arms wrapping around him, her lips, soft, moist, gently kissing his
shoulder. "It's all right, Harry."
           He was in bed with Hermione!
            "Come on, love," she was murmuring to him, "budge over this way."
To his astonishment, she was moving around him now, crawling into his lap,
embracing, caressing, kissing gently. "Budge over where I was."
            Harry scooted that way, and a large, strong hand now was on him,
pulling him closer, a voice saying, "'S all right, mate, I'm here, we're here,
it's okay."
            Ron! He was in bed with Hermione and Ron!
            Ron's arm was pulling him back down, down onto the bed, wrapping,
strong and firm, around his waist, and he threw one of his legs across Harry's
as Hermione snuggled into his other side, caressing him gently, laying her head
on his shoulder.
            He was in bed with Hermione and Ron!
            "Oh, no! Oh, God, I, I'm sorry, I..." He started to sit up again,
and Ron gently brought him back down.
            "Harry, no, mate, it's okay. It's all right." He shook him a
little. "Bring it back, mate, bring it back."
            "What?" Hermione's voice sounded puzzled.
            "When Harry has nightmares, he sort of fixates," Ron told her.
"Takes him a bit to remember, you know, the real world."
            And it was this that brought Harry fully back to the present,
transported in seconds by memories of all the times he'd been brought back by
Ron, since the Tri-Wizard Tournament. In the dorm at Hogwarts, Ron crawling in
through his bed-curtains to hold him. Seamus had once popped his head in after
him, to make some crude joke, but one look at Harry's terror had stilled him.
In Ron's room at the Burrow. And now here, in Hermione's surprisingly pink and
girly bedroom at her parents' house. He let his head fall back to the pillows
with a soft flump.
            "I'm sorry, guys. I didn't mean to wake you."
            Hermione leaned over, kissed his chest, her lips falling randomly
half-way across his nipple. "It's all right, love," she told him, stroking his
belly with one small, soft hand. "You've more than earned it."
            Ron snuggled closer to him, and Harry felt hardness pressed against
his hip.
            "Hell, Ron," he said, a little surprised. "You've got wood!"
            "Look at it this way, Harry," Ron said. "You've been there plenty
of times in the Great Hall, when I had--"
            Harry laughed and shoved him. "Shut up, you great berk!"
            But Hermione had lifted her head from Harry's chest. "You've got an
erection, Ron?"
            "Should I have alerted WWN, or something?"
            "No, it's just, you know... You're hugging Harry. Are you
bisexual?"
            "Your parents are a bad influence, Hermione."
            "It's a perfectly reasonable question, Ron, under the
circumstances."
            Harry heard Ron sigh. "Hermione, it's three o'clock in the what-
the-fuck-are-you-doing-up; I'm not prepared to put that much thought into it."
He yawned again, mightily. "I think it's just the situation. You know, the
three of us, together, in bed. I heard kissing. And I had my fingers inside you
this afternoon. I've got plenty of reasons to be hard, and I'm too fucking
tired to worry about whether Harry's one of them. This a problem for you,
Harry?"
            Harry thought for a minute. "No," he finally said. "I guess it
isn't."
            Ron reached up and tousled his hair in the dark, and Hermione
squirmed partway across him to kiss Ron, and then kissed Harry, softly,
lovingly, before settling back onto his chest again.
            "Good night, my loves," she said.
===============================================================================
            David Granger was sitting on the edge of the bed, Jane stroking his
back. "Hermione told us he has nightmares, dear."
            David sighed. "I know, Jane. But he sounded... Not just afraid.
Desolate."
            Granger looked down past his bare knees at the floor.
            "Dear, before you go sit in the living room, put something on,"
said Jane. "Remember, we have guests."
            He looked back at his wife, naked and still beautiful in the light
of the bedside lamp, and smiled. "You do know me, darling."
            "Yes, I do. You're well beyond sleep at this point."
            "Yes, dear." Granger pulled on a blue-and-green t-shirt -- Planet
Earth: Love it or Leave it -- and a pair of grey sweats. "Love you, dear," he
said, and switched off the light.
            "And you, darling," replied Jane, as he stepped quietly from the
room. "See you in the morning."
            He padded quietly to the stairs, and down to the living-room. Remus
Lupin was sitting on the sofa, smiling broadly at nothing.
            "Morning, Professor," David said, quietly.
            "By no sane definition known to man," replied Lupin, easily. "And,
please, I'm Remus."
            Granger returned his friendly smile. "Then I'm David."
            He went to sit in one of the armchairs, saw there was a large,
shaggy, black dog curled up in it, its nose on its paws. He cocked an eyebrow
at Lupin.
            "Sirius," said Lupin.
            "You named your dog after--" Granger stopped, suddenly,
remembering. "Oh!" He looked at the sleeping dog again. "How extraordinary!"
            The dog looked up at him, wagged its tail, barked very quietly, and
Granger grinned. "You're welcome, mate. Try not to shed on the upholstery."
            The dog barked again, and this seemed almost to actually be
laughter, and settled its head back on its paws.
            David moved to the other end of the couch from Lupin and noticed
the coffee stain was gone. He pointed at its absence. "Your work?"
            Lupin smiled as he nodded.
            "Ta, then." David sat. "Thanks for staying here. I appreciate you
making this place safe enough, while the kids are under my roof."
            Remus shrugged. "Least we could do. You and yours have been dragged
head-first into our world, far more than most Muggle parents, even before, er,
this."
            David's voice was quiet, serious. "The way I see it, we've been at
the front lines of your war for five years now. Hermione didn't need this
marriage spell to be attached to young Potter at the hip." He stood again,
headed for the kitchen. "Would you like a pint, Remus? Sirius?"
            Lupin raised an eyebrow. "At this hour?"
            David leaned back out of the kitchen. "Part of this nutritious
breakfast!"
            "You've talked me into it," said Remus, and Sirius barked.
            "Three it is, then," said David, returning to the kitchen, "and I'm
not bringing yours in a bowl, Sirius!"
            He was back in a moment, bearing three tall bottles and a church-
key, to see, as he reclaimed his place on the couch, the dog squirm over onto
its back, and flow. Now Sirius Black lay on the chair, his back on the seat,
head hanging upside-down over the edge of the cushion, and knees hung over the
back. David opened a bottle with the church-key, and handed it to him.
            "Ta, mate," said Sirius, bringing the bottle to his upside-down
lips.
            "Pleasure," David replied casually, and turned to open another
bottle for a smirking Remus.
            "Thanks, David."
            David Granger tipped his own bottle to Remus in salute and sat
back.
            "I'm sorry," said Sirius, his upside-down face suddenly solemn.
"You're good people. You don't deserve to be dragged into our war."
            David took a pull at his own bottle. It was a rather nice home-brew
one of his neighbors, a plump and very pleasant middle-aged lesbian named
Allyce, made in her basement. "It's the Good Fight, isn't it?"
            "It is that," said Remus. He sipped some beer, and smiled at the
bottle approvingly.
            "Then I'm proud to fight it. I'm proud of Hermione for stepping
up."
            "She's always done that," said Remus. "As long as I've known her."
            "Heart of a lion, that one," agreed Sirius. "Honestly. I feel a bit
weird saying this about a sixteen-year-old girl -- to her father yet! -- but
I'll feel better following her into battle than some of the Aurors I know."
            "And your godson?"
            "I'd sooner follow him than your daughter." Sirius swigged his beer
again, showing no discomfort at drinking it upside-down. David wondered briefly
whether that was magic or practice, then imagined Jane's reaction when she
caught him trying it, and wisely gave the whole line of thought up as a bad
job. "No offense," Sirius finished.
            "None taken," replied David. "My daughter long ago pledged her life
to his, and she's told us enough that I can see why. Hell, even here, today, as
quiet and diffident as he's been towards me... He carries a kind of, of moral
authority, doesn't he?"
            "That he does," said Remus, and both wizards smiled proudly.
            "And, you know what else?" said Sirius. "So does Ron Weasley." He
lifted his bottle. "Young Mr. Weasley."
            "Hear, hear," said Remus, adding his bottle with a crystalline
clink!
            "Her first love," agreed David, his bottle joining theirs.
            "I've known girls who made worse choices," said Sirius with a grin.
            "Damned few made better," agreed Remus. "Did you see him square off
against his mother today?"
            Sirius laughed. "Albus sodding Dumbledore had his gawp hanging open
and his thumbs up his arse!I thought I was going to wet myself. I wanted to
stand up and applaud."
            "You should have seen him here today with me," said David. "I'd
terrorized the poor little sods--"
            "Tonks told us about that," said Remus, with a smile.
            Sirius grinned wolfishly. "She wants you, Remus."
            "Oh, please, I could be her father!"
            Sirius snorted. "You weren't getting any at fourteen!" As Remus
shrugged rueful acquiescence, he continued, "Anyway, I was transformed and you
weren't. The pheromones were coming off her in waves, mate." While Remus
sputtered, Sirius turned his still upside-down face back to David, his
expression sincere. "You were saying?"
            David was unwilling to be derailed. "I was saying that Ron Weasley
is a hell of a good man. Do you know what he did after I terrorized him? Not
five minutes later? He was telling me she was magnificent!"
            Sirius' eyebrows raised toward the floor in mock amazement.
            "Not about that, you sick bastard!" David frowned. "Well, sort of.
He was telling me how brave she was, dealing with... Well, you know." He drank
more of his beer. "Amazing."
            "She's amazing," said Remus. "I mean, I'm sorry, you're her dad,
and you can't have enjoyed it, but the aplomb with which she closed that
meeting, to take the boys to... Er..." He trailed to an uncomfortable stop,
waving apologetically at David.
            "No need," said David. "I'm not going to claim to be ecstatic about
this -- Christ, she'll always be my little girl -- but they're good boys, and
there's all the love in the world there. And you're right, Remus. She was
extraordinary today." He tipped back his beer. "Of course, she always has
been."
            "That she has," said Sirius, and Remus nodded his agreement, and
chorused, "That she has."
===============================================================================
            She knew for a fact that he slept. She had seen it, more than once.
Nonetheless, when Minerva McGonagall was prowling the halls of Hogwarts in the
hour of the wolf, and needed to speak with him, she always knew she'd find
Albus Dumbledore awake, sitting in his quarters, a fire roaring in his
fireplace, reading... something. She'd found him with textbooks, spell-books,
the Bible, the Koran, Das Kapital,Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them, Dick
Francis' latest horse-racing mystery -- and of course, those lurid Muggle comic
books from the 1960s. By the Crimson bands of Cyttorak, indeed! Still, she
supposed a lot of the illustrations were quite moody and vibrant, for
stationary Muggle art.
            This time, it was a lurid romance novel called "HeartSplinch," by
Philhelmina Tonks-Warbeck, into which Dumbledore inserted a bookmark as he
turned to her.
            "Hello, Minerva."
            She stood silently for a moment in his doorway, then marched over
and dropped herself into an armchair, staring into the fire.
            Dumbledore gestured silently, and a large cask floated, quick and
graceful, into the room, to hover a couple of feet above the end-table between
them. Two snifters arrived shortly thereafter, landing patiently and precisely
on the tabletop like two Muggle helicopters landing on a rooftop heliport.
            "Brandy?" he offered.
            McGonagall raised an eyebrow at him. "Only if you promise not to
serenade me about being a fine girl. I would not be a good wife!"
            Dumbledore chuckled. "But your eyes could--"
            "I mean it, Albus!" cried McGonagall, raising a warning finger, but
she could no longer suppress her smile. Dumbledore's gaze warmed toward her, as
the cask decanted brandy into the snifters, and he lifted his in silent toast.
            "Now, Minerva," he said, "what has you prowling at this dark hour?"
            "My conscience," she muttered darkly. "I know the situation is not
in my control, but I feel like I've just pimped that girl out like a street-
corner tart."
            Dumbledore's answering smile was kind. "Minerva, can you think of
any other two boys, in the history of this institution, to whom you would more
trust a girl's dignity and virtue than Messrs Potter and Weasley? Can you think
of any girl you've ever heard of better able to handle the situation with a
clear head?"
            "Oh, Albus, I know that. But the fact remains that today I sent two
boys and a girl -- students, Albus! -- off to be alone for some sort of, of
perverse, three-party assignation!"
            Dumbledore smiled at her again. "Oh, I doubt it was terribly
perverse, Minerva. I suspect that it was sweet, as innocent and loving as that
sort of thing can be. I trust those boys, Minerva, and I trust Miss Granger.
She has wisdom, that girl, and courage as well. Neither she nor they will have
done anything to shame us." His smile dimmed, as he sipped again at his Brandy.
"It is I, rather, who have shamed them."
            McGonagall's eyes widened. "Albus, no. You cannot--"
            His voice was so gentle it seemed hardly to be an interruption. "I
stood there, Minerva, just as young Mr. Weasley said, with my gawp hanging open
and my thumbs--"
            "Albus!" McGonagall's interruption was far from gentle. "A physical
manifestation reached from beyond the Veil itself! From beyond the Veil! You
can be forgiven for a moment of surprise!"
            "Were it not for Miss Granger's swift reaction, Minerva, that
moment's hesitation would have killed Harry and Ronald. Instead, it caused her
to give her life entire to those two young men, and to bind them to her for
their lifetimes. All of them, really, child-brides bartered for the dowry of
their own lives, because I was unable to respond in time to save them." He put
his snifter down on the table. "If you would castigate or reprove, Minerva, you
must absolve yourself, and place your blame where it belongs. On me."
            They were silent a couple of moments, watching the fire.
            "I daresay, Albus, that those three lives were already joined
before Miss Granger uttered that spell."
            Dumbledore nodded. "I imagine that's quite true."
            Again, there was silence.
            "Nuptialis Unum," murmured Dumbledore at length. "Extraordinary,
really. Do you imagine young Miss Granger understands the power that involved?
The last Regimagus reigned for four-hundred years, because none held the power
to depose him." He lifted his snifter once again. "I don't imagine there are
more than a dozen wizards alive with the power to cast Nuptialis Unum. Imagine
the odds: four of them were in that room!"
            "Were they always that powerful, do you suppose, Albus?"
            "I shouldn't think so, Minerva," said Dumbledore. "It was their
love that gave them that power. Their love that joined them together."
            "I just wish that weren't so literally true," said McGonagall,
thinking once again of the laundry basket worth of washcloths, towels, and
dirty clothing the house elves had brought out of the Gryffindor Head Girl's
room. In her school, with her blessing! What was she thinking?
            But Dumbledore smiled gently at her. "It was love, Minerva. The
power the Dark Lord knows not."
            McGonagall sipped her brandy. "I somehow thought the prophecy was
referring to a somewhat... higher love."
            And at this, Dumbledore's eyebrows raised. "A higher love than that
shared by those three extraordinary young people? Were it even a little higher,
it would sweep the very moon and the stars from the sky!"
            McGonagall smiled at him, her eyes twinkling. "I think perhaps
you've been reading Ms. Tonks-Warbeck a bit too closely, Albus!"
            He smiled as he lifted his glass to her. "Perhaps I have, at that,
Minerva."
===============================================================================
            When Arthur Weasley arrived in his kitchen, he found Molly, sitting
at the table, looking blankly at the clock. Ron's hand was pointed firmly and
comfortably -- after all, Arthur thought, it had plenty of practice -- at
"Sleeping." He knew that, for a few terrifying moments late the previous
morning, it, and then even his own, had been pointed at "Mortal Peril." That
was also far too common a location for the hands of that clock. And it will
only be more so until You-Know-Who is defeated.
            He sat down beside his wife and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
            "Oh, Arthur," she said quietly. "What am I going to do?"
            "What you've always done, Molly. Love them. Love them, and guide
them the best you can."
            He sat there beside her and she leaned into him, sighing in the
night.
            "I just feel terrible, Arthur. That little girl saved our boy's
life, and I called her a whoare."
            Arthur squeezed his wife to him with one strong arm. "She's hardly
a little girl any more, Molly. She's a young woman now. She's your daughter-in-
law, legally and magically."
            Molly found it in herself to smile bleakly. "I'm afraid I'm not
dealing with that all that well, Arthur. She's growing up, our little Ronnie's
growing up..."
            Arthur nuzzled comfortingly into the side of her neck. "And still,
somehow, you haven't aged a day, my Mollywobbles."
            She laughed and pushed gently at him. "I have, Arthur. I know I
have. And I know I am, and far too fast, at that."
            "Nonsense, Molly. Not a day! Because, if you had, well, that would
mean I had. And we all know that that is simply not possible!"
            "Honestly, Arthur, how could our children be growing up without our
getting any older?"
            A third voice, younger, female, spoke behind them, completing their
ages-old joke. "It must be magic, I guess."
            Arthur and Molly turned as one, as guiltily as teens caught necking
by their parents.
            "Ginny," said Molly, very softly. "Why are you up, dear?"
            The teenager moved crossed the kitchen and poured herself a glass
of cold milk. "Same as you, I guess. I miss Ron. I miss Harry."
            "They're only at the Grangers, dear," said Arthur. "And Harry would
be at Privet Drive anyway."
            "Might as well be Mars, now," murmured Ginny, taking a seat
opposite them.
            "He cares for you very much, Ginny. That hasn't changed."
            "No," said Ginny, bitterly. "And now it never will. He'll always
care for me. His best mate's little sister. His... What, his co-husband's
little sister? I'm his sister-in-law now?"
            Arthur was taken aback. She sounded so sad. "I thought you'd moved
on from Harry. Weren't you dating that Dean fellow?"
            "Oh, Daddy!" said Ginny in disgust. "Dean's a very sweet boy,
but... He was something to do while I waited for Harry to figure it out."
            "That hardly seems fair to the lad," said Arthur.
            "Daddy, we're fifteen. It's not like we were making lifetime
commitments, you know." She sat a moment. "Unless you're them."
            Molly reached out, touched her daughter's hand. "You mustn't be
bitter, dear. Hermione did the only thing she could think of to save the boys'
lives."
            "And they unquestionably would have died without her," supplied
Arthur, his hand joining his wife's on his daughter's.
            "Oh, I know all that, Daddy," said Ginny. "Albus sodding Dumbledore
stood there with his gawp hanging open and his thumbs--"
            "Arthur Weasley! You told our daughter that!?"
            "No, Mum," said Ginny quickly. "Tonks told me when she came by to
pick up some clothes for Ron and Harry." The girl chuckled. "She said Ron was
great!"
            Molly looked at the floor. "He was magnificent, dear. He-- He
helped stop me from making the most terrible mistake. I said the most awful,
awful things to Hermione."
            Ginny nodded matter-of-factly as she took in some of her milk.
"Tonks said you called her a whoare."
            Molly's eyes closed, regret filling her features. "I did, dear, may
Merlin forgive me. That girl pulled my son from the very grasp of death itself
for me, and Harry, too, and all I could think about was that he'd have to grow
up now, that he'd be-- that he'd be a man with her. With her and with Harry.
And I'd just be that much older. What a terrible, shallow, vain old woman your
mother is, Ginevra. What a foolish, foolish old woman!"
            "Well, what does that make me, then, Mum? Because I'm only fifteen
years old, and I hate her right now. I hate her so much! She took them away
from me! She took my brother and she took Harry, too, and she cheated and used
magic to do it, and I don't even get to be mad at her because if she didn't
they'd be dead! How is that fair?"
            Arthur fumfuhed uncomfortably for a moment, trying to find some
solace to offer his daughter. "Maybe it's not impossible, dear," he finally
said, remembering something he'd read in a Muggle book, long ago. "Chang and
Eng, the original Siamese twins, both married, and fathered children. It's
possible to--"
            "Oh, sure, Dad!" said Ginny. "If you'd had to shag Mum with Uncle
Gideon or Uncle Fabian in your bed with you, none of us would ever have been
born!"
            Molly and Arthur stared at her, shocked into speechlessness.
            "Well, honestly, Daddy, you were talking about marriage and
children. I'm pretty sure that has something to do with--"
            "All right, Ginny," her father told her gently. "Your point is well
-taken. But you really mustn't blame Hermione."
            "I don't blame her, Daddy," said Ginny. "I just want to hex her so
all her girl-parts close up or fall off."
            Arthur's eyes widened. "I, er, I think that might perhaps be
considered a little unkind, Ginny, dear."
            "Yeah, well..." Ginny brought her glass to the sink, and washed it,
putting it down on the drainer. Going through all those Muggle motions instead
of just sneaking in a nice Tergeo was kind of soothing. "I'll get over it. She
is my best friend after all, and she did save their lives. I'm going to punch
her arm really hard, though, I mean it!"
            Molly gathered her daughter in her arms, and hugged her tight. "I
guess we'll both just have to work, " she said, "at becoming better people."
            Arthur stood and joined them. "You're both good enough," he
murmured, a hand on each of their shoulders. "More than good enough for
anybody."
            And he led them from the kitchen, stilling the fire with a gesture
from his wand, and led them gently towards the stairs.
===============================================================================
***** Chapter Five: "The Student of the Day Before" *****
                 Chapter Five: "The Student of the Day Before"
            Waking up together was an awkward affair, Harry decided, but had
its rewards as well. Limbs tangled with limbs, warm touches and sleepy smiles,
casual kisses and gentle caresses, and even Crookshanks, who'd crawled up on
the bed in the night, and lay, purring in his sleep, on Harry's chest when he
awoke, had him feeling safe and cozy and kind of overwhelmed.
            Having to use the toilet in a kind of conga-line production number
was embarrassing, though it had to be said that it came in handy when he was
able to send Ron and Hermione in a human chain to the cabinet across from the
toilet to fetch a new loo roll.
            But best of all, he decided -- not to any great surprise -- was the
shower. Hermione wasn't yet entirely comfortable, but she was getting there,
and instead of the kind of immersive world of comforting sensuality they'd
found in the Head Girl's bath, here in the Grangers' upstairs bathroom, with
sunlight streaming in through a skylight, and prosaic tiled floors and chrome
towel-bars, it seemed like it was okay to look at Hermione in a way that would
have seemed the day before like taking advantage. Of course it was sexual -
- It's axiomatic, said Mrs. Granger's voice in his head -- but it was friendly
and playful, too.
            He found that Hermione's nipples were his favorite toys, ever. He
hadn't much experience with girls' nipples, so he'd always thought that the
coloured ring around the base was just that: coloured skin. But it was
sensitive, and crinkly, and tended to inflate a little when he'd play with the
nipples themselves, giving a lovely sort of two-tiered effect, as their colour
would darken from pink towards rose.
            She, in the mean-time, had become mesmerized by the differences
between his and Ron's erections. The fact that his was pretty straight while
Ron's curled upwards ever so slightly just seemed to fascinate her. They washed
and then wanked and then washed again, the boys "helping" Hermione first,
before she wanked them, which took far less time, as watching her orgasm had
brought them most of the way to their own already.
            The sexual play was great, Harry thought, and coming in Hermione's
hand was mind-boggling, but the best thing about the shower wasn't the sex, it
wasn't the wank or the orgasm or even those splendid, rosy nipples. The best
thing was how quickly they'd become comfortable together. The best thing was
simply touch. Hermione was there for him to touch, and so was Ron, and both of
their hands found their way, gentle and friendly, onto him. At one point, Ron
had leaned across them to adjust the water, and his erection had bumped into
Harry's hip and slid across one cheek of his arse, and Ron had shrugged an
apology to him, with a half-smile, the way he might have if he'd accidentally
kicked his foot under the table in the Great Hall.
            In the end, when they were standing outside the shower stall,
drying with warm, fluffy towels, Harry just grabbed them both in a desperate
embrace, rubbing his forehead back and forth between Ron's collarbone and
Hermione's shoulder, not sobbing, though he didn't quite know why he wasn't,
but just drinking in their flesh, their touch, the simple feel of skin against
skin against skin.
            "Poor Harry," said Hermione, cuddling him, as Ron stroked his back.
"You've probably been touched more in the last day than you were the whole time
you lived with the Dursleys, haven't you, love?"
            Harry couldn't quite find his voice to answer.
            "'Sall right, mate," said Ron, stroking his back. "'Sall right.
You're a Weasley now. May not get you much money, but you'll never want for
hugs, mate."
===============================================================================
            Half an hour later, they were sitting at the Granger's kitchen
table, having breakfast.
            "I think Ron may be bisexual," said Hermione, casually, as she
scooped some scrambled eggs onto her plate.
            Ron dropped his forehead onto his right hand.
            "Why's that, dear?" asked David Granger, buttering his toast.
Sirius and Remus looked over, interested, from the end of the table.
            "Would it be considered rude," Ron asked, "to rub scrambled eggs in
your daughter's hair at the breakfast table?"
            "It certainly would," said Jane. "There's no safe way to do that
with a fork, and we don't pick up scrambled eggs with our fingers at this
table!"
            "He was cuddling Harry last night," continued Hermione, taking a
couple of slices of toast, "and he had an erection."
            Harry blushed furiously, but leaned forward, and essayed a weak but
cheeky grin across Hermione at him. "See, mate? No need to inform WWN. Bit
redundant, really."
            "How about toast with marmalade," suggested Sirius, helpfully.
"That's finger food."
            Jane speared him with a look. "And do you want to clean it up off
the floor, then Sirius?"
            "Oh, like that's a threat," said David. "He'll just transform, and
lick it up."
            Sirius laughed, clearly delighted at this Muggle's easy way with
his powers, as Remus smirked at him.
            "So are you, dear?" Jane asked Ron, offering him the dish of
marmalade.
            "Excuse me?"
            "Bisexual, I mean," she supplied, helpfully.
            Harry, feeling he was on safer ground as the attention stayed on
Ron, smirked at him again. "You were right, Ron. They are a bad influence!"
            Ron quirked a smile over at Harry, then returned his attention to
Hermione's mum. "I'm a sixteen-year-old boy, Mrs. Granger. I've been known to
get stiffies from trees!"
            "Oh," said Sirius, "I know the one you mean! Down by the end of the
driveway? Knot-hole right about" --he gestured a foot or so above the table-
- "this height."
            "The poplar?" asked David, sipping at his orange juice.
            "No, no," said Remus Lupin, grinning widely. "Even when we were in
school, Sirius never went for the poplar girls!"
            Silence settled over the table, and ten eyes turned to stare
blankly at Lupin.
            Remus' grin slowly faded.
            "I happen," said Sirius, with great dignity, "to be speaking about-
-"
            "Oh, oh, I know!" cried Ron. "The larch!"
            "Yes!" Sirius slammed his hand down on the table and pointed at
Ron. "The larch! Those leaves, those limbs, that splendid, splendid bark! I
should go out there right now and mark it as my very own!"
            "That's fine, Sirius," said David, sipping his coffee, "but I'm
fairly certain that's not sufficient to transfer title."
            "You know, Ron," said Hermione, "you still haven't actually
answered the question. That wasn't a tree last night, that was Harry."
            Harry blushed mightily, but soldiered on, tilting his head to a
coquettish angle and batting his eyelashes prettily at Ron. "It's true, Ron. I
am, after all, your child bride!"
            "And quite a fetching one you are, Harry," offered Remus Lupin,
lifting his coffee in toast.
            "It's a wonder he waited so long, really," said Sirius.
            Ron snorted. "We're dorm-mates in a British boarding school. Why
buy the cow..."
            Harry looked shocked, now, as his blush deepened, and held his hand
over the center of his chest. "I never! Ron, I never gave it up for you, no
matter how many times you slipped in through my bed-curtains!"
            Ron's eyes darkened a bit, and he sat back.
            "Oh, Ron, mate," said Harry. "I'm sorry, I'm just messing about. I
know you were only ever there to help me, Ron."
            The hurt faded from Ron's face, and he shyly smiled back at him.
"Really?"
            "Of course, mate," said Harry. "And I really appreciate it."
            Hermione's stare at Ron was intense. "You are, aren't you, Ron? You
are bisexual!"
            "Merlin, Hermione!" Ron's blue eyes flashed. "You won't let it go!
You're like a dog with a bone on this! Why do you keep digging at it?"
            "Probably because the idea of seeing you with Harry excites her,
dear," said Jane. "More juice?"
            "Mum!" cried Hermione, eyes wide, face flushed. She buried her face
in her hands. "Oh, my God..."
            "Well, dear," said Jane, "It's a perfectly common fantasy for
girls. You'll find it all over the Internet."
            "It's only fair, after all," said David. "Look how much we blokes
like to see two girls together." He turned to Sirius. "Bacon?"
            "Wow, Hermione," said Harry. "Who knew you were such a right little
perv?"
            Hermione turned slowly towards him. Her voice would have cut glass:
"Did you enjoy yourself this morning, Harry?"
            Harry raised his hands in immediate surrender. "I don't say it like
it's a bad thing!"
            "I think I might be," said Ron, softly, his ears starting to show
pink at the tips.
            There was a moment's silence, as Hermione's face swung towards Ron,
and Harry leaned over to look at him with wonder and no small gratitude for
distracting her.
            "Really?" breathed Hermione.
            His eyes flickered over to Harry's, trying to read them, then back
to hers. "Yeah," he finally said, his voice little more than a whisper. "I
think so."
            His eyes remained locked with Hermione's now, his lower lip pulled
between his teeth, and she smiled, her eyes so warm, and reached a gentle hand
up to his face in a wordless caress.
            "That's nice, dear," said Jane. "Will you pass me back the
marmalade?"
            Ron handed back the dish, as David leaned forward a bit, saying,
"Probably just as well, Ron. Make things a little more comfortable for you."
            Ron's face was very red. "Yeah, doing a hell of a job of that this
morning, I'll tell you."
            "There's no reason to be embarrassed about it, Ron," said Remus
Lupin, gently. He gestured with his head at Sirius. "I mean, look at us. We're
not embarrassed."
            The three teens suddenly stared wide-eyed at their end of the
table, while Jane Granger smiled. "I thought you two had a somewhat 'couply'
air about you."
            At that, Harry's eyes widened, and he looked back and forth between
his godfather and his former teacher. "Are you--?"
            The Marauders both nodded.
            "Are you serious?" asked Harry, clearly astounded.
            "No, no," said his godfather. "The joke is, 'Are you fucking
serious?' See, and then Remus says--"
            "Oh, give it a rest, Sirius," said Remus, noticing the disapproving
look that crossed Hermione's and Jane's faces at the profanity. "That joke was
old when we were in school."
            Sirius had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry, not really
breakfast-table humour, is it?"
            "Hmmm..." Hermione was frowning slightly, not in displeasure, this
time, but in puzzlement. "I thought I read in Celestina Warbeck's autobiography
that she dated you, Sirius, right after Hogwarts."
            "Oh, yeah, that tart!" Sirius looked displeased. "I read that thing
while I was on the road. Did you know it was ghost-written by Rita Skeeter?
Terrible scandal in the publishing world. Real ghosts up in arms to lose work
to a living writer! Oh, yes, I read about how she had her string of disastrous
boyfriends after Hogwarts, what with me being an evil mass murderer, and the
other fellow who turned out to be a 'Dark Creature of the night!'" He jerked a
thumb towards Remus.
            Ron's eyebrows rose. "You both dated Celestina Warbeck?"
            Remus' eyebrow rose significantly. "Yes, we did. Together. She left
that little detail out, though. Apparently Pop Singer in Three-Way Tryst with
Murderer and Werewolf wasn't the headline she wanted on her book reviews."
            Ron's voice was hushed, and reverent. "You two are now officially
the coolest wizards in all the world!"
            Hermione speared him with a disdainful look, before turning back.
"So you're also bisexual, then."
            "Well, I wouldn't say that, exactly," said Remus.
            "You mean you're just gay?"
            "No, I don't mean that," the werewolf said gently.
            "Well you must be gay, straight, or bisexual," said Hermione, her
orderly mind irritated by the confusing statements.
            "What," said Sirius, "are those our only choices? What about trees?
Legs? The arm of your best sofa?"
            David began chuckling.
            "Hermione," said Remus, gently, "I've -- we've -- learned that it's
best not to try to put some kind of hard -and -fast label on something like
this. It's something that comes from our, er... canine experiences. What feels
good, feels good. That's all."
            "Or," said Sirius, "as someone once told me, 'Drunks and dogs'll
hump anything, they get lonely enough.'"
            "I thought my phrasing was more elegant," replied Remus.
            "Sometimes," replied Sirius, "You're a right stuffy old queen."
            Remus grinned wickedly. "But sometimes, Sirius," he said, "I'm an
animal!" And he growled, quite convincingly.
===============================================================================
            It was an hour later that Dumbledore arrived, bringing news that
they were to Floo to Arabella Figg's house, and walk from there to the
Dursleys'.
            "Remus, Sirius, Muggle clothes if you please," said Dumbledore,
gently. "Both to spare the good people of Little Whinging a puzzlement, and to
appease the Dursleys. They are, I fear, rather, er, excitable about wizarding
folk."
            Sirius smiled grimly at Dumbledore. "I was thinking of showing up
wearing only a studded leather collar, actually." He paused a moment. "Though
I've no doubt I'll be introducing myself properly in no time."
            The Headmaster's answering smile was bright and amused. "An
excellent idea, Sirius. Most admirable indeed."
            "Will you be coming, too, Professor?"
            "Alas, Harry, I cannot. I must attend to a most pressing matter.
One that could be crucial in defeating Voldemort."
            Jane Granger touched his arm. "Why do you call him that,
Professor?"
            Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Ah, dear lady. I know you hear from most
wizards you meet no more than You Know Who or He Who Must Not Be Named. But I
don't feel that that's for the best. Fear of the name leads to fear of the
thing. It's best to speak his name."
            "But it isn't his name!" she said. "That's what I mean! Hermione's
told us his name is Tom Riddle. This 'Voldemort' thing is just some anagram he
made up when he was just a scared little boy! Don't you see, Professor? It's a
double-bluff! If he can, he cows you into not speaking of him at all, and if he
can't, you're still calling him by his super-powered secret identity!"
            Dumbledore took a step back, his eyebrows raised and his mouth
dropping open. "Mrs. Granger! Dear lady, I've long been most impressed by your
daughter's brilliance. What a pleasure to learn just how honestly she comes by
it!"
            Hermione, beaming, stepped over, pulling the boys with her, and
wrapped her mother in a fierce hug. Ron, not knowing what to do, gently patted
Mrs. Granger's back, while Harry grinned at her in admiration.
            David Granger caught Harry's eye and smiled, his face alight with
pride. "That's why I married her, Harry, mate."
            Dumbledore's smile was a benediction. "And an excellent choice
you've made, both of you."
            "Sir," Harry asked him. "If I may ask... What is this you're going
to be doing?"
            Dumbledore smiled, opened his mouth to speak, then paused,
considered. When he did speak, his voice was graver, his expression darker.
"Too long, I've kept you uninformed of matters that concern you deeply." He
glanced at Sirius. "Although the greatest cost of that mistake has been
miraculously recovered, I must heed its lesson nonetheless.
            "Shortly after hearing from Minister Fudge, about the inquest, I
received an owl from a colleague on the continent. I do not fully understand,
but my correspondent tells me that there are objects of some sort that Vo-
- that Tom believes can protect him from death, that he believes are the reason
he was not killed when his curse against you rebounded. It seems likely that
one of these items is a ring belonging to his maternal grandfather. It is my
intention to try to recover this ring, and attempt to discern if it is indeed,
a... er..." Dumbledore thought for a moment. "Ah, yes, that's right: a
Horcrux."
            Sirius suddenly stepped forward, eyes wide and alarmed. "Did you
say Horcrux?"
            Dumbledore looked at him with interest. "I did. The term means
something to you?"
            "Yes! I don't know much, but I know the things are incredibly
dangerous. My brother, Regulus, before the Death Eaters killed him, he was
researching Horcruxces! I think his notes may still be in the family vaults.
Now that I've been cleared, I can walk right into Gringott's and look at them.
You must promise me, Albus, that you won't pursue that ring, until we look for
Regulus' notes. Will you promise?"
            Dumbledore nodded. "Very well, Sirius. I promise." He turned to
Harry. "Nonetheless, Harry, I fear I must give Little Whinging a miss. After
our discussions last night, I do believe your Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia
will be most grateful for my absence." He winked at the trio. "I believe I can
trust Remus and Sirius to, er, charm them in my stead."
===============================================================================
            Vernon Dursley's face was already the most remarkable shade of puce
when he opened the door of Number 4, Privet Drive. "You damned freaks are
early!"
            Harry smiled widely and politely at him. "Hello, Uncle Vernon. I'm
so sorry to be late returning from that hearing. I'm sure you heard, we had a
bit of an accident, and, well..." He gestured with his hands, Ron's and
Hermione's swinging with them. "Here we are." He gestured with his head.
"You've met my mate Ron Weasley, and this is my friend Hermione Granger.
They'll be staying with us 'til my birthday."
            Vernon's large face darkened considerably more, and his eyes
flared, but apparently whatever talk he'd had with Dumbledore had been more
than usually persuasive, because in the end he merely snarled and stepped back
into the house. Remus entered first, carrying Ron's and Hermione's trunks, and
then the teens followed, a large, very black dog following close at their feet.
            "Here, now!" cried Vernon, "What's that mangy beast doing? You're
not having a dog in my house, shedding on my carpet, peeing on my furniture!
Get it out of here!"
            "Oh, he's not staying," said Remus mildly. "Padfoot will just be
coming to visit from time to time."
            "It most certainly will not!" thundered Vernon, leaning dangerously
into Lupin's face. "I see it again, I'll put it down, just like I did that
damned Great Dane those miserable Barracloughs refused to curb! Now get it out
of here!"
            The black dog barked, quite loudly, and Vernon reached quickly to
the coat-rack by the door, and pulled from it a large, ornate walking-stick
with a brass handle. Even as he lifted it, the dog flowed upward, assuming in
less than a second a human form, black-haired, bearded, wild-eyed, in dark,
flowing robes. One strong hand lashed out, and held the walking-stick where it
was.
            Sirius' voice was soft, dangerous. "Hello, Dursley. I'm afraid we
haven't been properly introduced. I'm Harry's godfather. My name is Sirius
Black."
            Vernon Dursley's face paled. "You're not. You're not! He's dead!
Harry told us!"
            "You know the old saying, Dursley. Rumours of my death were greatly
exaggerated."
            Vernon tried to rally. "I wouldn't know the old sayings you magical
freaks hold with!"
            "Actually, Mr. Dursley," said Hermione, politely, "that quote
originated with Mr. Samuel Langhorn Clemens, the American writer from the
nineteenth century, better known by his pseudonym, Mark Twain. You know, Tom
Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court..."
            Dursley glowered at her. "Don't you dare correct your betters,
brat!"
            Ron took a step forward, but Remus Lupin stopped him with a gentle
hand on his shoulder, saying to Vernon, quietly, but with real steel in his
voice,. "When she meets her betters, Dursley, she never does."
            Dursley tried once more to rally. "Now, see here, you can't push
your way in here, and bully me in my own house!"
            "Oh, I think you'll find that we can, Dursley," said Sirius, his
voice silky with menace.
            "Why shouldn't I just bring in the police, Black? You're an escaped
prisoner! You'll be back in gaol before you know what's hit you."
            "Did you know, Dursley," Sirius replied, "that I'm one of the
wealthiest men in Britain? It's frightfully handy having people think you're
dead. Ever so much easier to move about, and put your money to work for you.
Amazing what you can do with money, Dursley." He smiled airily, plucking the
walking-stick from Vernon Dursley's fingers with an easy roll of his arm. "I've
been cleared of all charges. The police want nothing to do with me. I'm free as
the air. Shocking, isn't it, the way, with high-priced lawyers, with political
contributions, even the guiltiest of men can get off on a technicality, if he's
rich enough?" He handed the walking-stick to Harry. "So you see, Dursley, I'll
not being seeing the inside of a cell ever again."
            He walked a circle around Harry's portly uncle. "So I want you to
be clear on this, Dursley. I won't be here constantly, but I will be here. I'll
be here as Padfoot, and I'll be here as myself. I'll be in the house, I'll be
in the garden, I'll be in the yard. There'll be no reports of a strange man
skulking, just a big, friendly black dog. And the dog-catcher will find only a
wealthy gentleman of leisure.
            "I'll be here, Dursley, and I'll hear, and I'll smell, and I'll
know. So you will be treating my godson and his friends with the utmost
respect, won't you Dursley?"
            "I will not kowtow to those brats!" Vernon replied venomously.
            "No one is asking you to, Uncle Vernon," said Harry, softly. "We'll
do the chores, we'll cook just like I always did."
            "But they'll be fed decent meals, Dursley," added Lupin, "and
you'll respect their privacy. If there's any sort of abuse, physical or verbal,
we'll know. And the consequences do not bear thinking about."
            "Oh, and make no mistake, Dursley," added Sirius. "If it's your
word against theirs? You lose. That's all there is to it. Because I'll be able
to smell the lies on you, Dursley. I'll smell 'em!"
            "Now." Remus Lupin turned toward the stairs. "Let's go see to
Harry's room, shall we?"
            "Wait a mo," said Ron. He moved steadily past the foot of the
stairs, dragging an unwilling Harry and a curious Hermione with him. He paused
before a three-quarter-sized door, took the handle, pulled it open. The storage
space there -- it would ennoble it to call it a "closet" -- was perhaps five
feet high at its highest point, five feet long, maybe three-and-a-half deep.
            Ron's breath and Hermione's caught in their throats, looking into
the tiny space, and they turned their gaze on Vernon Dursley, storm-clouds
behind their eyes.
            "Guys," said Harry, quickly. He started to move his hands, got
fouled up, and made a quick, complicated juggle to have them touching one
another so he could move his hands, one at a time, to turn their faces to him.
His gaze moved back and forth between Ron's eyes and Hermione's "Guys, I
promise you, it wasn't that bad, it really wasn't. It was sort of... sort of
cozy. All, you know, enclosed and contained and stuff. It was fine, really."
            "It was not fine, Harry!" Hermione's voice was a welder's flame,
searing with tightly-controlled and focused heat. "It was child abuse! These
sick, pathetic--"
            "Hermione!" Harry's voice was urgent now. "It's over, all right?
Water under the bridge! I've not seen the inside of this cupboard in three
years."
            "You lived inside it for ten, Harry," said Ron, his voice very low.
            Harry turned to him and grinned. "And I never will again, mate. So
let it go, all right? I'd really just as soon leave the whole thing behind me."
            Ron's eyes stayed locked for a moment with Harry's before dropping.
"Yeah, all right, mate. All right."
            As they turned back to climb the stairs, Harry hurriedly closing
the door, Remus leaned towards Vernon Dursley. "You should thank your nephew,
Dursley," he said, very quietly. "You were just in the greatest peril you've
ever been in your life, and it was Harry that rescued you from it. Perhaps you
should remember that."
            At that moment, the front door opened, admitting, in order, the
lush, porcine form of Dudley Dursley, followed by the long, horsey face of his
mother, Petunia. Her eyes widened at the sight of the crowd in her front hall,
then widened further as they fixed on Sirius.
            "Sirius! But you're-- you're--"
            "Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" said Sirius. "I'm not dead, I'm
not wanted by the police, I'm free to come and go as I like, and you, Petunia,
you're as lovely and charming as ever you were, so it's good to see that
Vernon, here, is so well-matched. Now, we're just on our way upstairs, to see
to it that the accommodations for my godson and his friends are sufficient to
their needs. If you'd care to accompany us, you're certainly welcome to."
            "If you think you can come into my house, order me and my husband
about, and sit in judgment of us--"
            "Petunia," said Sirius, very quietly. "Do you remember how much we
loved Lily?"
            Her eyes were suddenly dark and silent.
            "Do you remember when she came to you for help, you and your
useless ox of a husband?"
            "I say--" began Vernon, but the merest flick of Sirius' dark and
dangerous eyes stilled him as though he'd cast a Petrificus Totalus.
            "Do you remember, Petunia?"
            "Yes." Her voice was hoarse, and breathless. "Yes, I remember."
            "Do you remember turning her out into the night, Petunia? Do you
remember closing your door and your heart to your own sister?"
            "Yes," she rasped. "I remember."
            "Then, ask yourself this question, Petunia. Can we come and go as
we please in your house? Order you and your husband about, and sit in judgment
of you?"
            She was silent a very long time. Finally, her chin jerked down and
up once, spastically, and she again hissed, "Yes."
            "Ah, Petunia," Sirius smiled at her. "Not only as beautiful and
charming as ever, but so, so much smarter! Come on, then!" And he turned and
charged again up the stairs.
            Sirius cast a jaundiced eye about Harry's bedroom, eyeing walls and
angles, tutting disapprovingly over the twin-sized bed.
            Hedwig squawked irritably from her cage, and Harry led Ron and
Hermione over, so he could speak to her, and offer her some owl treats. She
nipped irritably at his fingers, and he saw that the bottom of her cage was
filthy. "I'm sorry, girl," he said. "I didn't expect to be gone overnight."
            She grudgingly accepted an owl -treat, somehow managing to shape
her hard beak into a disapproving pout, a feat that never ceased to amaze
Harry.
            "All right," said Sirius, "this won't do at all. I'll definitely
need to make some changes, if we're going to make this bed big enough." He
turned to Vernon Dursley before pointing to the wall behind the bed. "What's
through there?"
            "The Master Bedroom! Now see here--"
            "Is that a bearing wall?"
            Vernon's mouth hardened into a thin line. "Yes, it is!"
            Sirius leaned close to him, his nostrils flaring. "You forget,
Dursley. I can smell the lie on you."
            "All right, all right, it's not!" Vernon's wide eyes were
terrified.
            Sirius aimed his wand at the wall, and it marched smoothly back
away from the bed, a foot, two feet, three. The wallpaper on adjoining the
walls expanded, its ugly pattern stretching, to keep its attachment to the wall
intact. At four feet, Sirius stopped the wall. He aimed his wand at the bed,
and it, too, began to stretch, and to grow, the sheets, blankets, pillows and
duvet stretching with it until it was king-sized.
            He expanded the dresser out along its wall, quadrupling the drawer-
space, and ducked his head into the the closet. This had originally been quite
large, but an amateurish divider had been nailed up within it, limiting the
space to about six inches depth and the width of the doorframe.
            He casually pointed his wand at the Dursleys, and muttered
"Stasus!"
            That unattractive threesome froze in place, as time, for them,
ceased passing. Sirius pointed at the partition in the closet. "Your work,
Harry? A hiding space for secret treasures? Don't worry, they can't see or hear
or even know that they're missing anything while they're in stasis."
            "No," said Harry, promptly. "That's all under a loose floorboard
over there."
            "Excellent," said Sirius. He pointed his wand at the Dursleys
again, uttered a quick Finite, then turned and banished the crude partition.
Beyond it were a number of cardboard boxes, out of the seams of which bits of
fur protruded. "Well," he said, "let's get rid of this lot!"
            "You can't get rid of those!" squealed Petunia. "My furs, my
beautiful furs!"
            Sirius' voice was almost kind. "I just meant, remove them from the
closet, Petunia."
            "But where shall I put them?"
            Hermione turned a dead-eyed gaze on her. "Perhaps the cupboard
under the stairs."
            "I can't put them there," Petunia cried. "They'll be--"
            "Well, obviously," said Ron, his voice firm, "Anyplace where your
beloved nephew can live for ten years, your furs will be fine for a summer."
            "An excellent point," said Sirius, his voice again dangerously
silky. "Wouldn't you say that's an excellent point, Petunia?"
            She quailed before him, and Dudley suddenly snorted. "Why do you
gotta be so rude to my mum?"
            Sirius turned towards him. He stared, astounded, at the fat, blond
boy. Then he smiled, his grin as bright and sunny as a fairground. "Do you
know, Dudley, that's the first time in all my life I've ever seen a Dursley do
something I can actually respect! Extraordinary! So I'll tell you, Dudley, why
I have to be so rude to your mum. Because of what she did to her sister, your
Aunt Lily, who died when you were too young to remember, but who was beautiful,
and talented, and sweet-natured, and generous. Because of how she's treated her
nephew, who committed no greater crime than being born, and surviving an
attempt on his life, and who she systematically abused and neglected from that
day forward. And, finally, Dudley, finally, because of what she's done, and
what she's doing to you, using you as a weapon to hurt Harry, and in the
process spoiling you, just about ruining you, and leaving you with almost no
chance whatsoever to be worthy of the air you breathe and the perfectly good
blood that flows in your veins. I would have said she'd left you with no chance
at all, but for that one question, that one lonely moment of caring about
something other than your fat face and your next opportunity to stuff it. So
that, Dudley, that is why I have to be so rude to your mum!"
            Dudley had stared at him, his eyes widening with every word, his
mouth dropping further and further open, the color dropping from his face. He
took two steps backwards, and collapsed, falling on his arse on the wooden
floor with a very loud thud!
            Hermione moved quietly across to him, gently placing her boys'
hands together, and taking Ron's other hand. She squatted down beside him, and
was reaching towards his shoulder, when Vernon and Petunia barked, as one, "You
stay away from our boy!"
            She didn't even spare them a glance.
            Vernon took a step forward, Petunia at his heel, when Remus raised
an index finger toward them, halting them in their tracks.
            "Dudley?" Hermione asked, her voice quiet. "Dudley, are you all
right?"
            Dudley turned his head slowly to face her. Harry watched with great
interest. He'd only once seen Dudley look this scared, this vulnerable: when
the Dementors had attacked last year. Dudley's eyes had finally tracked to
Hermione's, and they locked with hers. "He really hates her!" he told her,
astonished. He pointed a meaty finger at Sirius. "Tha' man really hates my
mum!"
            "He loved your aunt Lily and Uncle James both very much. So did Mr.
Lupin. Your mum wasn't very nice to them."
            "They deserved it," he said, quite simply, as if he was saying that
water was wet. "They were freaks."
            "They were not!" said Harry, heatedly.
            Hermione looked back up to him. "They were to him, Harry. That's
all poor Dudley ever learned. That's all he's ever known." She turned back to
Dudley. "That's not much of an excuse for you, though, Dudley. You've had a
shockingly bad upbringing, but Harry's had worse, and he's still kind, and he's
generous, and he's brave, and people love him. Does anybody love you, Dudley?
Love you enough to die for you?"
            Dudley looked at the floor in the too-small space between his
splayed knees. "M-- Mum," he murmured quietly. "Mum and Dad do. They love me."
            Hermione glanced up at the others, and the look on her face said as
clearly as words ever could: If you want to call it that.
            But her voice was kind as she returned to Dudley. "Maybe they do at
that. But does anybody else, Dudley? Anybody who knows you just for you? Oh,
Harry's told me you have mates, a group you run with, but do any of them love
you? Do they even like you? Or do they just like how you can get together to
make smaller kids afraid?"
            Dudley stared silently at the floor between his knees. Hermione
squatted by him, looking, concerned. Behind her, Ron and Harry, and beyond
them, Remus and Sirius watched with varying degrees of amazement, while across
the room, the parents who loved Dudley enough to die for him stood silent,
frozen with fear of Remus Lupin's forefinger, watching it happen.
            "You don't have to be what you are, Dudley," Hermione finally said.
"You have a choice. The same choice Harry had. You can choose to be someone
people can love. Harry did. You can. It's up to you."
            There was another moment, and then Harry nodded to Ron, and they
moved around Hermione, and offered their hands, Harry first, then Ron, down to
Dudley.
            "C'mon, mate," said Ron, very gently. "Let us help you up."
            Dudley looked doubtfully back and forth between the proffered
hands.
            "No trick, Dudley," said Harry. His fat cousin eyed their hands a
moment more, then took them, and, with quite a bit of effort, including
Hermione helping to steady Harry and Ron, got to his feet.
            There was a moment's silence, then, and Sirius said "So, bathroom?"
            Dudley immediately pointed at the wall beside the door. "It's
through there. It's connected to my room."
            "I'm afraid," said Remus, gently, "That you'll be losing use of
it."
            Dudley pouted. "Yeah," he said sulkily. "I figured."
            "We'll need to see inside," said Sirius, "before we make changes.
Don't want to break the plumbing."
            "Come on, then," Dudley snapped, and led Sirius and Lupin from the
room.
            No sooner were they out the door than Vernon Dursley swung around
and pointed at Hermione. "What did you freaks do to our little Diddums!?!? You
and that-- that--"
            "I can hear every word you're bellowing, Dursley!" came Sirius'
voice through the wall.
            Vernon's face reddened, and he hissed, "What did you--"
            "Still hear you!"
            "Mister Dursley," said Hermione quite calmly, "the question isn't
what I've done or Sirius has done. You were right here. You saw what we did. We
spoke to him honestly. The question is, what have you done to that poor boy?"
            "We!?" Petunia Dursley was outraged. "We've loved him! We've raised
him! How dare you, you little--"
            "That's enough, Mrs. Dursley," said Ron, enough edge in his voice
to stop Petunia in her tracks.
            Vernon stepped forward, redder than ever. "You don't speak to my
wife that way!"
            "Then she doesn't speak to Hermione that way!" came Sirius' voice
through the wall. Then: "Ah! There we are!"
            And suddenly a door appeared in that wall, and opened, and Sirius'
head popped out. "Right. Here you are, then. Your bathroom."
            Dudley walked, pouting out the door into their bedroom. "Great. Now
I'm going to have to go all the way downstairs."
            "I've done it for three years, Dudley," said Harry, as the trio
made their way by him to look into the bathroom. "Maybe your mum and dad will
let you use theirs."
            The bathroom was smaller than the Grangers' but it did have an
enclosed tub and shower, with a window on the far side, a big enough sink for
the three to brush their teeth, and enough room around the toilet for whomever
wasn't using it to wait.
            The trio looked skeptically at the bath enclosure for a few
moments. Finally, Ron said, "We're gonna need a bigger tub."
            Sirius, hearing them, leaned back in and aimed his wand, and the
bathtub stretched another foot in each direction.
            As they emerged, they looked to see Remus banishing the boxes of
furs from the closet. They heard the thump downstairs of the boxes arriving in
Harry's old cupboard.
            Sirius was looking again at Harry. "Have you still got your mirror,
Harry?"
            Harry looked down at his feet. "I sort of, well, broke it."
            "You did?"
            "Af-- After you fell. I tried-- I tried to use it to talk to
you..." He took a breath. "When I couldn't... I... I..."
            "Oh, Harry." Sirius stepped forward and gathered him in a warm
embrace. "I'm so sorry I frightened you like that. Did you throw away the
pieces?"
            "No, They're in my trunk."
            "All right then," said Sirius. "Let's just have a look and fix it."
            Harry led Sirius to the trunk, Ron and Hermione trailing with him,
and Sirius very quickly repaired the mirror.
            "It'll work now," he told Harry. "You can explain it later. Use it
any time, any time at all. I mean it."
            "All right, Sirius."
            And then it was over. Sirius and Remus led them all downstairs. As
they reached the front hall, Sirius rounded on Vernon one last time. "Remember
what I told you, Dursley. I'll know."
            And then he flowed back into his Padfoot form, and he and Remus
were gone.
===============================================================================
***** Chapter Six: "...Never Killed Anybody!" *****
                    Chapter Six: "...Never Killed Anybody!"
                The sun was brutally hot as the three of them stood together,
painting the garden shed behind Number 4. Hermione found herself resenting
Harry and Ron, who were wearing cut-off blue jeans and ratty trainers, cooling
sweat glistening on their bare chests. Her own t-shirt was plastered to her,
and her sports bra was so sweat soaked that it was starting to chafe. It was
alright for them to have their tops off, their bare chests glistening with the
sun-block she'd insisted on applying. They could benefit from the whispered
breath of a breeze, so slight that her own sweat-sodden tee defeated it.
                It was their third day painting this damnable shed in the
brutal heat. They'd completed it two days before, but Vernon had declared that
the colour, once dried, was "too loud." So they had spent the next day
stripping it before today applying a slightly deeper color, which Hermione had
the uncomfortable feeling was going to dry into the approximate hue of a
bruise. They'd seen Padfoot a few times, and once he'd even flowed into his
human form, in the shadow of a copse of trees in the back garden, and sauntered
over to speak to them.
                So it came as no surprise when he ambled up behind them again
today.
                "It's okay, really," Harry re-assured his godfather. "This is
the best summer I've ever had here. They let us eat our own meals, whatever we
want, and the chores have been pretty lightweight, really."
                Hermione and Ron turned to stare at him, wide-eyed.
                "It really is, guys," Harry told them. "See that stone wall
over there?"
                The wall was relatively straight, about four feet tall and
three wide. No mortar held the stones together, and the fit was imprecise, but
the wall had a charming, natural look as it ran along the border of the
Dursleys' property, the sort of thing that stood in British pastures for
hundreds of years.
                Hermione and Ron stared back at Harry again.
                "Yeah, those stones used to be all through the yard. Aunt
Petunia wanted them cleared. It was over there." He pointed to the other
border. "But Uncle Vernon didn't like seeing it out his bedroom window, so he
made me move it across the yard."
                "When the hell was this, Harry?" asked Ron. Even Sirius seemed
a little stunned by this.
                "I was nine."
                There was a moment's thunderstruck silence, broken by
Hermione's venomous hiss. "That sick, pathetic fucking monster!"
                Ron rounded on her, eyes wide. "Hermione! You said-- You said--
"
                "Yes, Ronald! I said fuck! Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-
fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck! The world didn't come to an end." She wheeled on
an equally stunned Harry. "I swear to God, Harry, I'm this close to making that
man this color the old-fashioned way!"
                Harry made calming motions in the air. "Hermione, it's all
right. A little hard work never killed anybody!"
                "Do you know how many workplace fatalities there have been in
Great Britain in the last five years, Harry? Two-thousand, six-hundred and
twenty-seven. So clearly, hard work has killed a fair number of people, even
when you factor out the twenty-seven percent that were homicides. But that's
not the point, Harry. The point is that that filthy, neckless, purple-faced
windbag used his nine-year-old nephew as some kind of chain-gang labourer! It's
sick, that's what it is!" She turned to Sirius. "I'm not allowed to use magic
out of school until I'm seventeen. Can't you turn him into a wart-hog or
something?"
                Ron snorted. "You mean somebody didn't already?"
                "Wouldn't be much of an adjustment for him," agreed Sirius.
"But I'm not sure I can bear the thought of improving Petunia's love life."
                Hermione stared, open-mouthed, at him for a moment, then
started to chuckle. Her chuckle grew to a chortle, and suddenly they were all
laughing, Hermione most of all, so loud, with great whooping breaths to recover
between bouts, that when she collapsed, the others thought, at first, it was
just laughter.
                Ron caught her easily when her knees gave out, saying, quietly,
"All right there, Hermione?"
                But then they both realized that she wasn't laughing anymore,
and Harry saw that she was deadweight in Ron's arms, as Ron looked back and
forth between Harry and Sirius. "Guys, she's-- Help! Help me get her upstairs!"
                Harry and Ron started to lift her, taking a couple of steps
toward the back door, but Sirius muttered, "Screw that! Concentrate on your
room, boys, and push!"
                Sirius wrapped his arms around the three of them, and there was
a tight, unpleasant squeezing sensation and suddenly they were standing by
their bed. The boys lay Hermione carefully on the bedspread, feeling her
forehead, which was quite hot.
                "Get her shirt off," said Sirius, his breathing harsh, as he
leaned over his hands on his thighs, recovering from the strain.
                The boys looked quickly back at him, saw the grim set of his
mouth, the fierceness of his eyes, and quickly set about peeling the sodden
shirt from her torso.
                Her skin was sweat-soaked, and quite red, with livid chafe-
marks showing at the edges of her drenched, beige sports bra, mainly under her
arms.
                But the scar that ran down her chest seemed actually to be
glowing white, and a faint, greenish steam actually rose from its surface.
Where it touched her sports-bra, the fabric seemed to turn an unhealthy-looking
brown.
                Sirius looked once, his eyes widening. "We're in for it now, I
think," he muttered, throwing one of Ron's Chudley Cannons shirts over her
chest, looking back and forth between the boys again. "Back up we go. Arabella
Figg's living room, concentrate and push, let's go let's go, let's go!"
                And he wrapped his arms around them again, squeezing them
tight, and then the pressure from all sides, like being shrink-wrapped in a
neoprene tube, and they were in the living-room of Arabella Figg.
                Mrs. Figg bustled from the kitchen at the sound of Apparation,
saw Harry and Ron carrying an unconscious Hermione, Sirius collapsing to his
knees, eyes closed, chest heaving -- blood, Harry suddenly realized, dripping
from his right nostril.
                "Oh, dear, what happened?"
                "Hermione collapsed!" cried Ron, as Harry nodded confirmation.
                "Saint--" wheezed Sirius. "Saint Mungo's!"
                "No, no, Sirius, dear, takes too long to be seen," said Mrs.
Figg sweetly, reaching up to the jar on the mantlepiece and throwing a handful
of Floo powder into her unseasonable fire. "Hogwarts Hospital Wing!"
                The flames went green, and she shooed the teens into the flames
together. They saw a flickering array of rooms and fireplaces as they spun
through the network, holding Hermione's form between them. She seemed so small,
so fragile, and Harry felt irresponsible, like he'd been entrusted with a
treasure, and had broken it.
                They found themselves staggering out of the big fireplace in
the hospital wing, and Harry called out, "Madam Pomfrey? Madam Pomfrey!" as
they moved as quickly as they could toward the nearest unoccupied bed. "Madam
Pomfrey, we need help!"
                They'd split, holding Hermione in their outstretched arms, to
lay her on that first bed, when the Floo blazed green again, and Sirius
staggered out. He took one look at the trio, and turned to run for Pomfrey's
office. He was back a moment later, alone but carrying a medium-sized clay pot.
                "She's not in there," he told them. "It's lunch time, she may
be in the Great Hall. I'll go get her. You two start with this stuff. It's an
all-purpose cleansing and healing cream. Get her bra off."
                The boys' eyes widened, but they obeyed, struggling for a
moment to get the sodden thing off her, then crying out in frustration, and
simply ripping it in two, pulling the remains away from her chest.  Sirius
grinned at them. "Remember that, boys. It'll come in handy in other
circumstances."
                He took the lid from the pot, got a large handful of the gooey
stuff from within, and started slathering it down the length of Hermione's
scar. As thick as he put it on, it seemed to absorb into her skin like a
sponge, and then rise up again as foam, the bubbles sparkling and popping
quickly, with a pleasant, outdoorsy fragrance.
                "Keep that up," Sirius told them, "put on more as soon as the
old stuff has all foamed away." He took a bit, and leaned over, casually moving
her breast aside with the backs of two fingers to smooth some onto a chafed
spot.
                It was as he was doing this that Hermione blinked awake,
smiling a bit as the stuff soothed the pain, then her eyes widened as she saw
Sirius, leaning over her.
                He tipped her a wink as he leaned away, letting her breast drop
over the now-healed spot.
                "S-Sirius?" Her voice seemed a bit alarmed, and she started to
move her hands to cover herself.      
                He tipped her another merry wink and a rakish grin as he stood.
"Good to see you, clever-boots! I give you one word: Pert! Now, don't go away,
I'll be back as soon as I can with Madam Pomfrey!"
                Before she could even form her face into a scolding scowl, he
was gone, racing out the door in a flurry of long limbs and flying black robes.
                Harry saw Hermione look down at her hands, still in mid-air,
not having made it far enough to cover herself before Harry's godfather had
gone, then at her chest, then back and forth between Harry and Ron. He smiled
reassuringly at her. "I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks."
                "I take it I passed out?" she asked, matter-of-factly, then
crooned, "Ooooh, that's nice!" as Ron blobbed more of the goop onto her scar.
As he spread it, Harry got some as well, and began working on more chafed
spots.
                "Yeah," Ron told her. "Laughed yourself into unconsciousness,
you did."
                She let her head fall back on the pillow. "I'm sorry."
                "Oh, in the name of Merlin's bleedin' hemorrhoids, Hermione,"
cried Ron, "what have you got to be sorry about?"
                "Language, Ron!" she scolded half-heartedly, then cooed again
as he spread more stuff along her scar.
                Harry was busy working on chafed skin, each area of which
seemed to be healed entirely with a single application. He was staring fixedly
at her navel as his fingers worked around her right breast.
                She drew a breath, and lifted her right hand up to twine her
fingers into his hair. "You're allowed to look, Harry."
                "No, I'm not! I stink!"
                "Harry," Hermione's voice was soft, concerned. "What are you
talking about?"
                He just shook his head, staring at her navel while his face
reddened.
                Ron suddenly grinned as he reached across Hermione to cuff
Harry playfully on the back of the head. "For fuck's sake, ya great pillock!
You're fifteen years old, and you're rubbing a beautiful, topless girl's chest!
Of course you've got a chubby! You only suck if you're copping a feel or
something. You're not, are, you?"
                Harry shook his head rapidly at Ron, eyes wide, as he kept
trying to look at Hermione, to see if she was as angry as she ought to be at
this revelation.
                "Then it's like this! You look her in the eye, and you tell
her, See here, Hermione, you've seen me in the Great Hall many times when I've
had--"
                Then she was laughing, covering Ron's mouth with her hand while
the other stroked Harry's hair. "Whatever you do, Harry," she told him, "don't
say that. Trust me on this one."
                Harry looked shyly up at her. "You're not mad?"
                "No, Harry," she said quietly. "I'm not mad." She drew him
toward her with the hand in his hair, kissed him very softly on the mouth.
"You're very sweet to be concerned."
                Suddenly her eyes closed, and she lay back on the pillow.
                "All right, there, Hermione Jane?" said Ron, softly.
                She essayed a very slight nod and breathed the words, "Head
rush..."
                "Kisses that good, yeah?" asked Ron, and Hermione smiled, as
Harry felt his blush return.
                The doors banged open, and Madam Pomfrey strode in, Dumbledore
and Sirius in her wake. Ron reached back, grabbed the discarded Cannons shirt
from the floor, and put it gently over Hermione's chest before they could
approach. Pomfrey nodded at him approvingly.
                She glanced around at the bed and the hanging curtains there to
surround it, and with a practiced swish-and-flick, moved the neighboring beds
aside, and started widening Hermione's, the curtain-rails in the ceiling
spreading along with it. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, please have a seat, there'll
be room for all of you."
                Ron grinned across at Harry. "Have you noticed, since this
happened, our beds themselves have gotten so much better? Worth it all by
itself, I say!"
                Hermione smiled tiredly up at him, and Pomfrey ran a fond hand
down the back of his head as she flicked her wand again, and the thin white
curtains closed around them, giving them privacy.
                The mediwitch reached a gentle hand down towards the orange
cloth over Hermione's chest. "May I?"
                Hermione nodded without opening her eyes, and Pomfrey lifted it
away with a slight smile. "The Cannons, Miss Granger? I thought you were
smarter than that!"
                "Here now!" cried Ron, bridling at this slight, and Pomfrey
gently flicked the shirt so it fell over his head. Harry snorted laughter, and
she winked at him, her fingers already running gently along Hermione's scar.
                "Well," she murmured rather tartly, her hand moving to palpate
the right breast. "In some ways, your care has taken a rather sharp upswing to
the exemplary." Hermione's face was pinking rapidly. "It appears that, as
opposed to your previous two visits to me, for the last few days, at least,
your salves and potions have been going on right on schedule." She winked at
Ron, who had pulled the shirt from his head. "I'm sure that's attributable to
the quality of assistance you've been receiving."
                Hermione opened her eyes. Looking back and forth between her
blushing boys, she smiled a little.
                "However," Madam Pomfrey's voice lost some of its humour, "it
becomes increasingly obvious that you have no interest in following my
instructions themselves. Professor Black tells me you've spent the last three
days out painting a garden shed? In the sun? Without frequent -- or indeed any
-- stops for rest or water?"
                Hermione bit her lip.
                "Is there some part of you are neither to over-exert yourself,
nor allow yourself to become overheated nor dehydrated that is in some way
unclear to you?"
                Ron and Harry stared at Hermione for a long moment, then Harry
turned swiftly to address the mediwitch. "Madam Pomfrey, this is completely my
fault--"
                "No, young man, it is not! I don't recall having you in this
room when I gave Miss Granger her instructions. Did you drag her, all
unwilling, out to the shed and force the paintbrush into her hand?"
                Harry blinked at her, shook his head. "No, Madam Pomfrey!"
                "And were you even given the information that Ms. Granger was
supposed to avoid exertion and heat? Did she perhaps mention that?"
                Harry and Ron turned alarmed, hooded eyes on Hermione.
                "No," said Ron, "she bloody didn't!"
                "Of course," Pomfrey told him silkily, "you did tell your two
friends all about the potion-treatments for your arms. And the fact that it
appears they haven't been applied in several days can be attributed to Mr.
Potter's and Miss Granger's carelessness. Obviously."
                "Ronald!" cried Hermione. "Why didn't you say something?"
                "Well, why didn't bloody you?" The gentle fingers Ron ran down
the scar on her chest were in stark contrast to his angry voice. "Don't you get
how serious this is?"
                "And yours aren't?" Hermione took his wrist, held his livid,
scarred arm up before him. The purple scars seemed to writhe with silver
threads.
                "Well, excuse me," said Harry, "but I haven't any outstanding
medical conditions, thank you very much, so I haven't been keeping anything
from anybody, so why don't you both just shut up, and I'll be the one to
deliver a right surly bollocking! What am I supposed to do, if you guys let
this stuff keep going on and on and on? What if you pass out again? What if you
die? What am I supposed to do? You two are the only ones who can stand me!"
                Ron and Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed, as Sirius' voice
called through the curtains, "That's very true. I can't bear the little
wretch!"
                Ron snorted with laughter, but Harry looked very serious as he
took Hermione's hand, and then Ron's and looked back and forth between them.
"No, really, you two, really. You have to take care of yourselves. I need you.
You know that, don't you?" He took a breath. "I..." He took another breath. "I
love you. You have to take care of yourselves."
                As Harry spoke, flowing orchestral music began to fill the
room, romantic and richly melodic. Hermione would later tell him it was
Tschaikovski's Romeo and Juliet.
                "'Cause I really don't think I could get by--"
                The music swelled, louder, now, and Dumbledore's voice said,
quietly, gently, "Sirius..."
                The music stopped at once.
                The three teens were all desperately trying to quash their
grins now, as Harry cleared his throat and tried to speak seriously again.
"'Cause I'd be--"
                Suddenly he was spewing a series of giggles like machine-gun
fire, and Hermione and Ron were going too. Madam Pomfrey's lips curled up at
the corners, as Sirius' laughter boomed and Dumbledore chuckled.
                Finally, after maybe five minutes of helpless laughter, Ron
reached a hand up and tousled Harry's hair, while Hermione pulled him down
again into a kiss.
                "We promise," she murmured, almost into his mouth before
giggling again.  She looked over at Ron, from his face to his scarred arms.
"Both of us. Right, Ron?"
                "Yeah," said Ron, squeezing Harry's shoulder, then kissing
Hermione's forehead. "Yeah, that's right." He was still grinning a little
stupidly. "We promise, we both promise."
                "Well, Ronald," said Madam Pomfrey, "that's especially good to
hear from you. A week ago, your mother flooed to ask if she should be more
closely supervising your application of the potion. She told me you promised
you were doing it, but she wasn't sure, and I reminded her that you're nearly
an adult now, and must be presumed to be able to take some responsibility for
yourself."
                She lifted his arm in her hands, turned it this way and that,
looking at the scars. "From the look of this, it's been at least twelve days
since you've applied your potion. Twelve days, Ronald!"
                She turned to Harry and Hermione. "Is he still having the
nightmares?"
                "Nightmares?" asked Hermione, alarmed, while Harry shook his
head.
                "No?" Pomfrey's eyes widened. "That's not good. That's not good
at all. That means your subconscious is no longer fighting to expel what that
brain brought you, Ronald! Do you value yourself so little that you're willing
to allow yourself to be subsumed?" She tilted her head towards Harry and
Hermione. "Do you think they value you so little?"
                Ron hung his head. "I'm sorry."
                "You're sorry!?" Hermione was livid. "Exactly what is this
you've been keeping from us? Who are you, Harry?"
                "Hey!" cried Harry, aggrieved.
                "Oh, shut up, Harry! You know it's just the kind of thing you'd
do!" She turned back to Ron. "We need you, Ron, just as much as you both need
me, just as much as we both need Harry! We need you!  I need you!"
                "She's right there, mate," said Harry.
                "Yeah, well it's not all sunshine and daisies like rubbing that
stuff into Hermione's tit," he said, bitterly. "It fucking hurts!"
                Hermione scowled at him, her left hand suddenly covering her
right breast, and he looked an apology at her, leaned impulsively and kissed
her left one. "No, offense, yeah? You know I love 'em both."
                Hermione was slapping at his back with her free hand. "Ronald
Bilius Weasley! For Godric's sake, we're--" she gestured at Pomfrey with her
eyes, and the mediwitch smiled. "We're not alone!Behave yourself!"
                "Okay, okay," said Ron, sitting back up.
                Pomfrey looked him in the eye, and her voice was gentle. "I'm
very sorry, Ronald. I know that it's painful. It is also the only possible
treatment, and it's vitally important that you resume it."
                Harry looked across Hermione at him. "Listen, mate, you know
we'll both help, right? We'll help any way we can."
                Hermione caressed his face, then turned to Pomfrey. "Madam, can
we place a sleeping charm, such as Obdormo, on Ron, and apply the potion while
he sleeps?"
                Pomfrey's smile was both impressed and sad. "No, child. The
potion's magic requires a conscious mind, an... an awareness of the very pain
it causes."
                "Awareness of the pain?" Hermione's eyes were wide. "That has
to be some form of Dark Magic."
                "It is child. But darker still are the magicks Ronald must
battle within." She ran a gentle hand down the scars on Ron's arm. "This magic
is darker by far, and it cannot be combated in any other way." She looked
gently at Ron, but with real regret. "I'm very much afraid you're going to find
this far more unpleasant than usual, Ronald. You've lost a lot of ground."
                Ron shrugged helplessly, and looked down at his lap, ears
turning pink. "I'm very sorry, ma'am."
                "No, Ronald. I'm not in need of an apology. It is I who offer
my sympathy to you." She regarded the three of them for a moment.
                Harry reached over, across Hermione, and gave Ron's knee a
squeeze.
                "Excuse me for a moment," Madam Pomfrey told them, draping the
orange Chudley Cannons shirt over Hermione's chest once again, and she stepped
out of the curtains. They heard her voice say, quietly, "Albus, Sirius, I need
your guidance on something please..." and her voice receded with footsteps,
hers and theirs.
                Ron looked back and forth between Harry and Hermione, his
expression somber. "I'm sorry, guys. I really am. This is going to be really
rough, I think. I mean, it hurt like fuck last time I did it, and that was when
I was pretty much on-schedule."
                "Language, Ron," murmured Hermione, stroking his fringe back
away from his eyes. Her tone was more a benediction than a reprimand, and he
leaned into her hand.
                "Yeah," he murmured, "well, I hate to have you see it, that's
all."
                "Oh, fuck that, Ron," said Harry. He glanced to Hermione. "Er,
sorry, Hermione." He turned back to Ron again as she wordlessly petted him in
forgiveness. "Mate, if you have to go through a trial, you know we want to be
there with you. You'd do it for me."
                Ron smiled bleakly at him. "You wouldn't let me, mate."
                "Yeah, well that's because I'm a great stupid prat, isn't it?
Don't be stupid, mate. Don't be me."
                They heard a single set of footsteps approaching, and the
curtains parted again to admit Madam Pomfrey, who had brought with her some
scrolls and a quill.
                "I have discussed this matter with the headmaster," she said,
"and he concurs that this is the best course of action. It is, of course, in
the end, entirely your decision." She handed each of them a scroll. "These are
contracts. If you sign them, you are agreeing to enter into a training program
with me to become Healer's Aides. It will require you to floo here to train
with me one day a week through the summer. When the school year starts, you
will be spending six hours a week training with me as a class."
                 Hermione cleared her throat, and asked, "Why? No disrespect,
healing is a noble profession, but if you went into a huddle to discuss this
with Professor Dumbledore, and he thinks it's the right course of action, I
have to think there's more to this than vocational training."
                Pomfrey nodded, a small smile playing with her lips. "Indeed
there is, Miss Granger. As we see it, there are two advantages. One of them,
I'd think would already be obvious." She gestured toward Hermione's scarred
chest and Ron's arms. "Your lifestyle is such that each of you having good
basic knowledge the healing arts, and especially immediate care, seems more
than merely advisable."
                Harry and Ron grinned at one another. It was nothing she hadn't
told them hundreds of times before, but they didn't think she'd ever phrased it
so kindly.
                "The second advantage is that Medi-Magic trainees are partially
exempt from Underage Use of Magic laws. You are allowed to use magic as you see
fit in the course of healing."
                Ron's face lit up. "That's brilliant!"
                Pomfrey raised a warning finger at him. "Mr. Weasley, I am not
offering up some mere fig-leaf to cover for you in disobeying the law! Training
in the healing arts is very serious business and you will take it seriously! If
you sign this contact, you will honour its letter and its spirit, and that
means that any magic that you use away from school must be part of a healing
process." She glanced down at the scars on Ron's forearms. "Even if it is a
mere Imperturbitus to keep the patient from disturbing others."
                Hermione lay a gentle hand on Ron's scarred forearm, and looked
up to Madam Pomfrey. "It's going to be bad, isn't it? It's going to be really
bad."
                Pomfrey's eyes were dark as she nodded. "Yes, child, I'm very
much afraid it is."
                "I know Ron's going to have to feel it," Harry said quietly,
"but can you teach us magic to-- You know, after, to make him feel better?"
                Pomfrey smiled at him. "Today, if you'd like."
                Harry nodded quickly, looking back and forth from Ron to
Hermione. "Let's do it, then."
                "Yes!" breathed Hermione, her face set in firm, determined
lines.
                Ron looked back and forth between Harry and Hermione, and while
their resolute desire to help him was moving, he thought more, instead, of
being able to help them, to heal them, in the days to come. "All right," he
said. "All right, yeah."
                Pomfrey handed Ron the quill, and he quickly signed his
contract, and passed the quill on to Hermione as he handed the scroll back to
Pomfrey. Hermione followed suit, and then Harry, and Pomfrey smiled approvingly
as she collected their contracts and the quill.
                "Excellent!" she said, placing the scrolls and quill on a side-
table. "Those will be on file before you leave here."
                She turned back to them. "Now, before we start training, there
is one other piece of business. Hermione's mother owled me, and asked me to
speak to you about contraception charms." She looked back and forth amongst the
three of them, as they leaned forward, as one, to bury their faces in their
hands. "You might as well strip, because you're going to be practicing until
you get them right."
                "Oh, my God," moaned Hermione, as she reached for the button of
her shorts.
***** Chapter Seven: "Take Your Medicine..." *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter is dedicated to Sarah 'PutMoneyInThyPurse' Enany
                    Chapter Seven: "Take Your Medicine..."
===============================================================================
         This chapter is dedicated to Sarah 'PutMoneyInThyPurse' Enany
===============================================================================
            By the time the three teens left Arabella Figg's house four hours
later, clouds had rolled in, and there were the beginnings of a fairly
significant rainstorm. Tonks, who was accompanying them home in the guise of a
huge Samoan man, had handed them all conjured umbrellas, but since there was a
brisk wind, the umbrellas didn't do much good.
            "No, these are 'Age of Consent' spells, Harry," Hermione was
saying. "You're of age to use contraception charms and things like Lubricus as
soon as you're of 'Marriageable' age. So I've been allowed to do them since I
turned fourteen. Ron has since he turned sixteen. You will too, come your
birthday."
            "But how can they tell?" asked Harry. "I mean, could a sixteen-
year-old do just anything he wanted, and then when the ministry showed up,
claim it was Lubricus for a quick wank?"
            Hermione smiled and blushed. It was so strange, yet still somehow
wonderful, the way all of them, especially Harry, had gotten past all of the
embarrassment and discomfort, and just started taking sexuality sort of for
granted. They didn't take each other for granted, not what they shared in the
king-sized bed, or in the cramped shower enclosure.
            But she knew, a week ago, the idea of Harry casually mentioning
even the concept of 'a quick wank' to her would have been inconceivable for
both of them. Today it was just a part of a casual conversation.
            Of course, it was hard to imagine being embarrassed about much
after the first part of their afternoon with Madame Pomfrey. She did feel the
flush rising to her cheeks at the memory of Pomfrey's insistent direction, as
she instructed her in practicing Prophiliaxus again and again, on both Harry
and Ron, of their gentle fingers moving softly under Pomfrey's tutelage, as
they learned and perfected Barricadus. To touch the boys there, to have them
touch her, -- enter her, there was no other word for it! -- not merely in front
of an adult, but under her direction... It had been a bizarre experience,
embarrassing but still somehow heartwarming and humbling, in the quiet
reverence the boys had shown for her, in their generosity to her as she touched
and learned on them.
            And then they'd dressed again -- Hermione now actually wearing
Ron's Cannons shirt, so long on her it hung well past the ragged ends of the
legs of her cut-off shorts and nearly to her knees. Harry and Ron in grey
"Property of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizarding Athletic Department"
tee-shirts that Madame Pomfrey had given them. (These were entirely Muggle
items, ordered specially from a mail-order company by Fred and George as a sort
of "parting gift" to Hogwarts after they'd fled the school last spring. A case-
load of five-hundred of them had been delivered to the front gates of what
looked to her like an ancient ruin by a deeply confused British Post Office
driver. Dumbledore, of course, adored them. They could be worn anywhere, quite
openly, and no harm done, because Muggles would simply assume it was some sort
of odd joke.) And then, Madame Pomfrey started teaching them Palliatus, which
would end entirely a mild headache, or make an average one mild, or make an
unbearable one bearable. It was little enough, Pomfrey had told them, but all
she could teach them in a few short hours. As they walked, she glanced again at
Ron's arms, and hoped it would be enough. She feared it wouldn't.
            "The detectors at the Ministry," Tonks was telling Harry, lifting a
massive arm to run thick, blunt, brown fingers over the stubble on her shaven
skull, "actually detect those 'Age of Consent' spells specifically. There's
only about a dozen altogether, after all, and that includes household stuff
like Tergeo and Scourgify, that aren't technically AoC, but, y'know, nobody
much cares who's using 'em. If the real AoC spells are used by underage witches
or wizards, the Ministry informs the parents, and they have to respond within
eleven days with a report explaining the incident, and what discipline they
performed. If the report seems at all dodgy, it's investigated. We've brought
in a couple of real sickos that way."
            Ron frowned up at her. "Thirteen-year-old sickos?"
            A look of disgust crossed her stubbly face. "No, the parents. It
was pretty dreadful stuff. In one case, the poor boy was nine!"
            Ron looked ill. "I do not want to know that! What the fuck is wrong
with people!?!?"
            "You're asking me, mate?" said Tonks, tripping on the kerb as they
stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street. Ron and Harry reached to steady
her, but her twenty five stone nearly pulled the four of them, her included, to
the pavement. Pinwheeling her vast brown arms, she regained that balance, in
the process grabbing Ron's arm in a painfully tight grip, and stood upright.
            "Tonks," Ron told her, rubbing his arm and wincing, "you really
need to either improve your balance a hell of a lot, or pick more petite
disguises!"
            Tonks snorted and gave his shoulder a shove, underestimating her
strength and sending the three teens reeling in a chain reaction. "Sorry," she
managed, chuckling, "my bad!"
            But Hermione's eyes stayed on Ron's hand as he rubbed his scarred
arm, and she bit her lip. The night seemed to loom over her head, damoclean and
inevitable.
            They reached the corner of Privet Drive, and Tonks stopped. "Okay,
you guys are all set from here. We're trying to give the Dursleys a little
room. Don't worry though, Kingsley's got a team covering this whole approach."
            Harry smiled and nodded thanks, though Hermione thought she
detected a trace of annoyance in his expression. She remembered something he'd
muttered the other day at her parents' house, after they'd bade Tonks and
Kingsley Shacklebolt good-night: "It's like I'm the bloody American President,
being followed around by the Secret Service!"
            (Ron had chuckled at that, and told Harry, "Bill got a picture of
those guys once, when Gringotts sent him to Washington to break some silly
curse on a Government type! Did you know they run beside those Muggle cars?")
            Hermione gazed fondly over at Harry. He was the hero they were all
counting on to save them from Voldemort -- and he'd do it, too, she knew -- but
he still thought he was just a short, skinny kid with glasses.
            She felt Ron's hand squeezing her fingers on the other side and
glanced his way, seeing him smile sunnily at her. A week ago, they'd been
circling one another in a kind of dysfunctional mating dance, neither able to
find the courage to move in closer. Now, those long, strong fingers that had so
gently squeezed hers had been--
            She shook her head. You're on the front lines of a war, Hermione!
You and your boys! You have more to concern you than these carnal gambols!
            But her boys were more than her friends now, they were her lovers
both, and a week ago, could she have imagined that? Yes, she realized, her face
flushing. In some part of me, I clearly could.
            The garage door of Number 4 stood open, and the Dursleys' car was
gone.
            Dudley, however, was in his usual place, smack in the middle of the
couch, staring at the TV. On the screen, a large group of rifle-wielding skiers
in orange-and-black were chasing an unarmed skier in blue down an alpine slope,
as dramatic music played in the background.
            Ron was mesmerised. "Who're the orange blokes? Are those guns?
Those are the things like wands that shoot out little pieces of metal to hurt
and kill people, right?"
            Dudley shook his head in a kind of pity. "Yeah, I guess that's
close enough. The guys in the orange are Blofeld's henchmen. Blofeld's the bad
guy. The one in blue is the good guy, James Bond. He's trying to escape
Blofeld's lab."
            "Cool," said Ron, his eyes alight. "Where are the musicians?"
            Dudley looked puzzled. "Musicians?"
            "Yeah. That music. Dun-dunDaaaah! Dun-dun-dun-dunDun-dunDAAAH!"
            Dudley started laughing, and Hermione leaned over to Ron. "The
music isn't part of the story, Ron. It's added by the movie-makers to help
convey the feelings of the scene."
            "So this Bond fellow can't actually hear it then?"
            "No, Ron," said Hermione with a smile. "Just us."
            Ron's face split in a broad grin. "That's the most brilliant thing
I've ever heard of!" He turned to Dudley. "Can we watch?"
            A sneer formed on Dudley's face, and he opened his mouth for a
sharp retort, but it never came. Instead, he got up from the couch, moving to
the chair beside it, and gestured for them to sit. Harry blinked at him for a
moment, a little surprised, while Ron flashed another grin.
            "Thanks, mate," Ron said, and led them around, and soon the three
of them were ensconced on the sofa together.
            On the screen, the view was sweeping by James Bond, flying up to
him from behind, sweeping around to one side of him, looking him in the face,
and then receding away before him.
            "Now, how did they do that?" asked Ron, leaning forward. "I mean,
wizards would charm a bird or an owl or something to fly like that, and use
Visio Pluribumto share its vision, but you Muggles can't do that. You use those
Cambria things."
            "Cameras, Ron," said Hermione.
            "It's pretty cool, actually," said Dudley. "They had a cameraman
hanging in this rig from the bottom of a helicopter."
            "That's one of those flying machines, right? Like an airplane with
no wings, and a spinner-thing on top?"
            "Yeah, that's right. Anyway, this guy is hanging from a wire
harness, way below the helicopter, and they just fly him right along amongst
the skiers, and he can turn his camera, and get close shots and stuff like
that. A couple of years before this, there was an accident, and this camera guy
was hurt real bad. I think he lost a leg. But he was right back doing it again
for this movie."
            Ron grinned over at him. "Dad's right. You Muggles are incredible!"
His voice was full of admiration. "You'd never find a wizard who'd figure out
all that, much less come back and do it again."
            Dudley smiled back at him, engaged enough in the topic that he
forgot he was talking to a 'freak.'
            "And that with the music," Ron was saying. "That's what Sirius was
doing today! That's so cool!" He looked back at Dudley. "Do Muggles do that
music thing with everything on TV?"
            "Movies," said Dudley. "And a lot other stuff. Not much on news or
documentaries."
            He reached for the popcorn bowl, and Ron held it out to him. Dudley
took hold of it, started to take the bowl, then just scooped out a handful,
instead, and Ron set it back on the table. Harry's eyes widened.
            "Dudley," said Harry, "did Sirius come back and threaten you or
something? What's going on?"
            Dudley looked angrily at him for a moment, then turned to Hermione.
"I don't like you," he told her, venomously. "I don't like you at all."
            She blinked at him, surprised. "I'm sorry, Dudley. You shan't have
to put up with us for long. We'll be gone on Harry's birthday."
            "Yeah, so what? What you said to me won't." He pointed at the bowl
on the table. "Have some bloody popcorn, all three of you lot, and just watch
the movie."
            They sat back to watch, and as the movie continued, Dudley's
sullenness subsided a bit. He spoke from time to time about the movie -- "I
think this is the best one. People say Lazenby's rubbish, but I thought he was
pretty good." -- and, when he went to the kitchen for a soft drink, he asked
whether they wanted any as well. "Might as well. You lot doing anything at all
is like watching a dance number from an old musical!"
            At one point, Ron offered the popcorn bowl to Hermione, and she
looked past it, past his wrist, at the runnelled scars on his forearms. When
she brought her eyes up to meet his, she saw he'd followed her gaze, and he was
biting his lip. But then he nodded, and held the bowl across her to Harry.
            When the movie was over, Harry leaned forward again. "What do you
think for supper, Dudley? If you want to order out, I can treat."
            Dudley bit his lip, hesitating for a bit, then said quietly, "Do
you think you could make some of your spaghetti sauce? We have the
ingredients."
            Harry grinned. "It's not like it takes Jamie Oliver, Dudley."
            "Yeah, but Mum won't make it because of my ruddy diet."
            Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but Harry put a hand on her
arm. "Everybody goes off their diet now and again, Hermione."
            So Harry led his friends into the kitchen, put a middle-sized
saucepan on the stove, and opened a cabinet.
            "Here we are," he said. He reached in and pulled out two yellow
jars of some cheap commercial brand "Double Cheddar" pasta sauce.
            Hermione looked at the jars of bright-yellow sauce. "That's it?
Harry, that stuff is dreadful!"
            "Yeah, well, once I put it all together, it's pretty tasty. I'm not
claiming it's health food."
            Another reach, and Harry brought back a large can of tomato sauce.
He handed this to Ron. "Here we go, mate," he said. "I'll show you how to work
the electric can opener, You can tell your dad about it, give him a treat."
            He tutored Ron, who picked it up quite quickly, and the red-head
looked, smiling broadly, as the can spun slowly beneath the blade. The way the
starting lever lifted the top off the can as they removed it delighted him.
            As Ron held the can back to him, Harry found himself looking at the
scars on his arms. He bit his lip, and Ron said, very quietly, "Don't, Harry,
all right? It's bad enough as it is."
            "Sorry, mate." Harry took the can, and dumped it into the saucepan
on medium heat. He followed it with the two jars of yellow cheese sauce,
stirred with a big wooden spoon. "Hermione, could you grab me the garlic salt,
and the canister of sugar?"
            Hermione did so, and watched with a smile as Harry added in a
generous dash of the garlic salt, and apparently -- he wasn't measuring -
- about a half cup of sugar.
            "That's a lot of sugar, Harry," said Hermione.
            "Yeah, but the tomato sauce is very acidic." Harry smiled as he
stirred patiently. "The sugar is needed to counterbalance it. It does give the
sauce a bit of sweetness, but it's really pretty nice. Ron, can you reach the
pots and the sink? I need a large pot of water."
            Soon the larger pot was on the front burner, three-quarters full of
water, with a bit of the garlic salt, and a dollop of "Extra Virgin Olive Oil."
            "How can it be extra virgin?" asked Ron. "I mean, either you're a
virgin, or you're not!"
            Harry snickered. "What are we, then?"
            Hermione stepped up and snuggled between them, her arms around
their waists, "I don't know. But I like what we are. I like it a lot."
            "So do I," said Ron, reaching down to give her bottom a little
squeeze, and she was reminded for a moment of her Mum and Dad, the day before
the inquest.
            "Me too," said Harry, leaning in to kiss her, and suddenly Mum and
Dad were gone, and she knew she was part of something very different, but just
as loving. Just as wonderful. They were too young to be this, but this was what
they were, now. A family.
            Harry went into the bread-box, and found a loaf of store-bakery
Italian bread, and began pre-slicing it with a large bread knife, not quite
separating any given slice from the loaf. He dug around in the fridge, and
pulled out a small jar of crushed garlic, and a small, half-empty tub of
whipped butter. Harry used a fork to put some crushed garlic into the butter,
and mixed it thoroughly, then used a table-knife to spread the butter into the
slices on the loaf of bread, then put the loaf back into the paper bag it came
in, and drizzled some water from the sink onto the bag's surface before popping
the bag directly onto the oven-rack, and turning it on.
            By now, the water was boiling merrily, and the sauce was bubbling
occasionally. and the trio were a kind of studied dance, Harry moving easily to
from cabinet to sink to counter. He fetched a large colander, stood it in the
sink, then two one-pound boxes of pasta.
            "I'll give Aunt Petunia this," he told them, as he opened the
boxes, "She picks good pasta. This is called cavatappi. It's like elbow
macaroni in a spiral maybe three inches long. And see the ridges? Picks up
sauce like nobody's business." He dumped the contents of both boxes into the
water. He stirred the pasta almost constantly with a slotted plastic pasta-
serving utensil, occasionally reaching up to stir the sauce with the wooden
spoon.
            Every now and again, Harry would deftly pluck just one noodle from
the pot with the stirrer, look at it, and drop it back in. Finally, as the
smell of the garlic bread in the oven spread through the kitchen, he smiled,
and plucked the latest noodle from the stirrer with his fingers, blew on it,
and held it playfully before Hermione's mouth. She leaned in and nibbled the
end off the steaming noodle.
            "Al Dente?" Harry asked.
            "Perfect!"
            Harry tossed the rest of the noodle to Ron, who deftly caught it
and tossed it into his mouth as Harry dumped the pot of water and pasta into
the colander in the sink. He lifted the entire colander, shaking it gently to
drain the water from the pasta, and then he was back to the cabinets again,
bringing out serving bowls.
            He opened the oven a crack, sniffed, then shut it off, as well as
all the burners. Soon, the garlic bread was in a basket lined with a paper
towel, the cavatappi mixed with the pale orange sauce in one large serving
bowl, and a pre-made salad from the local supermarket dumped into another.
Harry found a tray and piled on it four plates, four salad bowls, four plastic
tumblers, a pile of napkins and four sets of silverware, then added the basket
of garlic bread to one side.
            Back to the fridge again for a plastic four-pinter of milk, a
couple of bottles of salad dressing, and a jar of shredded Parmesan and Romano
cheese. "Ron, can you handle this stuff?"
            As Ron took it, he gestured Hermione toward the salad, and somehow
managed to lift both the tray and the pasta, and they made their way in a sort
of awkward chain into the dining room, where Dudley was seated at the head of
the table, looking vaguely interested.
            They set their burden down on the table, and Harry quickly and
calmly set it, working around Dudley like a waiter in a good restaurant, and
Hermione recognised in his movements the ease of long practice. How often had
he waited on the Dursleys like this?
            As soon as Harry had put a plate before Dudley, the boy was tucking
in hungrily, scooping vast forksful of cavatappi into his mouth. He'd finished
his first bowl before Harry had finished serving Hermione and Ron, and Harry
calmly refilled his plate, then handed him a salad and poured him a glass of
milk, finally giving him two pieces of garlic bread on a napkin.
            The trio sat eating together comfortably, Ron and Hermione helping
themselves to salad and milk and garlic bread and second helpings, while Harry
assumed responsibility for serving his cousin, who ate greedily and noisily.
            Hermione had to admit that Harry was right. The sauce was
wonderfully tasty, tangy and just a touch sweet, setting off the wheaty taste
of the pasta, and the spicy tang of the garlic bread. The salad was uninspired,
as store-bought salads frequently are, consisting mainly of iceberg lettuce
that was mostly water, and a few soggy tomato slices.
            When he finished, Dudley pushed back his chair and belched loudly,
then stood and walked without ceremony back to the TV. Ron and Hermione
exchanged a glance as they watched him go, but Harry simply finished what was
on his plate.
            Between them, the trio and Dudley had thoroughly demolished the
entire meal, leaving behind nothing but crumbs and dirty dishes, and Harry
began stacking the dishes, gathering all the detritus onto the tray.
            Ron shook his head at him. "You're pretty amazing, Harry. Doesn't
this bother you at all? You're his cousin, not his servant."
            Harry shrugged. "It's like Hermione said the other day. He doesn't
know any better. This is what he's been raised to." He looked over at her. "You
know, it never occurred to me before Sirius said it, but it's true, and y'know
what? It's really, really sad. The way they've spoiled him, maybe even ruined
him... It was all about hurting me. He's what he is, and it's... What do the
military types call it these days? Collateral damage. They..." He paused to
consider. "They buried him in, in..." another moment's hesitation. "In some
sort of an orgy of, of... I dunno, conspicuous consumption, I guess-- to hurt
me! Who hates a little boy that much?"
            Ron snorted as he stood, taking the tray from in front of Harry.
"Ol' Wossname does."
            "No, Ron," said Hermione, as they stood to follow him back to the
kitchen. "Vo-- Riddle's afraid of Harry. He wants to kill him for purely
pragmatic reasons. I'm sure he's pretty angry at Harry for thwarting his will
so many times, for living this long, but he doesn't hate him like that."
            In the kitchen, Harry took over again, despite Ron's and Hermione's
objections. "It's just easier. I know the routine."
            And in minutes, he'd rinsed all the dishes, pots, pans, glasses and
silverware, loaded them into the dishwasher with a practiced eye for balance
and placement, and started it running.
            When they turned back away from the machine, Dudley was standing
quietly behind them, and Hermione jumped, letting out a small squeak.
            "Oh, Dudley! You startled me."
            Dudley shrugged. His gaze dismissed her, and he turned back to
Harry. "Thanks. For, you know, dinner. I like your sauce. I don't get to have
it anymore."
            "No problem, Dudley," said Harry, neutrally. "Your mum would go
spare if she heard about it, though."
            Dudley nodded, looking at him. There was clearly more he wanted to
say. They stood for a moment, awkward and silent. Dudley turned to Ron. "What
happened to your arms, anyway?"
           "Attacked by a brain," Ron said.
            "A brain?" said Dudley.
            "Yeah," said Ron. "Magical, floating brain. My own fault. I called
it over."
            Dudley nodded. "Weird."
            "Yeah." Ron's face was serious. "Even for us."
            Dudley suddenly turned back to Harry. "Did you mean what you said
before? About Mum and Dad ruining me to hurt you?"
            Hermione drew a sharp breath, and Dudley's gaze moved to her for a
moment, then returned to Harry.
            "You heard that, huh?" said Harry, clearly wondering if he was
about to be pounded on.
            "Yeah. Is that really what you think?"
            "What do you think, Dudley?" asked Ron. Harry and Hermione turned
to stare at him just as Dudley did. "I mean, look," he continued, "I'm a freak,
right? A wizard, and I know nothing from nothing about the Muggle world. But
even I can see that the way they treated you had nothing to do with love. It's
not normal to raise a kid this way. Even I can see it."
            Dudley regarded him for a moment, then looked back down at his
arms. "A brain, huh?"
            Ron nodded. "Pretty much, yeah."
            Suddenly, Dudley's blunt fingers were gently following the lines of
scar a few inches down one of Ron's forearms. He drew back awkwardly. "Looks
tender."
            "A bit, yeah," said Ron, a little warily.
            Dudley turned back to Harry. "Thanks. For dinner. For cleaning up.
For... Thanks."
            And he turned and walked from the kitchen. A moment later, they
heard the front door open and close.
            Harry turned again, letting his hands trail easily along Ron's and
Hermione's, and then, almost unconsciously, tucked the two hands, one large,
one small, both up under his shirt, to touch his back, and leaned on the
kitchen counter, looking out into the rainy twilight.
            Ron's voice spoke behind him, quiet. "It's really coming down out
there. I hope he's okay."
            "I'm sure he'll be fine, Ron," said Hermione. "A little rain never
killed anybody."
            Harry chuckled. "Do you know how many fatal hydroplaning accidents
there were on Britain's motorways in the last five years?"
            Hermione felt the flush rise into her face. "No, and neither do
you." She smiled and rubbed her hand on his back. "It is a good point, though.
Still, I wouldn't worry, Ron. He isn't driving, and sometimes a walk in the
rain can do your heart good."
            The wind gusted, blowing a blatting sheet of rain against the
kitchen window.
            "Yeah, I'll pass, thanks," said Ron.
            They stood for a few moments more.
            "How long?" Harry asked.
            "Madame Pomfrey said, no earlier than ten o'clock."
            The trio turned together to look at the wall clock. It was 7:14.
Two hours and forty-six minutes stretched ahead of them like an eternity.
            "Of course," mused Hermione, reaching for the hem of the orange
Chudley Cannons shirt, and sliding it up over her thighs and abdomen, and
onward past the smooth curves of her belly to briefly show them her chest,
breasts high and round, nipples pink, her scar so much less livid than it had
been at the inquest, "there are no time constraints on when we can do mine."
She smiled wickedly over at Ron as she lowered her shirt again. "Would you like
to do mine, Ron?"
            Ron stepped closer to her, took her hands, as Harry sidestepped
softly, and turned back to the window, allowing one of his elbows to brush
Ron's. Those cobalt-blue eyes stared down into hers. "Miss Granger, you're
trying to distract me."
            She licked her lips, slowly, as she looked up into his eyes. "How
am I doing?"
            "Qui--Quite well, actually."
            She reached up, one hand at a time, to clasp behind his head, and
pulled him down to her kiss. She sucked on his upper lip, nibbling it a bit
with her teeth, then opened her mouth to him, and felt fire pouring into her
mouth with his tongue. Ron's kiss was often awkward, but always sincere, always
enthusiastic. Harry's kiss, like his touch, was reverence and need and
gratitude. Ron's was love, and desire, and intensity. His appetite for her was
insatiable, and that was a hunger she shared, a thirst she now tried to slake.
She drank him in, trying to fill herself.
            Somewhere, far away, she was aware of a door opening, a deep, male
gasp, a woman's shriek, and then that male voice again: "What do you think
you're doing, you indecent little freaks!?!?"
            She broke away from Ron, and looked over to the back door, where
Vernon and Petunia were staring at them, angry and shocked.
            "It's called kissing, Mr. Dursley," she said tartly. She'd grown
thoroughly sick of Vernon Dursley in the last three days. "It's how people who
love one another show affection."
            "Well, aren't you clever!" snapped Petunia. "Aren't you just so
pleased with yourself! Well, I'm not pleased! I have an impressionable boy in
this house!"
            Hermione lifted her chin. "Well, Mrs. Dursley, I'll grant you that
in this house, he's seen so little of love or affection that it would be bound
to be confusing and upsetting for him, but you needn't worry. He went out a few
minutes ago."
            "Of all the shameless cheek!" bellowed Vernon Dursley. "You unholy
freaks let him go out in this?"
            Harry turned tiredly from the window. "Give it a rest, Uncle
Vernon. Dudley's sixteen years old. He can handle a walk in the rain."
Suddenly, the green-eyed boy smiled. "In fact, I'm starting to think he can
handle more than either of us ever imagined. He'll be fine." He turned to his
friends, his lovers. "Come on, let's go upstairs."
            "You'll go nowhere!" barked Dursley. "I'm not done with you!"
            "But we, Mr. Dursley," said Hermione, "are done with you. Have a
lovely evening."
            And the three walked calmly to the stairs, leaving an impotently
stuttering Vernon Dursley behind them.
            Harry grinned at her as they started to ascend. "Honestly,
Hermione, I've never seen you cheek an adult like that!"
            "He's just an insufferable, boorish, snobbish, bigoted-- Aargh!  I
can't even think of a word about him!"
            Ron grinned at her as they topped the stairs, and turned towards
their room. "Miserable old fuckwit?" he suggested, as they closed the door
behind them. "Buggering arsewipe?"
            Hermione raised a brow at him as she raised her wand. "Language,
Ron!" She used Colloportus to lock the door, and Imperturbatus on the floor and
walls. "There's no need for that kind of talk, honestly!"
            He turned and stood against her, looked down into her eyes. "What
kind of language would you like then?"
            And she reached a hand, pressed against his hardness. "Body
language."
            Harry took a half-step backwards, trying to work out a way to give
his friends some space to nurture the flame that burned in the air between
them, but she suddenly reached out and grabbed his belt buckle.
            "Where are you going, Harry?" she asked, and pulled him to her,
even as she stepped into Ron's solid lank. She leaned into Harry, kissed him
long and softly, her mouth working slowly against his. She looked over to Ron,
saw him staring, eyes wide, dilated. She reached a hand down to run nimble
fingers over the crotch of Ron's shorts, felt the hardness beneath the denim,
felt the heat radiating from it. She finally broke the kiss, pulled back a bit
from Harry.
            "Ron's hard, Harry," she said, running her fingers again over Ron's
heat, his length beneath the denim.
            Harry's voice was hoarse. "I don't blame him. So am I."
            She turned her dark eyes to him. "And can you think of something we
could do about that?"
            Harry leaned into her, kissed her, his hand trailing up under her -
- under Ron's -- shirt to palm her breast. He did a thing he knew she liked,
running his fingers slowly sideways across her nipple in a series of gentle
bumps like the "rumble strips" on a motorway, and she moaned into his mouth and
turned back towards Ron, as she shucked the shirt off, threw it to the floor.
            "How about you, Ron?" she asked. "Is there something you want to do
about it?"
            He pulled her to him, crushed his mouth greedily on down to hers.
She heard rustling behind her as she pushed Ron back towards the big bed, felt
the way Harry's hands switched against her back as he pulled off the grey tee-
shirt. As she reached down Ron's crotch again, she heard the sound of a zip
behind her, and glanced over to see that Harry had his cut-off denims halfway
down his thighs, the erection tenting his Y-fronts.
            She smiled then. Poor Harry, so starved for touch and affection
that he was always the eager one, now that he was starting to really understand
that she was here for him, too. Ron was more comfortable, more relaxed and
confident about her body. Always loving, always reverent, but still, confident.
This was his place to be, and on some level, he knew it.
            She turned back to him, but saw something had stilled in his gaze,
and as she leaned in to kiss him, he leaned back just a bit. "Wait a minute."
His eyes flickered away from her for a moment, to the bedside table. As Madame
Pomfrey had promised, there was a new jar of Ron's potion there, waiting for
him. "Wait a minute... What's going on?"
            Her smile was wicked, wanton, as she breathed, "What to you think
is going on, Ron?"
            Miss Granger, you're trying to distract me. The jar of potion,
sitting by the digital clock.
            "Oh, Hermione... No. No, no, no. This won't be that, Hermione
Jane."
            "What?" said Harry. His shorts were halfway down his calves now,
his movement arrested by the concern in Ron's voice, the hitch in Hermione's
breath.
            "She's trying to distract me, Harry. Take my mind off..." He waved
his arm at his friend, the runneled scars catching the light, then turned back
to Hermione even as that light dawned in Harry's eyes.
            "What we have here, Hermione..." Ron stroked the duvet. "This can
never be a... A tool for something else.. This is about us. Always. Or it's not
happening."
            Hermione's eyes stayed locked with Ron's, so kind, so warm, and her
heart filled for him. She loved him, loved him so much, loved him with all she
had..
            She heard the zip sound again, and broke eye contact with Ron, and
turned to see that Harry, always the eager one, always enthusiastic, had pulled
his denims back up, and was shrugging the grey shirt back over his head. His
green eyes were on hers as his head emerged from the neck. "Ron's right,
Hermione." He turned to the other boy. "I'm sorry, mate. I should have seen it.
I'm just such a randy prat..."
            Ron chuckled. "Don't, mate. You start apologizing for being a randy
prat, you set a precedent I'm not sure I can live with!"
            Hermione giggled as Harry grinned and leaned down to the floor to
pick up the orange Cannons shirt, held it out to her. She shook her head at
him. "It's a tent. Besides, I've been without a bra since this afternoon, and
now I'm randy, and my nipples are kind of sensitive. You don't mind, do you?"
            "Oh, good fuck, no!" cried Harry, and Ron laughed.
            "Sirius was right, you know," he told her, gathering her in his
arms, and kissing her head softly. One finger traced a deft and gentle circle,
not quite touching her left nipple. "Pert. Definitely pert."
            She made a low sound in her throat. "I can't believe he said that!
I was in a clinic! For treatment!"
            "How'd you feel about him touching your breast?"
            She shook her head. "I was kind of freaked out at first, but then
he said that, and I was so dumbstruck that by the time I thought about it
again, he was... Oh!" Hermione looked over at Harry. "You know, Harry, your
godfather is a very smart man!"
            But Harry was looking at his trunk, his eyes far away. "Hmm? Wha--
?" He let his mind process Hermione's words. "Oh! Yeah! Yeah, he is! Hey,
c'mere a minute, I want to get something out of my trunk."
            The moved over with him, and he dug around for a few minutes in the
trunk, finally pulling out a small, battered hardcover book, its spine creased,
its cover held on with cell-o-tape.
            Harry led them back to the bed, and climbed up on it, gesturing
them to join him as he scooted back, arranging pillows behind himself, and sat
with his back against the wall.
            "What's that, Harry?" asked Hermione.
            He smiled, opening the book, and flipping past the first few pages.
            "The Wind In The Willows," he told her. "By Kenneth Graham. Chapter
One: The River Bank."
            She was smiling then, looking over at Ron, who looked, interested,
at Harry. Harry smiled back at both of them.
            "The Mole had been working very hard all the morning," he read,
aloud, "spring- cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters;
then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash;
till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his
black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air
above..."
===============================================================================
            "As he hurried along," Harry read, "eagerly anticipating the moment
when he would be at home again among the things he knew and liked, the Mole saw
clearly that he was an animal of tilled field and hedge- row, linked to the
ploughed furrow, the frequented pasture, the lane of evening lingerings, the
cultivated garden-plot. For others the asperities, the stubborn endurance, or
the clash of actual conflict, that went with Nature in the rough; he must be
wise, must keep to the pleasant places in which his lines were laid and which
held adventure enough, in their way, to last for a lifetime."
            He glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. The red
digits stared uncompromisingly back at him: 10:26. Beside it sat that clay jar.
It looked so innocent.
            He looked over, eyes wide, at Ron and Hermione, and they nodded,
faces suddenly grim, the world of Mr. Toad and the Water Rat as distant as
Pluto.
            Harry placed a small piece of parchment back in the book, and set
it down, and Ron silently pulled the grey Tee-shirt off, started to throw it to
the floor, then paused.
            He glanced at Hermione's chest. Her areolae -- Hermione had taught
them the word, taught them all the words -- had subsided again, and were now
just a little pinker than the pale skin of her breasts, and had spread to
diagonal ovoids about the diameter of a teacup, the nipples themselves small, a
bit above center and only slightly darker. "You should put this on," he said.
"I'm liable to thrash a bit, and I don't want to get any on you." He raised a
brow. "'Sides, you've relaxed now."
            She smiled weakly. How was it, she wondered, that she had reached
the point in less than a week where she could cuddle, bare-breasted, with her
boys, and cease to even notice that she was exposed? Still, Ron had a point,
and she shrugged the shirt on, pulled her hair out the neck behind her with an
impatient gesture.
            Ron looked back and forth between them. "You should tie me up."
            "Ron!" the cry of protest from Harry and Hermione was almost
simultaneous.
            "Guys, I'm going to thrash around. A lot. It doesn't get any better
if I fall off the fucking bed and break my arm!"
            "That doesn't mean we're going to truss you up like a beeve at
branding time in some old western," said Harry. He threw the pillows up against
the headboard of the bed, then reclined on them, his torso at almost a forty-
five degree angle. He held his hands out toward Ron, made a "gathering" gesture
with his fingers. "Come on, old son. Come on. I'll hold you."
            Ron raised his eyes to him. "Harry, I--" He swallowed. "I can't."
            "Yes you can, Ron." Harry's voice was soft, but very firm. "Now,
come on."
            Ron stared at him a moment longer, before his eyes dipped down.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Yeah, all right."
            He worked his way up and around, and sat in front of Harry, between
his spread legs, and leaned back against Harry's chest, his head settling
neatly on Harry's collarbone. Hermione smiled bravely at them, looking at where
Ron's head lay, and remembered the healing charm Madame Pomfrey had taught them
for broken bones. It requires only five pounds of pressure, applied suddenly,
to snap a human clavicle.
            Harry rubbed his hands briskly but gently over Ron's bare chest.
"See, Ron? That's not so bad, is it?"
            Ron essayed a weak chuckle. "Bit queer, mate, t'tell you the
truth."
            "I thought you were Mister Bi-Guy," Harry retorted softly.
            Ron actually did laugh a bit at that. "Pretty lame, Harry."
            Hermione reached past them to recover the jar from the bed-side
table. It resisted her movements a bit as she brought it back to set it beside
her on the mattress, like one of the toy gyroscopes she'd had as a little girl.
As Pomfrey had promised, it was charmed to stay upright, to avoid spilling its
noxious contents.
            She started to remove the top, when Ron shook a finger at her.
"You're forgetting something important."
            She looked blankly at him, and he extended one palm toward her.
Memory came flooding back, and she took up her wand in her left hand, pointing
it at her own right. "Prophilixus!"
            She felt a tingle, and suddenly her hand looked just a bit shiny,
as if it was wet, although it felt just the same. The effect spread up as far
as her elbow. She switched hands, performed the same charm on her left, then
realized she was still wearing her cut-off shorts, and was sitting cross-legged
with her bare thighs between her and Ron. She summoned a pair of sweat-pants
from her trunk and wriggled into them, then resumed her place at Ron's side.
She took hold of his wrist, and he shook his head.
            "Hermione Jane, you're really going to have to restrain it. You're
not strong enough."
            Hermione's eyes darkened, and she bit her lip. The wind howled past
the window, flinging great sheets of rain at the glass.
            "You have to, Hermione. You have to."
            She looked down at her lap for a moment, then nodded. With a swish
and a flick, magical cords and looped around his wrist, holding his arm tied
tightly to a six-inch-wide circle of thin air. It looked pretty stupid, but Ron
tried to move his arm, and couldn't.
            Hermione's eyes raised again and locked with Harry's as she removed
the lid from the jar, setting it carefully aside. Harry's bear-hug around Ron's
torso tightened, and he murmured in Ron's ear, "Ready, old son?"
            Ron nodded, tried to speak but made a choked noise. He cleared his
throat, tried again, and managed to rasp out, "Ready."
            Hermione's protected fingers dipped into the potion jar, and came
out with a glob of the stuff. It was a deep, greenish-brown color, and seemed
to sizzle on her fingertips, a foul, sulphurous steam rising from it.
            The three teens regarded it for a long moment on Hermione's hand,
and she drew a breath, and brought the stuff down decisively on Ron's forearm.
Pale green flames leapt up from Ron's flesh, with a smell like spiced, rotted
pork frying, and he bucked back against Harry, his eyes and his jaw clamped
shut. Tears rolled down Ron's cheeks and a deep, guttural sound forced its way
from between his clamped teeth like an animal escaping a trap, leaving parts of
itself bloodily behind.
            Harry reached one hand up, tenderly brushed his mate's hair back.
"Let it out, old son," he murmured. "No reason to hold it. Nothing to prove
here. Let it out."
            Hermione's hands started spreading the pasty potion, smoothing it
along Ron's scars. Harry glanced up at her face. It was awful. Her skin was
drawn tightly in, leaving her cheekbones in sharp relief. Her eyes so wide and
circular above them that she resembled a movie zombie, eyeballs set loose in
empty sockets. They swam, though, with tears, which streamed down her face,
past a mouth that was open in a rictus around clenched teeth. Everywhere the
potion spread, those awful green flames followed with their horrible smell of
spoiled meat cooking.
            Ron was making a long, slow, keening noise now, sweat pouring off
of his entire body, and Harry rubbed the side of his face with his own,
stroking his chest with his hands around his torso. "It's all right, Ron. You
cry if you have to. You scream, the room's imperturbed. It's just us here, and
we love you. So you go ahead, old horse. Go ahead and scream."
            Ron's eyes rolled back in his head, and his mouth opened to a wail
the like of which Harry had never heard. Only one sound was even close, the
sound of a woman screaming that he'd heard within his mind, distant and
heartrending, when Dementors came too near.
            Harry realized he was kissing Ron's cheek, as he brushed the sweat-
matted hair back off his face, his arm wrapped around Ron's untreated one like
a wrestler's half-nelson.
            As Ron's scream faded to sobs, he heard more sobs as well, and
looked again at Hermione, whose crying wracked her, even as she scooped more
potion onto her fingers.
            She hitched a breath as she reached for his arm again, and through
the sobs, Harry heard her voice, a quiet keening sound that he only belatedly
recognized as singing.
            "Weasley moves inside my heart" she sang, as she smeared the potion
onto his arm again and he bucked back against Harry and shrieked like the
damned.
            "There he's always played his part."
            Harry kissed him again, stroked his face, his chest, and the long,
slender, freckled body continued to buck as he screamed, and Harry's own tears
flowed freely down his face. "It's all right, Ron," he continued to sob to him.
"It's all right, I'm here, we're here, we love you."
            "You know he's owned me from the start."
            Her fingers were now working the potion into the shoulder beneath
Harry's chin, and as Ron bucked again, a tiny droplet flew back, splashed onto
his cheek. He actually saw the brief lick of green flame, smelt the puff of
tastier cook-smoke, and clamped his mouth over his own scream. Cruciatus, he
thought, might well have hurt more than this, but only because it had been over
his whole body. His face was screwed up in its own silent rictus, as the sun-
bright flame of agony poured from that spot on his face. He wanted to scream,
to shriek, to run. But he couldn't. Ron couldn't know of this. He'd stop them,
and, oh, by the Elder Gods of Lovecraft, there was still another whole arm to
be done.
            Hermione stared at him, eyes wide, and he managed to shake his
head, just a fraction of an inch, but she quietly picked up her wand, aimed it
at his cheek, uttered a Scourgify, then Tergeo, then Palliatus, all quiet
enough to be buried under Ron's screams.
            She rubbed a bit more around that shoulder, then sat back, chest
heaving, and managed to gasp out, as she Scourgified and Tergeo'd the arm, and
Ron's shriek trailed off to a moan, "That's why Weasley is my King!"
            He reached up with his free arm, brushed a tear gently from her
cheek with his thumb. "That's all right, then, Hermione Jane," he managed to
breathe. "There's no reason to cry, my love." Another shuddering gasp. "Your
singing's not so bad."
            And Harry and Hermione both found themselves laughing through their
tears, Hermione leaning forward to kiss him, her arm held safely out to one
side, as Harry stroked his hair and held his face against Ron's.
            "And I definitely like your lyrics better than Malfoy's!"
            Harry murmured to him, his lips brushing Ron's ear as he spoke,
"Shall I tell him that, then, so he can sing it to you when we get to school?"
            Ron managed a smile in return. "Fuck you, you great berk!"
            They lay together for a few minutes, just breathing, drinking in
the company, drinking in their relief at the break. Finally, though, Ron spoke.
            "Guys... I hate to say this..." He laughed then, darkly but with
real humour. "I really, really, really hate to say this!" His laughter, his
smile, faded. "We've another whole arm to go."
            They were cold and still, looking back and forth among one another.
            Finally, Harry spoke. "You want me to switch sides?"
            Ron snorted. "I'd just as soon keep your face out of the line of
fire this time, Hero-boy." He looked at Hermione. "You have a healing charm for
that, right?"
            She nodded, her eyes already filling, as she cast Palliatus, again
and again, on the arm they'd done. With a wave of her wand, the magical ropes
were released, and that arm dropped like dead meat. She looked deeply into
Ron's eyes. "Are you ready, my King?"
            Ron managed a smile at that. "I'm ready, Hermione Jane."
            With a wave of her wand, she'd tied his other arm to the air, and,
tears already streaming, reached into the jar of potion. There was no pause to
look this time. With shocking suddenness, she brought the wad of potion from
the jar to Ron's forearm, and was slathering it down and around his wrist
before he know enough to scream.
            It took a moment's stunned, wide-eyed silence before the agony
roared out of Ron in a dragon's roar of pain and shock. "You scream, old son,"
murmured Harry in his ear, as Ron's body bucked against him again. His open
hand rubbed over a sweat-slicked chest, and he found himself again kissing a
cheek, kissing the corded muscles of Ron's neck. "It's all right, you scream."
            Hermione scooped up more potion, and attacked again, and Ron's
scream subsided, tiredly, to whimpering sobs. Harry heard his voice crooning
into Ron's ear.
            "Weasley's ever at my side."
            A keening squeal of pain escaped Ron, and he bucked again.
            "When larger men would run and hide."
            He arced forward and slammed backwards again, his head landing
solidly, and Harry heard a loud Snap! like a giant pencil breaking, and a
galaxy of pain exploded through him from where Ron's head had struck him. He
sucked in a breath, eyes shut and watering, then sang again, through tight-
clenched teeth, "That he's my friend fills me with pride."
            The whole arm and hand on Ron's side felt useless, so he petted and
stroked with the other as Hermione worked her way feverishly up Ron's bicep.
Ron shrieked again, his head rolling, grinding against Harry's collar, and he
heard and felt bone grind against bone, and cried out, before gasping, "Weasley
is my King!"
            And then Hermione's hand was running potion around Ron's shoulder,
and he arced his head up, his mouth open, lips drawn back, and Harry recognized
the look.
            It was one he'd had himself, years ago, at primary school, when
Dudley had shoved him, causing him to fall onto the stand for a salt-water
aquarium that had been set up to display jellyfish for some senior-level
science project. The tank had fallen against the wall and exploded into a
million shards, one of which, long and slender, had pierced the tender nerve
cluster in his knee that so many have misnamed the "funny bone." That had been
agony enough, but on its way, the shard had also skewered a hapless jellyfish,
and the dying creature had lashed and stung at his knee where the glass pierced
it. The pain had been electric and specific, entirely local to that knee, but
so great, he'd had to do something, something to counter it, and he'd brought
his forearm up to his mouth and bitten it, hard enough to break the skin. The
scar was still slightly visible when the light hit it right.
            He remembered the rictus of his face before he'd brought his arm
up, and he recognized it in Ron's face. He didn't think for so much as a
moment. He held his arm in front of Ron, whose wild eyes were seeking a target.
            "Go ahead, Ron!"
            Ron had barely enough mind to shake his head in demurral.
            "I said, do it!" screamed Harry, and Ron's head struck forward, his
teeth sinking into Harry's forearm, and Harry was rubbing his head against
Ron's, kissing his corded neck, and Hermione sat away again, eyes streaming
with tears, body wracked with sobs, and pointed her wand at Ron's arm.
            "Scourgify! Tergio! Palliatus! Palliatus! Palliatus!"
            Ron's head arced up again, and he gasped in a great gulp of fresh
air as Harry looked at the bloodied bite-mark on his arm, and then Ron simply
collapsed, falling, and Harry watched in a kind of terrified despair, in
subjective slow-motion, as Ron's head fell, dead-weight, toward his broken
collarbone.
            Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione gasp, her hand move
slightly to reach to try to stop him, but that vile, corrosive stuff was still
on her hand, and there was no time to clean it, and she watched, horrified,
just as Harry himself was, and the sweaty ginger head crashed down onto him,
and red light and a wash of pain exploded again through Harry's vision, and
pain coursed through him.
            He heard Hermione ScourgifyandTergeo herself, and then she released
Ron's arm from the magical ropes, and magically levitated him, laying him
gently beside Harry. He heard her cast one healing charm, and screamed as the
pieces of his collarbone moved back together, and scream melted into sigh as
the bones began to knit themselves. A different healing charm, and there was a
burning on his forearm, and when he looked again, the wound on his arm was
gone.
            Hermione cast Palliatus on him, then again on Ron, and again, and
again, before collapsing between them. They were all sweat-soaked, all
tearstained and bloodstained, and in desperate need of a long shower, but the
seven steps to the bathroom might as well have been a billion miles. It was Ron
who eventually found the top of the potion jar, re-sealed it, and put the stuff
on the table again, Ron who stripped all three of them, cast mild cleaning
charms on them. Ron who, with a click of his wand, turned out the lights.
            And the three of them lay together in a naked tangle atop the
duvet, stroking gently and kissing frequently as the storm lashed at the house,
until they fell into a restless, haunted sleep, interrupted for all three by
night terrors and tears.
===============================================================================
***** Chapter Eight: "Betrayal in the Cold Light of Day" *****
               Chapter Eight: Betrayal in the Cold Light of Day
            The daylight that emanated into the room from the window was
cheerless, grey and without hope. The rain was no longer the screaming torrent
of the previous night, but pounded steadily against the glass panes, drummed a
brisk tattoo against the walls and roof.
            The room was still. The digital clock hummed quietly on the small
table, its implacable red digits reading 10:07. Beside it sat the clay pot,
covered, innocuous.
            Next to the table, the king-sized bed, wrinkled, was still made up.
Atop the duvet was a tangle of limbs, indecipherable, incomprehensible. A
stranger standing in the room would have been entirely forgivable if they'd
been unable to immediately identify the source of the quiet, whimpering sobs.
For one thing, there had been whimpers and sobs, and cries and gasps from each
of the three teens who made up the pile. Over and over again through the long
night, one would wake, giving voice to their misery, and the others would
squirm around, cuddle and stroke, kiss and croon, until quiet and sleep
reigned, for awhile, again. For another, the sound was very, deliberately
quiet. The hypothetical listener would hear the sound as choked, muffled, as if
from a face pushed into a pillow.
            Muffled as it was, though, it wasn't muffled enough. "Shhhh..."
came the voice, a girl's voice, quiet, soothing. The hypothetical observer
would have seen limbs moving, and the shapes on the bed would have resolved
themselves to three teens, all laying face-down together.
            The moving legs, not dramatically long, were shapely, curving up to
a rounded and dimpled bottom, which flexed as she squirmed closer, her bushy
brown head moving up again, as it had several times in the last hours, to the
shaggy ginger one. A hand came up, and stroked along the back of the ginger
head, and the voice was there again. "It's all right, love. Hush, now, it's all
right."
            She stroked a hand now down his arm, and he cried out. "It fucking
hurts!"
            The third head, dark-haired, uncommonly disheveled, rose up on the
other side of the red-head. "I'm sorry, Ron, mate." He reached a gentle hand to
rub the freckled back. "I'm sorry."
            "Oh, Merlin's balls," murmured Ron. "Now I've got you up, too. I'm
sorry, Harry."
            Harry squeezed a shoulder. "Hell, Ron, you know we don't mind. Do
we Hermione?"
            The girl lifted herself up a bit off the bed, looked over at the
clock. Her eyes caught on that clay jar, and slitted. She turned her brown eyes
back to Harry's green ones for a moment, then nuzzled up again to Ron.
            "It's all right, my love," Hermione told him. "Time to get up
anyway. Do you think you can handle a shower? Because, Ron, my love, I have to
tell you. All three of us stink."
            Ron essayed a weak chuckle. "Hell, I'm glad to hear you say that!
'Cause if this stench were all me, I'd have been dead for two weeks!"
            He managed to roll over onto his back, and then let himself sprawl
bonelessly again. Hermione raised herself up and looked at him, her gaze
traveling the length of the long, freckled body and back. She loved the lean
muscles of his legs, the smooth plains of his torso, the hundreds of freckles
sprinkled across him. Loved his strong collarbones and his long neck and his
prominent Adam's apple. She loved the expressive lips and cobalt-blue eyes that
smirked at her, the ginger eyebrows, one raised in suggestive amusement.
            Well, if he was going to be that way! She looked deliberately back
down again to the thatch of ginger curls, to the sort of stout, somehow happy-
looking willy laying quiescent at its base. She loved it, too, loved the
sensitive testicles in their complexly-wrinkled sac. She regarded this all,
with interest and amusement and no small wonder. Was it really just four days
ago that she'd only ever ever kissed this wonderful boy once, and on the cheek?
Four days since the only mouth she'd opened hers to was Viktor's? Four days?
            She reached a hand, marveling at her own lack of hesitation, and
stroked it down the length of Ron's belly, stroked it through those ginger
curls, let her fingers grasp and fondle the penis that now firmed in her hand,
caress the sac and the balls.
            Ron groaned, low and happy, and she leaned over and kissed him, her
mouth parting to his, her tongue sliding into his mouth. He had a serious case
of morning-breath, and she had no doubt she did as well, but it was wonderful
nonetheless, as their tongues slid together, as his hand somehow snaked around
her, to reach down, stroking its way along her back to caress and squeeze one
soft cheek.
            The kiss broke, and she raised her head, and found her eyes locked
with Harry's, bright through his glasses, dilated, and she knew he'd been
watching them, watching her mouth, watching her hand which was now stroking
Ron, wanking him with practiced comfort.
            Her gaze was unabashed again traveling along Harry's lithe, slender
form, pausing at his willy, standing straight and slender from its black,
tangled nest. She let go of Ron, who moaned softly at the loss, and reached
across to stroke Harry. His eyes sank gratefully closed, and she glanced over
to see Ron's smile, warm and amused, at his friend's pleasure. He nodded to
her, and her heart filled. Ron had so little, she knew, but his heart was so
generous. He took almost as much pleasure in Harry's pleasure as his own. She
kissed him again, gentle and loving, on the upturned corner of his mouth, and
looked again to Harry. His eyes were on hers again, so dark and green, and she
leaned towards him.
            "Come here, Harry."
            Ron reached around him in a casually loving embrace, snuggled him
closer to his side, and he leaned across Ron's chest to Hermione's waiting
lips. As always, his kiss was both demanding and tentative, as if his tongue
was somehow unable to believe its good fortune in finding hers, and determined
to take as much pleasure as it could before it was caught and expelled. She let
the kiss slowly end as she stroked him, then murmured, her lips still brushing
his, "I love you, Harry."
            And as simply as that, he came, splashing across her hand and arm,
across Ron's belly to spatter onto her abdomen and the dark curls of her pubic
hair. In the corner of her eye, she saw Ron's smile widen as she leaned in and
kissed Harry again, even as she released his softening penis and started
stroking Ron's again, her semen-slicked fingers sliding easily, now, over the
soft skin of his erection, even as her tongue slid across Harry's lips.
            She brought her foot up along the mattress, her knee rising above
her until her foot was tucked against her thigh, and as she broke from the
kiss, Harry looked down at her, spread and offered up to him, and he reached
around her arm, and she felt his thumb circling her clitoris, and she angled
her hips as she stroked Ron, pressed against Ron's hip and Harry's hand as she
leaned down to nibble at the freckled neck, nipping lightly with her teeth.
            Her mouth opened against his neck in a moan as Harry's index finger
slid into her. He was a seeker, his hands quick and nimble and confident as his
heart was hesitant. She'd taught him what she liked, and he'd learned well, his
fingertip sliding to find that spot Hermione'd read about in a Muggle book when
she was 13 and found for herself two nights after riding Buckbeak with Harry.
She squirmed against the hand, and Ron laughed throatily.
            "Whatever you're doing, Harry, keep it up. She likes it, don't you,
love."
            "Ooooohhh....." she breathed. "Oh, yes!"
            She leaned up to kiss Harry again, and Ron took the opportunity to
lean his head up and suck gently at the pulse-point of her neck.
            Hermione's mind was awash with pleasure as her boys attended to
her. She gasped as she felt Harry's middle finger join the index within her,
stretching her, as he sucked her lower lip, and suddenly she was gasping, eyes
suddenly open, widening and locking with his as his ring finger reached back,
circled once, and then poked gently into her anus. It wasn't much, wasn't far,
just the tip of the finger, the first joint, but she'd never felt anything like
it, and the shock was pleasure, and she was crying out in a stunningly sudden
double orgasm, echoing from the spot inside her under Harry's fingers, from the
clitoris she bucked against his thumb, even, somehow, from somewhere inside her
anus as it clamped tight around Harry's fingertip.
            Her hand spasmed around Ron, and suddenly his back was arched, and
he was coming too, a spurt of jism that curved in a long, clean arc above his
belly, over their arms, to curve down again, a slow-motion parabola that
splashed down comically on Harry's face and hers, still joined over Ron's in a
kiss.
            Harry recoiled sharply, with a harsh cry, and Ron chuckled, "Sorry,
mate," as Hermione leaned over to him, her mouth open, and began to lick the
semen from Harry's lips and nose, loving the salty, smoky taste of it.
            She felt Ron's hand stroking its way around her arse, his long
fingers slipping between the cheeks to meet Harry's fingertip still
disappearing within her. The ginger eyebrows rose as he grinned. "Hermione,
your parents are a great influence!"
            She smiled over at him, and returned to Harry, reaching to lick the
splash of semen from his cheek, and he recoiled again with another cry.
            "Harry, what is it?" she asked him, concerned. "What's wrong?"
            He shrugged, looking embarrassed. "Hurts."
            "What?" She reached her messy hand up automatically, stopped the
gesture, leaned her face toward him again. "It's the gentlest way, Harry. All
right?"
            He leaned his cheek towards her, and she saw him find himself
almost nose to nose with Ron, in whose expression amusement battled with
concern.
            Hermione's tongue was as gentle as she could make it, tenderly
lapping the remaining semen from his cheek, as he flinched, his breath hissing
from him.
            She looked again, and realized that what she'd thought was a bit of
dirt in the midst of an embarrassed blush was a tiny but horrible burn, a
blister surrounded by a bit of charring in an inflamed, red cheek.
            "Oh, Harry!" Her brown eyes were wide and sorrowful. "Didn't I heal
that last night?"
            Harry's voice was a mumble. "No, love. You did palliatus on it, so
it felt much better, but I think you forgot the healing charm."
            "Oh, Harry!" She kissed him softly on the mouth. "I'm so sorry."
            "'Sall right, Hermione. Really. " He angled his head toward Ron.
"You had other things on your mind."
            Still, she was leaning across him, scrambling for her wand, and she
quickly cast a couple of basic healing charms on his cheek, watched the red
skin cool to Harry's normal pale olive, the blister re-absorb, the bits of
charring simply fall away, like ashes, leaving his cheek pink and healthy
again. If only Ron's arms could be healed so easily!
            She froze, then, her eyes suddenly widening, staring, first at
Harry's smooth, pink cheek, then at Ron's runneled arm, where he'd brought it
up to rest on Harry's shoulder.
            "Oh my god." Her voice was barely more than breath. "We have to get
up! Right now!"
            "What is it, love?" Ron's blue eyes were concerned. "What's wrong?"
            But Hermione was rolling across him, squirming over Harry, dropping
to her feet and turning to pull her boys up.
            "Come on!" She pulled at their hands. "We have to go!"
            "Go where, Hermione?" said Harry, standing, one hand on her hip as
the other reached back to scratch his bum.
            Ron, whose fingertips were lightly brushing that arm, grinned at
the gesture. He clambered out of the bed after Harry. "Well, where-ever we're
going, it won't be until after we've bathed, 'cause, you're right, Hermione.
We're just nasty."
            "We don't have time for that!" Hermione barked.
            Harry reached up to run a hand through his hair, brought it away
sticky with Ron's semen, which he eyed warily on his fingers, then looked up at
Hermione's hair and smirked as her eyes widened.
            She bit her lip, actually trying, for a moment, to think of a way
around it. "All right, we have to, but let's be quick! We've got to get Ron
back to the Hospital Wing!"
            "We do?" said Ron.
            Hermione reached over and smacked his forearm lightly, and he yelp
and jerked away. "Next stupid question?"
            "Christ, Hermione!" said Harry, and she turned her death-glare on
him. He lifted his hands in instant surrender, and followed her to the
bathroom.
            As the shower began to beat down on them, the sound oddly
reminiscent of the pounding of rain on the roof, Hermione grabbed the bottle of
shampoo, and looked daggers at Ron. "Next time, aim better! This is going to
take forever to wash out!"
            He smiled at her. "But you look great with spoo all over you,
Hermione."
            "Spoo?" She handed him the shampoo, half-smiling in spite of
herself. "Is that a real  word?"
            Ron grinned as he squirted a generous glob onto her head, handed
Harry the bottle and set to work.
            Harry managed to push his way under the stream of water as he
squeezed is own glob of shampoo onto his hand. "How about me?" he asked Ron
grumpily. "Do I also look good with spoo all over me?"
            Ron cocked an eye at him. "You look fucking great with Hermione
licking it off you."
            Harry looked over at Hermione, looked up and down her body as if
seeing her, suddenly, for the first time. Suddenly he was grinning, widely,
stupidly. "That's a good point."
            The stupid smile stayed in place as he began massaging shampoo into
his scalp.
            "This isn't funny, Harry!" she snapped.
            "It isn't?" asked Ron , running his soapy hands through her
tameless locks. Hermione glared at him again, but he was uncowed. "If you want
us to take this seriously, Hermione, you have to tell us what's wrong."
            "It's Harry's cheek," she said, angling her head over to give Ron's
fingers better access as she soaped his freckly torso.
            "My cheek is fine, Hermione," said Harry, patiently. "You healed
it. It's fine now."
            "Oh, you are so thick sometimes, Harry!" Her face darkened. "Not
that I'm one to talk. Harry, why did you get that burn on your cheek?"
            Ron was frowning at her. "It was the potion, Hermione. A drop of
the potion hit his face."
            Harry nodded. "Yeah. There was a flame and everything!"
            She made an inarticulate noise of frustration. "Oh, honestly,
Harry! Don't you see anything wrong with that? Did you notice, perhaps, that
you don't have cursed brain-scars on your fucking face?" Harry's eyes widened,
more at the profanity than what she was saying. "Harry, it was the wrong
potion!"
            "No, love," said Ron, "I recognize the smell."
            Hermione glared at him. "And did you recognize the flames, too,
Ron? Did you recognize that smell?"
            "Hermione..." Ron's voice was patient. "I'd let it go for too long.
The scars on my arms were left alone too long. They'd, they'd festered, like.
That's all it was."
            "And Harry's face? Oh, honestly, Ron, do you ever think!?!?"
            The two boys' eyes met Hermione's, flicking back and forth between
them, and started to widen as the implications sank home. That little green
lick of flame bursting from Harry's unmarred cheek, not reacting to a curse or
a scar, but to smooth, healthy skin.
            "Oh, my God." Harry's fingers leapt to his healed cheek. He turned
to Ron with wide, dark eyes. "Oh, no, Ron. Oh, no."
            Ron was staring at his arms, the scars livid and puffy, with wide,
frightened eyes. "What did we do? Oh, Merlin, Hermione, what did we do?"
            She fell against his chest, holding him. "It's my fault, Ron! I
should have known right away. Oh, my God, Ron! How could I possibly have
thought Madame Pomfrey would expect you to do that to yourself every night? As
soon as we started, I should have known! What did I do to you, Ron? I don't
know what I did to you!"
===============================================================================
            Half an hour later they were standing, bundled in Muggle rain gear,
on Arabella Figg's front porch and soaked to the skin.
            Ron was plucking irritably at the sleeves of his yellow rain
slicker, grumbling under his breath that he didn't know why they'd bothered to
dry off at all, for all the good it had done them. Of course, Ron's internal
version contained a good deal more profanity.
            Hermione was holding an irregular-looking lump of tape. Strapping
tape, then, when that ran out, duct tape, and when that ran out, masking tape,
and finally a layer over the top that was made up of every last bit of
Sellotape in the house. There were one or two small, open areas of the tape
through which one might just barely make out reddish clay. Those areas worried
Hermione, who was terrified that the jar would be broken and the potion spilled
on the Floo-trip back to Hogwarts.
            Harry knocked again, waiting for the cheerfully dotty woman to
answer. When the door opened, though, it was not Mrs. Figg who greeted them,
but Dudley Dursley.
            "Hello," he said, his tone neutral. "Come to bring me back?"
            "Er... No." said Harry. "Didn't even know you were here. What are
you doing here?"
            Dudley gestured them inside, to see Mrs. Figg sitting on the sofa
with a small, thin boy, Perhaps five years younger then Harry. The sandy-haired
boy looked over with some surprise at Harry, who in turn blinked. "Mark?"
            Dudley grunted as he closed the door behind him. "Evans there was
out in the storm last night. I tried to tell the little idiot to get in out of
the rain, but he ran away from me! He looked like a drowned rat before I caught
up to him, and almost got blown into the street a few times. So, anyway, I was
trying to get him home when Mrs. Figg invited us in."
            "It's all right, really," said Mark Evans, hurriedly. "He hasn't
thumped me or anything!"
            Dudley glowered at him. "It's still early, right?"
            "Yessir!" said Mark, eyes wide. He turned back to Harry. "So,
anyway, my mum's going to be here to pick us up, soon, and drive Mr. Dursley
home, too."
            Hermione clutched the taped-up pot to her chest, staring back and
forth, wide-eyed, between Dudley, Mark, and the fireplace. She opened her
mouth, looked at Harry, closed it, opened it again, and was interrupted, before
she could speak, by the sound of a car-horn outside.
            Mark ran to a window, and looked out. "It's Mummy!" he cried
happily. "Come on, Mr. Dursley, sir!"
            Dudley actually smiled a little at the small boy as he opened the
door for him, and followed him out, sort of shrugging a farewell to Harry and
the others, as Mark raced down the front walk,yelling, "Mummy! Mummy!"
            They watched from the door as Dudley followed the smaller boy into
the waiting Volvo station wagon, which drove off down Wisteria Walk.
            "Amazing," said Harry. "He beat the stuffing out of that boy last
summer."
            But Hermione had already turned toward Mrs. Figg, her words coming
in a breathless, incomprehensible rush.
"WeneedtouseyourFlootogobacktotheHospitalWing!"
            She was charging to the fireplace, dragging the boys along behind
her.
            Mrs. Figg, belatedly parsing the phrase "Hospital Wing," stood. "Is
someone hurt?"
            Hermione was already reaching for the Floo Powder,  so Harry
glanced over at her. "We don't really know, exactly, Mrs. Figg."
            "Hogwarts Hospital Wing!" Hermione cried out, throwing her handful
of powder, and she was already glaring at the boys. "Well, come on!"
            Ron gave Mrs. Figg exactly the same helpless shrug that Dudley has
given them, causing Harry to laugh as they wrapped their arms around Hermione
and stepped into the flames.
===============================================================================
            Hermione, though, definitely wasn't laughing as the three of them
stumbled together out of the Floo, her arms wrapped tightly 'round the clay
jar, and they wavered for balance. In this, at least, the jar was their friend,
the charm that kept it upright doing the same for Hermione, and through her,
her boys.
            Already she was shouting. "Madam Pomfrey! Madam Pomfrey, please!"
            Their luck was better this day than the previous. Pomfrey appeared
immediately from her office, her concerned eyes quickly honing in on Hermione
as she bustled over to them.
            "Whatever is wrong, child?" she asked, leading them over towards a
bed.
            "It's Ron's potion, Madam Pomfrey. It's-- It's the wrong potion!"
            Pomfrey smiled gently. "No, dear," she said patiently, and Hermione
nearly snarled. Pomfrey had turned to Ron, gesturing for him to remove the rain
slicker, as she continued, "I did warn you that it was going to be very
unpleasant, very painful. It should be much better now that--"
            The medi-witch's voice caught in her throat as the yellow plastic
slicker hit the floor. She stared for a moment at Ron's left arm, then spun,
grabbing Hermione's shoulders.
            "What did you do?"
            "Madam Pomfrey, nothing." Hermione stared back into the medi-
witch's eyes, willing her to understand. "I used the potion you sent to our
room. But--"
            "Please, tell me! It's all right, you're not in trouble, but I have
to--"
            "I used this!" She held up the taped-up pot. "It's the potion that
was waiting for us! But, Madam Pomfrey, it was-- It was wrong! It was awful! It
burned, oh, Madam, it burned, with green flames, and the smell!"
            "Flames!?!?" Pomfrey was banishing the tape from the jar. "Green
flames?"
            "Yes! You told us it would be awful, and we-- It-- I was so
shocked-- I never stopped and thought you'd never have sent that awful stuff
home for us to apply, much less Ron on his own. A bit of it even hit Harry,
just a little drop--"
            Pomfrey spun, stared at Harry, and he angled his cheek toward her.
            "Yes..." Pomfrey's voice was low. "I can see now that a healing was
performed here. You did very well, Miss Gra-- Hermione."
            She had finally removed the tape from the jar, and opened it. She
took one whiff of the open bottle and blanched. She covered it carefully, took
a half-dozen quick steps,  placed it firmly in the middle of a workbench, and
then returned to the bed, began to closely examine Ron's arms.
            "Dobby!" she cried out.
            There was a pop! and the eager house elf was bowing before her.
"Dobby is here, Mistress Madam Popsfrey!"
            Ron snorted at this, but Pomfrey's voice was urgent. "Dobby, I need
the headmaster here at once! At once! And as soon as he's on his way, I will
need to speak with you! Do you understand me?"
            Dobby's eyes -- already the dimensions of tennis-balls -- seemed to
expand. "Yes, Mistress Madam Popsfrey!"
            And with another pop! he was gone.
            Pomfrey had turned back to Ron's arm.
            "Am I going to live, Mistress Madam Popsfrey, ma'am?"
            One corner of her mouth twitched slightly. "You know, I can turn
you into a salamander, claim it's for medical reasons, and nobody will ever
question me."
            Ron grinned at her, but Pomfrey's solemnity returned as she looked
up into his eyes. She's opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted again by
the faint Pop! of Dobby's appearance.
            "They is coming, Mistress Madam Popsfrey!"
            She spun toward the house elf. "Do you remember what I asked of you
yesterday?"
            "Yes! Mistress Madam Popsfrey asked Dobby to bring Mr. Wheezy's
medicine to Harry Potter's room!"
            "And did you do that?"
            "Yes. No! Master Headmaster has told Dobby he must de-- de-
- deregulate, Mistress Madam Popsfrey!"
            "The word," came Professor Dumbledore's voice, as the door to the
hospital wing opened, and he entered, Sirius close behind him, "is delegate, my
friend."
            "That's what Dobby said!" agreed Dobby. "Defenestrate." Professor
Dumbledore opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Dobby assigned the job to
the new elf! The one Professor Black brought. Dobby thought that being trusted
would help him feel at home here!"
            Sirius looked back and forth between Pomfrey, Dumbledore, Dobby,
and the teenagers. "What's happened?"
            Pomfrey glanced at Dumbledore, who nodded assent. She turned to
Ron. "Mr. Weasley, may I discuss this matter with the Professors?"
            "Of course," said Ron, instantly, then, sotto voce, "I just wish
someone would discuss it with me!"
            "Well, Professor, Mr. Weasley was seriously injured in the assault
on the Department of Mysteries. He was attacked by--" she paused, considered
attempting to explain.
            Ron spoke up. "Floating evil brain. My own stupid fault, I accioed
the damned thing."
            "Damned, Mr, Weasley," said Dumbledore, "Is precisely what that
thing was, and is."
            "And the dark magic that produced those scars," Pomfrey gestured to
Ron's arms, "carried with it the seeds of a kind of rebirth for it. To treat
it, I had to pit a darker magic against it: A potion called Maltrucido
Flammaria."
            Sirius paled, stared wide-eyed at Ron.
            "I see you've heard of it. It is Dark Magic to combat Dark Magic:
so ferocious that it consumes and destroys the Dark Energies it encounters, but
so short-lived, once activated by that contact, that it cannot itself take
hold. Of course, for topical use on a person, it is diluted, a one-to-ten
infusion in a Murtlap and Pallium solution. Even in such a preparation, it is
extremely painful to use. Painful enough, sadly, that Mr. Weasley elected to
forego its use for some twelve days!"
            "Look, I really am sorry, all right?" said Ron. Dumbledore rested a
grave hand on his head, as Pomfrey continued.
            "Naturally, the potion would be far more painful, and far less
effective, against Dark Magicks that have had that long to infuse themselves.
Even with the Murtlap and Pallium, I expected it to make redskin burns--" she
turned to Hermione "You'd call them first degree -- and even raise blisters. A
patient can be expected to lose control of himself, to scream. Had I not known
that Mister Weasley would have the help of his friends, I might well have
insisted on admitting him for a couple of nights, until the lost ground was
made up."
            She gestured toward Dobby. "I instructed Dobby, here, to deliver
the potion -- the diluted potion -- to Mister Potter's room at his relatives.
Dobby appears to have delegated--"
            "Defoliated," Dobby agreed.
            "This task," Pomfrey continued, as if he had not interrupted, "to a
new house elf. That house elf delivered this."
            She took up the clay pot again, and handed it to the headmaster.
            Dumbledore opened the pot, and took in just a whiff of the scent,
and was swiftly covering the jar again, staring at Ron. His voice was nearly
inaudible. "It's pure." His words gained volume and clarity and emotion as he
spoke to Ron. "Mister Weasley! I have no words..." he turned, his gaze
encompassing all three. "The suffering you went through! Oh, my children, I am
sorry."
            Harry's voice was quiet. "Do you mean to tell me that we went -
- Ron went -- through-- Through that! -- for nothing?"
            Dumbledore's hand was gentle on his head. "No, my boy, no. Not for
nothing. You and Miss Granger went through it for love. The healing arts are
often unpleasant, and ever uncertain. You, Mister Weasley..."
            Ron held up a hand. "'Salright, Professor. I'm here, aren't I?"
            "Surprising in itself," said Pomfrey, as Dumbledore opened his
mouth to speak again. He subsided and watched, with interest, as she turned to
Hermione. "You completely... treated... both arms?"
            Hermione nodded, eyes downcast.
            "Stunning!" cried Pomfrey. "I ought not, perhaps, to tell you this,
but that was enough potion to kill a mountain troll!"
            Hermione made a strangled sound, and both Ron and Harry reached out
to stroke her hair.
            Pomfrey had turned back to Dobby. "I did tell you which potion was
to be delivered, did I not?"
            "Oh, yes, Mistress Madam Popsfrey! You were very clear. Dobby told
the new elf: The potion in the red clay pot in the East store-room." He pointed
at the jar still in Dumbledore's hands. "That pot!"
            Pomfrey turned and stormed to a door in the east side of the
Hospital Wing, flung it open, and suddenly cried out, "Albus!"
            Dumbledore followed her swiftly, the others, even Dobby, crowding
after. On the floor of the east storeroom was a dark, partially-charred stain
on the floor, and, lying on its side, beside the stain, a shining black pot,
marked with painted white skeletons, which wailed and moaned, crying out, "Woe
and peril! Woe and peril!"
            "Albus..." She reached gingerly over, careful not to touch the
stained floor, and took up the black pot, her eyes widening. "Empty!"
            Ron pointed at the floor. "That was made by the pure stuff, right?"
            "No, child," said Pomfrey, grimly. "If it were pure, it would have
eaten all the way through. That was the diluted preparation that I put into
thatjar." She pointed at the red-clay pot Dumbledore still held. "It was poured
out, and the purepotion was substituted!"
            The trio's eyes widened, their faces snapped around towards
Dumbledore, who would surely have an answer, surely be able to explain that
Pomfrey was somehow wrong. Dumbledore, though, was chillingly silent.
            It was Sirius who suddenly screamed out, "Kreacher!"
            With a Pop! the house elf appeared, facing his master, and
Dumbledore, with a finger to his lips, stepped with surprising grace between
him and Ron.
            "My master calls Kreacher?" asked Kreacher, then said, quite
audibly, "The filthy blood-traitor calls Kreacher to do his bidding yet again?"
            Sirius' voice was very quiet, very precise. "I placed you under
Dobby's orders. Did Dobby order you to deliver a potion yesterday?"
            "Dobby, did, good master," said Kreacher. "Vile traitor to his kind
as well!"
            Sirius bore down on him. "And did you do his bidding, Kreacher? Did
you deliver the potion?"
            "Was there a problem?" asked Kreacher. "Did the stupid blood-
traitor die screaming in his mudblood whore's arms?"
            "Answer me, Kreacher," said Sirius, "and speak only truth. Did you
bring the potion Dobby ordered you to bring?"
            Kreacher looked angry, and he chewed his thin, cracked lip for a
moment, then said, "No."
            "What did you do? Answer, and speak true!"
            "Kreacher poured out the weak version, and filled the jar with the
pure! If the Wheezy valued his blood so little that he would debase it with
that filth, he is not worthy of it! Kreacher stopped it flowing through his
weak, traitorous veins!"
            "I told you that an order from Dobby was an order from me. Didn't
I?"
            "You did," Kreacher replied with a surly grin. "Kreacher's master
is no better than that great boil of an elf!"
            "And you disobeyed Dobby's order."
            Kreacher's eyes widened. "No! No, Dobby told Kreacher to bring
medicine, and Kreacher did!"
            Dobby hissed. "Dobby told Kreacher which medicine to bring!
Kreacher disobeyed!"
            "Did you disobey, Kreacher?" said Sirius. "Speak truth!"
            "Kreacher..." The house elf looked defeated. "Kreacher disobeyed."
            And suddenly Hermione was moving, stepping across in front of Harry
to take the red clay pot from Dumbledore's hands, holding it out to Sirius.
            "Make him drink it!" Hermione's voice was a savage hiss. Her face
was white, with livid red spots over her cheekbones. Her eyes were locked with
Sirius'. "Make him drink it all!"
            In a step, Sirius was reaching for the jar, his smile dark,
vulpine. He took it from Hermione's fingers, spun towards Kreacher.
            The house elf stood, staring, in awed fascination, at the red clay
pot as his master's nimble fingers removed its lid.
            "I can do it, you know," said Sirius Black. "If I give the order,
you must obey." He held the jar before the elf. "Smell it, Kreacher! Breathe
deep of its scent!"
            The large nostrils flared involuntarily, drawing in the green-brown
smoke that oozed from the pot.
            "Do it!" hissed Hermione again. "Make him drink it! I want to watch
him drink it!"
            "Yess...." Sirius' voice was low, sibilant. "Kreacher--"
            "No!" Ron stepped around Dumbledore, one hand on Hermione's arm.
"Sirius, no, you can't!" He turned to the headmaster. "Professor, are you going
to stop this?"
            Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "No, Ronald. This is Sirius'
decision to make."
            Sirius locked eyes with Ron. "He tried to kill you, Ron. He tried
to kill you and leave your blood on her hands, on her conscience!"
            "Please, Sirius," Ron replied. "Please, don't do this."
            "What do you propose, then? A good scolding? You can see how
dangerous he is. He'd do it again in a heartbeat." Sirius turned towards
Kreacher. "Wouldn't you, you little brute? You'd do the same, and worse. Answer
true!"
            "Kreacher would do anything to punish the filthy mudblood whore and
the stupid blood-traitor! Kreacher would spare no pains!"
            "And are you no better than him, Sirius?" asked Ron. He turned to
Hermione. "Are you?"
            Ron pointed a long, freckled finger at Kreacher, and the elf
cowered under it. "Is that what you want to be, Hermione? Is it?" he turned
back to Harry's godfather. "Is that what you survived Azkaban and came back
through the Veil to become?"
            "Give him to Dobby," said Dobby, very quietly. "He is for the
House-elves, now."
            Sirius turned and looked at him. "What?"
            "For millennia, house elves have honored our covenant. A life of
service, to repay past treachery. Kreacher has broken that covenant. Kreacher
has shamed all house-elves, everywhere! Give him to Dobby, Master Professor,
and Dobby will see to it that Kreacher receives justice."
            "Yeah," said Ron. "That sounds good, yeah."
            Sirius looked over at Ron, again, then, longingly at the clay pot.
            "Come on, Sirius," Said Ron.
            Sirius met his eyes again, and then nodded, covering the pot. He
turned to Dobby. "I can't simply give him to you, though, can I? For it to be
magically binding, I must charge you a price."
            "Dobby will pay."
            "Thirty pieces of Silver!" Hermione's voice was still an animal
sound, violent, wrathful.
            Sirius smiled then. "You know, I quite like that! Dobby? Thirty
pieces of Silver is the price."
            Dobby gestured, and a small burlap bag appeared in Sirius' grasp.
Sirius didn't even count it. He just turned his smile on Kreacher. "You are no
longer in my service. You're Dobby's house elf now."
            Kreacher slumped miserable to the ground, and Dobby looked to the
east. "Dobby calls upon the Great One," he said. "Come, D'Auppi!"
            There was another Pop! and the house elf who appeared seemed
somehow to radiate calm, and happiness. He was a healthy pink, with a high
forehead, and his ears, as large as Dobby's, were rounded. He wore a long,
plain, grey smock and purple stocking cap.
            "Why is D'Auppi called forth?" he asked, his voice childlike, his
expression beatific,if none too intelligent.
            Dobby pointed. "This elf has disobeyed his master, and attempted to
murder another wizard, his own master's friend. Dobbie was forced to reclaim
him, paid and purchased."
            "It has not happened for a hundred years." D'Auppi turned to
Kreacher. "Take D'Auppi's hand. Perhaps you will be a better elf in your next
life."
            And with that, there was a double-Pop! and D'Auppi and Kreacher
were gone.
            Ron turned to Dobby. "Next life? Are they gonna killhim?"
            "No. Yes. Dobby is confused. Kreacher will be unmade. When it is
done, he will no longer be Kreacher. He will be a new elf." Dobby made vague
patting gestures in the air with his hands. "He will be unmade, and a new elf
made. A better elf."
            "And Ron?" asked Harry. "What about Ron? What did that stuff do to
his arms?"
            Dumbledore turned toward him in surprise. "Didn't I say? No, no I
clearly didn't! I'm so sorry!" He turned back to Ron. "Your arms will be quite
sore for a week or so. No doubt Poppy will prescribe you a Murtlap and Aloe
paste for them. But that is just for simple, burn-related irritation. What you
have on your arms, Ronald, are simply scars. The Maltrucido Flammaria consumed
the dark magic -- all of it! These," Dumbledore gently touched one runneled
arm, "are just scars."
            "The question," added Pomfrey, "is why you survived."
            Dumbledore smiled over his glasses at her. "I believe I can explain
that. Young Ronald's life-force, and the light magic surrounding him, were too
great. They are, after all, tripled."
            "Of course!" cried Hermione. "The Nuptialis Unum!It binds our life-
forces together, Ron. So you were able to draw on our life-force to buttress
your own."
            Dumbledore's smile embraced her. "Indeed, dear girl, exactly so."
He looked seriously amongst them. "It  is a fortunate confluence indeed. The
Nuptialis Unum enabled Ronald's life force to call upon yours and Harry's for
support. And you and Harry both love Ronald so very much that your souls
offered that support gladly. As dreadful as that experience was for you, I
almost wish I could have witnessed it. It must have been the most extraordinary
act of love."
            Ron looked for a long time back and forth between Hermione and
Harry. "I reckon it was, Professor. I reckon it was at that."
***** Chapter Nine: "Unwilling Help from the Grave" *****
                  Chapter Nine: Unwilling Help from the Grave
       Albus Dumbledore looked seriously at Harry. They were seated in his
office now, the headmaster having told Harry he wished to discuss "important
matters" with the three teen-agers and Sirius. "Before we begin, Harry, I must
ask you something. When we, er, spoke, in here, after Sirius fell, I told you
something of grave import. Have you shared that with Mr. Weasley and Miss
Granger?"
       Harry's eyes widened. "Oh! Oh, no! To be honest, Professor, I didn't
even think of it!"
       Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled at him. "I think it's safe to say,
Harry, that you have had more than enough on your mind. I do, however, think
that perhaps you should--"
       "Oh, of course!" Harry flushed, realizing he'd interrupted. "Sorry,
Professor!"
       Dumbledore smiled, and raised an assenting hand.
       Harry started to speak, stopped, looked back to Professor Dumbledore.
"I'd like to tell Sirius, as well."
       Dumbledore nodded. "I think that is wise."
       Harry nodded, and thought for a moment, then turned to his friends.
       "You know that the whole thing at the Department of Mysteries was a
trap."
       Ron and Hermione nodded, regarding him seriously.
       "Voldemort was desperate to hear a prophecy. My prophecy. You know they
call me 'The Chosen One' because of a prophecy, that it says I can defeat him.
Well, He only knows half the prophecy. The first half. The prophecy was made by
Professor Trelawney--"
       Hermione snorted aloud, her face skeptical.
       Harry half-smiled. "Yeah, and I don't blame you. But she's made real
prophecies where Voldemort's concerned, too. Remember, I was there when she
gave the one about Pettigrew."
       Hermione nodded, her features grim.
       "When she was interviewing for her job here, with Professor Dumbledore,
she gave one, about sixteen years ago now. The first half was overheard by
Snape--"
       "Professor Snape, Harry," corrected Dumbledore, gently, and Harry
frowned.
       "And Professor Snape brought it straight to Voldemort!" Harry's green
eyes blazed. "That's what started this whole thing. That's why he went after
me. Why he killed my parents. Because..." Harry paused and quoted: "‘The one
born with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…. Born to those who
have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… and the Dark Lord will
mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…’"
       Ron looked grim, and Hermione's eyes were moist. She said, "You know,
it's ironic. That sounds almost like Neville, too. He was born on July
Thirtieth, and his parents..."
       Harry nodded. "It could have been Neville. The only reason it wasn't is
that Voldemort -- that Riddle -- chose me. He looked at his enemies, at the two
babies, and decided it was me. I was the one. So he killed my parents, tried to
kill me. That's how he ‘marked me as his equal.’"
       Ron nodded, leaning a bit across Hermione to regard Harry carefully. 
"What else?"
       Harry bit his lip. "I have to kill him, Ron. It's the part of the
prophecy Snape didn't hear." He drew a breath. "‘And either must die at the
hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… The one with
the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies….’"
He looked down at his feet for a few moments, then back up at Ron, at Hermione.
"I have to kill him, or he'll kill me."
       "Blimey, Harry!" Ron's voice was a harsh rasp. "If he ever learns about
that, your life isn't worth a Leprechaun's Knut!"
       Hermione's mouth was a thin line. "None of our lives are, while Riddle's
alive and free. They never were, prophecy or no!"
       Ron nodded, looked back at Harry. "That's true enough, mate."
       "Makes me the guy to be stuck to, doesn't it?" asked Harry, wryly.
       Hermione took his hand, and turned in her seat to face him. "Harry, I
love being stuck to you. You and Ron both. I love you. We love you. And we
won't be one inch closer to you in your fight against Riddle because of
Nuptialis Unum. We were pledged to live and die by your side before we ever
heard about the inquest. Don't you know that?"
       "Yeah, mate," Ron agreed. "We're in it, and always have been. We stand
by our friends, yeah?"
       Harry smiled gratefully at his friends. "I feel like I ought to do
everything in my power to keep you out of this, but I'm awfully glad to have
you with me. I think I'm going to need all the help I can get."
       "And we aim to see to it," Sirius told him, "that you'll get all the
help you need. Take a look here." He gestured towards the headmaster's
capacious desk, which was almost covered with papers and parchments. "You
remember I told you about my younger brother, Regulus."
       Ron nodded. "He was a Death Eater, wasn't he?"
       "Yes. He was always a surly little bastard, and he couldn't wait to fall
all over himself to sign up with Voldemort, prove he was purer than his Big
Brother. He took the Mark, and followed loyally, and they killed him. At least,
that's what I thought. This--" He gestured at the parchments and papers "--
tells a different story."
       Sirius paused for a moment, pushing his hair back away from his
forehead. "He betrayed them. He decided that Voldemort couldn't be trusted."
       Ron grinned. "So there was some hope for the kid after all, then?"
       "What? No, no! He just thought Riddle was too unstable." He reached out
with one hand, snatched up a piece of parchment and read aloud. "‘This
pathetic, obsessive half-blood is a greater threat to the movement than the
likes of Dumbledore! He claims to care about purity, but his only goal is the
preservation of his own life.’ Not stupid, my Brother. I'll give him that. He
was a bigot and a lout, but he understood Voldemort."
       He put the parchment back on the desk.
       "He understood him so well, he found his real vulnerability. Horcruces!"
       "So what're they when they're at home, then?"
       Dumbledore sat forward again. "That, Ronald, is an excellent question
indeed.The day after I received Minister Fudge's kind invitation..." he paused
a moment, glanced apologetically at Sirius, who grinned and shrugged. The
headmaster smiled, and continued, "I received a communication from a friend on
the continent. A friend and colleague of Nicholas Flamel. They had written to
tell me that Tom Riddle believed, and not without reason, that his life had
been saved on that terrible Halloween, Harry, from his own rebounding curse,
because he had created several of something called a Horcrux. My correspondent
had very little information, but suggested that a ring belonging to Tom
Riddle's maternal grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt, might well be one of these
Horcruxes."
       "Horcruces," corrected Sirius, with a smile.
       Dumbledore chuckled warmly. "There's no reason, dear boy, to suppose
that this construction is from the Latin word for cross." He returned his gaze
to Harry and his friends. "You'll recall that when I joined you at the
Grangers' house the morning after your..." he gestured vaguely with his hands.
"After the inquest, that is, that I mentioned that I was going to be seeking
out that ring, that Horcrux, and Sirius mentioned that his late brother had
spoken of them, and might have notes."
       "I remember," said Harry, as Ron and Hermione nodded agreement.
       Dumbledore gestured at his desk. "These are those notes. I don't recall
young Regulus being much of a student, but after leaving school, he became a
researcher to rival Miss Granger. I have learned a dark and terrible secret
from these notes.
       "First: what is a Horcrux? It is an object of magic dark and terrible
indeed. It is a hiding-place for a part of a human soul."
       "Part of a soul?" asked Harry. "Part of a soul? I don't understand! How
do you get a part of a soul? Why would you hide it?"
       Dumbledore shook his head gravely. "You get part of a soul, Harry, by
doing terrible damage to your own. You get part of a soul by ripping your own
soul in half. And that is done by taking the life of another human being. Even
as the murder is committed, the spell is performed, and a part of the
murderer's soul, torn away from him by his act, is placed elsewhere, in some
object. This object is called a Horcrux. The reason for creating one is equally
sinister."
       "Immortality!" cried Hermione.
       "Just so," agreed Dumbledore. "If a part of one's soul is outside of
one's body, then what kills or destroys the body does not kill the person
himself. The soul survives. This is what happened to Tom Riddle when he killed
Harry's parents."
       There was a moment's resounding silence.
       "According to Regulus' notes," said Sirius, "Riddle was planning to make
six Horcruces. That way, his soul would be in seven parts. Riddle was a big
believer in the power of numbers, and seven, well, seven's a very powerful
number."
       "Young Mr. Black did a most thorough job of cataloging the objects he
thought Tom used for his Horcruxes," Dumbledore added. "The first seems to have
been a ring that belonged to his maternal grandfather, Marvolo Gaunt. The
second, young Tom's diary, that so bedeviled you all in Second Year."
       Hermione's eyes widened, and she breathed the word "Oh!" as Harry nodded
with his own recognition. "That would explain an awful lot."
       "Indeed it would," agreed Dumbledore. "The next seems to have been an
ancient locket that once belonged to Salazar Slytherin. After that, a cup once
owned by Helga Hufflepuff, and a puzzle-box that was made by Rowena Ravenclaw."
       "That's only five," said Harry. "You said he made six."
       "The sixth is a problem. He had not yet made it when young Mr. Black was
killed, so we will need to discover it for ourselves. I do have a thought in
this regard, however. Tom seems very much attached to Nagini, the vast and
venomous serpent that attacked Mr. Weasley. It is clear that magic -- dark
magic -- has been worked on it. I see nothing in these notes to indicate that a
Horcrux couldn't be placed in a living being. My suspicion is that Nagini is
the sixth."
       Harry nodded. "So at least we have a pretty good idea what all six are.
That's good at least."
       "Better still," said Sirius, "My no-good rat-bastard brother is the hero
of the day! He nicked one!"
       Harry's mouth fell open as Ron gasped "Cor!"
       Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Indeed he did." He reached into his robes,
and produced a large, heavy, golden locket, its clasp in the form of an ornate,
serpentine "S."
       "I've seen that!" said Ron. "When we were cleaning out your house,
Sirius! We threw that away!"
       Sirius grinned at him. "This thing seems to be a popular target for
thieves," he said. "Dung nicked it from the trash. And Kreacher nicked it from
him. And just the other day, I nicked it from Kreacher! Oh, he was in a right
state about it, believe me!" Sirius frowned suddenly. "I'm sorry Ron, that may
be part of the reason why he did what he did."
       Ron waved the apology away. "Hell, mate, I'm not exactly Mister
Insightful, but even I know that little bastard didn't need you winding him up.
That was some powerful hate, that was!"
       "Quite so," said Dumbledore, with a sad smile.
       "So," said Harry, "Is that our move, then? To find these Horcruxes?"
       "While they exist," said Dumbledore, "Tom will continue to live."
       Ron sat forward. "So we find them, and destroy them? And then go after
Riddle?"
       Dumbledore's eyes closed for a moment, and he nodded, very sadly. "I'm
very much afraid, Ronald, that I can see no other alternative. Can you?"
       Dumbledore's features were actually hopeful, but Ron looked grave as he
considered, then sucked in his lower lip, shaking his head.
       "And so I will be destroying, piece by piece, a man's soul. However foul
are Tom's crimes -- and be assured, I know full well that they are foul indeed!
-- Even he has never been accused of such a deed as that."
       Hermione leaned forward, one arm back to keep her in contact with Ron.
"Can a soul, or even a part of one, be destroyed? Even separated and hidden in
something like this locket, mustn't it still be somehow a part of the whole,
just for this Horcrux trick to work -- which it clearly does? Wouldn't the
fragment be freed, once the Horcrux is destroyed, simply return to join the
whole?"
       Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "The answer, dear girl, is that I
simply don't know. The soul is so little-understood, I would be a great fool
indeed to claim knowledge. Your suppositions are all soundly based. I think
you're right. I hope you're right. But I cannot assume it, and assume my
morality is unchallengeable. That way lies.... Well, Tom."
       "So," said Harry, "How do you actually go about destroying it? Is it
enough merely to, I dunno, break it or melt it down or something?"
       Dumbledore smiled. "Another fine question, Harry. And another poor
answer is all I can give in exchange. I don't know. The problem is that the
physical object is merely an anchor. Dark indeed is the magic of a Horcrux, and
that dark enchantment must be broken. I did have one spell in mind, a very
difficult one, but the late Mr. Black's notes tell me that, little known though
it is, Tom knew of that spell, and has warded his Horcruxes against it. I could
very likely cast my spell powerfully enough to break those wards, destroy his
Horcrux, but the cost would be fearsome, and I prefer to leave that as a last
resort."
       "I hate to say it, Albus," said Sirius, "But I honestly don't see any
alternative. I think that you should teach me the spell. I'm expendable."
       "No, you're not!" cried Harry. "I've only just got you back! I'm not--"
       "You guys are all mental." Ron's voice, very firm, cut through Harry's,
and silenced the room. Eight eyes turned towards him expectantly.
       "You mean, you don't see it?" Ron goggled at them. "Oh, for Merlin's
sake!" He picked up the heavy locket from the desk. "Gosh, I sure wish we had
some sort of, oh, say potion we could pour over this that would, say, consume
Dark Magic! Wouldn't that be nice?" He stared around at them again. "I mean,
Hello!"
       Dumbledore's eyes widened, and his face split into a wide smile.
"Ronald, my dear boy! You are a treasure, sir! An absolute treasure!"
       Sirius was laughing aloud. "How did previous generations ever get along
without you? Oh, what a Marauder you'd have made! Good man!" He turned to
Dumbledore. "Back to see Poppy, I should think!"
       Dumbledore was standing. "Indeed so, Sirius! Harry, Ronald, Hermione, if
you please!"
       And they stepped together from Dumbledore's office.
===============================================================================
       "My, my, my!" The voice that met them in the hallway on the way back to
the Hospital Wing was silky, its sneer richly evident, and Harry's back
stiffened. "Messrs Potter and Black, side-by-side!" Severus Snape dropped
momentarily into a surprisingly accurate impression of Gilderoy Lockhart. "What
an historic moment this is! The Boy-Who-Lived and the Man-Who-Came-Back!" His
voice was again his own. "The two saviours of the Wizarding world! To see two
Messiahs together in one place is such a humbling experience!"
       Sirius's answering smile was broad and engaging, and very much like the
one with which he'd greeted Petunia Dursley. "Severus, my friend and colleague!
How lovely; to see you again! I hadn't expected the pleasure until school
began. You in your familiar Potions lab, me teaching Defense Against the Dark
Arts..."
       The sneer froze on Snape's face for a moment. "I needed to recover some
ingredients from my stores." He turned toward Dumbledore, inclined his head up
the hallway.  "And there is something I must discuss with the headmaster...?"
       Dumbledore smiled. "Of course, Severus." He turned to Sirius and the
trio. "If you would excuse us for a moment?"
       They nodded their assent and watched Dumbledore follow Snape into an
empty classroom before Harry turned to Sirius. "Two Messiahs? What was all that
about?"
       Sirius looked disgusted. "The bloody Prophet! They've found some nutters
who've started a cult, and they're playing it up for all it's worth."
       "A cult? What are you--"
       But he was interrupted by Hermione's giggling. "Oh, no, Sirius! Oh,
that's, that's..." She gasped, and started laughing again. "That's too good!"
       Harry frowned, looking back and forth between his seething godfather and
his giggling lover. "I'm obviously missing something."
       He glanced over at Ron, whose eyes suddenly widened. "Harry, mate, don't
you get it?" He pointed at Sirius. "He's The-Man-Who-Came-Back! He came back
from beyond the veil! This cult, it's.. They..." Then he, too was laughing
helplessly, leaning on Harry and Hermione for support.
       "They what?" asked an irritated Harry, looking back and forth between
Ron and Sirius. "What do they do?"
       "They worship me, all right!?" Sirius scowled. "Silly blighters pray to
me and everything! They ask for my blessings, they ask me for miracles, for
healings... Owls at all hours of the day and night! They bloody worship me!"
       "And they don't even know you shagged Celestina Warbeck!" cried Ron, now
howling with laughter. Hermione managed the not inconsiderable feat of scowling
at Ron while still laughing at a now quite red-faced Sirius.
       Harry stared, wide-eyed, at his scowling godfather. His lips quivered as
he spoke, trying to quash a smile. "Worship you, eh?"
       Sirius glared at him. "Like a god."
       Harry couldn't hold it in any more. He brayed out his laughter, his arms
draping over Ron's shoulders and Hermione's, and he pulled them to him,
whispered in their ears -- a bit longer in Ron's -- and then the three
teenagers dropped in unison to their knees, began salaaming towards him, crying
out between near-sobs of mirth, "We're not worthy! We're not worthy!"
       Sirius glowered down at them. "Oh, very funny, you lot are! Har-de-har-
har! See if I let you three into heaven!"
       Their laughter beginning to wind down, the trio more-or-less climbed one
another back to their feet. Harry finally managed enough breath to ask, "What
does Remus say about this?"
       Sirius found himself smirking in spite of himself. "Remus says I should
be more understanding. After all, they don't think anything about me I didn't
think in Seventh year!"
       This brought another honk of laughter from Harry.
       "Laugh all you want," Sirius told him. "Your dad's ego made me look like
Pe--" And suddenly all the mirth was gone from his expression, and from Harry's
and Hermione's too, and Ron looked among them as his own smile faded. "Like
Peter," finished Sirius, his voice very quiet.
       They stood for a moment, all four again abashed by the magnitude of the
Last Marauder's betrayal. Ron reached a hand to his shoulder. "Sirius... I'm
sorry, mate."
       Black smiled sadly. "I miss him, you know," he mused. "He was so eager,
so enthusiastic. He was like a spring day in wintertime, a cool breeze in
August. He was refreshing. I can't even begin to understand what he was
carrying around inside him." He looked seriously at Harry. "Was it me, do you
think? I used to take an awful lot of the mickey out of him. Was it me? Did I
make him feel so small that he was easy prey for anybody who made him feel
bigger, more important?"
       Harry shook his head sadly. "I don't think so, Sirius. I saw him with
Volemort. It... It didn't look to me like Voldemort made him feel very big." He
shrugged. "I don't think he makes anybody feel big, himself included."
       The classroom door opened, and Dumbledore stepped back out into the
hallway, Snape at his heel. "...did the right thing, Severus," he was saying.
"We can't have a student placed in that situation. Do you think Tom will try to
recall him?"
       Snape looked angrily at the foursome waiting in the hallway and then
back to Dumbledore. "I do not know. When the Dark Lord sets himself to a
purpose, he is loathe to turn his hand from it. I suspect, however, that other
matter will prove too great a distraction." Snape glanced again at Hermione,
his expression unreadable. "You do realize, Headmaster, that if the Dark Lord
meets directly anyone who knows--"
       Dumbledore's eyes were grim. "I will be taking immediate steps, Severus,
for their protection. Have no fear."
       Snape glanced again at Harry and Sirius. "In the presence of two
Messiahs?" he sneered. "Of course not, Headmaster. That would be blasphemous."
       Snape bowed quickly to Dumbledore, raised a challenging eyebrow toward
Sirius, and swept off toward his dungeons, as Dumbledore returned to Sirius and
the trio.
       "We must, I fear, make haste. A situation has arisen that could
potentially represent a real danger, and I will need to begin making
arrangements right away. I must first, though, know whether your theory is
right, Mr. Weasley. If the Maltrucido Flammaria can indeed destroy a Horcrux,
we must know as soon as possible."
       Soon they were again gathered in the Hospital Wing, Madame Pomfrey
pouring a small amount of the noxious potion into a shallow clay dish in the
middle of a worktable. Dumbledore looked at the locket in his hand, but Sirius
laid a hand on his. "Let's step back, I think, Albus, and levitate it."
       Dumbledore smiled at him. "An excellent plan!"
       They all stepped back, behind another work-table, perhaps two back from
where the dish of potion lay. Dumbledore raised his wand, and Sirius suddenly
stepped behind the trio, hands on Ron's shoulder and Harry's, hiding behind Ron
and peering nervously around his head at the locket, which moved through the
air between the tables with the stately grace of a Zeppelin. Ron smirked back
at Sirius for a moment before turning his eyes back to the locket as it turned
and tracked across the table towards the dish. It hovered over the brown-green,
steaming sludge, thin golden chains trailing down from it towards the dish.
       The locket had completed a turn, and was facing back toward them now,
its far end beginning to dip down toward the potion, the thin golden chain at
that end seeming to reach for it... As the first link of the chain touched the
grey-green-brown surface, the potion seemed to leap up it, green flames leaping
into the air as it flowed up the chain and onto the locket. The rear of the
locket dipped lower, small flaming bits of -- something -- dropping from the
surface of the locket toward the table, pouring gouts of green-black smoke
behind them, even as the flames enveloping the locket did the same.
       There was another, underlying sound beneath the electric crackle of the
flames. A high-pitched keening sound, almost a mix between a scream and the
whistle of a teakettle. It rose in pitch, louder and higher, nigh-unbearable,
and the surface of the locket seemed to flex, expand, and Sirius' hands on
their shoulders were suddenly forceful, throwing the trio to the ground, and he
dove atop them covering their bodies with his own and his robes. The shriek
reached its crescendo, and there was a crash as every bit of glass in the
Hospital Wing shattered as one, and then a strobing of terrible, greenish
light...
       And silence.
       They all stood quietly, approached the table. On it, the clay dish was
cracked and dry, and in the middle of it lay a blackened, twisted lump.
Dumbledore shone a bluish light at it from his wand, and nodded. "The Horcrux
is indeed destroyed. The magic that bound the soul-fragment is no more, and no
part of Tom is yet bound to this." He turned to Ron, smiling proudly. "Well
done, young Ronald! Well done indeed!"
***** Chapter Ten: "Immediate Steps for their Protection" *****
               Chapter Ten: Immediate Steps for their Protection
===============================================================================
       “Wait! Wait!” Hermione was frowning across the Dursleys' dining-room
table at Remus Lupin. “They what!?!?”
       Beside her, Ron took her hand, squeezed it. She tried to jerk away from
him, but he'd pulled his foot away from her ankle under the table, so she
couldn't get her hand free. She kicked at him with an inarticulate grunt of
anger, thereby freeing her hand, but in the process sticking her foot to his
leg again. Ron snickered at her, earning the death-glare otherwise destined for
Lupin. “Ronald, do you find any part of this funny?”
       Ron shook his head seriously. “No, love, I'm sorry. I was honestly
trying to show some support.”
       She kept her eyes on his and nodded before turning back to Lupin. “Now,
Professor, please repeat that, because I'm not at all certain I can have
understood correctly.”
       Lupin nodded slowly. “Your parents are going to need to stay at the
Burrow. Starting almost immediately.”
       “And this is because...”
       Lupin drew a breath, considered a moment. Finally, he said, “This is
because, due to unforeseen events, it is possible that they could become high-
priority targets for the Death Eaters.”
       “What unforeseen events?” said Harry, sounding angry.
       Again, Remus Lupin paused, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Riddle has
learned that members of the Order have taken to calling him by his name. He is,
of course, mightily displeased by this. I think the exact word was...
apoplectic. Our concern is that, if he gets close enough to any Order member
who knows, he will be able to use Legilimency, he will trace this back to your
mother. That would be... quite bad.”
       “Ya think!?” cried Ron, as Hermione stared at Lupin, wide eyed, mouth
gaping silently.
       “How did this happen?” demanded Harry."How did Riddle find out?”
       Lupin hesitated again.
       “How, Remus?” said Hermione. “Tell me.”
       “I told the Dark Lord, myself.” The voice from behind the three
teenagers was a triple shock, not merely because there had been no sound of his
arrival, but also because of that stunning admission, and the casual tone with
which Severus Snape made it.
       They responded with three identical words, in three vastly different
tones: Hermione's a near-hysterical shriek, Ron's an angry bellow, and Harry's
deadly quiet: “You did what?”
       Snape's response was as low and deadly as Harry's. “You'd do well to
watch your tone with me.”
       “We're not in school now, you great greasy git!” cried Ron. “You shoved
Hermione's parents off the back of the flying carpet! And for what?”
       “I do not answer to you, Weasley!” replied Snape. “I do not answer to
children.”
       Hermione's voice was now low and dagger-sharp. “If anything happens to
my parents as a result of what you did, you will answer to me.”
       “You'll answer to all of us,” added Harry, his voice as cold. “Count on
it.”
       “Unmanned though I am in my terror at the threats of three addle-pated
brats,” Snape replied dryly, “I will endeavour to continue to function.”
       “Oh, yeah, that's the smart thing!” said Ron darkly. “You just keep that
up.”
       Remus Lupin sat forward. “That's enough, you three. That's enough.”
       Harry turned angrily toward him, but Lupin stilled him with a raised
hand. “At the moment, Harry,” he said, “You have other concerns.” He turned to
Snape. “Explain yourself, Severus.”
       Snape bridled. “I do not answer to you, either, Lupin.”
       Lupin looked calmly at him. “Did you or did you not tell the Headmaster
that you would stand behind your decision, take responsibility for it? I'll
tell them if you'd rather. I'll tell them if you're too ashamed.”
       What little color was there dropped from Snape's face, and his mouth
hardened into a line. He turned back to the trio.  “Miss Granger, the Dark Lord
was livid at Lucius Malfoy's failure and capture at the Department of
Mysteries. He intended to punish that failure by summoning Draco Malfoy, and
ordering him to kill the Headmaster. I could not allow that order to be given.
I could not allow a student to be placed in such a perilous position. The only
alternative I saw was to distract the Dark Lord with something so infuriating
that it would be all he thought about. The Order's use of his real name was an
ideal distraction. He is now focused on that outrage to the exclusion of all
else.”
       “For Malfoy?” cried Hermione. “You sold my parents out for Malfoy?”
        “They are adults. Draco is not. If they or he must be put at risk, it
is obvious which a responsible schoolteacher must choose.” Snape stared at her
for a moment. “And what is more, Miss Granger, your own parents would and do
agree with me.”
       Hermione bit her lip, and turned her head away, staring silently out the
back window at the stone fence Harry had made when he was nine. Ron reached for
her hand again, and looked over to Harry, who was staring at Snape with
contempt.
       “It's a bad habit, Professor,” Harry said, coldly. “You keep running
back to old Tom with other peoples' secrets.”
       “You are as arrogant as your father!” Snape growled. “Your entire life
is nothing more than ideas above your station and disrespect to any who don't
worship at your feet.”
       Harry's eyes blazed, but his response was derailed by Ron's voice, quiet
but firm. “That's where you lose it, really, Professor. That's where you just
turn loose of your wand completely. Harry's dad was mean to you. You had him
killed! And yet you still insult him to his own son. You had him killed for
making fun of you at school, and even at that, you still think you're the
victim. You had him killed, and you aren't even sorry.”
       Snape's eyes narrowed, and is voice was a deadly hiss.  “Not... sorry?
Boy, you have no slightest concept of the world of regret in which I live!”
       “Yeah, 'cause if I got a man killed, that's how I'd talk about him to
his son!” Ron shot back.
       Hermione suddenly sat forward. “But, have you noticed,” she pointed out,
“that Professor Snape seems to have nothing to say about Harry's mother?”
       Snape spun to face her, eyes wide and mouth silently open, as if she'd
slapped him, then he spun, and stalked back into the kitchen. The sound of his
Disapparation was very loud in the quiet house.

===============================================================================

       “I'm so sorry,” Sirius said, as he followed Jane Granger into the
bedroom. “I can't believe that filthy git did this to you!”
       “It's fine, Sirius,” she told him. “He was protecting a child.” She went
to her closet, and pulled out a suitcase, threw it on the bed. “How long are we
going to be staying?”
       Sirius, still scowling at the description of that poisonous Malfoy boy
as ‘a child,’ suddenly found himself frowning in confusion. “What’s' that for?”
       “To pack enough clothing in for the, er, visit. So, how long?”
       “We don't know how-- “ He saw her opening a drawer and pulling out a
pair of neatly-folded jeans. “Oh! No, no, Mrs. Granger--”
       “Jane, if you please, Sirius.”
       “Jane, no! No need for that, put those back in the bureau.”
       “I'll need clothes.”
       Sirius let his eyebrow twitched in an amused quirk, which she half-
smiled at, before he said, “But you don't need to choose.” He gestured with his
wand, and she placed the trousers back in the drawer. A slight motion of
Sirius' wand closed it, and with another swish and flick, he incanted,
“Decresco!”
       The entire bureau began to shrink, smaller and smaller, drawing in from
the sides, down from above, until, as it reached the size and appearance of a
modest jewelery box, Sirius flicked his wand away, and it stopped. He picked it
up, and placed it in the suitcase. “Next?”
       Soon, the contents of the closet were doll-sized, and then the bookcase,
books and all, and then the bed and bedside tables. All were packed away in the
suitcase, which Sirius gallantly offered to carry, shrank to doll-size, and
slid into his pocket.
       “Are you quite sure that isn't too much for you, dear?” chuckled Jane.
       Sirius grinned, looking into her eyes. If her daughter grows up like
her, I know two very lucky young men!
       Jane blushed, looking down at her feet for a moment, and Sirius shook
his head. “So, shall we go find your husband, and see to it that he's not
flirting shamelessly with my boyfriend?”
       Jane laughed. “Absolutely, Sirius! We certainly wouldn't want any of
that sort of thing around here!”
===============================================================================
       “I'm very sorry, dear,” said David Granger, as they met in the living
room, “but I'm leaving you for Remus.”
       The living room was as empty as the master bedroom, and Remus Lupin was
holding a cigar-box in his hands.
       “Do you know what that is?” David asked his wife, pointing at the box.
“That's everything from the living room and the office! Everything!”
       Jane glanced loftily over at Sirius, who displayed the miniature
suitcase. “Bedroom,” she said. “Furniture and all.”
       David smiled. “Hell, I'm glad to hear you say that!”
       “Yes, dear, it's always nicer to sleep in your own bed, isn't it?”
       “Well, yes, but I was actually thinking that I feel less embarrassed
about bringing my desk and chair.”
       “Dear...” Jane's voice was low. “You know I have very fond memories of
that chair.” Her husband smiled slowly at her and she approached , smiling
herself. “And the desk!”
       The two marauders locked eyes with one another.
       “Both on the pub-crawl, I think,” said Remus.
       “Oh, yeah!” replied Sirius. “No doubt about it.”
       He looked over to Jane again. “Are you ready to go?”
       She looked around the empty living room, and shook her head sadly. “I
feel like we're leaving forever. I feel like I'm being chased out of my home. I
hate this.”
       David crossed to her, pulled her into his arms. “We can't stay,
sweetheart. You know we can't. We do Hermione and her friends no service by
dying so we can say we didn't leave a piece of real estate.”
       “I know, love,” she murmured into his chest. “I know. But our little
girl was conceived in this house.”
       David grinned at her. “I'm pretty sure that was in the Mini, actually.
Rainy day, long drive. Remember, love?”
       She chuckled. “My back still hurts. Dratted gear stick!”
       Her husband kissed the top of her head, and she angled her face up to
him, her mouth open to receive his, and they kissed for a moment with the
abandon of teenagers, as if Remus and Sirius weren't right there with them.
       Sirius smiled wickedly, opening his mouth to speak, but Remus caught his
eye, shaking his head. The wicked smile became kind, the eyes twinkling gently,
and he nodded at his friend, his love.
       After a moment, the Grangers parted, and turned to the Marauders.
       “Shall we go?” asked Jane, firmly.
===============================================================================
       The Portkey – it seemed a less alarming choice than Side-along
Apparition – landed them in the yard in front of the Burrow. The Grangers'
knees sagged, and Remus and Sirius caught them, held them upright as they
recovered from the trip.
       David chuckled weakly. “Do you people ever travel in a way that doesn't
make you want to vomit?”
       “Not if we can help it, mate,” said Sirius, with a chuckle.
       The front door of the ramshackle house banged open, and Molly Weasley
charged out at them, wrapping first Jane and then David in warm, welcoming
embraces. “Jane, David, I'm so glad to have you here, unfortunate though the
circumstances are! I'm so very sorry about the other day. I was so awful to
your daughter, and I owe her so very much!”
       “It's all right, Molly,” said David quietly. “That wasn't about
Hermione, not really. We know that.”
       “You were in pain, dear,” supplied Jane. “You had to purge it out.”
       Molly looked downcast. “But I know I hurt her.”
       “And you made it right with her,” replied Jane. “That's what matters. “
       “Thank you, Jane,” said Molly Weasley, with a sad, gentle smile. “Thank
you both. You're very kind. Well, come along, we'll get you settled in.” She
led them toward the house. “The place has been so empty since the Twins left.
It will be a pleasure to have someone to spoil a bit!” She ushered them in
through the front door. “I do so enjoy being a good hostess. Right this way,
you'll be staying in the front hall closet.”
       David and Jane Granger froze, unnoticed behind her, and exchanged a
wide-eyed glance, as Molly opened a smallish door to one side of the slightly
cramped hallway.
       “Well, come on, come on,” she cried, lifting out a large, canvas flap.
David looked curiously at it, and Molly smiled at him. “It's a tent, dear.”
       “We're staying in a tent in your closet?” David asked, slowly.
       “'Course,” said Sirius, with a smile. “Where else? Come on, then!” and
he ducked under the canvas flap and disappeared. A moment later, has voice
carried back, sounding improbably far away. “Well? Are you coming?”
       David and Jane exchanged another glance.
       “Magic tent,” David said.
       “Like the World Cup! Of course! We should have realized!” replied Jane
with a grin.
       They followed Sirius in through the flap, followed by Remus and then
Molly, who called out, “Arthur? Arthur, the Grangers are here!”
       “Ah,” came Arthur's voice, “excellent!”
       David and Jane were standing in a medium-sized room, with four doors
leading off of it, two to the back, and one to either side. The door to the
left opened into what looked very much to be a spacious, 1950s-style kitchen,
with all the conveniences, including a gas cooker, which Arthur was tinkering
with. Next to that door was an ordinary enough sash-and-pane window, looking,
impossibly, not into the kitchen but into the back yard, instead. Behind the
sink in the kitchen was another window with an identical view. There were
similar windows in the other walls as well.
       David pointed. “Are these just visual?”
       “No, no,” replied Sirius. “Those are real windows to the outside of this
house. Cool breezes on a warm evening, quick escape in case of fire or attack,
whatever you need.”
       Jane laughed. “This is wonderful! You magical people do lead the most
interesting lives!”
       Sirius leaned over and murmured quietly to her, “Why don't you go let
Arthur show you around the kitchen, while Remus and I get the other rooms
sorted?”
       “Yes, yes,” called Arthur, turning from the stove. “Do come in! I'll
show you how things work in here.”
       They gathered around Arthur, who showed them the magical refrigerator –
which was no different in any practical way from a Muggle one – the magical
dishwasher – which was much the same – and finally, his piece de resistance,
the stove.
       “I was given permission to bring this home from work for you,” said
Arthur. “The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office confiscated it a few months ago.
It's a normal Muggle gas stove, but it was charmed to work with self-directed
Bluebell Flames.” Arthur, with obvious pleasure, turned a knob, and blue flames
rose in a ring around the gas jet in one of the burners. But when the Grangers
leaned closer, they saw that the flames were, in fact, small humanoid shapes.
As Arthur twisted the knob, they grew taller, higher, larger, until, when
turned all the way to “High,” the burner was a ring of foot-tall blue fire-
people dancing a vaguely obscene, circular dance around the central gas jet,
waving at the Grangers as they passed.
       “Lord,” said David, smiling. “It's like a Disney cartoon come to life!”
       One of the curvier fire-women thrust her flaming pelvis towards him.
       “Perhaps not,” said Jane.
       Arthur's embarrassed blush at the fire-woman's wanton display faded, and
he smiled. “I've seen Disney cartoons, you know! Fascinating the way you
Muggles have worked out a way to have moving portraits without any Magic at
all! Amazing, really.”
       He reached for the knob to turn the burner off, and the fire-people
turned and charged across the stove at him, flaring with a great roar, and
Arthur backed away quickly, drawing his wand, and magically extinguishing them.
       He looked over at David and Jane. “Er... Perhaps it would be best if you
dined with us, instead.”
===============================================================================
       They could see it in the line of her shoulders as she shrugged off her
clothing, the suddenness of her gestures as she turned on the hot water taps in
the shower. They could hear it in the slightly clipped tones of her voice as
she asked for the shampoo, feel it in the tension under their fingers as they
scrubbed her back. Hermione was still upset.
       Ron didn't blame her one bit. He was still mightily hacked off about it
himself. But he hated to see Hermione upset. He leaned over, as he held her
shampooed hair above her head, and began kissing her neck, nibbling gently at
her pulse-point.
       Hermione's groan was deep, almost guttural, and she leaned back against
him. “Oh, God, Ron,” she breathed. “Oh, please, yes. Please, Ron.”
       She reached up, took one of his hands in both of hers, pulled it down to
her. She placed it on her shoulder, then pulled and slid it down to her right
breast. Ron remembered what Harry had discovered, and slid his spread fingers
across her nipples, bump-bump-bump-bump, and her eyes slitted open and looked
over at Harry, standing, watching, eyes wide.
       “What are you waiting for, Harry?” she asked, her voice low.
       “I thought...” he stumbled over the words. “I thought this was never
supposed to be a distraction. Ron, just last night, you said--”
       Ron and Hermione spoke as one: “Shut up, Harry.”
       Harry stepped against her, began kissing the other side of her neck, one
hand at her left breast, fingers sliding across her nipple as Ron's had, while
his other hand squeezed one of the soft, rounded cheeks of her bum.
       He lifted his mouth away from her neck, and she turned to him, kissed
him hard, pulling a little roughly on his bottom lip with her teeth. His mouth
leaped back over hers again, lips against lips, teeth clattering together, and
their tongues met, not to caress, but to wrestle, battling for dominance. She
seemed to be striking at him with her hands, so he backed down a bit, deferred
to her, and Hermione made a small sound of frustration in his mouth.
       Then suddenly she was gone, pulled away from him by Ron's strong right
arm. Her back slapped against the wall with a loud, sharp smack! And she
rebounded from it with an almost feral smile, grabbed Ron's head in her hands,
pulled him to her, devoured his mouth.
       Harry stood, the edge of one foot brushing one of Ron's, and stared,
wide-eyed, as they met not like lovers but like rugby players, a contest,
physical and solid.
       Hermione grabbed one of Ron's hands, brought it down to her center. She
pulled away from the kiss, stared at Ron, a wild, animal stare, eyes bright,
and nodded slightly, and Harry stared with some wonder as Ron's long middle
finger disappeared into her. She leaned her face against the freckled chest,
biting, her hand still pressing his into her, and Ron's index finger was
joining the middle one inside her.
       Harry's mouth hung silently open as he stared, and suddenly Hermione
turned toward him, her hand reaching for his, bringing it down, her small
fingers pressing his through the wild curls. He felt on firmer ground, here,
his confident fingers reaching for the sensitive places she liked to be
touched, but she stilled his hand with hers, guided his middle finger again
down to her folds, and pressed.
       His eyes snapped up to Hermione's. She nodded at him. “Please, Harry.”
       “But...”
       “Please!”
       “But... three?”
       “Yes, Harry, please!” Her finger pushed his again, and he felt his
middle finger sliding now up inside her, pressed hard against Ron's, and
against her slick silkiness. The pad of his finger reached automatically for
that spot, the one she'd taught him about the second morning, quizzed him on –
although he refused to think about Doctor Grafenberg just now! -- and she
moaned and arched against him.
       He moved his thumb gently against her clitoris – loving Hermione was
such an education! -- and she pressed her hand down over his.
       “Harder, Harry!” A firmer press from her fingers on his thumb. “Yes!
Hard, like that.” She moved against them, riding up and down on their fingers,
her hands up to their shoulders now, holding her up, steadying her, and Ron
began scissoring his fingers around Harry's, stretching her further, and her
moaning cry seemed as much pain as pleasure, but the wide, intense gaze she
turned on him was grateful.
       Harry pressed closer to her now, reached around behind her, his fingers
and palm tracing appreciatively over the curves of her bottom, then exploring
down into the cleft, as his mouth sought again the pulse-point of her neck.
       He bit a little harder this time, feeling the give of her soft flesh
beneath his teeth, tracing small shapes with his tongue on the silky flesh they
held.
       “Oh, God, yes, Harry!” Hermione was riding up and down on their fingers
harder now, faster, moving them within her as Harry's thumb pressed rough
circles on her clitoris. “Oh, fuck, yes!” And then her moans were disappearing
into Ron's mouth. Harry's hand had made its way down far enough that his middle
finger was now pressed against her anus, and as he worked her clitoris and that
spot deep within he drew her upward to the tips of her toes, and then, as she
dropped again, penetrated her with his middle finger. It wasn't the tiny,
almost hesitant intrusion of the last time; Harry had read her mood, and he
simply sank his middle finger into her arse, while his other middle finger
reached into her, circling the spot, and his thumb simply pressed against her
clitoris like a doorbell.
       She pulled away from Ron, crying out, and swung to face him, her eyes
almost bestial, and her mouth leaped to his shoulder, her teeth sinking in as
she moved against their fingers, in fast, spastic jerks, arrhythmic and urgent.
       They felt her spasm around their fingers, once, twice, again, like a
string of firecrackers exploding one after the other, and  she cried out their
names, her face clenched in smarting ecstasy,  and then collapsed against them.
       Ron grinned over at Harry. “Well done, mate.”
       Harry stood straighter, his features assuming a noble expression.
“Well,” he said humbly, “like any great achievement, this was truly a group
endeavour. I couldn't possibly have done it without you, Ron.”
       “Prats!” Hermione smacked them both on the chest, but with a smirk.
“You're both just prats, you know that?”
       Ron's hand came up to her face. His thumb swept wet hair from her
cheekbone. “Better now, love?”
       She nodded. “You knew just what I needed, Ron. Thank you.” She turned
toward Harry. “That was a little scary for you, at first, wasn't it?”
       He nodded, silently.
       “I'm sorry, Harry. It was just... I'm so angry about what Snape did, I
needed to fight, and I didn't want to fight with the two of you, and, well...
it was what I needed at the time. Can you understand that?”
       Harry looked down for a moment, biting his lip. “I... I think so,
Hermione. I was OK once I knew how you wanted to be treated. I hope that's not
all the time, though.”
       She smiled, shaking her head. “No, sweet boy. No, it's not. I couldn't
live without your gentle loving.” She kissed him softly. “You know that, don't
you?”
       Harry shrugged. “I have a hard time believing it.”
       Ron reached over, squeezed his shoulder, and Hermione's gaze flickered
to him for the briefest of moments before returning to Harry.
       “Let me see if I can convince you, Harry.” She kissed him again, his
mouth, then his collarbone then his chest, tenderly kissing his nipple, and she
started to bend her knees, lowering herself further down, kissing over his
ribcage, across his belly to his navel. This, she circled with her tongue, then
kissed, licking gently into the opening, before moving on, following the dark
trail of hair down from his navel.
       The skin of her neck touched his erection now, and then she reached up,
her fingers caressing then wrapping around his length as she leaned back and
her warm, brown eyes looked up into his green ones.
       “I love you, Harry,” she said, and leaned in again, to gently kiss the
glans, an opalescent white drop glistening at its tip. Her tongue flickered up
that slit, and she leaned back a moment, then forward again, sliding his length
into her mouth.
       Harry had never felt anything like it, and the breath shuddered out of
him in a long sigh. Warm softness enveloped him, Hermione's tongue stroking
around him, as she moved closer, sliding the head along the roof of her mouth,
the barest touches of her teeth grazing him slightly. Then she drew back, and
he watched, fascinated, as his shaft withdrew, glistening, from her lips, her
head still angled back to hold his glans against the runnelled palate, her eyes
locked with his.
       She sat back again, regarding the shine of her saliva on his erection,
and started to lean in again, lips parted in anticipation, when Harry's hand on
her shoulder stilled her.
       “No, Hermione,” he said, quietly.
       She looked confused. “No? Didn't you like it? Did I do it wrong?”
       Harry shook his head. “You did it great, Hermione!” he said, his voice a
little shaky. “But... We promised. We promised your dad. Not until my birthday.
Nothing but hands.”
       Hermione made a small sound of frustration. “He didn't mean this! He
meant--”
       “I know what he meant, Hermione. But we promised.”
       “Can't we, you know...” Hermione's mouth was still so close to his
erection that he felt her breath on the head as she spoke. The shower-water
pounding on his back was forgotten. “Can't we change the promise?”
       Harry stared down into those brown eyes, hungry, loving, needy, stared
down at those parted lips just an inch or so from him, and he wanted so much
just to tilt his hips forward. So much.
       He shook his head. “There's something Professor Dumbledore told me,
love. A promise made can't be changed; it can only be broken.” He reached down,
twined his fingers into her wet hair. “I don't have that much to offer,
Hermione. If I don't have my word, I have nothing left. Now, why don't you come
on up here and kiss me?”
       She regard his erection for a moment more, then nodded and started to
rise, but suddenly stopped with a gasp. “Just a moment!”
       She leaned over to Ron's erection, upturned, seeming somehow to smile,
and kissed the end, licked gently along the slit, and then drew Ron in for a
single, long, loving stroke. Ron's blue eyes were wide, his expression rapt, as
he watched those lips sliding along him, and Harry felt his own erection pulse
as he watched it. Watched Hermione's face , her lips wrapped around Ron, her
nose finally burying itself in ginger curls. Watched Ron's face full of love
and reverent wonder as he watched himself disappear into her mouth, and start
to retract again. Watched Ron's shaft, shining with Hermione's saliva as it
emerged from those soft lips. The head, now almost alarmingly purple, popped
out into the air, and bobbed in front of Hermione's face, and Harry could see
her longing for it shining in her eyes.
       But she drew a breath and stood, looking back and forth between Ron and
Harry. “Always the same,” she said. “Well... different. But the same. Never
more one than the other. You see that, right? That has to come first.”
       Ron laughed. “As long as I come soon, love!”
       Harry snickered and Hermione smiled, leaning into Ron again, and
grasping his erection. He leaned down to kiss her as she began to pump at it,
and her other hand reached blindly and unerringly for Harry's penis, and she
was already stroking him as she turned to kiss him.
       “I can't wait for your birthday,” she told Harry as their lips parted
and she leaned over toward Ron again. “I want to fellate you. Both of you.”
       “Excuse me?” groaned Ron, his amusement warring with his arousal.
       “To fellate you, Ronald. To blow you. To suck your cocks. To give you
knob-jobs. Stop me when I hit on one you recognize.”
       “Can you go back one?” Ron choked out, somehow smirking and grimacing at
the same time as her hand worked his erection.
       “Oh!” Hermione's smile was wanton, her voice husky and low. “You liked
it when I said I wanted to suck your cock?” She turned to Harry. “Do you like
to hear me talk about sucking your cock too?”
       “Oh, my God, Hermione,” he breathed, “You're going to kill me.”
       Her hands increased their pace. “I should stop, then,” she breathed,
“Before I tell you both how much I want to fuck you.” She turned back and
mouthed Ron's nipple, and he cried her name. “Because I do, you know. I want to
fuck you both so badly! I want these--” she jiggled them a bit in indication,
even as she stroked. “--inside me.”
       She leaned over to Harry, and murmured in his ear, “I can already
imagine how Ron's stout, hard cock will fill me, how it will stretch me like
your fingers did.”
       Even as Harry cried out her name, ejaculating forcefully over her hip
and the frosted plexiglass door of the shower enclosure, she leaned to murmer
in Ron's, “I can already feel how Harry's long, straight prick will lance into
me, deep, deep into places I've never touched.”
       And then Ron was coming, her name -- “Hermione!” -- erupting from his
lips in a strangled grunt, his semen splashing across her legs.
       They hung onto one another a moment for support, then Ron reached a
languid arm and grabbed the hand-held shower-head, and rinsed them all down,
and the glass door of the enclosure, and finally, after a look and a chuckle,
rinsed his own seed out of the soap dish on the wall. He turned off the taps,
hung the shower-head back where it belongs, and they stepped out into the
bathroom.
       Ron stepped up, embracing Hermione from behind while Harry stretched
across the room to grab them fluffy towels.
       “I love you, Hermione Jane. I can't wait for Harry's birthday, either...
But I couldn't love you more, right now, just the way we are.”
 &nnbsp;     Harry stepped up to her from in front, wrapped his arms around
both of them. If he noticed that Ron's hands, around Hermione's waist, were
nestled into his pubic hair, he didn't say. Instead, he leaned down and kissed
her thoroughly. “I love you, Hermione, and that's the truth.”
       Ron extricated his hands, wrapped them around Harry, and they both
squeezed, pressed themselves into her, and Hermione sighed.
       “As long as I get hugs like this,” she said, “I can last a hundred
years, birthday or no.”
       Ron leaned around, and kissed her gently, then, with a final squeeze,
stepped back, took a towel from Harry, and began drying her shoulder blades.
===============================================================================
       David was usually the one who walked in the night, but tonight, while he
snored peacefully, Jane found herself sitting up, her mind returning to a
kaleidescope of images from the day: Sirius' rakish, damnably attractive smile.
Remus' quiet words about her daughter's rage. Molly's fierce hug and sad
penitence. And their empty house, sitting in London with illusions of herself
and David puttering through it, no doubt sleeping now as she herself could not,
a mute surrender to the power of hate.
       Nonsense. To live is not a surrender! We're no good to Hermione dead.
       She stood, pulled on a housecoat, tied it over the flannel nightgown she
was wearing in deference to being in someone else's home as she walked out
through the tent's living room, and out through the front-closet door. The
incident with the stove had caused Arthur to re-think the kitchen plans, and
Molly had instead given them the run of hers.
       She stepped quietly into the kitchen, and over to the cabinets, trying
to remember--
       “Glasses are above the sink, on the left,” said a soft voice.
       Jane twitched, looked over her shoulder, saw the lovely young redhead
sitting at the table. “Thank you, Ginny.”
       “'S’alright.”
       Jane turned back, got herself a glass, opened the fridge. There was milk
in glass bottles, and a pitcher of something a deep brown-orange, as if someone
had mixed Orange Juice with dark Apple Cider. “Is this Pumpkin Juice?”
       “Yes, Mrs. Granger.” There was amusement in Ginny's voice.
       Jane shrugged and poured herself a glass. When in Rome!
       It was quite good, actually. It reminded her of the pumpkin pie she'd
had in a small New Hampshire restaurant one November, while attending a
Stateside conference on fixed prosthetics. It was sweet, with a sort of an
earthy undertone.
       “I like it,” she told Ginny, as she turned toward the table. “Would you
like a glass?”
       “No thanks. It always makes me pee at night.”
       Jane chuckled as she closed the refrigerator and joined her at the
table. “So what are you doing up at this hour?”
       Ginny sort of shrugged. “Just couldn't sleep.”
       “You're pretty upset with Hermione, aren't you?”
       “Mrs. Granger, your daughter saved their lives. I'll always be grateful!
Always!”
       “I know you will, dear,” said Jane. “But I also know how you feel about
Harry. She's told me many times.”
       “She has?” Ginny looked interested.
       Jane smiled at her. “She certainly has. Quite a lot, in fact. I used to
think it was a little strange, but it makes more sense to me now.”
       “What do you mean?”
       “I mean, I think on some level, she was reminding herself. She would
never do anything to hurt you, you know. She loves you very much.”
       Ginny nodded. “I do know that, Mrs. Granger. I can't help being a little
mad, though. I mean, wouldn't you be?”
       Jane nodded. “Yes, Ginny, I have to say I would.”
       They were silent for a moment, sitting together in the candle-lit
kitchen.
       “She loves them both, doesn't she?” Ginny's voice was wistful. “She
really does love them both.”
       “Yes, dear. I can definitely tell you that she does.” Jane took another
pull at her Pumpkin juice. “She loves them the way I love David.”
       “I think Ron loves him too,” said Ginny, calmly.
       Jane smiled. “Do you?”
       “Yeah. I've seen, sometimes, when Harry isn't watching, I've seen the
way he looks at Harry. I don't know if Ron's figured it out yet, though. This
is the kind of thing he can be awfully thick about.”
       Jane wasn't sure what to say to that.
       “Oh, don't get me wrong,” Ginny said hurriedly. “I'm not saying he's
stupid. But Ron's never been very self-aware, not that way. He's got five big
brothers, and not a one of them ever looked at anything but girls. I don't know
that it ever occurred to him that there are other ways.”
       “I suppose that could be hard for Ron,” said Jane carefully, “if Harry
doesn't return it.”
       “Oh, don't worry,” Ginny replied easily. “He will. Might take some time,
but...” She took a breath. “After ten years with the Dursleys? Harry will take
all the love he can get.”
       “You know, you're a very wise young lady, Ginny.”
       “Eh,” said Ginny. “Sometimes. And sometimes I'm a spoiled teen-aged
brat. You're just catching me on a good night.”
       Jane smiled at her, and lifted her glass in toast. “To good nights,
then,” she said. “We can use the extra wisdom.”
***** Chapter Eleven: "Sunday in the Park with Fred and George" *****
            Chapter Eleven: Sunday in the Park with Fred and George
===============================================================================
         “They're entitled,” said George, “to a bit of fun!” He bit into a
roll.

         “That's the truth,” supplied Fred. “I mean, locked up all day with
those Muggles of Harry's--”

         “Durance Vile, that is!” George cried.

         “Ift iff!” agreed Fred, his mouth full of salad, then repeated, after
he'd swallowed, “It is!”

         “Now, please,” said Albus Dumbledore, “There's no need to speak ill of
the Dursleys. They were, after all, dragged unwilling into our world, and our
war.”

         “Well, so were they,” said George, gesturing at David and Jane.

         “And they're not useless, mean-spirited--” continued Fred.

         “Cold-hearted, ” George added, and Fred joined him so that they were a
chorus of disgust on the word “gits!”

         “He does have a point, Albus,” David said. “I've had the displeasure
of speaking with the Dursleys. I'm a dentist, not a psychoanalyst. I'm not
qualified to explain those two to anyone. And you're absolutely right. Being
dragged into your world and your war was not their fault. But how they've
reacted is. How they've treated their own nephew is. And how they treat other
families in their own situation who don't share their narrow-minded bigotry is
their fault as well.”

         “Yeah, you know what, Dave?” said Fred. “Shut it. Honestly.”
 
         Molly Weasley gasped at her son's ill manners, but Jane stilled her
with a hand on her arm, and a smile.

         “It's like you're bringing the killjoys right here to the dinner
table,” added George.

         David sat back and smiled, enjoying the normalcy and acceptance
implicit in being told to shut up. “Sorry, George.”

         “I'm Fred,” said George.

         “No, you're really not,” said David, “because if you were, you
wouldn't have that slight chip on your left upper incisor.”

         While Fred sat back and laughed, Jane leaned forward, and asked, “So
tell me more about this game?”

         “It's called Quodpot,” said George. “American wizards seem to like it
better than Quidditch for some mental reason. Eleven players on a team, just
one ball, the Quod, which is like a Quaffle, only it explodes.”

         David, who'd been thoroughly educated in Quidditch by Hermione, nodded
slowly.

         “The longer any one player holds it,” continued Fred, “the faster it
builds towards blowing, so there's a lot of passing. The team tries to get the
Quod downfield, and into the Pot, which is a cauldron filled with a potion that
neutralises it, so it can't blow up.”

         “And if you're holding it when it blows,” added George, “you're out of
the game.”

         “Anyway,” said Fred, “There's this American Quodpot team, a sort of
comedy performance thing--”

         “They're pretty amazing,” supplied George.

         “Yeah, they're really something. The New Amsterdam Travellers.”

         “See, they just travel around the world, playing games, putting on a
show.”

         “And everywhere they go,” added Fred, “the team they play against is
made up of local professionals.”

         “Professional Quodpot players, where they can find 'em,” said Fred,
“and Quidditch players otherwise.”

         “And Avalon's Quodpot All-stars,” added Professor Dumbledore, with an
indulgent smile, “are captained by young Miss Angelina Johnson.”

         “Who,” Molly added, “Fred has been dating.” Her grin toward her son
widened, and her eyes sparkled. “Seriously, I might add!”

         Fred blushed vivid Weasley Scarlet. “Look at that,” said David. “Now
they're even easier to tell apart!”

         “I would like to think,” said Professor Dumbledore, “that you can keep
your, shall we say, personal lives separate from Order business. It's your turn
to watch over your brother and his friends.”

         “Look, Professor, honestly,” said George, “we'll take care of them.
Ron is our brother, and we actually, well...”

         Fred's blush returned as he finished for his embarrassed brother,
“Well, Hermione and Harry are just as much Weasleys as he is, aren’t they?”

         “Not just for how good they've been to and for Ron,” added George.
“Merlin, she’s just as brave and loyal as you could ask for!”

         “And Harry!” continued Fred. “Well, Godric, Professor, look at him!”

         George sat forward, and looked seriously at his former Headmaster.
“Honestly, Professor, d'you think for one minute that Fred would put any of
them at risk just so he could please his girlfriend?”

         “Harry loves broom-sports,” said Fred, equally seriously. “And so does
Ron. And Hermione likes to claim to be above all that, but--”

         Jane leaned into the conversation. “You should see the scrolls she's
sent us about Harry and Ron playing Quidditch! She tries to sound all
standoffish and analytical, but I know my girl. She finds it all fascinating.”

         “Well, she would, wouldn't she?” asked George, with much waggling of
eyebrows.

         “George Weasley!” cried Molly. “You are joking about their daughter's,
er...”

         “Quite all right, Molly,” said David with a smile. “After all, he's
joking about his own brother's, too!”

         Molly simultaneously huffed and smiled, as Fred and George suddenly
blanched. “Oh, you're as bad as they are, David!”

         “Well,” allowed David, “It's something to aspire to!”

         As the diners at the table chuckled, Jane leaned forward again. “Quite
honestly, I think the boys should take them. I know there's a war on, and I
know things are getting bad, but... well, it's life, isn't it? We have to live
it. They have to live it. Otherwise, why fight at all? If we're going to
surrender our lives to him, we might as well just get it over with.”

         This brought the assembled Weasleys to a stiff silence, as Dumbledore
and her husband smiled approvingly. Then Arthur and Molly were smiling warmly,
and Fred and George slapped their  hands together over their heads, and Ginny
raised her tumbler of pumpkin juice.

         Dumbledore's smile broadened. “The decision would appear to be
unanimous,” he said. “Have a lovely time.”

         Fred whooped in victory and George opened his mouth to reply, but the
deep, booming voice of Sirius interrupted both: “Oi! Where are our dates,
then?”

         David grinned at his wife. “If they were Muggles, they'd be the ones
who pull up to the pavement and blow their horns.”

         “So true,” Jane replied, touching his hand gently. “I'm not at all
sure about letting you date them.”

         “Well, I have faith in you, my love,” David replied. “I'll let you
date them.”

         Remus and Sirius sauntered in from the kitchen. “Well,” Sirius
drawled, “That's certainly good to hear!”

         “Ready to go?” asked Remus with a smile.

         “Absolutely,” said David, as he and his wife stood.

         Jane smiled over at Molly as she helped clear away the last of the
empty plates, and placed them by the sink, before joining her husband and the
Marauders at the door. “If we're not back in three days,” she told her hostess,
“Send in a search party with a great hangover cure!”
===============================================================================
         Why is that all right with me? thought Ron. He'd awakened far earlier
than was normal for him, awakened, in fact, with the dawn, and had rolled onto
his side, regarding his bedmates solemnly. It had been a very strange couple of
weeks, that much was for sure. Sirius back from the dead, Hermione's parents
living at the Burrow, Nuptialis Unum. But stranger than any other part of it,
thought Ron, even stranger than his growing attraction to Harry, was this.
         He lay there, watching Hermione sleep, Harry curled up against her
side, his left hand gently splayed across her breast. His best mate, asleep
with the girl Ron had always dreamed of, cuddled together, touching her breast.
And it didn't bother Ron in the slightest. Instead it warmed him, as nothing
else had. Harry, asleep, looked happier, more at peace, than Ron thought he'd
ever seen him.
         And Hermione... She was so beautiful. Her hair, an uncontrollable
explosion of energy, an outward expression of the hyperactive mind within. Her
lips, full and happy, contentedly curled in her own unconscious smile.
         You're a jealous type, Harry had told him. You want Hermione to
yourself.
         And he couldn't deny it. He did.
         But somehow, sharing Hermione's love with his best mate... It should
have been impossible. It should have torn him up inside, like seeing her with
Krum. But here he watched them snuggled together, and the tide of warmth rose
within him. Not jealousy, not rage, nor anger. Not fear, nor insecurity. Just
warm satisfaction at the joy he saw in his sleeping friends.
         He tried, now, to imagine being with Hermione without Harry. Just the
two of them, locked together in their passion... It made him feel empty. He
didn't have hands enough, fingers enough, mouths enough, tongues enough, to
love Hermione like she deserved to be loved. Loving Hermione, he now knew, was
a two-man job, and almost as great as the joy of seeing her orgasm, of feeling
her clench and hearing her cry out, was the pleasure of creating all that with
Harry, as a team.
         It really was, he realised, like Quidditch. He and Harry working
together, setting up the plays, communicating with looks and nods and smiles.
The angle of a head, the glance of an eye, and each knew he could depend on the
other to do his part, to pick up where the other left off, to complete the
gesture, carry through the motion, score the goal.
         And what a goal! Ron grinned at the thought of Hermione's pleasure,
her breath shuddering out of her body, the tension lifting, and the moment
after, that moment when her eyes were weightless as she looked back and forth
between them. That moment. That moment held more magic than he'd learned in
five years at Hogwarts.
         Yeah. To see that was worth any price. To make that moment? That was
beyond price, beyond the very concept of price.
         The mystery, though, was that Harry's being part of the equation
wasn't part of the price he was willing to pay. He'd thought that, at first,
but that wasn't it at all. Harry's part in it, instead, moved the whole
experience another step forward. Having Harry there to help him love Hermione
made it all so much better. And that just baffled Ron.
         And then there was Harry himself. Ron looked again at the long-
fingered hand, the slender wrist and forearm. Harry seemed so small, so
delicate, as if the slightest pressure of Ron's fingers could snap him like a
twig. Ron knew that was a lie. He'd played and flown and wrestled with Harry,
fought for his life alongside Harry, and he knew the power in those slender
limbs.
         But something had changed since that afternoon in the Head Girl's
room. Changed since he'd asked Harry to be his partner in loving Hermione.
Changed since that first time they'd stood naked together and carried her into
the healing, vanilla-scented water.
         Now, and more and more every day, Harry's touch was charged for him.
His memories of friendly wrestling in the Common Room, of victorious hugs after
Quidditch, of moving quietly between Harry's bed-curtains to hold him when the
nightmares struck, all carried an undeniable frisson of the erotic.
         Ron remembered the paradigm shift vividly. Remembered the three of
them, undressing in the Head Girl's Bath. Remembered the excitement coursing
through him at the thought that he was going to be naked with Hermione,
remembered glancing over at Harry, and suddenly the slenderness of him had
struck Ron, as it never had before, as, well.... sexy! The pale skin, the
shockingly dark thatch of pubic hair, the penis that was expanding, stiffening,
in response to Hermione's nakedness... and his own? He remembered Harry's
startlingly green eyes, the gentleness of his voice as he embraced Hermione.
         Was that when it had first occurred to Ron that he'd like to kiss
Harry? He thought perhaps it was.
         And that's how fucked up I am,thought Ron.I can't be a pouf, because
Hermione turns me on like mad, but I can't be normal, cause Harry's doing it to
me too.
         He looked again at Harry's lips, full, soft looking, curled in a
simple happiness Ron would have killed to bring him. Looked again at the
slender length of his arm, curled over Hermione, of his fingers splayed across
her breast. Oh, Merlin!
         He remembered what Remus had told them all: It's best not to try to
put some kind of hard-and-fast label on something like this. What feels good,
feels good. That's all.
         Could it possibly be that simple? He regarded his sleeping friends for
a long, long moment, their content faces, their loving touch. Fuck it. He drew
a breath, then snuggled up to Hermione's side, closing his eyes in the pale
morning light. It's always been the three of us. That's all there is to it.
===============================================================================
         It was about nine that morning when they shambled blearily together
into the bathroom and scrabbled about through the opening in the frosted
Plexiglas until warm water was thrumming down the tile walls. Hermione managed,
after a bit of wrestling between neckline and her explosion of hair, to shuck
of Ron's "Cannons"  shirt, and Harry grinned sleepily at her, eyes gratefully
taking in her form as he pulled down his pyjama bottoms, and then his eyes met
Ron's and they exchanged a slightly different grin: A naked girl, and we can
look at her all we want!
         Then they were under the pounding water, Hermione kissing them
sleepily, first Ron, then Harry, and Harry reached down to touch her, fingers
trailing through coarse, wet curls into velvet-soft folds, encountering warmth
and moisture, and Hermione pushed him gently away, murmuring “No, Harry,
please.”
         She kissed him again, giving Harry warm knowledge that it wasn't
rejection, and he looked down at his fingers and his eyes widened.
         There was blood on his fingers!  “Oh, my God! Hermione, are you all
right?”
         Ron glanced down and back immediately up at Harry, crying, with an odd
expression, “Holy fuck, Harry! What did you do? You broke Hermione!”
         There was a roaring in Harry's ears as he stared back up at them, and
he cried out, “I'm sorry! Hermione, I tried to be--”
         But Hermione wasn't listening to him, turning instead to punch Ron in
the arm, hard! “Ronald Bilius Weasley! That is not funny! You apologise this
minute!”
         But before he had a chance, she was turning to Harry, embracing him,
cuddling him. “It's all right, love. You didn't do anything. I'm having my
period, that's all.”
         Harry stared at her, eyes wide, his face a mask of bafflement.
         “Oh, mate!”  said Ron, “You really have no clue, do you?”
         "Of course he doesn't, Ronald! How could he? Who do you suppose would
have taught him?"  Her voice was rich with contempt, as she continued,
"Certainly not the Dursleys! Can you imagine?"
         "Taught me what!?"  cried Harry, still looking alarmed.
         Ron put a hand on Harry's shoulder. “Brace yourself, mate,”  he said,
“this is pretty hard to believe...”
===============================================================================
         Harry stopped short, halfway through pulling his shirt on, and looked
over again at Hermione, who was waiting patiently for the boys to dress before
she began. In the morning, dressing seemed to go better in shifts. “So it's
really normal, then?"  he asked. "Are you sure?”
         Hermione smiled and leaned over to kiss him gently. “I'm sure, love.
It's normal.”
         “And there's nothing they can do?”
         “No, Harry,”  said Hermione, smiling softly, “there's nothing they can
do.”
         Harry looked downcast. “I'm sorry.”
         “Harry...”  Hermione was smiling now. “It's honestly all right. It's
fine. It's a perfectly normal part of being a woman.”
         “Blood comes out of your fanny! That can't possibly--”
         “Harry, really. I'm even pretty lucky. Parvati gets the most awful
cramps, and Lavender gets the worst PMS I've ever seen.”
         Harry looked confused. “PM--?”
         “It's when women get all cranky once a month, Harry,”  said Ron. “It's
'cause of their period. That's what Seamus meant that time he said Pansy
Parkinson was 'on the rag.' That tampon thing Hermione put in?”  At this,
Hermione blushed vividly. “That's the rag.”
         “That's a thoroughly disgusting expression, Ronald!”  snapped
Hermione. “And it devalues women to imply that when we're upset, it's just
because--”
         “Hey, you're the one who brought up PMS! I'm just explaining--”
         “Well, don't use that expression!”
         “"So Harry's not supposed to know what it means, just because you find
it offensive? And I suppose you never get cranky over your period!”
         Hermione's face was very red. “I don't!”
         “Why did you jump all over me, then?”  bellowed Ron.
         “Because you're a completely insensitive prat!”  shouted Hermione.
         Harry looked back and forth between the two with a growing smile, and
they rounded on him.
         “What!?!?”  they roared at him, in unison.
         “I just realised why you two are always bickering.” Harry looked
pointedly at Hermione's breasts. Her nipples were crinkled, erect as he'd only
seen them after they'd been played with. As the renewed flush rose into her
face, he angled his head at Ron's pants, which were tented. The two stared, for
a moment, at the evidence of each other's arousal.
         They were silent for a moment, and then those ginger brows rose as
Ron's face was split by a broad grin. “So, all those times when you stormed off
up to your dorm...”
         “No!”  Her blush deepened. “Not... not all the times...”
         “Well, I'd offer to let you two be alone, but...” Harry snickered and
wiggled his toes, which were brushing against their feet.
         Hermione's hand reached, her fingers slipping casually into the
waistband of Harry's jeans and pulled him close. “I don't want you to leave us
alone, Harry.”  She leaned over, lay her head on his shoulder. “I'd never want
to settle for half of my heart.”
         Ron stepped closer, his arms wrapping around both of them. “Same here,
mate. Same here.”
         They stood another moment like that, in their three-sided cuddle,
Hermione naked, Ron in his underwear, Harry needing only to pull his shirt
down, and then broke, and resumed dressing.
         Harry watched in fascination as Hermione stuck a pad into the crotch
of her knickers, and glanced again at the barely visible string among her folds
as she pulled the knickers up to cover them.
         “Amazing,” he breathed.
===============================================================================
         “Boy!”  cried Vernon Dursley.
         Harry grinned at that. After Hermione's cheek to him, a week before,
Uncle Vernon's coping mechanism had been to ignore her, and Ron as well, and
treat Harry as if he were alone. It was such a pathetic, even ludicrous, little
performance that Harry found it more amusing than annoying.
         The doorbell rang again, and Uncle Vernon bellowed “Answer the bloody
door, boy!”
         Harry shrugged as he and his friends stepped away from the cabinet
they were dusting, walked past Petunia, who was watching a bad American
"Housewife with a disease"  movie on the telly, and past Vernon, who scowled
into his cheap check-out-stand "Word-Search” puzzle book, in a sadly failed
attempt to appear to appear both intellectual and above it all.
         “Portcullis,” Ron murmured to him, as they passed. Sure enough, while
he made a great show of ignoring them, Vernon Dursley began poring more
intently over the puzzle, looking for the word, and Ron winked at Harry, who
suppressed a smile. He was pretty sure Vernon would never realise that Ron was
just throwing out words at random.
         Harry opened the door, and was greeted by two identical ginger heads,
two identical wicked smiles.
         “Well, there he is!” cried Fred.
         “The Boy Who Lived It Up!” added George.
         “Got to admire your inventiveness, Harry,” Fred added as they stepped
inside.
         “I mean,” continued Fred, as if he'd been speaking all along, “most
lads your age go through that phase--”
         “--Questing after sexual identity and all--”
         “--But leave it to The Chosen One not to choose! Brilliant!”
         Harry grinned at them. “You know,” he replied, conversationally, “I'm
pretty sure I can kill the two of you and get away with it. See, on the one
hand, Scrimgeour's counting on me to take care of this little Dark Lord problem
he's got, and on the other, well, after Sirius, they're kind of gun-shy about
imprisoning innocent people unjustly, and there's just no way to send me to
Azkaban without bringing Ron and Hermione along for the ride.”
         The twins laughed, George reaching up to tousle Ron's hair while Fred
squeezed Hermione's shoulder in greeting.
         "”Listen,” said George, “We've got a bit of a treat for you. How'd you
like to go to a match?”
         “Quidditch?” asked Harry, already excited, and Ron's gaze, over his
shoulder, turned attentive.
         “No,”  said Fred. “Quodpot.”
         Ron gasped. “The Travellers are back in country? Wicked!” He turned to
Hermione. “The Travellers--”
         “Yes, Ronald, the New Amsterdam Travellers are an international
Quodpot exhibition team founded in 1926 by the American wizard Giles Post. They
started as a serious competitive team, but were in the habit, once they'd
established a safe lead, of clowning to entertain themselves and the audience.
By 1932, the comedy had taken over, and they began international exhibition
play. Shall I continue?”
         Fred was staring at her with an almost-frightened, almost-awed
expression.
         “Yeah.”  Ron grinned at him. “Welcome to my life.”
         Fred laughed, as George said, “They're playing in the memorial park in
Chipping Ongar.”
         "Care to go see the match?"  finished Fred.
         The two boys looked eagerly at Hermione, who smiled indulgently. “Yes,
dears,” she said, “we can go see the match.”
===============================================================================
         The Portkey -- a ragged length of garden hose -- deposited them in a
small, abandoned, decrepit building. The ceiling and roof were gone from one
corner, the windows and doors were gone, and moss and ivy grew over most of the
walls.
         “What's this?”  asked Ron, looking around.
         “The Americans had a base here, during the Muggle side of the
Grindelwald War,”  said George.
         “Those Aeroplane things Dad's always on about,”  added Fred.
“Angelina's Granddad on her Mother's side, the Muggle, told her they flew out
of the fields here. He said it was quite a sight!”
         George smirked at him. “You realise that's the main reason Dad likes
you two together so much. You get married, and he's got a Muggle in the family
to tell him all this wonderful stuff.”
         Fred blushed mightily, and Ron laughed at him. “You're pretty damned
potty for our Miss Johnson, aren't you, Fred?”
         “Well, who can blame him?” said George. “She's quite the bird, after
all.”
         Ron shrugged over to Harry. “He's got a point, there, mate. Great set
of legs on that girl.”
         “Oh, you don't have to tell me,”  said Harry. “I've played on that
team with her for five years now!”
         Fred barked with laughter. “I was going to offer to hex your bollocks
off, you two, but I think your own girl's going to beat me to it!”
         Harry and Ron turned to look at Hermione, who was glaring at them with
hooded eyes.
         They two boys moved against her in a warm cuddle. “Come on, love,” 
murmured Ron. “What's it matter where we get our appetites, as long as we eat
at home?”
         Harry, Fred and George all winced, and Harry hurriedly muttered,
“Please remember that I didn't say that, OK?”
         “You were perving over Angelina, too.”
         Harry looked at her for a long moment. “She's a beautiful girl, and an
amazing athlete, and smart, and driven, and funny, and sexy as hell. And I've
played on a team with her for five years.”  He brought a hand up to her face.
“But she hasn't stuck with me through thick and thin. She hasn't stood by my
side against chessmen and three-headed monsters and basilisks and Dementors and
werewolves and dragons and death-eaters and Snape. She hasn't stood with me
against Voldemort. Angelina's great, but I don't love her. I love you. We both
do.”
         “Merlin!” cried Fred. “George, if you ever see me talk like that to
Angelina, please, just put me out of your misery!”
         George laughed. “Can I go retroactive on that? 'Cause I think I owe
you three or four A-Ks already.”
         Fred's sharp retort was cut off by a soft voice from the frameless
rectangle that had once been the door. “There you are, love! Come on, what are
you waiting for, I want you to meet the team.”  Angelina's deep brown skin
shone in the greyish daylight from behind her as she glanced among them. “Hi,
George. Hey, Harry. Ron, Hermione. You three managed to totally bugger next
year's team, didn't you?”
         Harry shrugged guiltily, and she laughed.
         “Don't worry, Harry. You had plenty enough on your mind what with
being dragged into eternity. I'm glad Hermione saved you even if you are no
more use to the Gryffindor Quidditch team! Come on, then.”
         They followed her from the decaying building, and Fred said, “Love,
tell what your Granddad told you about this place again?”
         “It was an airfield,”  she said breezily, leading them through the
tall, swaying grass,  her Union Jack Quodpot robes fluttering out behind her.
“The Americans flew bombers out of it during World Ward Two -- you know, the
Grindelwald War. Great big Aeroplanes that carried bombs. They'd fly over to
the continent and blow up Grindelwald's troops and equipment, and the Muggle
factories that made supplies for his armies.”  She gestured back to the
decrepit structure they'd arrived in. “That was what they called the Operations
Block. It was where they got their instructions before missions, I think.”  She
smiled back at them. “Granddad was a mechanic here. He worked on fixing the
planes up after they got damaged on missions.”
         She reached a hand casually back, and Fred actually Apparated the
eight feet or so needed to reach out and clasp it. Harry and Ron exchanged an
amused glance while Hermione beamed.
         They approached a hedgerow, and Angelina and Fred turned behind it.
The others followed, and suddenly they were in a crowd of wizards and witches,
a few wearing pointed novelty hats decorated with a silhouette of the New York
skyline overlaid on a fluttering field of Stars and Stripes, with tight
formations of tiny broom-riders manoeuvring deftly around the cone. A couple of
the youngsters looked at Angelina with wide eyes. She was wearing her Avalon
All-Stars Union-Jack robes, and was obviously a “Real Player.” To the children
in the crowd, that made her as much of a celebrity as Celestina Warbeck.
         Harry grinned again, enjoying Angelina's slightly proud, slightly
abashed expression, when a flicker of violet elsewhere in the crowd caught his
eye. He looked again, then smiled. Loping along through the milling crowd was
Dedalus Diggle, resplendent in his violet suit and top hat, reminding Harry, a
very little, of Willy Wonka, from that odd movie that Dudley seemed to have a
love-hate relationship with when he was six or seven. Harry caught George's eye
and gestured with his head.
         George nodded. “It's no co-incidence, Harry. The Order sent extra
protection. Tonks is around somewhere, too.”
         “Maybe closer than you think,”  said an Elderly Chinese wizard walking
near them, with a long moustache and beard. “Wotcher, guys!”
         They all grinned at her.
         “'Lo Tonks,” said Harry.
         “There's my boy,” she said quietly to him. “Looking forward to the
match?”
         Harry smiled widely at her. “You bet! I've never seen Quodpot before!
It sounds brilliant.”
         “Well, it certainly isn't Quidditch,” said Angelina, with a smile,
“but it is really amazing. The Travellers are just stunning.”
         “Yeah,” said a pleasant, female, American-accented voice, behind them.
“But, best of all, we're humble!”
         They turned to see a tall, willowy young woman, about Angelina's age,
pale-skinned, with brown hair hanging around her head like a bell. She was
wearing the “Stars and Stripes and New York Skyline” robes of the New Amsterdam
Travellers, brightly coloured and smartly designed.
         “Lu!” said Angelina, with a smile, “This is Harry, Ron and Hermione!”
         “Wow!” said the young woman. “Harry Potter? And Ron Weasley?”
         Harry nodded slowly, biting his lip. As he grew older, as he saw
people die because of the reason for it, he hated his fame more and more.
         “Wow,” said Lu, again, her eyes, startlingly blue, shining. “You two
actually know Dean Thomas, then! I mean, you've roomed with him and
everything!”
         Harry and Ron exchanged a puzzled glance.
         “Er-- Yeah!” said Ron. “We've roomed with Dean for five years, now!”
         “That's so cool!” said Lu. “Listen, when you see him, tell him Lu said
hello! He's my hero!”
         “Dean?” asked Harry, feeling stupidly let -down not to be the subject
of this woman's fascination.
         She smiled at him. “Yes! He's the one who taught me I could fly!”
         “Dean?” asked Ron. Thomas was a fine flier, but hardly seemed up to
teaching a professional, especially one of the Travellers.
         “Yes!” she cried, enthusiastically. “We're Owl Pals, have been since
he was eleven, and found out he was magical. We were part of a 'School of Arts'
program. I was so afraid of flying then, I was in sixth grade, and I wouldn't
even touch a broom if I could help it. And Dean used to write me about how he
was afraid, too, but he'd concentrate on how beautiful each little moment was
flying. The view, the wind. He'd send me these beautiful drawings. That's still
how I fly. I don't think about how I can fall. I just think about the beauty of
each individual moment.”
         The three Gryffindors looked amongst one another, smiling in pleased
surprise. Harry grinned back at the Traveller, and extended a hand. “I'll be
sure to tell him,” he said. “Dean will be pleased, I'm sure.”
         Lu smiled in response, and Angelina led the group around another
hedgerow, and they were outside a stadium, far too tall to be concealed by a
hedgerow. Harry grinned at his friends. However dire other parts of his life
became, he never lost his appreciation for magic like that.
         Angelina opened a door, and ushered them inside. They made their way
through a short tunnel, and into a small gymnasium, where all the members of
both teams were getting in some warm-up exercises.
         They were quickly introduced around, Tonks' fannish gushing comically
at odds with her “old Chinese man” appearance, and then ushered out to the All-
Stars' bench to watch the game.
         The Umpire brought a single, smallish, cube-shaped trunk to the middle
of the pitch, as Travellers and the All Stars took to the air and to their
starting positions. A whistle blew, the trunk was opened, and the red-black
Quod was ejected a hundred feet into the air, where Lu – the name on the back
of her robes was “Nulet” – seemed almost to reach through Angelina to snatch it
from between her closing hands.
         The game was amazing. Angelina's Avalon All Stars were formidable
players, swift, professional and cunning, and anybody could see that they were
playing full out. But the New Amsterdam Travellers made them look like they
were standing still. Their feats of legerdemain were nothing less than
astonishing. Lu in particular had a habitual game of holding onto the Quod for
dangerously long periods of time, then forcefully handing it off to one of
Angelina's team-mates just in time for it to explode, taking the hapless All
Star out of the game.
         Another of the Travellers, a black man dressed like a Red Indian,
played a complicated passing game with a team-mate wearing gaudily improbable
sunglasses, occasionally bouncing the Quod off the back of one or another of
the All Stars as they drove their way down-field.
         The trio laughed and clapped as they watched the game, Ron pointing
out some of the subtler grace notes of the Travellers' performance to Hermione.
         As the game went on, however, the grey clouds began to lower, and a
thick, cold mist began to seep into the pitch.
         Harry squeezed his eyes shut, feeling something in his head, something
both strange and familiar, and the constant prickling of his scar began to
intensify. He leaned over to the nearest Weasley twin.
         “George,” he said, “something's wrong.”
         “I'll say it is!” crowed George, happily, seeing months of brotherly
ribbing in his future. “My brother's bird is getting her arse handed to her, at
a broom-sport, no less, by Yanks!”
         “No, George.” Harry raised his voice. “I'm serious.”
         “No you're not!” cried Fred to him. “He's much taller, and deeply
hung-over!”
         But George put a hand on his arm, stilling him. “Something's really
wrong, Fred.”
         And just like that, their faces were both grim as they started
methodically scanning in all directions for a threat.
         Harry winced, and touched his forehead, and Hermione leaned over to
him from the other side, taking his hand.
         “Harry, what is it? Your scar?”
         “Yes. No.” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, then slit them open. “I'm
feeling something in my scar, but it's not like when Riddle's on the move.
It's... familiar, though.”
         The fog lowered and thickened, and suddenly there were screams, and
Fred and George and Tonks were grabbing the three teenagers, dragging them back
through the training room, through the tunnel, and back out among the
hedgerows. Even as they burst out from the Players' entrance, the gates flew
open, and the entire crowd seemed to be pouring out of them in a great,
screaming throng.
         Tonks pointed them towards the woods. “Run! Run for the woods! We'll
send for someone to pick you up!”
         Harry blinked back at her, confused, and saw, over her shoulder,
dozens of ragged black shapes descending out of the fog. Dementors!
         His wand was out in a minute, pointing at the fearsome dark wraiths,
but Fred grabbed his arm, pulling it down. “No, Harry! You're too well known!
If Prongs is seen here, there'll be a bloodbath!”
         George grabbed Ron's shoulder. “You're the strategist! Keep his head
on straight. Get into the woods, the three of you! Now!”
         Ron nodded, exchanging a glance with Harry, and then Hermione and they
ran, full-tilt, for the distant line of woods. Harry spared a glance over his
shoulder, and saw the Twins and Tonks forming a defensive line. The twins aimed
their wands, and Harry saw twin silver squirrels spring from the tips. What he
saw next would play itself back in his head during the night, as his brain
tried – and failed – to make sense of it.
         The two glowing silver squirrels streaked in all directions,
zigzagging, seemingly at random, charging in front of stampeding people...
         Yet everywhere they went, they'd leap up impossibly and grab a
Dementor, which would scream and flail, an eerie sound of metal scraping on
rusty metal, and flee back into the clouds. The twins' small, hyper-kinetic
Patronuses – somehow he was sure Hermione would have said “Patroni” -- were
everywhere at once, and fully half the Dementors were being driven back.
         But half were still advancing on the crowds. Ron grabbed Harry's
shoulder, jerked him around. “Come on, mate! We're not ready for this, not
stuck together like this! We can learn the combat moves, but for now we're
sitting ducks. Now, come on!”
         As they crossed the tree line, and ran deeper in among the trunks and
boughs, Harry risked another look back. Through the leaves and branches he saw
fluttering black shapes, glints of fast moving silver, a brief impression of
violet.
         Then they were in the forest and running, ducking and weaving in and
out amongst the trees. They ran as long as they could, perhaps a half-hour,
until Hermione's stamina – she'd never been the athlete her boys were – ran
out, and they sat together at the base of a tree, panting and gasping.
         Harry turned to Ron. “Now... what...?”
         Ron shook his head, gulping air as he looked down at their feet. They
were all wearing sandals, giving them bare skin at their feet to keep contact
with. “If I knew... we'd be running... for our lives... in the forest...
fucking primeval... I'd've said... trainers!”
         Hermione was leaning her head back against the tree trunk, her eyes
squeezed shut, her mouth gaping wide, dragging in deep, gasping breaths.
         “Alright, there... Love?” Ron asked her.
         She flailed her hand blindly in his direction, found his arm, and gave
it a squeeze.
         “Was that an I'm OK squeeze? Or an Oh, fuck, I'm dying squeeze.”
         A sound that might have been a chuckle escaped with her next gasp, and
she flailed again, apparently attempting to smack his arm.
         They sprawled there for a while, panting and gasping, feeling their
hearts pounding like timpani in their chests
         Finally, Ron said, his tone almost normal, “You seem to be getting
stronger, Harry.”
         “What d'you mean?” Harry asked.
         “The Dem--” Hermione wheezed. “He means the Dementors. You didn't
collapse.”
         Harry looked stunned. “Hell, I didn't, did I?”
         “I think it's Nup--” gasped Hermione. “I think it's Nupial--I think
it's Nuptialis Unum!” She pulled in another breath. “It's what-- Professor
Dumbledore-- Told you-- Harry.” Another gasp. “we're stronger together-- than
apart!” There was another moment's labored breathing. “I know this seems-
- pathetic to you two--” she gasped, “but I'd never-- have made it-- halfthis
far-- before.”
         It was another ten minutes before Hermione's breathing had settled
down enough for her to stand and continue, and Ron pointed. “I think we should
march deeper into the woods. As far in as we can. These aren't magical woods,
there's just Muggle rubbish in here like snakes and that.”
         “A poisonous snake could kill any of us quite dead without resorting
to the least bit of Magic, Ron.”
         “Yeah, well, so could a Death Eater casting Avada Kedavra, and I fancy
our chances against the snake a bit better.” He grinned. “I hear they're
rubbish with a wand, and the only spell they know is SSSssssss!”
         “That's disgusting, Ron!” cried Harry, wrinkling up his face.
         Hermione chuckled. “Ron, that was truly awful.”
         “It's my second line of defense. If we get Death Eaters instead of
snakes, I'll tell 'em my favourite jokes until they run away.”
         “Merlin, Ron!” scolded Harry. “You can't do that! They are human,
after all!”
         “Oh, you're a right funny man, you are, Harry,” deadpanned Ron. He
pointed again. “Come on, now, this way, I think. We'll just keep going.”
         They marched now, letting Hermione set the pace. The woods deepened
and the occasional glimpses of sky darkened, and still they trudged on,
stopping to rest for a few minutes every hour.
         Eventually, it was too dark to move safely, and Ron called a halt for
the night. They chose a fairly flat area under a tree, and then moved off about
thirty yards.
         Harry magically dug a hole, and Hermione transfigured a rock into a
crude wooden toilet-bench over it, and they defecated, one by one, Ron making
crude jokes, punctuated by the soft sounds of the product hitting the bottom of
the hole. Then they tergeo'ed one another's backsides, and filled in the hole
again before returning to their flat spot, which they piled with leaves and
grass.
         Ron cast some simple wards, to awaken them if anything bigger than a
squirrel approached, and they lay on their leafy, grassy mattress, listening to
the woodland sounds around them.
         “Are you afraid?” Hermione asked aloud, after a few minutes.
         The boys were silent for a long moment, then Harry said, “No. I was,
but I started doing what Lu told us about. What Dean told her. Now, I'm just
thinking how lovely the woods are. And how lucky I am to be here in them with
the two of you.”
         Hermione sighed. “Yes,” she said. “The beauty of the moment.”
         She snuggled her boys closer to her in the dark forest, kissed each of
them, softly, gently, and lay her head back, feeling their warm bodies and
strong arms around her. She was still smiling contentedly when she drifted off
to sleep.
         They were awakened in the opalescence of dawn by the shriek of Ron's
wards falling.
         “Well, well, well,” said a quiet voice. “It looks like the fool was
right after all.”
         The man who stood over them was stocky, lumpy, with a lopsided,
leering grin. “The Dark Lord will be well pleased, when I bring him back your
bodies.” The leer broadened obscenely. “Amycus Carrow, not Lucius Malfoy, will
sit on his Left Hand.” he straightened his wand arm. “Avada--”
         The sound of the boarhound's bark was quite close, and the fist that
met the side of Carrow's head was as large as the head itself. It seemed to the
three teens – and later examination of the memory in a Pensieve would prove
this impression correct – that the Death Eater's entire head was forced almost
a foot directly to his left. The sound of his neck snapping was loud in the
pre-dawn woods. 
         The three teens scrambled to their feet, and Hagrid turned to them.
“Come on, you lot, the Portkey's over here. We'll have you back teh Little
Whinging in two shakes. All hell's broke loose. There was attacks on four
places yesterday, all very public. Yeh-know-who trying to draw out Order
members.” His face was red. “The ruddy Dementors got Diggle. Tha's how this'n”
--he gestured to the body of Amycus Carrow-- “came t'find yeh. Diggle saw you
head inna the woods. Anyway, 'Ermione, 'ave no fear, Diggle didn' know yer
folks was a' th' Burrow. Nobody was hurt when the Death Eaters destroyed yer
house, and Dumbledore's meeting wi' yer parents righ' now, t'decide if they're
alive er dead.”
***** Chapter Twelve: “He Who Really Ought To be Named!” *****
              Chapter Twelve: “He Who Really Ought To be Named!”
===============================================================================
            David Granger regarded Professor Dumbledore with grim, but genuine,
amusement. “So, what you're telling me,” he said, “is that we're better off
dead?”
            Dumbledore returned his smile. “His madness extends quite a long
way,” the ancient wizard allowed, “but in this, at least, Tom is quite sane: He
expends no energy on slaying the slain. If we allow him to believe that he has
killed you, that his Death Eaters succeeded, he will give it no more thought.”
            Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded, the flickering light from the lanterns
in the Burrow's living room highlighting his smooth, brown pate. “We've already
got a safe house for you. A retired Auror in Australia has set it up. Tonks and
Moody are standing by right now. It'll be less than a minute's work to get two
sides of beef and transfigure them into, er...”
            Jane smiled at him. “Our corpses?”
            Shacklebolt actually seemed to blush. “Well, er... Yes. As far as
Riddle will know, he'll have killed you, and you'll be as safe as, well, as any
other Muggles in Australia. There's no question about it. This would be the
best thing for you.”
            “But,” said David, “Would it be the best thing?”
            “He just said--” began Moody, but Jane gently interrupted him:
            “That it would be best for us. What David wants, what we both want
to know is, would this be the best thing-- Full Stop.”
            Remus and Sirius, both wearing that slightly-too-aware look that
comes from a really strong hangover potion, exchanged an approving glance.
            David leaned forward. “Exactly. I'm thinking about Riddle, about
how he'll react, and what reaction gets him closer to defeat. I'm not sure it's
best if he gets the satisfaction of having killed us, and re-asserted his
authority. Isn't it better if he – and the rest of your folk – know he's tried
and failed? If I read him right, he'll occupy himself with us, but we don't
matter, really, do we?”
            “Of course you matter!” said Dumbledore, quite seriously. “You
matter a very great deal.”
            “Well, that's very sweet, Albus,” said Jane, patting his hand, “but
you know it's not true, not strategically. If Riddle's concentrating his
efforts on a strategically worthless target, well, that gives you an
opportunity to steal a march on him, doesn't it?” David was nodding as she
spoke, holding her hand in his own.
            “Doctor Granger,” said Shacklebolt, then corrected himself,
“Doctors Granger, this is not your war.”
            “The hell it isn't!” said David, quietly. “That's our daughter,
standing there in the trenches!” He leaned forward, his voice deep and serious.
“And anyway, sooner or later, this war comes to my doorstep anyway, doesn't it?
Even if Hermione'd never got that letter, if instead of Muggle-born, she was
just another Muggle, I'd still have to defend her from Riddle eventually,
wouldn't I?”
            “And beyond all that,” added Jane, “it's the Good Fight, and that
makes it our fight. Otherwise, what are we? I won't be someone who lets evil
thrive because it doesn't happen to be our problem. We won't be those people.”
            David nodded firmly. “Now, I want you to tell me the truth. Are you
better off if Riddle thinks he's killed us? Or if he's mad as hell that he
hasn't? Is this Order of yours better off?”
            “Well...” Remus Lupin's voice was slow, almost reluctant. “If
there's one thing I've learned, over and over again – and I taught it to your
daughter in third year – it's that an angry foe is a stupid foe.” He chuckled
in memory. “Actually, now I think about it, I didn't really teach her that
lesson. She knew more about it than I did.” His voice became a gentle imitation
of hers. “The human brain is layered, like an onion, and those layers are a map
of our evolution. Each layer, as you work your way inward, is more primitive
then the ones outside it, and very near the center is the R-Complex, the
Reptile brain. That is the seat of aggression, territoriality and anger. When
we get angry, it's like the higher levels of our brain shut down, and we think
like lizards.”
            The Grangers grinned at him. “D'you know she wrote to us about that
class?” asked David. “She was so proud, because you were truly interested in
what she was saying.”
            Jane put a hand on his. “So the question is, by surviving the
attack, can we make Riddle angry enough to make stupid mistakes? And if so,
isn't that something worth taking a chance on?”
            “And, for that matter,” said David, with a singularly nasty grin,
“just how angry can we make him?”
            Sirius sat forward in his seat as Shacklebolt's eyes widened.
“You're talking about winding him up?” Sirius asked. “I like the way you
think!”
            “I don't,” said Remus. “The risk--”
            “Is ours to take,” said David, firmly, and Jane nodded fiercely,
holding his hand.
            “Now, what can we do,” asked Jane, “to really piss him off?”
===============================================================================
                            MUGGLES DEFY DARK LORD
                           A Daily Prophet Exclusive
                           By Barnabas Cuffe, Editor
           Editor's Note: I was faced, in this interview, with a serious
dilemma: The Dark Lord's motivations for his attack are rooted in the use of
his name. It has been the practice of this newspaper not to print that name, as
it is likely to prove upsetting to our readers. Without doing so, however, this
interview would become both incomprehensible and pointless. My decision was to
print the name in full where the Grangers and others in this story used it. I
wish to emphasize to any who may be reading that this was my decision, and mine
alone. I and I alone can be held to account for it.
            It has been revealed that Doctors David and Jane Granger, of
London, Muggle parents of controversial young witch Hermione Granger – who, the
alert reader will recall, is a longtime friend and companion of Harry Potter,
sometimes known as The Chosen One – were the targets of a failed attack late
yesterday by Death Eaters.
            This attack against specific Muggle targets was an unusual one from
an organization whose targets have primarily been related to political power in
the magical community. The Prophet has learned, however, that highly -placed
sources have strong reason to believe that this attack was carried out on the
direct orders of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, himself!
            His motivation for this targeted attack against Muggles has also
been revealed, in an interview with the intended victims, conducted by this
reporter, in my position as Editor of the Prophet.
            “It was because we call him by his name,” Jane Granger revealed, in
an exclusive interview with the Prophet. “We know that many wizards insist on
calling him 'You Know Who,' and only the very brave, like Harry Potter, would
call him Voldemort. But even calling him Voldemort is giving him too much
power! Harry Potter told our daughter where the name came from: 'I Am Lord
Voldemort' is really just an anagram of his true name, Tom Marvolo Riddle.”
            David Granger quickly agreed. “Voldemort is just an impressive name
he made up for himself, a way to make himself feel powerful. It's all rather
pathetic, really, isn't it? I mean, when I was a little boy, I used to pretend
I was Dan Dare, or the Green Lantern (fictional Muggle children’s heroes, -
Ed.) but I grew out of it. Riddle has not only kept his 'Super Powered Secret
Identity,' as my wife calls it, but he's intimidated the Wizarding World into
being frightened of it.”
            “And, honestly,” Jane Granger added, “It's such a childish way to
make a name! I suppose we're lucky he isn't Mad Liver Root Mold, or A Dim Lord
Over Molt!”
            Her husband was quick to join in the game. “Dim Tom, A Lord-Lover?
A Vomited Dorm Roll?”
            “It's really, in the end, just very pathetic and sad,” Jane Granger
concluded. “There's no question that he's a brilliant and very powerful wizard.
But what he is in the end is a sad, pathetic, frightened old man.”
            “Really,” added David Granger, “it's all about fear. Riddle is old,
and so afraid to die that he's traded away his humanity to avoid it. Now he's a
sad, freakish monster, not human at all, casting about desperately to preserve
his life, even at the cost of any possible reason to live. He has no love, no
goals, nothing but his craven fear of a Rubicon we'll all eventually cross.
It's just... pointless.”
            The Grangers are clearly aware of the danger He-Who-Must-Not-Be-
Named represents to them, and are currently in hiding. “Certainly, he's
dangerous,” said David Granger. “We'd be fools to simply stay visible and wait
for him. But we'd be even more foolish to let that common-sense caution be
mistaken for fear or respect.”
            His wife agrees with this position. “Any common street-thug is
dangerous, and so is Riddle. You need only look at the remains of our home to
see that. But that only emphasizes what a sad, pathetic little man he is!
Riddle, cowering somewhere in his make-believe Secret Headquarters, while he
sends a squad of thugs to try – and fail! – to kill a couple of dentists!
Honestly, how sad is that?”
            As little respect as the Grangers have for the Dark Lord, their
open contempt for the Death Eaters is greater still. “The stupidity and
hypocrisy of these 'Death Eaters' – and, really, what kind of a silly name is
that? – is honestly pretty stunning. They march under some banner of Wizarding
Purity – which anyone can see is idiocy at the outset – and fall all over
themselves to curry favor with this half-blood, Riddle,” said David Granger.
            “And honestly,” Jane Granger agreed, “What is this Pure-Blood
superiority nonsense they spout? Have they not heard of Hybrid Vigor? Of
inbreeding? The magical population is far too small to be independently self-
sustaining. You'd get all manner of birth defects, deformities, and mental
retardation. And you need only meet our daughter to know that the notion that
pure-blood wizards are somehow superior is simply fatuous. Neither David nor
myself has any magical ancestors, and yet our daughter is, according to every
source I've encountered, the most powerful and proficient witch in her class,
and possibly the entire Hogwarts student body.”
            While it may sound like the boast of proud parents, this claim does
seem to be borne out. According to Fred and George Weasley, pure-blood
entrepreneurs whose new shop, “Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes,” has been one of
the very few success stories in Diagon Alley this year, tell the Prophet, “She
was easily more talented than either of us, and that's saying quite a lot. If
her imagination was bent in the directions ours are, well, we couldn't hope to
compete.”
            Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall, told the Prophet,
“I cannot, of course, divulge student records or grades to the press. But I can
and will tell you that Miss Granger is a vastly talented and intelligent witch,
frequently doing extra credit work years in advance of her class level, and I
would be hard-pressed to remember another student who was so intelligent,
talented, or powerful.”
            Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, perhaps the greatest wizard of our
time, does remember just one equally talented wizard. “Young Tom Riddle,” he
said, “showed every bit as much talent and promise. A teacher ought not,
perhaps, select favorites among his students, but I will say that I greatly
prefer Miss Granger. More to the point, though, of Doctor Granger's comment, I
will point out that young Tom was and remains a half-blood.”
            The Prophet has learned that the Dark Lord's rage toward the
Grangers is not merely because of their insistence on calling him by his birth-
name, but because they have convinced many prominent Witches and Wizards to do
the same.
            Said Sirius Black, The-Man-Who-Came-Back, who has resisted the Dark
Lord for nearly twenty years, in the face of much misunderstanding,
condemnation, and over a decade of false imprisonment,  “Jane Granger's insight
was amazing. I was there when she pointed it out to Albus Dumbledore, and,
quite frankly, as soon as she said it, I was disgusted with myself. All these
years of feeling quite brave for daring to speak the name 'Voldemort' and it
was, as she put it, a double-bluff. We were still paying him homage with that
overblown pseudonym! He's not a Lord, dark or otherwise. He's just an old man
named Tom Riddle who's so afraid of dying that he's mutilated himself to
prevent it.”
            This determination to call You-Know-Who by his given, rather than
chosen, name has spread widely among those who oppose him. The Prophet
interviewed more than a dozen others, who requested anonymity in order to
maintain their effectiveness in the resistance against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-
Named, and each of them voiced support and approval for the Grangers' position.
            “Jane Granger's courage and insight are amazing,” said one, a
middle-aged woman. “I lost both of my brothers in the last war against Riddle.
I will always be grateful to Jane for helping me see that he isn't some
unstoppable monster. He's just a pathetic, self-hating, cowardly little man.
And we will put a stop to him.”
            Another who went on the record was retired Auror Alastor Moody, who
continues to fight the Dark Lard's forces in the face of many grievous injuries
suffered in past battles against his minions. “Dr. Granger's a great lady.
She's as brave as they come and smart as a whip, and she immediately saw
through Riddle's sorry little ploy. I'm as proud to stand beside her and her
husband as I am to stand with Albus Dumbledore. It's courage and wisdom like
theirs that we need if we're going to get Riddle to overcome his cowardice and
face his fear like a man should.”
            “The Grangers,” said Albus Dumbledore, “are an example to us all.
I, and many others, have pledged our lives to their protection.  For each of us
owes an enormous debt to the man and woman who reminded us all that we are
fighting, not a fearsome Lord named Voldemort, but a frightened old man named
Tom Marvolo Riddle. And reminded us that we are already half-way to winning,
when we simply refuse to be afraid of him.”
===============================================================================
            “Oh my God.” Harry's voice was very quiet, and the awed tone
rendered his words something closer to prayer than exclamation. He looked first
to Ron, whose cobalt eyes were locked on Hermione, his lower lip pulled between
his teeth, before turning to look at her himself.
            Her face was pale, her knuckles white, hands trembling where she
gripped the newsparchment. Her lower lip, like Ron's, was pulled into her
mouth, but unlike Ron she was biting, hard, her jaw-muscles trembling, and as
Harry watched, a drop of blood appeared at the edge of one biting tooth. Ron's
wand was already in motion as Harry reached a hand for her, stroking her cheek,
and murmured her name.
            Suddenly there was a loud SNAP! as the Prophet split between her
shaking fists, and Ron was murmuring the healing spell they'd learned two weeks
before in their session with Madame Pomfrey, closing the new wound in her lower
lip even as she let out her inarticulate sound of anger and fear. She dropped
the sundered halves of the Prophet and squeezed her eyes shut, as a trembling
shudder rolled through her. She drew in a deep breath, then turned to her
right.
            “Thank you, Ron,” she said, very softly, and leaned over to kiss
him tenderly. Then she turned to her left. “Harry,” she asked, her voice still
soft and modulated, “may I borrow your mirror, please?”
            Harry reached into his pocket and drew out the mirror Sirius had
given him, handing it to Hermione.
            “Thank you,” she told him, and then addressed the mirror. “Sirius?
Sirius, are you there?”
            Harry moved against her, wrapped his right arm around her. The
muscles in her back were rigid, like they'd been sculpted of spring steel and
bent into position, resisting their shape with a palpable quiver. He felt Ron's
arm sliding across her just below his, squeezing her gently, and her eyes
closed for a moment as the glass in her hand fogged.
            The fog cleared again, and he could see Sirius' face was looking
out of the mirror at Hermione.
            His smile was warm and serious, his voice tender. “Hello, Clever
Boots.”
            Hermione's voice held a structure, intricate and powerful, somehow
fragile, like an award-winning ice-sculpture. “Hello, Sirius. I wonder... I
wonder if I might speak with my parents.”
            Sirius looked down, his eyes darkening. “I'm sorry, Hermione...”
            “You're sorry??
            Sirius Black drew a breath. “They're gone. They left by Portkey as
soon as Cuffe left the room. They're in a safe house.”
            “I want to see them,” said Hermione.
            “I'm sorry, it's impossible. There's too much chance of the three
of you being traced. They're in a safe house in Australia, and Flooing or
Portkeying over those distances leaves traces. The danger from Riddle is too
great.”
            “I don't—” she began, more heatedly, cracks beginning to spider web
crazily across the icy surface of her composure, but Sirius cut her off.
            “The danger isn't just to you, Hermione, or your parents, or even
their hosts. It could connect them directly with the Burrow – to Arthur and
Molly and Ginny. You can't, Hermione. I'm sorry.”
            She was shaking in earnest now and Harry and Ron were rubbing slow
circles on her back. With his other hand, Harry reached for hers as Ron took
the mirror with his free hand, holding it up for her.
            Hermione's voice, when she spoke again, was tiny, choked and
hoarse. “They didn't... they didn't even say... say good-bye!”
            Now Sirius smiled again, warm and reassuring. “Oh, they did, Clever
Boots, they did. You'll see next week, when you arrive at the Burrow. You'll
see on Harry's birthday. In the meantime, well... They love you very much,
Hermione. And they miss you already.”
            Hermione stared into the mirror at him for a long, long moment. Her
face turned an alarming shade of red, and Harry felt the muscles in her back
harden, quivering. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, her jaw muscles
clenching – Harry could actually hear her teeth grinding within her closed
mouth – and then said, vary softly, “Thank you, Sirius.”
            She took the mirror from Ron, and handed it to Harry, who saw his
godfather's eyes widen in concern, heard the beginning of an exclamation -
- “Oh, Bugg--” as the glass clouded again.
            Hermione's voice was quiet and brittle as she said, “Thank you,
Harry.”
            They sat together for a moment, side-by-side on the king-sized bed,
gazing ahead of them at the shabby, ugly wallpaper.
            Harry's hand continued to stroke her back, feeling the awful
tension, as Ron's fingers followed lower circles, between her lumbar region and
her bum.
            “I'm sorry, love,” Harry told her quietly.
            The crack of Apparition was very loud in the quiet of their
bedroom.
            “Keeping a stiff upper for us then, Clever Boots?” asked Sirius,
his voice bright and jovial.
            She spun toward him. “I can't believe you Apparated directly into
our bedroom!”
            “Why-ever not?” asked Sirius, grinning just a bit too widely.
            “Why not?” She rose and stalked toward him, bringing Harry and Ron
following nervously behind her. The muscles in her back were coiled under their
fingers. “There's such a thing as privacy, Sirius! And respect!” She was right
in his face now, as he smirked down at her, and Harry and Ron exchanged a
nervous glance behind her back. “Suppose I was undressing!”
            “Nothing I haven't seen before, Clever Boots,” he said, and she
hauled an arm back and slapped him, hard, across the face.
            Sirius' head rocked back, and he seemed to be blinking stars from
his vision, before he focused on her again, and said, “Is that the best you've
got?”
            She shrieked, and suddenly she was on him, pounding at his chest
and face with her fists. Ron and Harry grabbed hold of her, tried to pull her
back, but Sirius caught Harry's eye, shook his head urgently, and understanding
flooded him. He released her arm, and she began flailing and screaming at
Sirius again, as Harry reached for Ron's shoulder, and with that clasp and a
gesture of Harry's head, the freckled fingers turned loose, and she brought
that hand into play as well, slapping and punching and she screamed.
            Her shrieks gradually gained coherency, words like “Inconsiderate,”
and “Inappropriate” and “Smug” and “Disrespectful” surfacing amidst the
inarticulate cries, and all along, Sirius just stood, taking it, until suddenly
she screamed, “They didn't even talk to me! They didn't even talk!”
            And Sirius suddenly stepped against her, his strong arms wrapping
around her, and he stroked her hair, crooning, “You cry, Clever Boots, that's
all right. You cry.”
            The sobs shook her now as her rage had, and Harry and Ron were
there to hold her. Sirius started to back away, but Ron grasped his wrist,
pulling him back, and they held the small form of Hermione between them, and
stroked her and petted her as she cried.
            Finally, she looked up at Sirius with bloodshot eyes, and said,
“Why, Sirius? Why didn't they talk to me?”
            “Because it wasn't your decision, Hermione,” he said quietly. “They
didn't talk to you for the same reason you didn't talk to them before going
into the Department of Mysteries. Because they had to do what was right, and
not waste time in the process. Within an hour of Hagrid finding you, we had
Cuffe in the living room of a safe house in Derbyshire, talking to your
parents. Within an hour after that, they were in Australia.”
            “I'm so afraid for them!”
            “I know, Clever Boots.” Sirius leaned down, and placed a gentle
kiss on her forehead. “I know you are. They're afraid for you, too. But they
know you have to do what's right, and they knew that they did, too. How could
your parents look you in the eye again, if they shrank from a fight you're
leading?”
            “But they could be killed! I just want them to be safe! I want them
to live!”
            Ron reached over and stroked her hair. “They want that for you,
too, love,” he told her. “Merlin knows, it kills me, the risks you take with
us. But they respect you, don't they, to do what's right, even though it scares
the shit out of them.”
            The sound she made was as much a laugh as a sob, and she whined
into Sirius' chest, “But I want to be a hypocrite!”
            “You want to be a Hippogriff?” Sirius asked with a dangerous
chuckle.
            She looked up at him, eyes fierce but a hint of a smile playing
with the corners of her mouth. “If you're working on a joke about riding--”
            “I want to live!” Sirius cried, his hands in the air, and she
laughed again, quietly but genuinely.
            Sirius dropped to his knees, to bring his face to her level, and
looked very tenderly into her eyes.
            “You're all right now?” he asked, reaching up with two fingers
brush her hair back away from her face.
            She smiled and nodded. “Yes, Sirius. Thank you. I needed that.”
            He stroked a hand through her hair again as he stood, and pressed a
kiss into the crown of her head.
            His smile included all of them, but focused again on Hermione, and,
with a rakish wink and a loud Pop! of Disapparation, he was gone.
***** Chapter Thirteen: "Matters of Life and Death" *****
                  Chapter Thirteen: Matters of Life and Death
===============================================================================
                                        
        Harry arched back in the bed, eyes clenched, teeth grinding together,
his body as taut as an archer's bow, his fists gathering in handfuls of bed
sheet. The long, low sound that escaped him was simultaneously quiet and
forceful. Ron and Hermione were awake in a moment, snuggling up against him,
Ron brushing his fringe off his forehead while Hermione rubbed, gently,
inanely, along his belly.
        They rode out the wave for a long, an eternal moment, then Harry
collapsed again on the bed, and brought his hand up to his forehead, groaning.
        “Oh, Harry!” cried Hermione. “Your scar!”
        She gently moved his hand away, and placed a tender kiss on the hot,
livid scar, and Harry groaned again, this time, not without some relief. Ron
was gently rubbing his chest, his lips close against Harry's ear, as he
murmured, “All right, there, mate. You're not him, you're not there, you're
you, and you're here, with us...”
        Harry's eyes closed and the tension seemed to drain out of him, only
for another kind of tension to arise. His green eyes opened, and a humourless
smile slowly appeared.
        “Guess who just read his evening paper,” he said.
===============================================================================
        Ron lay back, eyes closed, listening to the sound of Harry's oddly
dainty snores, and to Hermione's breathing, deep and even.
        He felt her shifting against his side, and felt himself smirking.
        “I know you're awake,” he murmured.
        “I'm sorry, Ron.” Her voice was a bare suggestion as she rolled toward
him. “Did I wake you?”
        “No, love.” Ron rolled to face her, leaned into her for an unhurried
kiss. “I was just... thinking. Thinking how quick your life can change. For
bad, or...” he reached a hand up to caress her face, her neck, her breast. “For
good.”
        Her breath left her in a sigh. “Oh, God, Ron.” She moved against him,
kissing him again. “Do you have any ideahow much I love your hands on me?” She
took hold of his wrist, slid his hand over her breast, her side, and down to
tuck under the t-shirt, this one Harry's, that she had worn to bed, and onto
her bare bum. “Touch me, Ron.”
        His smile was a warm shadow in the dark. “Bossy.”
        But his hand slid gently over the curves of her bare bottom, drinking
in the velvety softness of her flesh, the warmth of her skin.
        A groan shuddered out of her. “Oh, God, Ron, I want you so much. I want
you both so much.” Her hand snaked down into his boxers, curled around his
stiffening cock. “I love to touch you like this, but I want so much more than
that, now. I want to taste you again, have you in my mouth. And I want to shag
you something awful!”
        “Merlin, Hermione!” Ron leaned forward to suck and nip at her neck a
bit. “You're killing me!”
        She took a breath. “Oh, God, Ron, listen to me! I'm a whore, Ron! I
just want you inside me so badly. I never thought I'd ever talk like this to
anyone, but here I am, telling you I want to be fucked, and fucked hard! And by
both of you! Two boys, together!”
        Her hand moved on him, and he groaned again.
        “And, do you know what I love, Ron? I love that I can tell you how much
I want Harry to fuck me. I love that you aren't upset about that. You used to
be so jealous!”
        “Can't be jealous of Harry, love,” he breathed. “He's my mate. And he
loves you; I know what that's like. The way I love you, the way I want you, how
could I blame him? And how could I blame you?”
        Her hand quickened on him again, and she smiled at his groan of
pleasure. “Unbelievable,” she murmured.
        “You are,” he moaned into the silence.
        She smiled indulgently and kissed him. “Thank you, love, but that
wasn't what I meant. I was remembering that first day. The bath. You and Harry
holding me, and how afraid I was of this.” She jiggled his erection as she
stroked it. “This wonderful, happy friendly thing! It scared me so much, Ron!”
        Ron's voice was husky. “You don't seem scared of it now.”
        “Scared of it?” There was humour in Hermione's voice. “Oh, no, Ron. I'm
hungry for it! I crave it. I love to feel it in my hand, Ron, and I want to
feel it inside me. It's so stout and jolly, and I want to feel it pushing into
me. And Harry's, Ron! Harry's, so straight and slender, I love it in my hand,
the way it feels, so elegant and sleek, and oh, God, what it will be like
probing into me, straight as a lance!”
        Ron's groans were louder now. “Oh, Godric, Hermione, I don't know what
I want more! To fuck you myself, or to see what you're like together! I've
known how you feel around my fingers, and oh, Sweet Rowena's Cunt, I've
imagined how you'll feel around my cock! But, God, the two best things in my
world, Hermione? They're your face and Harry's when you're coming. That's so
fucking amazing just wanking, I think I may come all over the two of you just
watching you fuck!”
        His fingers were reaching for her center, but she shook her head. “No,
Ron, just let me please you. I don't feel right, being touched down there
during my period. I don't feel clean.”
        “We know cleaning charms, love,” said Harry's voice, and he was against
her back, his erection pressed up towards his belly, the length of it nestling
between the cheeks of her arse.
        “Sorry mate, did we wake you?”
        There was laughter in Harry's voice as his hand slid across Hermione's
hip, and down through the nest of curls. “You're shaking the bed.”
        “Sorry, Harry,” Ron said, as Hermione squirmed and murmured, “Harry,
please, don't. I know it's irrational, but I just don't feel right.”
        “All right, love,” Harry replied, his hand sliding up her belly, under
her – his – t-shirt. “Your tits are still on-sides, right?”
        She giggled as he nuzzled under her ear, then gasped as his fingers
found her nipples. “Oh, God, yes, Harry, they're entirely in-bounds!”
        At the sound of her groan, Ron came messily under the sheet onto her
belly and chest. She dragged her fingertips through the puddle on the sheet,
and brought them to her lips.
        Harry moaned and thrust his cock up between her cheeks, the head
sliding against the small of her back, as she licked her fingers clean and then
reached up to the headboard of the bed to recover her wand.
        The cleaning charm was quick and quiet, and she kissed Ron again as she
moved a bit more toward him, then rolled onto her back to grasp Harry's freed
erection and begin to stroke, kissing him with a fierce tenderness.
        “So, how much did you hear, mate?” asked Ron with a smile. “Did you
hear our love here craving your sleek, elegant willie?”
        “Uh-huh.” Harry's voice was distracted as he broke the kiss. “I'll tell
you this, though, Ron, she doesn't want it any more than I want to feel her
soft, warm fanny squeezing it as I slide into her.”
        Hermione groaned as she pumped at him, and Ron's hand joined Harry's on
her breasts.
        “Yeah, it's a hell of a thought, mate, isn't it? I think her eyes will
go all dark and narrow, and she'll pull her lip between her teeth, you know
that adorable thing she does, when she's really concentrating?”
        “Oh, fuck, yeah,” said Harry, as Hermione's breath hitched under their
fingers. Ron let his fingers surround her breast, moved it, feeling the weight
of it in his palm as his thumb stropped languidly across her nipple.
        “And then she'll set her shoulders back in the bed, won't she?” said
Ron, “And bring her hips up to meet you. And she'll say harder and faster and
like that, 'cause she's a little bossy-boots is our Hermione!”
        “You better believe it,” she growled, and nipped at Harry's jawline
with her teeth.
        “Oh, an' Harry,” Ron finished. “Think how she'll squeeze you when she
comes!”
        “Fuck, Ron!” Harry grunted, and ejaculated, a long, forceful, juddering
orgasm that undid Hermione's cleaning charm and then some.
        As she had before, she scooped some of the jism onto her fingers, and
sucked those fingers into her mouth, and Ron licked his lips and groaned
against her neck.
        Again she brought her wand down, and cleaned up after her lover, then
she lay on her back, concentrating for a moment, and cast another cleaning
charm, quieter, gentler, on her own crotch. She snaked he arms under and around
her boys, and looked back and forth between them with a wicked grin.
        “I still don't feel clean,” she said, and her voice held an edge of
desperation. “But you know what they say. It's only dirty if you do it right!”
        Harry and Ron smirked at each other across her sweaty form in the dark,
and as one, their hands and mouths moved to her.
 
===============================================================================
        It looked like a naked, blue-grey man with a television instead of a
head.
        Harry and Ron exchanged a wary glance, but Hermione was moving forward,
bringing them with her. She looked over at Madam Pomfrey. “How long will it
last?”
        “About four hours,” Poppy Pomfrey replied. She looked at her young
apprentices. “Now, it's terribly important that you remember: This is not a
living thing. It has nerves and veins and muscles and bones and cartilage and
blood, but it is not alive. It has a heart but no soul. It has no brain at all.
It cannot feel pain!”
        She walked a slow circle around the three teen-agers. “It is designed
to respond as if it feels, but this is mere sleight of magic. You will see
indicators in this screen that will show heart rate, respiration, blood -
pressure, temperature, and yes, the levels of pain that a living thing would be
feeling. But this is not a living thing, and it feels nothing! Do you all
understand me?”
        “Oh, I know all about training homunculi, Madam Pomfrey!” enthused
Hermione. “I've read about them! I just hadn't realized you were licensed to
conjure one.”
        Pomfrey had walked over to the table nearest the bed on which the
homunculus lay, looking back at Harry and Ron. “And you boys? Do you understand
as well?”
        They nodded, both saying, “Yes, Madame Pomfrey.”
        “Excellent!” she said, lifting the 16-pound sledge hammer from the
table, and she turned and swung it in a mighty overhand blow that crashed down
on the thing's left knee, with a loud, horrible crunch!
        The homunculus bolted upright, arms flailing, and she brought the
sledge down again on the same knee, mangling it further. The homunculus was
clawing at the smashed, bleeding joint, jagged ends of pale-grey bone
protruding up through grey-blue flesh, it's television-head thrashing around.
        Harry, Ron and Hermione were staring at her, faces pale, eyes wide,
mouths hanging open.
        “You–” Hermione managed to gasp. “You–”
        “Well, don't just stand there!” Pomfrey barked. “Heal it!”
===============================================================================
        “That,” said Ron, as they moved toward the Floo, “was the single most
disturbing experience of my life. And I'm speaking as a guy who once vomited
slugs for a day!”
        Hermione made a small, choking sound, her eyes closing for a moment,
then she shook her head, and said briskly, “We could never in a million years
have learned a tenth as much about healing broken bones and internal injuries,
Ron, any other way! Imagine if we'd had to learn the old-fashioned way, on real
patients?”
        The thought stilled all three of them for a moment, as they imagined
the results of their early, miscalculated bone-knitting spells on a living
breathing human being, and Ron turned a shade of green not seen since just
before his first Quidditch match. Hermione's eyes squeezed shut a moment
longer.
        She drew in a ragged breath, and then began again, “Of course, during
the latter 1930s, during Grindelwald's rise to power, the Germans proposed
using Inferi–”
        The boys swung around and stared at her, eyes even wider than before.
        She raised her chin, and continued, “Yes, well...” Another unsteady
breath. “So, we're well off, all things considered, wouldn't you say?”
        The boys regarded one another for a long, wide-eyed moment, before
turning their gazes slowly back to Hermione.
        Harry had just opened his mouth to speak when the flames in the
fireplace roared green, and a head appeared, male, dignified, black, with deep
blue eyes, very pale grey hair, and his wand jammed into his throat. The three
teenagers just had time to cover their ears when the voice boomed out:
        “Poppy! Poppy Pomfrey, are you there!?!?”
        The Mediwitch raced from her office to address the elderly man in the
Floo.
        “Eligius! What is it?”
        “Hello, Poppy,” the man, Eligius, said. “We've got overflow. How many
patients can you take right now?”
        Pomfrey's eyes flickered to Harry, Hermione and Ron. “What sort of
injuries?”
        “A lot of broken bones, redskin, blister, and blackskin burns, residual
Cruciatus pain.”
        Pomfrey looked horrified. “And you have overflow?”
        Harry stepped over, his hand reaching back to touch Ron's. “Who did
they hit?”
        “Oh, bugger!” Ron's eyes were widening in realization, as Hermione's
fist went to her mouth. “Bloody Death Eaters!”
        Eligius glanced over at him. “The Daily Prophet. They went after
everyone from paperboys to the publishers.”
        Harry's face was white, his voice cold. “How many dead?”
        “Three,” said Eligius. “Mr. Potter, I have no time to tell you more, I
have patients I can't treat! Poppy?”
        “We can take six. That's all the beds we have.”
        Eligius seemed surprised. “You have the manpower?”
        “I have three Trainees here,” Pomfrey told him firmly. “They're up to
the tasks of broken bones, burns, and general palliative care. I wouldn't ask
them for more than that.”
        “Nor will I.” The head nodded to the Trio. “Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley,
Ms. Granger, I'm Eligius St. Westphall, head of Emergency Medicine for St.
Mungo's. Are you prepared to deal with patient care?”
        “Yes, sir!” said Harry, immediately and firmly. He glanced at his
friends. “I have to help. It's my responsibility.”
        “Not this time, Hero Boy,” muttered Hermione, a hint of dark humor in
her face. “My parents did that for me. It's my fault for a change.”
        Ron just nodded. “Whatever we can do.”
        “All right,” said Eligius. “Make room, please.”
        Pomfrey shooed her trainees back away from the Floo, and an entire
hospital bed came through, containing a writhing, moaning figure, blackened
along its left side, a hospital orderly pushing along behind it. Another bed
followed, and another and another, six in all, and Pomfrey shrunk the Hospital
Wing's own beds out of sight, and rolled the new ones into their places.
        Pomfrey gestured her charges towards two of the beds. “Go between, help
both, you know what to do.”
        And with that she was leaning over the nearest patient, casting
Palliatus and summoning a burn-care ointment.
        The trio moved where Pomfrey had sent them, and Hermione turned towards
the bed on the left, muttering, over her shoulder, “You two take that one.”
        And then they, too were summoning potions and ointments, healing bones
and burns, casting Palliatus again and again.
        Soon, the middle-aged man Harry and Ron were working on was sleeping
comfortably, bones healed, and skin shiny and pink, and Hermione's, a black man
in his twenties, groaned gratefully as she rubbed potion over the last of his
burns.
        They glanced at Pomfrey, who was on her third patient, and moved on to
the last bed. This held a young woman, the first through the Floo, her left
side blackened and charred, her right leg mangled, and her face heavily bruised
and misshapen by a broken jaw.
        She looked up at them as they moved up beside her, and her eyes
widened. “H- Hermione?” She could barely form the words. “Harry? R-Ron?”
        They stared at her for a moment, at her broken, misshapen face, before
finally realizing – Ron would later confess to the others, with some shame,
that what he'd recognized first was her acne – that it was Eloise Midgen, a
Hufflepuff in their year.
        “Hi, Eloise,” Harry told her softly, as Ron and Hermione cast repeated
Palliatus charms, and began straightening that mangled leg. “Not such a great
day, huh?”
        She started a fractional shake of her head, and stiffened, her eyes
squeezing shut.
        “No, stay still,” Harry told her. “It's OK, we can help. Let me help.”
He leveled his wand at her chin. “Palliatus! Palliatus!”
        Ron and Hermione began working on the charring on her left side as
Harry drew a breath and cast a bone-healing charm on her jaw. That side of her
face seemed to writhe as the segments of bone moved together under her skin,
and her face began to resume its normal dimensions. He moved up to her
cheekbone, and heard a gasp from Ron.
        Harry glanced over. Hermione was using her wand, casting healing
spells, rebuilding deep tissues, while Ron was gently spreading potion over
burned, charred flesh, leaving fresh, clean, pink skin behind him.
        In his hands now, shining and slick from the potion, was Eloise's right
breast, beautifully shaped, firm and creamy, topped with a pert, pink nipple.
Harry's eyes flashed up to Ron's, wide, surprised. There had been no pause in
the gentle, soothing, healing work of Ron's hands, and already they were moving
up towards her collarbone, turning blackened, charred flesh into pink, healthy
new skin.
        Harry turned back to Eloise's face, unlovely at the best of times. Her
eyes met his, and some knowledge passed between them, knowledge of what Harry
had seen, of the discovery he'd made, and her lips curled into the ghost of a
smile.
        “Feels... good...” she managed to breathe. “Weird...” She closed her
eyes for a moment, and suddenly coughed. Flecks of blood appeared on her lips.
        “Madam Pomfrey!” Harry called. Eloise coughed again, more blood, and he
looked frantically over his shoulder for the Mediwitch, who was looking up from
her patient, her hands actually disappearing inside his chest.
        “It will have to wait, Harry.” Her voice was gentle, but firm.
        “She's coughing!” There was a hint of panic in Harry's voice. “There's
blood!”
        “Suction the blood with your wand, Harry, so she won't choke on it.
I'll be there as soon as I can.”
        Harry's eyes widened, and Hermione told him, “Combibus, Harry!”
        Harry nodded, moving the tip of his wand to the edge of Eloise's mouth.
“Combibus!”
        Blood flowed into the wand without a noise or extra motion, pouring out
of her mouth like a colourized Aguamenti in reverse, and she bolted up into
another spasmodic cough. Harry struggled to keep his sucking wand in position,
and a large blossom of blood bloomed in her mouth, reminding Harry of a time-
lapse film he'd once seen of red Poppies blooming in the spring. It was more
than the suction from Harry's wand could handle, and blood splashed down onto
Eloise's chest.
        “Harry....” Her eyes locked on his, wide, frightened, and then,
suddenly, they held a moment of surprise, of discovery, and she breathed the
word, “Oh!”
        And there was no-one looking out from behind her eyes, no more fear in
them, nor pain, nor surprise, as she fell away from Harry, slumped back down on
the bed.
        The open eyes looked at nothing, the slack face offered neither
absolution nor blame, and Harry's fingers scrabbled for the pulse-point in her
neck, knowing what he'd find.
        “There's no pulse!”
        “I'll start CPR!” cried Hermione, but Pomfrey's voice snapped, “No!”
        “What?” Hermione looked back around toward her. “But she's–”
        “No, child.” Pomfrey's voice was calm now, kind, as she made a last
pass over the chest of her patient, and moved around to them. “She was coughing
blood. That means there were internal injuries that CPR is as likely as not to
make worse. Look.”
        She cast a series of diagnostic spells.
        The first showed green over the healed areas, red over the remaining
injuries, but the colours were all dull, lifeless. “There's nothing you can do,
child. You see? There's no spirit here. She's gone.”
        Another diagnostic spell.
        “Look, see here? She was hit with Percussus, and the shock weakened the
walls of her heart as well as shredding the lung. There was so little structure
to the lung that the deep-healing spell you cast caused the lung to actually
grow into the weak spot on her heart. When it opened up, it began to pump blood
directly into her lung.”
        Hermione's voice was a breath. “Then I killed her.”
        “No, child!” Pomfrey's voice was firm. “Death Eaters killed her. You
did your best to undo the damage. This is not your fault.”
        Hermione's eyes met hers. “Could you have saved her?”
        Pomfrey paused for a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”
        “Then I did–”
        “No. Miss– Hermione. You have limitations. We all have limitations, I
no less than you. There will always, no matter how skilled you become, even if
you dedicate your entire lives to the healing arts, be patients you cannot
save. This was a patient who was beyond your capabilities. That is not a
failing on your part. You did the very best you could with the knowledge and
training I've given you.” She paused. “And there are patients sleeping soundly
and painlessly in this very room who can testify that your best is very good
indeed. If you call yourself a murderer every time you can't save someone,
you'll–”
        “Become me,” Harry said quietly, his brows together, and his eyes
looking inside himself. “You'll become me!” He turned to Hermione now, his eyes
on hers. “Don't do it, love,” he told her, his voice very soft. “Don't.”
        He turned to look down at Eloise Midgen's body, reached a tender hand
to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “I'm sorry, Eloise.”
        And he pulled a sheet from the table beside the bed, and drew it over
her.
===============================================================================
        The three of them sat together on a visitor's chair that Harry had
transfigured into a small couch in a corner of the Hospital Wing, watching
Aurors and other Ministry officials come and go.
        Tonks had come and very gently taken their statement, Hermione weeping
openly as she described the spells and charms she had used, while Ron and Harry
stroked her back and her hair, Ron translating those portions she'd been unable
to say clearly through her sobs.
        She'd broken down again seeing the covered bed bearing Eloise's small,
unmoving form drawn back through the Floo.
        The boys were so involved in holding and comforting her that they
barely noticed the form that approached them, until the figure cleared his
throat.
        Eligius St. Westphall was, as it turned out, extraordinarily tall,
possibly six-and-a-half-feet, and Harry found himself wondering if it had hurt
the man's back to squat down enough to speak through the Floo. But he squatted
gracefully, bringing himself to their eye level, and placed a gentle, wrinkled
hand on Hermione's, clasped in her lap.
        “Miss Granger – all three of you, really – on behalf of St. Mungo's, I
wish to offer my thanks. You have all done extraordinary work here, and your
lifesaving work is greatly appreciated.”
        Hermione gulped, managing a grateful nod, which her boys mirrored.
        St. Westphall turned back to Hermione. “Miss Granger, I understand how
traumatic it is to lose a patient, especially to lose your very first. I still
sometimes weep for a man called Reginald Paracelsus, who died beneath my wand
in 1953. Poppy told me how... personally you've taken this loss. You see it as
your failure, and young Miss Midgen's death as your doing. I tell you again
what Poppy told you. It was not! Miss Midgen was murdered by Death Eaters. Her
killers have been captured. They will be tried, they will be convicted, and
they will not see the outside of Azkaban again.
        “But I will tell you something else as well, something you must all
remember. I know well the siren song of self-recrimination. To this day, I
still think back on poor Mr. Paracelsus and sing it to myself. I know in my
mind, in my brain, that it was not my fault. There was nothing I could do for
him. But my heart whispers its treacherous lies, and sometimes, sometimes, in
the dark hours of the night, I believe them.
        “It is normal for you to feel the guilt you feel. It is normal for you
to feel like you've failed. And it is normal to begin to think too much, to
believe that, where there's smoke there's fire, and where there's guilt there
must also be culpability.
        “I tell you now: there is not!I have reviewed the records quite
thoroughly, and I am here to tell you that any of the healers in my Emergency
Room who conducted themselves as you have here today would receive
commendations, and you, too, shall be receiving them. It is true that the
immediate cause of death for Miss Midgen was the deep-healing spell you
performed. I do not lie to you. But I will tell you that any healer in my
Emergency Room who had failed such an attempt would have been suspended from
duty. Do you understand me?”
        The three nodded mutely.
        “No,” he said. “Not good enough, by half. I want to hear you say it,
please. Do you understand me?”
        Hermione swallowed, drew in a shuddering breath, and squeezed her boys’
hands. “I understand,” she said, and Ron, then Harry, followed suit. “I
understand.” “Yes, sir. I understand.”
        St. Westphall smiled at them. “You don't believe me, of course. That's
to be expected. But let it at least sink in.” He reached out and tapped
Hermione's forehead. “Let it at least stay here.” He stood, turned toward the
Floo, then turned back. “Oh,” he said. “You must also remember that without
your intervention, Evan Jordan and Barnabus Cuffe would be dead now. And that's
a fact!”
        The three stared at one another.
        “Evan Jordan?” asked Ron.
        “He's Lee's brother,” said a soft, faraway voice, quite nearby, and
they turned to see Luna Lovegood standing by their couch. “The families insist
he's a cousin, but, you know...” She touched her necklace of Butterbeer corks.
“It was the only way to hide him from the Rotfang Conspiracy.”
        “Luna?” Harry blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
        “I came with my father. He's here to talk to Mr. Cuffe.”
        Hermione looked back down to her feet, pulling her lower lip between
her teeth. Harry could almost see her gaze turning inward.
        “You must feel terribly guilty, Hermione,” said Luna, as casually as if
she was saying it was raining.
        Hermione's gaze snapped up to hers, and Luna's large, bright, blue eyes
regarded her frankly.
        “That's all right. It's what's supposed to happen. I felt guilty for
three years and four months after my mother died, and I didn't even have
anything to do with that.”
        “Three years and four months?” asked Ron. “That's... really specific.
What happened? How did you stop?”
        “I got distracted.”
        Hermione's eyes widened, and she felt a small laugh escape her. She
managed a small, grateful smile at Luna. “Why is your father speaking to Mr.
Cuffe?”
        “Oh, we're offering to let him use the Quibbler's offices and
facilities until the Prophet's are rebuilt.”
        “Really?” Hermione seemed surprised.
        “Well, yes.” Luna nodded slowly. “My father says that it's important
that newspapers not be silenced by evil. Without the news, the public would be
misinformed. After all, without the Quibbler, the public wouldn't know anything
about the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, Oh, or Voldemort being back, I suppose.”
        “Or that,” Harry agreed. “I suppose not.”
        Luna suddenly reached out to Hermione, who'd started to withdraw again
even as Luna answered her, and ran a gentle hand down her cheek in a slow,
tender caress. “Don't worry, Hermione,” she said. “You'll get distracted, too.”
===============================================================================
        It was maybe an hour later that Tonks returned to them.
        She squatted down, ran a gentle hand down the side of Hermione's face,
looking among the three of them. “Listen. I've just heard from Professor
Dumbledore. He was thinking that dealing with the Dursleys tonight might be a
bit much. Sirius and Remus have invited you to stay the night with them. Would
you like that?”
        Hermione swallowed, nodding silently. And Ron and Harry nodded their
assent as well.
        “Where?” Harry asked. “Grimmauld Place?”
        Tonks shook her head, with a half-smile. “Nah. You know how Sirius
hates that place, and now that he isn't a fugitive, well, he could finally buy
something else.”
        “Where is it?” asked Hermione, trying to show an interest.
        “Dunno,” said Tonks. “Remus hasn't– You know...”
        Hermione leaned closer to her, and murmured, “Fidelius?”
        “Right,” said Tonks.
        “So, do they, er...” Ron was blushing a bit. “Do they live, er...
together?”
        Tonks looked a little downcast. “Yeah, pretty much.” She looked back up
at them. “Sirius bought a house for himself and one for Remus, and they say
they're going to split their time. The Den – that's Remus' place – is up in the
fens outside Cambridge. I get the feeling Sirius wanted his to be a bit more
urban. I think maybe in Cardiff or Edinburgh.”
        They were quiet a few more minutes, as Tonks began shifting
uncomfortably, biting her lip. Finally, she reached out to Hermione, laying a
hand on her knee. “Hermione, can I ask you a question?”
        Hermione nodded. “Sure, Tonks.”
        Tonks indicated the boys with an angle of her head. “What's it like?”
        “Tonks!” cried Hermione, embarrassed, as the boys sputtered, and Harry
managed to choke out, “We haven't!”
        “No, no, no!” said Tonks. “Not that! I wouldn't ask–” she suddenly
looked at Harry. “You haven't?Really?”
        Harry blushed deeply, and Tonks waved off her own question. “Anyway,
that's not what I'm asking. I just mean...” She looked seriously back at
Hermione. “You love 'em, right? Both of them? I can see it, you know. Anyone
can. It's in the way they're there for you now, the way they touch you, the way
they comfort you. They way you accept their touch.”
        “Yes, Tonks,” said Hermione, and although her voice was very quiet, it
was also proudly defiant. “I love both of my boys very, very much.”
        “Annat... An’ that works, does it? Loving the two of 'em? Them both
loving you?”
        “We are right here, you know, Tonks!” said Ron.
        “Oh, hush!” she replied tartly. “We're talking girl-talk. Feelings an'
that! You don't count!”
        Hermione reached a hand out to Ron's knee, leaned back on Harry's
chest. “It works, Tonks.”
        Tonks grinned. “Ace!”
        Harry reached up, and ran a gentle hand down Hermione's arm.
        “I don't suppose we got any of them,” he said to Tonks.
        She frowned at him. “What?”
        “The Death Eaters,” said Harry. “I don't suppose–”
        “You mean– Nobody told you? Harry, we got eight of 'em! Including Aunt
Bellatrix! We weren't ready for the scope of it, but we had Kingsley and me
and, hell, half the Auror office at the Prophet!We cleaned house, Harry!”
        Harry blinked owlishly at her, processing the information. “We...
Cleaned...”
        “Yes, Harry! You didn't think we let the Grangers do that interview
without a plan, did you?”
        Harry opened his mouth, then shut it again, and was saved from
answering by the arrival of Remus Lupin, who handed the four of them a rolled-
up piece of parchment, reading, “The Home of Sirius Black is The Kennel, at
Number Sixty-Two, Wyndie Lane, Dagenham, Essex.”
        Ron grinned. “The Kennel?”
        Remus returned the smile. “Come, then, friends, let us away.”
        And he led them toward the Floo.
===============================================================================
        The were greeted with enthusiastic hugs from a weary-looking Sirius,
who also kissed Remus thoroughly before leading them on a tour of the lovely,
modest suburban bungalow, all pleasant wood paneling and large windows looking
out on the night-time town.
        Their bedroom – “Not a guest room,” Sirius had said, firmly, with a
wide smile, “This one is yours.” – was spacious and airy, with a vast, high
bed, and there were clothes for each of them in the cupboard and chest of
drawers.
        An hour later, they lay, curled on one another, beneath the comforter,
listening to music from another room.
        Hermione's shoulders began shaking again, and Harry and Ron snuggled
closer to her, stroking her hair, her arms, her back, and finally she lifted
her head.
        “Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!”
        “No, love,” Harry crooned, stroking her hair. “No.”
        But she pushed her self up to look at him by the city lights, leaking
in through the window. “Yes, Harry. I'm sorry. I never realized. I never knew!
I was... I tried to be patient, before, but I never knew what it was like. Oh,
Harry! Do you ever close your eyes without seeing him?”
        The vision of Cedric Diggory, eyes wide, face limp, limbs slack, swam
again to the surface. He shook his head. “No, love. Not really.”
        “Oh, I'm so sorry, Harry. I never understood how it felt. I was so
impatient with your guilt! I had the gall to dismiss it!” Her voice became a
bitter imitation of itself. “’A saving-people thing!” She reached a hand to his
face. “Oh, Harry. I get it now! I can hear that... that siren song. I know, you
know. I know I'm not to blame, I know that the blame lies entirely with the
Death Eaters. I know that.... but I don't believe it.”
        Harry kissed her, gently, tenderly. “I know you don't, love. I know.”
        “Harry.... You can't tell me not to blame myself while you carry your
load. You know that, right? And you know it's not your fault Cedric died.”
        Harry smiled, slightly, grimly. “I know it. I don't believe it.”
        “Then I'll make you a deal,” Hermione told him. “I want you to remind
me, OK? I want you to remind me, when I begin to wallow, that Eloise was killed
by Death Eaters. Can you do that for me?”
        “Of course, Hermione,” said Harry quietly.
        “And I'll remind you that the same is true of Cedric. Is it a deal?
You'll try to keep me from beating myself up, and I'll do the same for you.”
        “All right, love,” Harry murmured, feeling strangely like he was
letting go of a piece of his own identity. “All right.”
        “An' I'll call you both on it if you forget,” added Ron, pressing a
gentle kiss into Hermione's neck.
***** Chapter Fourteen: "Yes, We're going to a Party, Party" *****
            Chapter Fourteen: "Yes, We're going to a Party, Party"
===============================================================================
     The door into the Trio's bedroom was at one end of a long hallway on the
second floor of the Kennel. On the opposite end was the master bedroom, and in
between, toward the rear of the house, a guestroom, and toward the front, the
stairs. Drifting up those stairs was the sound of an acoustic guitar, an
emotional, rich and soulful sound, a song that cried tears of joy and sadness.
Following the sound of music down the stairs and to the left would bring you
into a pleasant living room, where Sirius and Tonks sat comfortably on the
couch, Sirius' feet up in Tonks' lap, while, on a straight chair nearby, Remus
Lupin played a lovely old Fender, his eyes half closed as the fingers of his
left hand bent the strings into higher, crying notes.
     “What's it called?” asked Sirius, quietly, and Remus replied, without
opening his eyes or turning his head, “Europa. By an American – well, Mexican-
born, actually – Muggle named Carlos Santana.”
     “It's beautiful,” said Tonks.
     Remus still didn't open his eyes, but he smiled at the comment, nodding
his agreement.
     They sat a moment, listening to Remus play, and Sirius glanced at the
stairs.
     “God, it feels so good, having them up there,” he said.
     Tonks frowned at him, for speaking as Remus played, but the werewolf
smiled. “Yes, it does. It's all right to talk, Tonks. I don't mind.” He leaned
into the neck a bit, as his fingers danced across the fretboard, and then
finally looked at her. “I'm not looking for an audience, just enjoying myself.”
     She returned his smile, her cheeks coloring a bit, then glanced away from
him, over to the stairs. “I'm worried about them.”
     “I daresay between the three of us,” Remus said, “we can keep them safe
overnight.”
     “Not that,” said Tonks. “When the Dementors attacked the Travelers' game,
Harry told me he wanted to stay and fight, and Ron told him that they weren't
ready. They'd have to learn the combat moves.” She looked up at Remus, then
over to Sirius. “He's right. They will have to. And who's going to teach them?”
     “I will,” said Sirius. “It's my job now. Defense against the Dark Arts.”
     “And you know what, exactly,” asked Tonks, “about how to fight and duel
while physically attached to two other people?”
     The music suddenly stopped, as Remus' head snapped toward Tonks.
     Sirius sat back, leaned his head back against the top of the back of the
couch.
     “Fuck,” they said.
     The silence hung for another moment, and then there was music again, deep
and bluesy, and Tonks recognized it after a moment as Wandless Bobby Bones'
Azkaban, Azkaban.
     “I'll come up with something,” said Sirius. “You both in on this?”
     “'Course!” said Tonks. Remus just smirked at him.
     Sirius eyed them both for a long time, before grinning a savage grin. “All
right, then,” he said, and suddenly he was singing, his voice a throaty, meaty
growl: “...swallowed my sanity whole! But as long as I know that she's waiting
for me, believe I'll hang onto my soul. Aaaaazkaban, Aaaaaazkaban, you'll never
take my soul!”
===============================================================================
     Ron frowned over at Sirius as they rounded the corner into the “Tinned
Meats” aisle – which Ron, in fact, thought was a decidedly odd way to treat the
stuff anyway – and said, to him, sotto voce, “I thought you said this was a
Muggle town.”
     It had been Sirius who'd suggested this shopping expedition, grinning at
Remus and Tonks behind their backs, claiming he wanted to stock up on Muggle-
style foods – “For entertaining!” – and coffee-making supplies. (“One thing I
learned when I was on the run: Muggles make better coffee than wizards, and
it's the grinders and coffeemakers that make it happen.”)
     Sirius glanced down the aisle at the woman Ron was eyeing warily. She was
shortish, with startlingly pale eyes, and hair a dark purple Tonks would have
been proud of.
     “I see what you mean,” breathed Sirius, leaning his head back a bit. “It's
not Tonks, her scent's wrong. I...”
     Hermione snorted at him. “There's a thing we have in the Muggle world,
Sirius: Hair Dye.”
     “And that yellow helmet's a typical Muggle fashion accessory?”
     The woman glanced back up them, smiled, seemingly right at Ron.
     “Yeah, let's just head out,” Ron told Sirius. “I dunno why, but she really
gives me the creeps.”
     But she made no threatening moves as they made their way back out of the
shop again, and Sirius shrugged. “Probably nothing, but best be safe. I wish we
were staying out longer, though.”
     Ron looked up at the sky, unusually blue and clear, compared to the recent
grey fog, and nudged Hermione with his elbow, as he agreed, “It is a beautiful
day.”
     She looked up at him under her lashes. “He wants to give Remus some time
alone with Tonks, Ron.”
     “Don't be daft,” Ron said. “He's with Remus.”
     Sirius snickered, “Absolutely, Hermione,” he said. “Don't be daft. How
could you of all people possibly think there could be room in a romance for a
third person?”
     They both looked back at Ron, whose eyes were widening. “You're joking!”
     “Why would I be?” Sirius grinned at him again. “We shared Celestina
Warbeck, after all.”
     Ron smirked. “You guys really are the coolest–”
     “No, we're not,” said Sirius, with a smile. “You two get to share the
brightest witch of her age!” Hermione's eyes widened, and she blushed deeply,
reaching across Harry to start smacking Sirius's shoulder, as he continued,
“And the brightest-red witch of her age, too!”
     “Oh, mate,” Ron began, “you are totally--”
     “Perhaps,” Hermione interrupted, “it's because they are young enough to
have the stamina to keep up with me!”
     Ron and Harry were suddenly staring at her, wide-eyed.
     “I mean, I'm sure, old fellow” she continued, “Once upon a time, long ago,
you might have been in Harry's league...”
     Sirius laughed merrily, now, eyes twinkling. “I'm half in love with you
myself, now!” he cried. “Goodness, clever-boots, I didn't think you had it in
you!”
     “What?” asked Hermione. “To be boldly forward in speech or behavior;
impertinent; saucy?”
     Sirius clearly sensed the trap, but saw no way out. “Yes...”
     “Well, you should have, Sirius,” she replied, archly. “That's exactly what
pert means!”
===============================================================================
     “Poor girl?” shouted Tonks, throwing Remus Lupin a look that went past
dirty and filthy to positively septic.
     Remus looked over to Sirius and the Trio, but the three teenagers had all
planted their faces in their palms in a unanimous gesture of dismay, and Sirius
was holding his hands up towards his friend and lover, shaking his head
rapidly. “Oh, no, mate,” he said, “You jumped into this hole yourself, don't
look at me!”
     Remus deflated, turned back to Tonks. “Look, I didn't mean to imply that
you're not entirely capable of taking care of yourself. I just feel that it's
unfair of Sirius to be throwing me at you like that. I'm not.... I'm not that
safe to be around. You think you understand my--”
     “I don't think I understand that! I know I don't understand your 'Furry
Little Problem!' It's just that I don't care about that!” She pointed at Ron
and Hermione. “Look at them! You think you turning hairy once a month is more
dangerous than having Riddle mark you for death? But there they stand by his
side, because they love him!”
     “Well, we are stuck to him,” said Ron, grinning cheekily until Hermione's
elbow met his ribs.
     “Shut it, Ron!” she hissed.
     But Tonks was actually clamping her lips over an impulse to smile at Ron's
cheeky aside, and she took a deep, calming breath, glancing back gratefully at
the ginger-haired boy.
     “Look, Remus, Sirius left us alone because I asked him to, all right?
Because I care about you. Because I think I love you. At first, with Sirius
back, I thought it was impossible, but it's not, because they can do it.” She
angled her head at Hermione and Ron and Harry, all of them blushing vividly
again. “Your boyfriend flies on a motorcycle; you're a werewolf. I can turn
into--” her face and body suddenly flowed and reformed, and standing where
Tonks had been was Gromit, the animated plasticine dog “--anything!” She looked
soulfully up at him for a moment with wise plasticine eyes before starting to
flow back into her normally accustomed form. “Are you really going to try to
tell me that anything – much less a relationship – is impossible?”
     “You are assuming--” Remus began stiffly, but Sirius interrupted him.
     “Oh, don't even bother, Moony,” cried Sirius, tapping his nose. “I can
smell the desire on you, you know I can.”
     It was Lupin's turn to plant his face in his palm. “Sirius, regardless of
whatever is in the air between Tonks and myself, I'm with you.”
     “You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me,” Sirius sang, in a fairly good
impression of Celestina Warbeck.
     “And look how well that worked out!” said Remus.
     “That,” said Sirius, “is because she was a cow! Tonks is... Well, hell,
she's Tonks, isn't she?”
     Remus looked back and forth between his lover and his would-be lover with
the eyes of a trapped animal, before glancing at the clock. “Oh, dear!” he
cried. “Look at the time! We really must be getting these three back to Little
Whinging!”
     The hooded gaze Tonks turned on him should have vaporized him on the spot.
“I'll take them,” she spat. “Safer for them and you!”
===============================================================================
     “You really mustn't blame him, Tonks,” said Hermione, as they walked up
Privet Drive. “It is an awful lot to take in.”
     “You lot seem to be handling it all right,” Tonks replied bitterly.
     “It was forced on us,” said Hermione, sadly. “Because I didn't know
better.”
     Harry and Ron both spun to stare at Hermione, and Ron said, “Look, Tonks,
the fact is, the two best words I ever heard in my whole life were Nuptialis
and Unum.” Now Hermione's head snapped up, as wide and intent on his. “But it
wasn't something I knew beforehand. I was always the jealous berk who freaked
out when Hermione even looked at another guy, and too insecure to tell her how
much I loved her. How the hell was I supposed to know loving Hermione was a two
man job? How was I supposed to know it would be a thousand times better with
Harry there to help me do it?”
     Now Harry was staring at him, too, his expression stunned.
     “Look,” Ron continued, “all I'm saying is, this is not anything you come
into prepared for. Nobody teaches you to think of true love coming in threes.”
     Tonks finally looked up at him. “You think he'll come around, Ron?”
     Ron nodded with his lopsided smile. “Yeah, I reckon. I mean, he was a
Marauder. An' now he's got Sirius t' help remind him of it. Yeah, I reckon
he'll come around.” He glanced over at Hermione, who was still staring at him
with wide, shining eyes, and Harry, whose green eyes were only slightly drier.
“What?”
===============================================================================
     When they arrived at Number Four, they heard voices in the living room,
and the sight they saw there stopped the four of them in their tracks. Dudley
Dursley, blond and porcine, was sitting, speaking, to a slender girl with long,
blonde hair, who was scratching down his words as fast as she could with a
long, lank-feathered quill on a scroll of parchment. A long, slender wand was
tucked behind one dainty ear, pinning her hair back, and giving an excellent
view of a radish earring.
     “Well, I have to admit, now that I've been thinking about it, he's not bad
to have around,” Dudley was saying. “He does an awful lot of work and chores,
to tell the truth.”
     Harry backed his friends back out of the room, and they stood for a moment
more, listening in silence.
     “How do you think you treat Harry?” Luna asked.
     “Well...” Dudley's voice was very quiet. “Not very well, I guess. But, I
mean, he is... Well, no.”
     “Did you ever hurt him?”
     Harry turned wide eyes toward Ron then Hermione, then finally back to
Tonks. All seemed transfixed by the very weirdness of the moment.
     There was a long pause.
     “Yes,” Dudley's voice breathed. “Me and my friends used to thump him, all
the time.”
     “Was it easy to do?” Luna seemed only vaguely interested.
     “Not really. For a skinny little bloke, he always put up a real fight.
Gave as good as he got, mostly.”
     “Was it fun?” Again, Luna's voice seemed vague, distant.
     Dudley was silent for a very long time. “No,” he finally said. “No, it
wasn't fun.”
     “Well, it seems to me, you went to an awful lot of trouble to be cruel to
someone smaller than you, and now you tell me you didn't even enjoy it, so I
guess I'm wondering why you did it.”
     Dudley's answer was, if anything, even slower. “I.... I guess I don't
really know.” His voice was suddenly firmer, clearer. “Are... Are you going to
use that in your article?”
     “Oh, I don't think so,” Luna answered, absently. “I'm just here to learn
about the house. You know, how big it is, how many people live here, things
like that.”
     “Then why did you spend the last hour asking me all those questions?”
Dudley asked, not annoyed but simply baffled.
     “Oh,” said Luna, “I just thought you were very interesting. You seem to be
one thing, but becoming another. You have a very conflicted aura.”
     They heard movement, and footsteps approaching, and Luna stepped into the
kitchen, followed by Dudley, who stopped, staring at Harry, his eyes widening.
     “Oh, hello,” said Luna. “I thought I smelled your perfume, Hermione.”
     “My--” Hermione blinked.
     “Oh, yes, you started wearing it around Christmas last Year. It's not very
flattering, really, but it seems to suit you somehow.” She turned toward Harry.
“So, wasn't that interesting?”
     Harry looked back and forth from her to Dudley. “I...”
     “Shouldn't you lot be packing?” Dudley barked at them.
     “I...” said Harry again, then focused on his cousin. “Packing?”
     “Well, you're leaving tomorrow, right?” Dudley demanded. “It is your
birthday. And I know Mum's got things she's wanting done around the house this
afternoon. Anyway, don't look at me for help!” And with that, he pushed past
them and out the back door, heading off around the corner of the garage with a
firm, decisive stride.
     Harry watched him out of sight, then turned back to Luna. “What are you
doing here?” he asked, his voice quiet and confused.
     “I'm helping my father with background. Most of the Prophet staff aren't
well enough to come back to work, yet, so the Quibbler staff is putting out the
Prophet this week. He's doing the story on your medical care for Mr. Cuffe, and
wanted background on where you live. You know, what kind of neighborhood, how
big the house is, that sort of detail.”
     Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “And how long were you interviewing Dudley for
that?”
     “Why, about an hour, I think. I think he's very interesting! He's so
contradictory.”
     “How did you get here?” asked Ron.
     “Oh, I hired a Muggle taxicab.”
     “What, from downtown?” asked Harry.
     “No, from the Burrow,” she said. “I needed to learn about your home, too,
Ronald.” She looked over to Hermione. “Fortunately, your house was blown up.
I'm almost out of those funny Muggle pound notes with the picture of the funny-
looking woman on them.”
     “You took a taxi,” said Hermione. “From Ottery St. Catchpole. That's in
Devon, Luna!”
     “Oh, I know,” Luna said brightly. “Otherwise I never would have found it!”
     “Are you headed back to the Quibbler offices?” asked Tonks. “I could give
you a lift by side-along Apparation.”
     “Oh, thank you, that would be wonderful. I love Apparating. It always
makes me want to throw up.”
     There was a moment's pause.
     “All right, then!” said Tonks, and then, to Harry, Ron and Hermione, “See
ya, you lot!”
     When Tonks and Luna had gone, Harry looked over at Ron and Hermione. “You
know, Dudley's right. I'd completely forgotten the date.” He grinned. “I won't
minding seeing the last of Privet Drive for another year!”
     “I dunno, mate,” said Ron, with a smile, pulling Hermione against him and
resting his chin on her head. “I've had a lot of good times in this house.”
     Hermione smiled, trying in vain to look up at him, then angled her gaze
over at Harry. “He's right, Harry.” She reached a hand up, and lay it over the
breast of his T-shirt. “This will always be a special place to me, too.” She
took his arm, turned him toward the stairs. “Come on. Let's go get packed.”
     Packing took a surprisingly long time. Hermione was as organized and
compulsive as Harry would have expected, and he and Ron exchanged more than one
eye-rolling glance as the project went on.
     After two hours, though, there wasn't a thing left of any of theirs that
wasn't in their trunks, except the clothing they were wearing, and a fresh set
for the next day.
     Their satisfaction gazing around at this achievement, however, was short-
lived, dying in a loudly bellowed “BOY!”
===============================================================================
     It was almost ten that night, when they staggered back into their room,
dirty and sweaty, Hermione rubbing the fingers of her left hand, which had been
broken when Harry almost lost his grip while moving the stove out into the
kitchen so they could clean behind it. Hermione's first gasping cry hadn't
ended yet when both boys were casting Palliatus and Episkey, and almost before
she'd known she was injured, she wasn't.
     They showered languidly, scrubbing one another, massaging tired muscles,
exchanging brief, undemanding kisses with Hermione. They toweled dry, and
collapsed in a naked, sprawling heap on the bed, asleep almost as soon as
Harry's flailing hand turned off the light.
     It was the tickle of Hermione's hair on his chest, not the velvet-warm
moisture of her kisses up his chest, that woke Harry, and he blinked stupidly
in the dark.
     “H-- Hermione?”
     “Yes, love,” she murmured, between kisses that were now making their way
along his collarbone.
     “What time is it?” Harry mumbled.
     “It's midnight, mate,” said Ron, from the other side of Hermione. “Happy
Birthday!”
     Hermione's thigh, warm and silky, slid across his as her kisses trailed up
one side of his neck. “Yes, Harry,” she murmured, her voice throaty, her lips
now brushing against his ear. “Happy Birthday!”
     She was squirming over on top of him;, her thighs around his hips, her
mouth seeking his eagerly.
     She flexed and squirmed against him, and he felt himself growing hard
against her center.
     “I love you, Harry,” she murmured. “And I want this so much.”
     She reached down for his erection with one hand, as she started to
position herself, to position him, and Harry finally found his voice.
“Hermione! No, love.”
     “Wh—What?”
     “No. Not yet,” breathed Harry “Not me. Ron first.”
     “No, mate,” Ron said. “No, it's all right.”
     “Ron first,” Harry repeated.
     “Mate. Really, I--”
     “No, Ron, I mean it. You've had hand-me-downs your whole life. Your first
love will not be-- Oh, hell, this is coming out all wrong.”
     Hermione's voice had an edge to it. “I know I'm your birthday present,
Harry, but I'm not something you can pass around. I can decide for myself!”
     “So can I.” Harry's voice was equally firm. “I can decide for myself too,
and I've decided. I won't do this with you before Ron does. I won't, Hermione.
You two have loved one another for years, and I love that you love me, too,
but... I won't... I won't do this with you before Ron has. You and he belong to
one another in a way I never will.”
     Suddenly, Hermione was lifting herself above Harry's chest, her arm
reaching over, and a soft, dim, golden light, just enough to limn their
expressions, was coming from the lower part of the bedside lamp.
     Hermione, leaning over him, studying him, was the most beautiful thing
he'd ever seen, her breasts full and nipples erect, her hair an explosion of
brown curls around her face, her lip between her teeth and her deep brown eyes
almost burning into him.
     “You are not an outsider here, Harry,” she finally told him. “You are not
my second-string boy. I love you.”
     Harry reached up to her, drew her down into a kiss. As she straightened,
he smiled at her. “I'm learning to believe that, Hermione. And I love you for
it, love you so much.” he drew a breath. “But, Hermione... Don't dig in on
this. All right? I know you want to be with both of us. I'm happy to be second.
Please don't make this a fight to prove some point. You know there's only one
person on earth who respects you like I do, and he's right in this bed. I've
taken so much away from you. I won't take this as well. The first time is for
the two of you.”
     The smile that spread across Hermione's face was warm and sad and full of
love. “You know that's a load of old cobblers, don't you?  You know you haven't
taken a damned thing away from us.” She lowered her face to kiss him again.
“But I won't fight. Our turn soon enough, hero-boy.”
     “Fair enough,” murmured Harry. Hermione started to squirm off him, toward
Ron, and Harry stopped her. “No, love.”
     And his hands, so strong for all their apparent delicacy, moved her,
rolled her around so she was lying back on him, her head laying back on his
collarbone, and his left hand stroked and caressed over her belly and her
breast, fingers stropping across her nipple, as his right reached to draw Ron
over.
     Ron, though, moved down, and knelt between their legs, looked down at
Hermione, open and offered beneath him. He lowered his head, as if in
supplication, and kissed her breast, sucking the nipple into his mouth, and
then on down across her belly.
     “R-Ron?” Her voice caught.
     “I've read something about this,” Ron said, looking up at her with a
wicked grin. “I've read the first time is rubbish for girls, they usually
don't, you know, come. An' it can hurt! So, I figure, maybe if I can make sure
you come first, maybe if I can help you relax, well, maybe that will help, and
it won't be rubbish.”
     “It won't be rubbish, Ron.” Hermione reached a hand down, stroked her
fingers through his ginger hair. “Even if it hurts, it will be wonderful.”
     “Yeah, well...” Ron grinned at her. “I aim to see to it that, if it is
rubbish, you'll already've come so hard, you won't notice.” He kissed his way
further down her belly. “Oh, Godric, Hermione, I've waited for this!”
     And with that, he opened his mouth and lowered it onto her, and she let
out an odd squeal, and her left hand fisted into Ron's hair, as Harry's hands
squeezed her breasts, and his teeth nipped at her shoulder. Hermione's free
hand curled up into Harry's hair, pulled his face up to catch him in a kiss.
     “Ohhhh....” she moaned. “Oh, Harry.... Oh, Ron's brilliant, Harry, he's
fucking brilliant!”
     She cried out again, a wordless gasp, and Harry glanced down to Ron, and
almost laughed. Ron had looked back up to meet his gaze at just that moment,
and a kind of smug merriment danced in his cobalt-blue gaze. But what almost
made Harry laugh was that Ron appeared to have grown a brown, curly mustache.
He lifted his head still further, giving himself the world's silliest beard, to
tell Harry, “Mate, you have got to taste her! This is...”
     He smiled, his lips shining with her moisture, and Harry found himself
licking his own lips.
     Hermione's fingers in his hair pushed him down again, and Harry held her
as she squirmed, pinching and teasing her nipples, caressing and squeezing her
breasts, nibbling at her ear and the pulse-point just beneath it, sometimes
listening to her groans and cries, sometimes swallowing them.
     Harry could feel the tension building in her, her muscles quivering under
his fingers, under his lips and tongue.
     Suddenly, Hermione's eyes were locked on his. “Oh, fuck, Harry!” she said
suddenly and quite clearly, and then threw her head back against him, arching
her hips up against Ron's face as she cried out wordlessly, and then collapsed
onto Harry. She lay there, panting for a moment as Ron lifted himself away from
her.
     “Fuck me, Ron,” she breathed. “Oh, fuck me, fuck me now!”
     Ron shifted up a bit, and lowered himself onto his palms on either side of
Hermione's and Harry's shoulders. She reached down to guide him, and the both
stilled for a moment. Harry brushed Hermione's hair back away from her cheek.
     “Are you ready, love?” asked Ron.
     “Go slow,” said Hermione, her voice nervous, but still quite sure.
     Harry looked down between their bodies, saw Ron's cock, full and stiff in
her hand, pressed down against her center, saw Ron's hips begin to flex, ever
so slowly.
     A gasp, then a squeak, escaped Hermione as Ron slowly penetrated her. More
breath shuddered out of her, and her lower lip was between her teeth.
     “All right, there, love?” Harry breathed in her ear.
     “Ooooohhh, yes....” she sighed.
     Harry looked back down again, fascinated and aroused by the sight of Ron's
cock disappearing, slowly, ever so slowly, among her brown curls. Hermione's
breath came in his ear in hitching gasps. Her hands were up now, holding Ron,
pulling him to her, into her, and her hips were bucking slightly toward him.
Finally, though, the space between them was gone, Ron's ginger curls pressed
against Hermione's brown ones, and she murmured, “Stay still a minute, Ron. Let
me get used to you.”
     He looked up at Ron's face, and found himself grinning at the stunned
reverence he saw there. Harry found himself struggling to comprehend. Ron was
inside Hermione. Right now, right on top of him, Ron was inside Hermione!
     “Oh, I love you,” he breathed to Hermione. “Oh, love, this is amazing.”
His eyes flickered to Harry's. “Oh, mate, wait ‘til you try this!”
     The muscles in Ron's arms flexed as he lowered himself to kiss her, and
then he was lifting himself again their lips parting, their bodies parting, and
Harry, looking down them again, could see the glistening length of him emerging
beyond the curls of her pubic hair.
     Some of the tension started to ebb from Hermione's shoulders, and her eyes
widened, as she stared up at Ron in a kind of wild moment of discovery. “Oh,
this, Ron, this, oh, this is--” She gasped, and its tone was different to
Harry's ears, unalloyed. “Oh, yes, Ron!”
     Ron smiled at her, and turned his gaze towards Harry. “Help me out, here,
mate,” he said to him. “Touch her for me.”
     Harry's eyes widened, sure he could not have understood.
     “I mean it, mate,” Ron said. “I want her to come. Touch her for me, Harry.
Help me make her come.”
     “Oh, yes!” cried Hermione, turning to kiss him, her teeth catching and
holding his lower lip for just a moment. “Oh, yes, Harry, touch me!”
     Harry reached down, his fingers trailing through her now-moist curls, his
middle finger finding her clitoris, and he began to rub and tease it as Ron
began to stroke downward into her again. Harry felt his fingertips brushing
against Ron's shaft, slick with her juices, and his eyes snapped to Ron's, and
Ron nodded at him, once, before looking back to Hermione.
     The fingers of Harry's other hand were playing with her nipples, and then
Ron's strong chest was pressing his fingers down against her breast, and the
surprisingly soft curls were pressing Harry's fingers against Hermione's
coarser ones, and as Harry sucked at her pulse-point again, Ron leaned over and
was nibbling at the other ear, and she sighed, a long low sound of power and
pleasure and need, and Ron was lifting away from her again.
     “Wait,” she cried, as Ron lifted himself, “Ron, stay there!” She was
scrabbling with on hand into the headboard, finding her wand, and Harry's eyes
widened.
     “You didn't--?” asked Harry, but Ron smirked at him.
     “Don't worry, mate. I did Barricadus on her before she started in on you.”
     “Harry.” Hermione had got her wand now. “Hold me up, please. Towards Ron.”
     He started to take her shoulders in his hands but she shook her head. “No,
love, my sides.”
     So he moved his hands and held her body up off his, and she was pointing
her wand down there, towards her back, her bum, Harry's willy, and he had a
moment of nervousness until she breathed “Lubricous!” and a jet of warm gel
sprayed from her wand onto her back, onto his cock, and she was putting her
wand away again, telling him, “All right, Harry.”
     Ron's smile was wicked. “Oh, you are the cleverest witch of your age,” he
said, and pumped strongly into her.
     She slid now up Harry's body with the force of Ron's stroke, and the silky
soft skin of her back and then her arse-cheeks slid along against his cock, and
his eyes rolled back, as the breath whistled out of him.
     He smiled, remembering something Ron had said about her, a lifetime ago.
“Scary,” he muttered, and she grinned wantonly over at him. “Brilliant but
scary!”
     She kissed him, and turned back to Ron, as he pulled back again. “Fuck us,
Ron,” she said. “Hard as you like.”
     “Oh, fuck!” breathed Harry, and his fingers moved against her clitoris
again, feeling Ron's length as he slid again into her, and then out and in
again, building a rhythm, pounding into her, stroke after stroke, holding
himself up from her now, to give Harry's fingers room to work, and he felt the
tension building in her again, like some spring inside her tightening, and her
back and bum squirmed against him, against his cock, as Ron's every stroke
drove her against him.
     And suddenly Ron's eyes were widening, and the words, “Bloody hell!” burst
out of him, and he shuddered his release into her, and still he kept pounding
and stroking, and Hermione cried out in her own climax, and Ron grunted,
“Fuck!” and drove into her again, and suddenly Harry was coming too, feeling
his semen squirting out of him between her back and his belly.
     Ron's mouth came down on Hermione's and then lifted again, his dark eyes
suddenly locking with Harry's and his mouth came down again, and suddenly Harry
was feeling surprisingly soft lips against his, an insistently-sweeping tongue,
and he opened his mouth, and was tasting Chocolate Frogs and the honey-and-
vinegar flavor of Hermione's juices, and his fingers were sliding into Ron's
hair, meeting Hermione's, and pressing Ron's mouth to his as he heard
Hermione's sudden gasp -- “Oh!” -- and then her face was against his, nudging
him aside so that she could kiss Ron, and all he could hear was his heart
pounding in his chest.
     Ron's head lifted again, and he looked at Harry, suddenly blushing, even
as Hermione squirmed sidewise and started to turn, so they were in a more
triangular configuration.
     “Harry?” Ron's voice was a whisper. “Was that--?”
     “Fuck, Ron!” Harry had grabbed his head again, pulling Ron down into
another kiss, the erection that had barely started to wane after spilling
between himself and Hermione's back reasserting itself. Hermione made a small
sound of pleasure and arousal.
     They lay like that, for a while, in their three-sided embrace, sharing
kisses in all directions, including, with no small effort, between the three of
them at once.
     Then Hermione was moving again, pushing Ron onto his back, squirming
around to lay back on him while she pulled Harry onto her.
     “Your turn, birthday boy,” she said hoarsely. “Your turn to fuck me, now.”
     He stared into her warm brown eyes as he moved over her, seeing the desire
and certainty there, and it was like the universe shifted around him. She
wasn't just being kind. She wasn't just including him because the exclusion
would be too cruel. He glanced over at Ron, and saw his eyes shining seriously
into Harry's, willing him to accept this, to take pleasure in Hermione – no, in
both of them! -- not because he was stuck to them, and not because he was their
friend, and not because he was the Boy-Who-Lived, but because Ron loved him,
they both loved him.
     He squirmed up a bit, felt Hermione's coarse curls against his erection,
and Hermione began to reach, to take hold and guide him, and Harry caught her
wrist in one hand, and said, “Help me out, mate, would you? Help me find my
way.”
     Ron's eyes, wide, snapped to Harry's as Hermione groaned at his words, and
then Ron was grinning, reaching between them, and Hermione hissed “Oh, my God,
Harry! Oh, Ron, oh, that's--” and suddenly she was biting on her lower lip, her
eyes sinking closed, as Harry felt Ron's large, strong, calloused hand wrap
around him, felt the velvety heat and slick moisture of Hermione's folds around
the head of his prick.
     “You're--” he breathed, and his voice hitched, and he started again,
“You're going to help me with her, right, Ron?”
     Ron nodded, his long, calloused fingers sliding down Harry's shaft, and
dipping against Hermione's folds as he drew them up toward her clitoris, and
Hermione gasped and moved beneath him.
     Harry stared into her eyes, silently asking, and she pulled his face down
to her, kissed him. “Yes, Harry,” she breathed. “Yes!”
     And Harry began to press himself into her. He didn't know what he was
expecting, but this, this heat, sheathing around him, velvet-soft and moist and
tight against him, this was better than he'd ever imagined. He gazed into
Hermione's eyes as he sank into her, saw them widen, a kind of amazement
filling them.
     “Oh, my God, Harry, it's so different!” she breathed. “You're so different
to Ron!”
     “What's it like, love,” Ron murmured in her ear, his fingers working her
clitoris, the tips brushing against the length of Harry's shaft as he slid into
her.
     “It--” She was panting now, the very act of forming her thoughts and
sensations into words clearly exciting her. “It's slenderer than yours, Ron, so
Harry doesn't--” she gasped at some motion of Ron's fingers, and Harry felt
himself starting to press down on the top of Ron's hand. “He doesn't stretch me
the way you do! Oh, but Ron, it's so... it's straight, Ron!” She gasped again.
“It's straight as an arrow! Oh, and, Ron, I know that there isn't even an inch
of difference, but feeling how straight he is inside me, that little extra
length feels like it's lancing right up into me, right up into my heart.”
     Harry held himself there for a moment, letting Hermione's words wash
through him, as he reveled in the sensation of her velvety heat. He was inside
Hermione! As incomprehensible and amazing as that had seemed when he had seen
Ron, it seemed simply impossible to him now.
     Hermione's fanny was familiar ground for him. He'd touched it, slid his
finger through her folds, caressed her clitoris until she came, screaming his
name, reached up into her with his long fingers, the pad of his middle finger
finding Doctor Grafenberg's happy discovery, and drawing another kind of
shuddering orgasm from her.
     But now, as he felt her walls surrounding his cock, so tight and hot and
wet, it was like he'd never known her fanny at all. Like it had somehow opened
up into an endless mystery that could swallow him whole, like there was a whole
universe he had never known, and he yearned to discover it deep inside her.
     “Hermione,” he breathed. “Oh, my God, Hermione, I'm... you're...” he shook
his head slowly, unable to process what he was saying. “I love you, I love you,
oh God, so much!”
     She squirmed under him, moving him around inside her, and drew him down
into another kiss, her mouth urgent on his, her tongue seeking, her teeth
nibbling at his lower lip.
     “I love you, Harry. I love you both, I can't even-- Oh, God, Harry!”
     He had started to slide back now, up and out, drawing himself from her
like a sword from a sheath, and he swallowed her moan, and then, as he broke
the kiss, Ron's mouth was there at hers, and she turned her head to kiss him,
and Harry felt Ron's calloused fingers touching his shaft as it withdrew, and
he pressed into her again, slowly easing his way between her walls.
     Hermione's breath hitched into her chest, and her eyes stared into his
with a kind of Dionysian wonder. “Oh, Harry!”
     “Fuck us,” said Ron.
     “Oh, yes,” cried Hermione, “Oh, fuck us both, Harry! Yes!”
     She nodded to him, and he drew his hips back again, and, faster, this
time, drove back in again.
     He built in speed and intensity, his awareness constricting to nothing
more than her brown eyes, and Ron's blue ones, burning into his as he pumped
away, Ron gasping his pleasure as each stroke moved Hermione over him, Hermione
crying out as Harry's cock speared into her.
     He'd already come once, so he was lasting longer, pounding into Hermione
with brutal passion, the fire stoking itself within him.
     How had he denied this? How had he denied this for so long? This was
everything, this was life itself, how had he denied it? Denied it to himself,
to her, to Ron?
     The comical wet, slapping sound of his balls against her arse
counterpointed his grunts, Ron's moans, and her cries, and suddenly Ron's was
gasping, “Oh, fuck, you two!”
     Ron's fingers twitched over Hermione's clitoris, tapped out a staccato
Morse on Harry's shaft as his blue eyes rolled back, and then the relaxation
was spreading through him, Harry almost seeing the spread, ripples through a
pond, and Harry felt the strength and rhythm return to Ron's fingers, and
suddenly Hermione was crying out, pulling him down to her, kissing him, and,
Oh, God, Harry felt her clench around him as she spasmed under her orgasm, and
the thought that, between them, his cock and Ron's fingers had brought her to
that was the final straw, and he bucked into her one last time as he came,
seeming to explode into her in a series of twitching spurts.
     He held himself above her there until the last spasm shook him, and then
collapsed bonelessly on top of her, feeling her breasts flattening under his
chest, her sweaty, bushy hair tickling against the side of his face, and he
turned his head, and kissed her, mumbling, “Love you, love you so much.”
     And then he felt Ron's large hand, stroking his back, and he was kissing
him as well, and they squirmed around again, laying together in the big bed,
limbs tangling and hands caressing, and Harry leaned to Ron again for a kiss,
opened his mouth to Ron's tongue, wondering what in his life had brought him to
this, and where he could go to say, “Thank you.”
     Hermione reached languidly for her wand again. The cleaning charm was
quick and thorough, but the scent of sex still hung in the air, and she leaned
over onto Harry as she put her wand back, and reached for the bedside lamp as
she kissed him.
     “Happy birthday, Harry,” she breathed, smiling against his mouth, and
there was a click from her fingers that plunged the room into darkness.
===============================================================================
     The sun shining in the window woke them. The red numbers on the digital
clock read 8:06.
     Ron awoke to find Harry regarding him with his wide, green eyes, looking
so vulnerable without his glasses, his expression unreadable.
     “All right, there, mate?” Harry asked him.
     Ron grinned. “All in all,” he allowed, “I've been worse.”
     A shadow blocked the sun as Hermione leaned over from behind him to kiss
him, her breasts swaying freely as she leaned.
     Then they were shambling to the bathroom, Ron absently caressing
Hermione's bum, round and dimpled and beautiful, and she smiled at him, her
thanks for his tactile compliment.
     Turns taken on the toilet, they piled into the shower stall, washing and
stroking and petting. Ron leaned back, his eyes closed, and let the warm water
pound his face, and smiled as he felt fingers wrapping around his erection.
     Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, as he recognised the long, calloused
fingers. Harry grinned at Ron as he wanked him. He had a different style.
Different from his own, different from Hermione's. A sort of a twisting motion
with his wrist as he stroked down the length.
     Hermione smiled over at them, and sunk gracefully down to her knees. She
leaned in and took Harry in her mouth. His hand tightened on Ron's cock, and he
groaned, both boys groaned, and Hermione grinned up at them.
     Ron stared, fascinated, watching Hermione suck and lick and kiss Harry's
cock. It was impossible to believe that he was seeing Hermione, his Hermione,
drawing Harry's penis into her mouth.
     “How does that feel, mate?” he breathed.
     “Oh, man, Ron...” Harry's words escaped him in a sigh. “Oh, you have no
idea!”
     Hermione leaned back away from Harry, grinned up at Ron. “Would you like
to, Ron?”
     And now she was leaning over to Ron's penis, and he shuddered at the soft
heat of her mouth as she drew him in, her lips sliding up part of his length to
meet Harry's stroking hand.
     Her tongue traced a wavering path around his shaft as she backed away
again, and she looked up, first into his eyes, and then Harry's. Her own eyes
suddenly widened. “Oh!” she said.
     Ron looked over at Harry, who was staring down at Hermione's face, at
Ron's cock, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, his expression... hungry?
     “Would you like to help me, Harry?” asked Hermione, her voice as calm as
if she were asking for more ink or another quill.
     Harry's eyes snapped to Ron's, and they gazed wildly at one another for a
moment, and then Harry sank to his knees beside Hermione. She leaned in towards
Ron's cock from the right, began kissing and nibbling the head with her lips,
her warm brown eyes locked on Harry's and after a moment, he leaned in, and his
lips parted over his side of Ron's erection. They both licked and nibbled and
sucked at the head, sharing occasional kisses around it, and then started
taking turns, Harry licking and sucking Ron's glans, while Hermione leaned
beneath him and lapped slowly at Ron's balls, then switching places.
     They were back in a shared kiss around the head of his cock, their eyes
gazing lovingly up into his, when he came messily over their cheeks and hair.
Harry grinned up at him as he leaned over to lap the residue from Hermione's
cheek with slow, soft motions of his tongue, and Ron thought he was going to
come again on the spot just from the sight of them, licking his jism from one
another's faces.
     They rose, then, and pulled him into kisses, first Hermione, then Harry,
and then Harry was moving his hand down her belly, down through her curls.
     “Harry,” said Hermione, “what are you doing?”
     Harry looked confused. “Don't you want me to wank you?”
     “Not when I can have you fuck me against the wall of the shower,” she
said, her fingers moving over Harry's cock in a soundless Prophilaxus.
     “Buggering fuck!” said Ron.
     Harry ended up with his elbows hooked under Hermione's knees, her back
against the tiled wall, and Ron knelt beside them staring up in fascination at
Harry's cock sliding into her. She seemed so open, somehow, her legs spread
into Harry's arms, her labia spreading around Harry's cock, her arse-cheeks
spread to reveal a remarkably sweet-looking pink pucker...
     “Harry, pull out a sec,” said Ron, and Harry did so on his next stroke,
drawing a momentary sound of protest from Hermione, which died in her throat as
Ron's long finger slid into her in his place. Ron took a moment to find the
spot, and rubbed it with the calloused pad of his finger, then drew it slowly
out, shining with her juices, and grinned up at Harry. “Carry on, mate!”
     As Harry's cock entered her again – Merlin's balls, that was a sight! –
Ron reached up with his slick, shining finger, and worked it into Hermione's
anus. Pressing deeper and deeper, exploring as he went.
                           [Illustration by GlockGal]
     Hermione gasped and squealed – “Oh my God, Ron! Oh, my God!” – bucked
against Harry, whose strokes were becoming faster now, his balls slapping
against Ron's hand.
     Ron's own prick was hard again, as he fucked Hermione's arse with his
finger, and watched Harry's cock slamming into her, and she threw back her
head, and cried out, “Oh, fuck, Ron, my parents are a great influence!”
     “Holy fuck!” cried Harry, and he was suddenly stiff and still, as deep
within Hermione as he could go, the taut muscles of his legs trembling, his
head thrown back, and then Hermione was crying out as well, her arse clenching
around his finger, her hands and legs trying to pull Harry closer.
     The were frozen in that tableau for a long, long moment, the only motion
the water pounding down on them, and then Harry withdrew from her, his cock
surrounded by a glistening white envelope, and as Hermione's fingers drew it
off of him, muttering “Finite Incantatum,” the white glob of semen simply
disappeared, consumed by the release of Prophilaxus.
     “I definitely prefer Barricadus,” Hermione said. “I loved it last night
when I could feel you ejaculating into me.” She looked down at Ron. “So cast
it, would you, love? Then come up here and fuck me good and proper!”
     Ron grinned as he reached with the fingers of his other hand for her
center.
===============================================================================
     It was about an hour later that they worked their way down stairs, Harry
carrying his trunk and Hedwig's cage, Ron carrying his own trunk and
Hermione's, Hermione walking a little gingerly between them, one hand stretched
out to each of her boys. By the time Ron had finished, Harry had been ready
again, and by the time Harry'd finished again – and it had taken a lot longer
this time – Ron had been hard. Now Hermione's gait was a little tentative, and
her face was split in a smile that wouldn't go away.
     Remus and Sirius were waiting for them in the living room, chatting
amiably.
     Sirius' eyes lit up as they entered the room, focusing on Hermione. “I
recognize that walk, Clever Boots,” he said, grinning. “You're walking the walk
of the well and truly—”
     “Sirius!” cried Remus. “You really aren't, in fact, seventeen any more.”
     Hermione blushed, but her smile didn't fade as her eyes moved back and
forth between her boys.
     Harry was looking around, his expression puzzled. “Where are the
Dursleys?”
     Lupin looked embarrassed. “Oh! Yes, well...” He pointed his wand at the
door into the kitchen, and said, “Finite Incantatum.”
     “--ther thing!” bellowed Vernon Dursley's voice. “If you think you can--
Oi! How'd we get in here?”
     Hermione seemed to be trying to sound scandalized: “You used magic on
Muggles?”
     “I'll pay the fine,” Sirius growled.
     With a sound like a cattle stampede, Dursley came storming out of the
kitchen, his wide-eyed wife and somewhat tired-looking son following.
     But whatever Vernon had been about to say, the sight of his nephew and his
two friends, their trunks packed and ready to go, derailed him, and he instead
smiled with grim satisfaction. “So you're off, then.”
     “That's right, Uncle Vernon,” said Harry, quietly.
     “Well, good riddance to you, and your insolent, indecent deviant freak
friends!” He turned again, and stormed back into the kitchen.
     Petunia sniffed and turned to follow, reaching for Dudley's elbow to bring
him with her, but she shrugged her off, stepping towards his cousin.
     “Dudley! What do you think you're doing!” she shrieked, but her ignored
her.
     “Good-bye, Harry,” he said, holding out his hand.
     Harry swallowed and took it, shook it once. “Bye, Dudley. Have a good
summer.”
     The fat boy turned to Ron, offered the hand again. “Ron.”
     “Thanks, Dudley,” said Ron, shaking his hand equably as Petunia gasped in
horror.
     He looked over at Hermione, who approached him by a single step, put her
hands on his fat biceps, and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Goodbye, Dudley,”
she said, softly, as Petunia shrieked in horror. “Good luck.”
     Dudley blushed, then turned to Remus and Sirius. “Gentlemen,” he said,
nodding at them, and turned and stepped into the kitchen, his mother following,
hissing imprecations at him.
     Sirius' eyebrows rose. “By Godric, I think there may be some hope for that
boy yet!”
     “Well, come on,” said Remus, taking Hermione's trunk from Ron. “The
Portkey's out back.”
===============================================================================
     When they arrived in front of the Burrow, Ginny was standing outside,
waiting for them. Remus and Sirius grinned at her as they passed, carrying the
Trio's trunks into the house. Ginny simply stood for a long moment, regarding
them, and then strode forward.
     As she came within range, she drew back her fist and punched Hermione very
hard in the upper arm, and while the older girl was still crying out, she spun
to face Harry, grabbed him by the front of his t-shirt, and pulled his face
down to hers. Her mouth was already open before it met Harry's and he squirmed
in her grasp as she kissed him, quite thoroughly.
     “That's what you miss!” she told him, breaking the kiss, and then turned
back to Hermione, and stepped against her, wrapping her arms around her in a
warm embrace.
     “Thank you, Hermione,” she murmured, her eyes closed. “Thank you for
saving my--” her breath hitched. “My brothers! Thank you so much.”
     She stepped back away again, and held out her hand to Ron. “Well, come
on,” she said. “There's a party in there!”
===============================================================================
***** Chapter Fifteen: "Celebration, Memory, and Intent" *****
               Chapter Fifteen: Celebration, Memory, and Intent
===============================================================================
            The hugs started just inside the front door. Molly Weasley had her
arms around her youngest son before he'd entirely crossed the threshold, and
squeezed him as though she was trying to get the last bit of toothpaste out of
him before buying a new tube.
            “I love ya, mum,” Ron managed squeak out, planting a surprisingly
tender kiss atop her head.
            “Oh, my Ronnie! I've missed you so much! I'm so very glad to have
you home!” Molly passed him on to his father, and turned to Hermione,
enveloping her, as well. “Oh Hermione!” she breathed. “You saved them. You
saved my boys. Thank you, so very much.”
            Hermione returned the embrace as best she could with Ron's elbow
dragging hers around as he hugged his father. “I'm so glad to see you, Mrs.
Weasley.”
            “There will be none of that!” Ron's mother told her. “You're family
now. You're my daughter-in-law. As you already have a Mum, you'll call me
Molly, all right?”
            Hermione looked at her, wide-eyed. “I... That will take some
getting used to.”
            Molly Weasley looked knowingly back and forth between her and her
boys, her eyes seeming to see last night's events and this morning's, and
Hermione blushed deeply. Molly smiled at her. “I'm confident, my dear, that you
can get used to rather a lot.”
            She leaned over and kissed Hermione on the cheek, smiling warmly.
“You're good to them, dear. Good for them. That's all I ever wanted.”
            Hermione managed to smile, her eyes filling. “Thank you, Mi–
Molly.”
            Molly Weasley reached up, petted her hair with a smile, and turned
her gently towards Arthur, who didn't relinquish his grip on Ron, but gathered
Hermione into that embrace as his wife turned to Harry.
            “Happy birthday, Harry! How wonderful to have you back!” She kissed
his cheek, ran a hand through his hair, tucking a stray bit behind his ear,
only to have it immediately wrestle free again. She held him at arm's length.
“Look at you. You're looking underfed again. Of course, since you're never at
the dinner table without my Ronnie, I suppose that's to be expected.”
            “Oi!” cried Ron, looking over from his father's embrace, “I heard
that!”
            Arthur grinned at his son, nodding his head towards Hermione. “Your
mother's been quite the joker since the Grangers came to visit,” he said. “I
think a little of David may have rubbed off on her.”
            “Yes, well, David did remind me, dear, there's no reason being a
parent means you can't have a little fun!” She turned back to Harry. “Not to
worry, dear. I'll be getting a little more meat on your bones!”
            Harry smiled back at the openhearted woman who had so freely given
him her love, so thoroughly welcomed him into her heart and home, for all the
danger that followed him. “Thank you M– Molly?”
            “That's right, dear,” she told him with a smile, and turned him
toward her husband, who simply gathered Harry into his arms, squeezed him
together with Ron and Hermione, grinning and winking at him.
            “Welcome home, Harry,” he finally said. “Welcome home, all of you!”
            “Oi!” came a cry from beyond him. “Share! We get a turn!”
            And Fred was practically dragging Ron from his father's arms,
squeezing him in a bear hug, and pounding on his back. “Oh, Ickle Ronnikins!
We've missed you so!”
            Ron laughed. “Been a long week, has it?”
            For a moment, Fred's eyes were very serious. “Yeah. It's lasted ten
years. Most of it between when you lot disappeared into the woods, and when
Hagrid reported in from Little Whinging.”
            “You did good, little bro,” said George, with equal solemnity.
            Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I especially liked the part where we
got caught sleeping by a Death Eater. Real genius, that was. Better than Accio
brain!”
            “You were supposed to stay awake indefinitely, were you?” asked
Fred.
            “It's a cool new game,” Ron replied. “Sleeping in shifts! All the
cool kids do it when being hunted by homicidal maniacs.” He looked seriously at
his brothers. “Look, I stuffed it up. I know I did. I'll do better next time.
That's all there is to it, really.”
            Then Hermione was moving against him, her arm around him, and Fred
waggled his eyebrows comically as he opened his embrace to gather her in as
well. But the arm that gathered her in was strong and comforting, the touch
protective and welcoming, and the kiss he pressed into her forehead was tender
and loving and brotherly.
            Then, as George was grabbing Ron into an embrace, actually pulling
him into the living room, Fred was clasping Harry to him, pounding his back
with brotherly enthusiasm. “Hey, Harry!”
            Then Bill was pulling Ron from his brother's arms as George brought
a hand up to Hermione's cheek.
            “You're a hell of a girl, “ George was telling Hermione, and Bill
was telling Ron, “Man, I'm glad to see you!”
            “Too bad his bride-to-be isn't here, Ron” chimed in Fred. “You'd
like that!”
            Hermione's face swung toward Bill even as she gently patted
George's cheek. “Bride-to-be? Bill?”
            Bill glanced over at her. “Oh, yeah, that's right, you lot haven't
heard yet. I'm engaged. Fleur wanted to be here to say hello.”
            “Fleur?” asked a wide-eyed Ron. “Delacour?”
            “Yeah,” said Bill. “She's been working with us at Gringott's and,
well...”
            “She's working at Gringott's now?” asked Harry, extending a hand to
Bill only to be pulled into the embrace with Ron and Hermione.
            Bill treated them all to a brotherly squeeze. “Since she graduated.
She's a charmer.”
            “I'll say!” said Ron, and Bill shot him a warning look.
            “Down, boy!” he said, as Hermione smacked Ron's shoulder and Harry
shook his head. “That kind of talk is hardly befitting a married man, now is
it? And right in front of your wife. And your husband!”
            Ron's eyes widened, and he stared at Harry, nearly in panic. Could
they tell?
            “That's right, mate,” Bill cackled at his brother. “Now Harry's
sixteen, you lot are legally Husbands and Wife! And here I thought Fleur and I
would be the first to make Mum delirious!”
            “Well,” Hermione told him with a fond poke in the ribs, “You'll
just have to start working on beating us to grandchildren, won't you?”
            It was as if Molly Weasley had Apparated to her daughter-in-law's
side. “Now, Hermione, dear,” she was saying hurriedly, “there's no need to make
a race of it!”
            “Yeah, Hermione,” cackled George, and Fred completed the sentence,
“These blokes here have only just figured out that they're your husbands!”
            “No need,” added George, “to make 'em think about being dads in the
bargain!”
            “Merlin!” cried Ron. “You can say that again!”
            But Harry was still looking across at Ron, his face serious and
still.
            Bill jerked his thumb toward the kitchen. “Food's in there! Come
on!”
            As they turned toward that door, Harry moved past, behind Hermione,
and reached down to take Ron's other hand, twining his fingers through Ron's
longer, freckled ones. Ron squeezed for barely a heartbeat, then froze, staring
first down at their fingers, then, eyes widening again, at Harry, then around
at his family, his expression panicked.
            Molly gasped, her hand going to her mouth, and Fred's eyes widened.
Hermione said, very quietly, “Oh!” and squeezed his fingers warmly, leaning in
to softly kiss his neck.
            Ron glanced down at her, and her warm, brown eyes stared into his,
loving, affirming, as she nodded, almost imperceptibly, in the suddenly-silent
room.
            Ron's gaze held hers for a long moment then, the ticking of his
mother's clock loud through the kitchen door, before he leaned over and kissed
her, kissed his wife, chastely but unhurriedly, before turning to Harry, to his
best mate... to his husband.
            Harry's green eyes were solemn.
            Ron gave his hand a gentle tug, and leaned in, kissing him, kissing
his husband, as he had his wife, chastely, unhurriedly. Lovingly.
            Behind them, Sirius' voice let out a loud ‘Whoop!’ and Fred and
George wolf-whistled as Bill blinked rapidly in surprise. Ron looked over at
his mother, who still stared wide-eyed, her face pale, and her hand to her
mouth. Ron's dad stepped up beside her, took her other hand, and smiled a
complex smile at his son, a smile made of equal parts shock, sadness, and
pride.
            Arthur Weasley's voice was just a bit husky as he spoke. “All
right, son. You heard your brother. Food's in the kitchen.”
===============================================================================
            Ron sat back away from the table, smiling up at his mother, near
the head, who smiled back, a little distractedly. She'd been very quiet since
he'd kissed his spouses that morning– well, no. She'd been very quiet since
he'd kissed Harry. She'd been kind, and gentle, and fed them vast helpings of
Harry's Birthday Brunch, a feast of waffles and scrambled eggs and fresh fruit
and warm-from-the-oven bread and several kinds of muffins, dairy-fresh butter
and real maple syrup that Bill had used his benefits as a Gringott's employee
to Apparate to Vermont, in the States, to bring back in a grey stoneware jug
from a small farm “upstate.” ("It's what the Americans do," Bill had explained.
"Butter and this stuff on your waffles. It's really very good, actually.")
            They'd only started eating when Angelina had arrived, giving Harry
a friendly hug, a peck on the cheek, and an official “New Amsterdam Travelers”
team robe, with his name across the shoulders, his number from the Gryffindor
house team in the center of the back, and a parchment scroll certifying that
Harry was an “Honorary Member in Good Standing of the New Amsterdam Travelers.”
            As she'd sat beside Fred, he'd elbowed her gently in the ribs.
“Yeah, so guess who Ron's snogging now! Harry!”
            Angelina had chuckled. “Well, who can blame him? I've been tempted
to snog the little bloke myself.” She'd winked at Harry. “Usually right after
he caught the snitch in a game against Slytherin! And I know Oliver at least
considered it!”
            Fred and George had guffawed as Harry blushed, burying his face in
his hands. But Ron's mum had suddenly stood and busied herself at the stove.
            Ron glanced over at Harry, working on his second waffle. He loved
him. He did. He couldn't deny it, not now, not after last night, when the
impulse to kiss him, as he had Hermione, had become overwhelming. But he felt
odd about expressing it that openly in front of his whole family like that.
Didn't his mum have enough to deal with? Hell, didn't he?
            “Pardon us,” said Hermione, quite suddenly. “I'm afraid I need to
use the loo.”
            They stood together, and soon Harry and Ron were perched on the
edge of the downstairs bathtub as Hermione pulled down her light-brown
corduroys and rainbow-striped cotton knickers. Ron smiled at the sight. Her bum
was so wonderfully round, with those wonderful little dimples at the top, and
he adored the glimpse of pink folds among the triangle of coarse brown curls as
she turned and sat on the toilet.
            She smiled shyly at Ron, blushing as she always did when the first
fluid sounds echoed from the bowl, then reached to take Harry's hand.
             “Harry,” she said, quietly, “what's going on?”
            Harry frowned at her. “What do you mean?”
            Hermione just looked at him with a blank face.
            After a moment, Harry broke her gaze, fidgeting uncomfortably.
“I... I felt like Ron was afraid his family would find out about us.”
            “So you thought Ron was afraid of something, and your response was
to throw him in the deep end of it?”
            Harry sucked his lower lip between his teeth, looked down at his
trainers.
            Ron put a hand on his shoulder. “Mate...?”
            Harry's eyes closed. “I'm not ashamed,” he finally mumbled. “I'm
not ashamed of loving you.”
            “Oh, for fuck's sake, Harry!” cried Ron. “I'm not ashamed of you!
It's just... It's a lot to take in, innit? My mum, for fuck's sake, is barely
ready to deal with the concept that I'm snogging Hermione, and she took one
look at her this morning and knows we're shagging–”
            Hermione buried her face in her hands.
            “Well, sorry, Love, but you know she did.” Ron's hand stroked
gently down the back of her head.
            Hermione nodded up at him, reached for the loo roll.
            Ron turned back to Harry. “I'm not ashamed of you, mate. I love
you. You know that, right?”
            Harry stared down at his trainers.
            Ron reached a hand, drew Harry's face around, looked frankly into
his green eyes. “I love you, Harry. Listen to me. I love you.” He leaned in,
then, and kissed Harry, lips and tongue gentle as they gained entrance, mouths
parting, finally, with a soft pop. “You got that, mate?”
            Hermione reached down into the pocket of her trousers, pooled
around her ankles, and pulled out a foil-wrapped “moist towelette,” with which
she then wiped herself, before dropping it and its foil package between her
thighs, to be dealt with by the magical plumbing.
            Harry swallowed, looking over at Ron. “I– I love you, Ron.”
            “I know ya do, ya great pillock!” said Ron, and kissed him again.
“But can we please not freak my mum out about it any more than necessary?”
            Hermione stood and turned to flush, and Ron caught the familiar
fresh, fruity scent of the towelette from her fanny. He leaned his face against
her abdomen, burying his long nose in her curls, as his hand slid up the back
of one silky thigh to caress her bum.
            “I love those cleaning things,” said Ron, and pressed a gentle kiss
onto the clean pink folds peaking out from the dark curls.
            Hermione's eyes slid closed. “God, Ron, don't do that.”
            “I'm only human, love,” Ron replied, with a gentle smile.
            “But I just peed!” she cried, a little distressed.
            “Don't worry, love,” Ron chuckled. “You did a great job with the
fruit-thingie.”
            Then Harry was leaning around her, gently kissing her buttock,
running his tongue slowly up the cleft, and her breath shuddered out of her. He
stood, his fingers tracing gently up her thigh to her bum, sliding around one
rounded cheek and into the now-moistened cleft, the pad of his middle finger
playing with her anus as he tipped his head around to kiss her softly on the
mouth.
            “I know I've been all flailing and emotional and that about Ron
today, love, but I don't want you to think I've forgotten you.” Harry told her.
“I love you so very much. I just... I kind of feel like I know how to love you,
you know? I've seen it. Sort of. You know what I mean.”
            “Ron's a whole new world for you, isn't he, Harry?”
            Harry nodded, looking her in her brown eyes, still absent-mindedly
teasing her anus with his fingertip.
            “I'll help you Harry,” she told him. “I helped you this morning,
didn't I?”
            Ron groaned quietly as Harry nodded.
            “I'll help you love Ron. I'll help you find your way.”
            She kissed him again, then Ron leaned in, nudging his face in
amongst theirs and the kiss managed to share itself among the three of them,
lips and tongues sliding together as noses bumped awkwardly.
            “Now, if you boys will be kind enough to help me...”
            Harry smiled as he squatted, planting a last soft, sweet kiss on
her bum as he drew her knickers up her legs, then Ron pulled them back down
again for a moment to press another gentle kiss into her labia as he pulled up
her trousers, doing her zip for her as Harry closed the button and then her
belt.
            The three faces joined again in another brief kiss, three pairs of
arms cuddled three bodies together, and, finally, three voices sighed
contentedly.
            “Finally!” cried Sirius, as they stepped back out of the bathroom.
He started to sidle by them, stopped, and dramatically fanned the air in front
of his face, saying, “Woah!” He leaned over, and said, very quietly, “Silencing
charms are your friends. You're in a house full of qualified witches and
wizards, and the Ministry can't possibly catch you. I've been out here covering
for you since For fuck's sake.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Now, look disgusted
and smack me, Clever Boots, and then get back in the kitchen before the Boy-
Who-Scoffed misses the rest of his Birthday Brunch!”
===============================================================================
            Tonks arrived a half-hour or so later, bringing Harry a book on
shield charms. She handed it to him with a friendly whack on the shoulder,
then, with a muttered, “Oh, the hell with it!” she pulled him into a hug and
kissed his cheek.
            Sometime after that Kingsley Shacklebolt arrived, bearing a
“Chudley Cannons Pro Quidditch” game: miniature players, an inch tall, who
would fly and obey Harry's commands. “It's supposed to be for little children,
but I have to tell you the truth, Harry, I play with it myself. And it can be
charmed to follow the play-by-play when you listen to a game on the wireless. 
Almost like going in person... Well, no, not really.”
            He declined, however, much to the twins’ disappointment, to kiss
Harry. “Spoilsport!” cried George, as Fred added, “Everybody else is!”
            The twins, as it turned out, had two packages for Harry. The first
was a lovely set of Omnioculars. (“You may not be able to play, but you can
watch games in high style!” Fred told him.) The second was a medium-sized
parcel, wrapped in plain brown paper. (“Don't open that until you three are
alone!” said George.)
            Sirius brought him a soft-but-bulky package that contained three
sets of robes – school robes, casual robes, and dress robes – for each of them.
            “Thanks, Sirius,” Harry said, smiling politely.
            Sirius grinned at him. “You should know me better than that, Harry!
Try them on, all three of you, try them on!”
            Harry nodded and handed their casual robes to Ron and Hermione,
then shrugged into his own, careful to keep his sandaled feet touching Ron's
and Hermione's so they could all pull the robes on without difficulty.
            “They look good,” said Sirius. “Very sharp! Now, lean your arms
against one another's.”
            Harry spread his arms toward Ron's and Hermione's, and, to his
surprise, felt bare skin against his, the only sign that there were robes in
between a very slight and pleasurable tingle of magic at the edges of their
contact.
            The glanced back and forth at one another, eyes wide, as Sirius
smiled.
            “Thought you'd like that!” he cried.
            “I don't understand,” said Hermione, gathering the edge of her
sleeve between her fingers. “It's not an illusion, I can feel the fabric!”
            Sirius' grin became wicked. “I had 'em custom made for you. You've
heard of Solange Delacour, Fleur's aunt?”
            Suddenly, Bill was laughing appreciatively, and Sirius glanced over
at him, tipping his head in acknowledgment.
            “I remember that she's a professional charmer of some sort,” Harry
said vaguely, “Fleur said something about it in the tent before the First
Task.”
            “Well,” Sirius allowed, “she's better known by her maiden name:
Solange Clemence.”
            Ron's eyes widened, and Molly gasped, as Hermione said, “Oh! Yes,
I've heard of her! 'The Courtier's Couturier!” Suddenly she was flushing,
bright scarlet. “Sirius! These are sex robes!”
             Sirius winked devilishly at her. “If you like, Clever Boots, if
you like!”
            “Sirius!” came Molly's voice, her tone shocked, “I hardly think
that's appropriate!”
            “Molly,” began Sirius, patiently, “Whatever it was made for, surely
you can–”
            “Not the robes, you silly man! They're a wonderful, practical gift,
and I wish I'd thought of it! But, honestly, making leering, smutty jokes like
that, as if you're lusting after my sixteen-year-old daughter-in-law! And in
front of her husbands! I thought better than that of you, Sirius!”
            Sirius took a step backwards, his face abashed, before turning a
quiet gaze on Hermione. “Is that how you feel about it, Clever Boots?”
            “No, Sirius, I know you're not perving after me.” She glanced over
at Mrs. Weasley. “But...”
            “But a little sensitivity to our hostess' sensibilities would
certainly not come amiss!” finished Sirius. “Too right, Clever Boots, too
right!” He turned back. “Molly, I apologize. I let myself forget too often that
I'm not seventeen anymore.”
            Harry was frowning. “So... Fleur's aunt makes robes that...” he
paused, trying to describe it. “That, er, disappear where they touch one
another?”
            “Not quite, Harry,” said Hermione. “They disappear where they come
between you and the touch of a loved one.”
            Sirius nodded. “One week from today, we're going to start some
defense training. Remus and Tonks have agreed to help out. Wear these robes,
with shorts and sleeveless shirts under them. That's what these are for.” He
winked at Hermione. “Any fringe benefits you come up with are none of my
concern!”
            Remus Lupin brought Harry a Muggle-style CD player that had been
charmed to work by magic instead of electronics, and a selection of old Jazz
CDs. “I especially recommend Nina Simone. Her version of 'Sinnerman' is just
stunning.” He paused. “But, whatever you do, don't talk while she's singing.
She gets a little... tetchy.”
            About ten minutes after that, Harry leaned over to Ron, and
murmured, “I've not seen Ginny since we came in. I hope she's all right.”
            Ron frowned at him. “What'd'ya mean?”
            “I think she may be embarrassed about the way she hit Hermione.”
            “Well, she shouldn't be,” Ron sniggered. “She did it really well!”
            “Oh, very funny!” Hermione pouted, rubbing her arm. “I'll have you
know, that really hurt.”
            “Here,” said Harry, “let me.” He took her arm between his hands,
watching in fascination as his fingers sank through the soft fabric of her new
robe as if it weren't there, and gently pushed up the sleeve of the T-Shirt she
wore beneath.
            “Haaaarr-eeee!” she squealed, blushing, as he leaned in, his lips
sinking through the cloth, and pressed a soft, sweet, chaste kiss onto her
bicep, dead-center of the dull ache where Ginny's punch had landed.
            “Suck-up!” Ron tossed a strawberry at him as he leaned up again,
and Harry deftly caught it in his mouth.
            “Thanks, mate!” he laughed. “But next time, dip it in sugar, will
you?”
            “Jammy git!” cried Ron, reaching for a waffle, but his mother's
voice stopped him short.
            “Ronald Weasley! If that's for eating, your plate's not empty! And
you're certainly not using it as a projectile!”
            Ron was opening his mouth to reply, face abashed, when a fork
stabbed into the waffle, dangerously close to his fingers.
            “I'll take it,” said Ginny, sitting down beside him even as she
transferred the waffle to her empty plate.
            Hermione leaned forward, smiling around Ron at her. “Glad you're
back, Gin.” Her eyes flickered down a bit. “Is that a package beside you?”
            Ginny's responding smile was a bit tremulous. “Yeah.” She held out
the rectangular package to Harry. “I, uh.... I walked down to the W.H. Smith's
in town. Wizards don't write books about this stuff.”
            Harry smiled as he tore open the wrapping, and found himself
holding a hardcover book. “Our Bodies, Ourselves:Information on Women's Health
and Sexuality,” proclaimed the cover. “Uhh...” Harry looked, wide-eyed, up at
her. “I... Thanks?”
            Ginny looked seriously about him. “You're attached to one of these
now, and I, er, I don't figure your useless Muggles taught you much of
anything! So I thought you should, well, should be able to learn about this
stuff. I'm sure Her–” She bit her lip. “I'm sure Hermione will help you.”
            Hermione's breath caught, and Harry's smile at Ginny was quite
genuine. “Thanks, Gin.” He glanced down at the book again, turning it over to
see the back cover. “It's very thoughtful.”
            Ron chortled. “A book? You got Harry a book for his birthday? Who
are you, Hermione?”
            Hermione was already tutting across Harry at him when Ginny cried,
“No, Ron, that's your job! You're holding him and snogging him, just like her!
Are you shagging him, too?”

            Mrs. Weasley's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to speak, but
stopped herself, with a visible effort, as Harry stood, crossing behind Ron,
his left hand carelessly bringing Hermione's over to Ron, bringing Ron's hand
to his own side as he pulled Ginny to her feet, and enveloped her in a hug.
            “I'm sorry, Gin,” he murmured to her, stroking her hair. “I don't
want to hurt you. I thought... I thought we were OK. I thought you'd put me
behind you. I thought you'd moved on.”
            “I thought so, too,” came her voice from his chest. “But all I did
was outgrow a crush, and start to love.” she stepped away from him. “I want
your life to be good, Harry. I want you and my brother and my friend to all be
happy together. I do. But I can't pretend it doesn't hurt, Harry. Seeing her
love you. Seeing him love you. Seeing you love them. I'm trying to be big
enough, Harry, I really am.”
            “I'm sorry, Gin,” said Harry, pulling her back into his arms, and
then Ron was there, joining that embrace, kissing her cheek.
            “You know you're still my favorite sister, yeah?” he murmured to
her, as Hermione came around the other side of Harry, arms around Ginny,
forehead pressed down against her cheek.
            “Merlin!” cried Fred – somehow, not even seeing, they could tell
that was Fred – “Look at that! It's like they're going to absorb her!”
            “There'll be nothing left of our baby sister,” added George, “but a
wisp of pink smoke that smells of strawberries!”
===============================================================================
            It was another couple of hours before the party had wound down,
Shacklebolt and Tonks having left for the Auror office and Remus Lupin making
excuses and flooing off to the Den, something in his tone reminding Harry that
it would be the first night of the full moon.
            Sirius came and squatted behind them. “Shall we go take a look at
your digs?”
            Ron glanced around at Sirius. “Having lived in it for sixteen-and-
a-half years, mate, I think I've got a pretty good idea what my room looks
like.”
            “Oh, no, Ronnie,” said Molly, “With the three of you, we thought
that would be too crowded. You'll be in the front hall cupboard instead.”
            Harry's and Hermione's eyes widened, as Ron said, “Oh, cool!”
            “That's... cool?” asked Harry. He knew enough of magic – and, of
course, of Mrs– of Molly – to know it would, in fact, be all right. But still,
he had to ask.
            Ron smirked over at him. “Don't worry, mate, it's not under the
stairs.”
            “Come on,” said Sirius, with a tilt of his head. “I'll show you.”
===============================================================================
            “Oi!” said Ron, staring wide-eyed around the living room of the
tent. “This isn't ours!”
            His father smiled, clapping him on the shoulder. “No, son. The
Ministry loaned us this tent for the Grangers, and extended the loan for you
three.”
            “Wicked!” said Ron. He pointed to a window. “Look, it's the deluxe
version!”
            Arthur smiled at his son's enthusiasm, and nodded to Sirius. “I'll
leave you to it, then.”
            “To what?” asked Ron, as Arthur clapped him on the shoulder once
more, and headed for the door-flap.
            Sirius smiled. “Come on,” he said, “I'll show you.”
            He brought them over into the living room of the tent, and gestured
over toward the coffee table. On it sat a carved, stone bowl, and Harry gasped.
            “Albus loaned this to us. It's for you, Clever Boots,” said Sirius.
“Come on.”
            He brought them over to the comfortable sofa – Hermione recognized
it with a start as one she'd grown up with, one she'd sat on, snug between her
boys, as her parents had talked to them about sex – and gestured toward the
intricately-runed stone bowl, as he sat opposite them on her dad's chair.
            “Remember what I told you, last week, Clever Boots? Through the
mirror? Your parents did say good-bye to you.”
            “Oh!” said Hermione, her voice catching, as Sirius put his wand to
his temple, and drew out long, silvery strands of light, of memory.
            He regarded them for a long moment, dancing around the end of his
wand, then transferred them gently down to the Pensieve.
            “Here we go, Clever Boots,” he said, reaching across to touch her
hand. “Just lean in with me...”
            She brought her face down toward the bowl, seeing Sirius leaning in
before her, and suddenly she was falling, tumbling, to land, feet first, just
inside the door of the very room they were in.
            Sirius stood beside her, and another Sirius paced nervously
opposite them, running his hands through his hair. In their familiar chairs
opposite the couch sat her parents.
            Suddenly, she was staring around, wide-eyed, a sick, yawning
feeling in the pit of her stomach. Where were her boys!?!?
            “Easy, Clever Boots,” Sirius told her, “You're in the Pensieve,
remember. It's all right.”
            “No, no,” she was saying, feeling lost, isolated and out of true.
“No, this isn't right.”
            And suddenly Harry and Ron were at her side. They looked around,
surprised, as she breathed a deep sigh and pulled them against her.
            “Did you decide to come in?” Sirius asked Harry.
            Harry shook his head. “No. I just, I just felt--”
            “Something was wrong,” said Ron, and Harry nodded fervently.
            “Hermione needed us. I knew that. I could feel it. Hermione needed
us--”
            “An' we were here!” breathed Ron.
            “Interesting,” breathed Hermione, her voice gaining strength and
normalcy as she spoke. “Obviously, it's the Nuptialis Unum. But did it bring
you because I needed you? Or did you just follow naturally?”
            Sirius – her Sirius, put a hand on her arm, and pointed to his
week-younger self, who was telling her parents, “She'll be sitting right over
there on that couch. Right in the middle. Just think about her sitting there,
and tell her what you want to.”
            Hermione was moving over, sitting in her familiar place on the
couch, Harry and Ron to either side of her.
            The memory of her father sat in his familiar chair, and leaned
forward, looking her directly in the eye. “Hello, Hermione.”
            “Hi, Daddy,” she murmured, her voice barely a breath.
            “I'm sure right now, you're still pretty angry with me, with us.”
He reached over and took his wife's hand. “I– We know how awful it is to know
that someone you love so desperately has put themselves in grave danger, and
there's nothing you can do about it.”
            Hermione flushed, looked at the floor.
            “Don't feel badly, darling,” said the memory of her mother. “We
always taught you to fight the Good Fight. To do what's right, even if it has a
cost. We've always respected that you've taken those lessons to heart.”
            “But we're not much good, lovely,” said her father, “if we don't
follow our own advice. This terrible war has claimed too many lives. We can't
hide our heads, and hope it will leave us safe. People are dying, we have to
fight for them, and this was the only weapon we had to wield.”
            Jane leaned forward, and, she, too, seemed to be looking directly
into Hermione's eyes. And why not? No one knew her better, where she'd sit, how
she'd sit, the angle she'd hold her head at. No one knew her better... Except
the two boys holding her hands, rubbing he back gently as she heard her
parents' words.
            “Darling, the Order is taking wonderful care of us,” said Jane
Granger. “There's a safe hiding place waiting for us, this Mister...” She
glanced over at the memory of Sirius by the door. “What did you call him?”
            “Mister Squizzical,” said Sirius, quietly. “S. Quince Ezekial.” He
looked over at the couch, his line of sight just above Hermione's head. “He's a
good man. A retired Auror. I'll tell you about him.”
            “So, we'll be safe as houses,” Jane said. “And Voldemort will be
angry enough to make stupid mistakes.” She drew in a breath. “We're very proud
of you, darling, for standing with Harry and Ron in this awful war. Please be
proud of us for doing our parts.”
            Tears welled in her eyes. “I wish we could see you again, say our
farewells in person. But there's no time for that. It's just too dangerous. I
love you very much, darling Hermione. We both do. And we already miss you
terribly.”
            A harsh sob tore from Hermione's throat as her father leaned
forward yet again. “I'm sure you're crying now, Hermione,” he said quietly,
“and doing your best not to. I hope you'll let it out. Turn to your boys. Turn
to your loves. You can always count on them.” He looked to Hermione's right,
then left. “Ron,” he said. “Harry.” Jane's eyes snapped up to him, and he said,
“Come on, now love, you know they'll be there with her.” He turned his
attention back to what had been, at the time, an empty sofa. “You remember what
I said to you that first night? It still holds, boys. I'm trusting you with my
daughter. Take care of her. Keep her as safe as she'll let you.” He turned back
to look again right into the spot where he had already known, more than a week
earlier, Hermione's eyes would be. “Take care of your boys, Hermione. And take
care of yourself. And I'll see you as soon as I can. I love you, we both love
you, very, very much.”
            The memory of Remus Lupin poked in through the door, gently touched
the younger Sirius' shoulder. “Portkey's ready. It's time.”
            The memory of Sirius moved toward the Grangers, but David stilled
him with a raised hand.
            “Hermione, lovely... You've always done the right thing.”
            “Always,” added Jane.
            “You keep doing it. We'll come back to you.”
            “As soon as we can, darling,” Jane said. “As soon as we can.”
            “We love you,” David said. “We love you and we miss you.”
            He stood, reached back to help his wife to her feet. “All right,
Sirius, Remus. Let's go meet your Squizzical.”
            The week-younger Sirius nodded, and, as the world went grey,
Hermione felt the strangest sensation, like an upward tumbling, and she was
sitting back on that same couch, now facing Sirius, her boys still by her
sides.
            “Woah!” Ron was saying. “That was bloody weird!”
            She glanced over at him, petted his face briefly, reached back to
stroke Harry's knee as she turned a fierce gaze toward Sirius. “Tell me about
Ezekial.”
            Sirius smiled a bit grimly, satisfaction in his eyes. “He was an
Auror, and a damned good one. Worked with the Order in the first war. Retired
in disgust when I was sent to Azkaban without trial. Didn't think I was
innocent or anything, but thought the Ministry should be better than the Death
Eaters. The Ministry kept hounding him to come back – he shamed 'em, made 'em
look bad – so he left, moved to Australia. When Vo– When Riddle came back,
Squizzical contacted Albus immediately, and offered his services. Albus had me
stashed down with him for about a month – he wouldn't hear of it until Albus
convinced him I was innocent, by the way! – and so on. We've hidden a few
people with him. He's smart, and tough, and brave as hell, and I have trusted
him with my life.”
            Hermione nodded, then stood, reaching back to her boys' hands.
            “Thank you,” she said to Sirius, her voice tight. “If you'd please
show us which is the bathroom and which is the bedroom, I'd like to be alone
with my boys for a bit.”
            Sirius looked at her carefully for a bit. “Am I going to have to
annoy you again first? I'd really rather not, because you hit very hard,
actually, so if it's all the same to you...”
            Hermione actually managed an amused snort at that as he rose, and
stepped over to lean her forehead against his chest. “No, Sirius, you needn't
annoy me again. I promise to weep and wail as soon as you've gone.”
            “'Sides,” said Ron, as Sirius leaned in to drop a kiss atop her
head, “if she does need annoying, I can handle it. I'm really good at it, in
fact.”
            She reached back to smack him, and he stepped away from her,
maintaining contact only with a hand on her forearm, so flail as she might, she
couldn't actually hit him.
            “See?” He grinned as she huffed her annoyance at him.
            “Right you are, then!” said Sirius, with a grin. He pointed.
“Bathroom. Bedroom. Office. Bedroom's all done up for you, Hermione, with your
things from home. I'm sure you'll want to redecorate later, but it should do.”
            And with that, he was loping out the front flap of the tent, and
closing the cupboard door as well. Hermione led the boys toward the bedroom,
but Ron angled them toward the other door.
            “Ron!” huffed Hermione.
            “Sorry, love, but you won't be any happier if I wet the bed.” Ron
shrugged. “Sometimes that pumpkin juice goes right through me.”
            She shook her smiling weakly, and they stepped into the loo.
            Harry snuggled her against him as she stood watching Ron urinate,
noticing with some amusement how deftly he handled his zip and his penis.
            It was so strange and wonderful, she thought, that this basic,
private human activity was something shared between the three of them, not
something that made her want to giggle nor squeal with shock, but an
interesting feat of logistics, of fastenings to open, of a willy to expose, and
to aim. She thought Freud was a bit of a crock, to be honest, and 'Penis Envy'
a laughable notion, but she had to admit that it seemed handy to her to be able
to stand straight and pee in a directed stream like that.
            “Need a turn, mate?” Ron asked, and Harry nodded, and she watched
him, too, as Ron re-arranged himself and zipped up.
            Ron sniggered. “I was too busy minding my aim. Were you watching me
like that, too?”
            Now Hermione did blush, as the abstract intellectualism of their
strange circumstances resolved, somehow, into I'm watching my boys pee!“Well,
it's interesting!”
            Ron leaned over, his lips brushing softly against her temple.
“S’all right, Hermione Jane. I'm kind of intrigued watching you, too.”
            Harry was blushing mightily as he zipped up. “I don't usually think
about it, though,” he told Hermione. “You watching me, I mean.”
            Hermione pulled them both to her, leaned her head into their chests
where they merged, breathing deep of their mingled scents. “I love you,” she
murmured. “I love being with you, both of you, like this. I love peeing
together and bathing together and sleeping together and rubbing together and
knowing each other together the way nobody else can possibly know any of us.”
When she lifted her head, tears were filling her eyes. “I love crying with you
in a toilet because I miss my mum and dad so much. But I'd still rather we
cried in bed.”
            And soon that's where they lay together, on the first bed they'd
ever shared, holding and caressing Hermione as she wept, stroking and petting
her, kissing her tenderly, murmuring quiet nonsense to her.
            Her world was her tears, and their warm bodies, their tender hands
and sweet kisses and soft, loving voices, and she'd never felt so safe and
protected, never felt so grateful for the circumstances of her life.
            As her tears slowly subsided, kisses slowly went from tender to
languorous, caresses found their way to her bum and her breasts and the denim
over her mound. She loved this, too, the easy, joyful sensuality, so happy and
loving and peaceful. Ron had started to pull her T-shirt over her head, while
Harry's nimble fingers were undoing her belt and her zip, and she'd better say
something now.
            “I don't want to have sex right now. I'm still kind of.... Well,
you know, sore. Down there.”
            Harry didn't even pause in opening her jeans, just glanced over at
Ron as he slid his fingers into the waistband of her knickers. She cooperated,
lifting her bum as he slid her denims and knickers down her legs. “I feel
guilty, Ron, don't you?”
            Ron grinned as he slid her sports-bra up off her breasts, and she
raised her arms so he could remove it. “I do,” he told Harry.
            “I think we need to kiss it better,” said Harry, as he wriggled his
way down the bed, and Ron's smile widened.
            Hermione shifted up the bed, her legs spreading into a “V”, and
half-sat, pillows piled behind her back, so she could look down at her boys, as
they moved together, side-by side, between them.
            “Really, Ron,” said Harry, quietly. “Show me what to do.”
            Ron smiled, then leaned over and kissed him, and watching their
mouths come together, Hermione gasped, feeling her heart-rate increase.
            “What I read in Fred-an'-George's magazines,” he said, “Is that
it's good to tease a bit first. No need to go stampeding right to her fanny,
'cause her thighs are plenty sensitive. Start here, with light, little kisses.”
            He leaned over to the inside of her left thigh, his lips barely
grazing her flesh, and Harry watched, with interest, then said, “Got it.”
            Harry's lips were now teasing and tormenting her right thigh,
maddeningly out-of-sync with Ron's, and she felt heat building within her, like
a covered cauldron on too high a flame.
            “Now, start slowly moving up,” murmured Ron, in a space between
feather-light kisses, and his lips and Harrys traced ever so slowly further up
toward the apex of her spread thighs. While the individual movements of their
mouths were mismatched, creating a dreadful tension between them, their kisses
were marching up in terrifying unison toward her center.
            She watched, fascinated, as they moved, red hair and black brushing
together as the butterfly-wing brushes of lips and tongues teased their way
slowly up her thighs. As they moved up, and the space got tighter, their faces
started turning more and more towards one another.
            “Look at her face,” Ron murmured, the warmth of his breath flowing
gently up her thigh, so close to the apex. “See how red she's getting?”
            “Oh, fuck, yeah,” breathed Harry, and his breath, too, flowed its
delicious warmth over her tender flesh. “Oh, man, Ron, look at that.”
            “We did that, Harry,” Ron replied, his tone satisfied. “You an' me,
mate.”
            Harry's laugh sent a warm sirocco flowing up and through the nest
of bushy brown hair to warm her mons itself, and Hermione thought for a moment
she might pass out from pleasure and desire. “You're the one who told her dad,
mate: we always did work well as a team.”
            Ron turned toward him, and Harry's mouth met his in a lingering,
open-mouthed kiss, and then Ron's head tipped ever so slightly in indication,
and they turned back toward Hermione. They were pressed cheek-to-cheek now, and
Ron murmured, “Now, last night, she seemed to like it when I licked up along
the lips, the, the labia, like so...”
            His tongue reached, ran slowly up along the left side of her
vagina, and he'd barely started before Harry's was working its way up the
right.
            Hermione stared down, eyes wide, at her two boys. Their lips were
very red, swollen by their kisses, their tongues deft, moving in an
unconscious, instinctive rhythm with one another, synchronized and almost
eerily precise.
            “God, Ron,” said Harry, “God, the taste of her!” And his breath
rolling across her labia as Ron once again licked slowly, languidly, up the
left-hand side sent pleasure rolling through her in a wave, and she heard
herself squealing softly.
            “See, Harry?” said Ron, as Harry's busy tongue returned to its
happy work, and his breath, too, sent electric shivers of warmth through
Hermione. “She really likes it. Now, I think it's time to move up...”
            Now their tongues were playing with her clitoris, surrounding it,
stroking it, and Harry smiled and moved in to give it a lingering kiss, sucking
it gently, and Ron's red lips moved against her, and she felt their tongues
sliding together across that hypersensitive bundle of nerves, and it was as if
someone had taken hold of a dial inside her, a dial marked “Pleasure” and
turned it up, with one savage twist, to “Eleven.”
            Her hands fisted in their hair, pushing their faces harder
together, and she cried out their names, back arching, buttocks clenched,
pushing her center hard against their mouths, and came, came hard, a thundering
explosion of pleasure through her body, electric, cosmic, and she was lost in
the waves of it, lost to time and space, tumbling through nothingness with no
points of reference but her boys and her slowly subsiding pleasure.
            She lay for a long time, aftershocks arcing through her body like
current as they squirmed back up beside her again, stroking and caressing, and
Ron gently turned her face to his, and lips were soft, his tongue strong, and
he tasted of maple and bacon and eggs and corn muffins and pumpkin juice and
her sex. And then Harry's face was nudging against Ron's, and he tasted of sex
and breakfast as well.
            She stroked them with trembling hands. They'd shucked off their
robes at some point, but still wore their denims and tee-shirts. She felt the
hardnesses of them, pressing against her, and her hands moved over those
bulges.
            “Do...” her voice was hoarse. “Do you want...?”
            “No, love.”  Ron's voice was gentle as Harry's lips nuzzled softly
against her neck, her cheek.
            “You gave us so much,” Harry breathed. “Last night, this morning.
This was just for you.”
            Her heart filled and her eyes stung. She tried to work her mouth,
but 'I love you' seemed so small, so lame, insufficient unto the task of
telling her boys what they meant to her, how much they owned her, heart and
mind and body and soul, so she just pulled them close and kissed them, held
them and snuggled with them, her fingers moving through their hair and over
their backs, her head moving this way and that to taste herself, taste them,
taste their love in their mouths.
===============================================================================
            “Harry,” said Ron, as the boys broke from a tender kiss, their
mouths parting with a small sound just above Hermione's avid face. “Can I-- Can
ask you something?”
            “Sure, Ron,” sighed Harry, his hand running slowly, tenderly up
Hermione's body, fingers starting in the nest of her pubic hair, sliding slowly
up over her belly, across her breast, not teasing, not even, weirdly enough,
overtly sexual. Just loving and tender and wonderful. “What is it?”
            “Do you... Do you remember when you first thought you might be
interested in a bloke? I mean, you know, like, sex and kissing and stuff?”
            Harry looked at him very seriously. “Yeah. I remember it as if it
were yesterday.” he paused a moment, frowning. “Or, er, last night... or,
rather, I guess, this morning.” He paused, looking directly at Ron, whose eyes
were starting to widen. “At about twenty past midnight.”
            “Holy fuck! You mean--” Ron's eyes widened, and he stopped. Not
seeming to know how to continue.
            Harry's eyes were serious. “Yeah. It's like... It's like, it never
even occurred to me until you kissed me. It's all right, yeah? It's all right
me kissing you and that?”
            “Oh, fuck, yeah! I just... I had, like a month to get used to the
idea, an' I'm still not...” He gestured vaguely between his face and Harry's
crotch. “I mean, I want to, but, I, like... I dunno. An' you just... I mean...
Oh, hell, I don't know how to say this.”
            Hermione leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I understand, Ron. And I
think I know the answer, too. Think about how Harry grew up with the Dursleys.
Really think about it.”
            “Oh, come on, now,” said Harry, quietly. “It wasn't that bad, it
really wasn't.”
            “It really was, Harry,” said Hermione, quietly. “It was more awful
than you can understand. It's just that it's what you lived through, so you
think it's normal.” She turned back to Ron. “Do you realize, Ron, that from the
moment Harry was left on the Dursley's doorstep, till he was in Hogwarts, he
was never – never, ever, ever, not even once! -- touched with love? Can you
imagine Petunia Dursley kissing his scraped knees, or cuddling him when
changing him out of dirty nappies?”
            Ron and Harry were both staring at her, eyes rapt. “I think about
this. I think about this an awful lot. Can you imagine how she handled Harry at
bath time? Washing him in the sink like an ugly plate that was given to her by
her in-laws. She hates it, but she has to keep it clean, and she can't just
drop it and let it break, so she hates it even more. Since he was a year old,
Ron. Since he was a year old!”
            Harry'd sucked his lip between his teeth, his eyes fixed on a spot
between her breasts as his fingers circled it. Ron was looking back and forth
between Hermione and Harry in something like horror.
            “That's how Harry developed, Ron,” Hermione was continuing. “How
could he possibly be something as simple as 'Gay' or 'Straight' or even
'Bisexual?'” She slid her hand again up Harry's back, traced it again through
his hair. “Harry's orientation is Please Touch Me. He's known people are
supposed to be straight, or gay, or maybe bi, so when a girl was open to him,
he was drawn to her.”
            “You make me sound so interesting!” Harry's voice was bitter. “Like
a science experiment or something.”
            “Oh, Harry!” She pulled him down to her, kissed him tenderly.
“You're not a specimen. I love you so much it makes my toes curl. You're brave
and loyal and kind and loving and generous and a million things you have no
right to be after being raised by the Dursleys. I will help you with your
homework, and take you out to watch Quidditch and Quodpot, and live and die by
your word, and fuck you long and slow by tea-time if I can manage it.” She
kissed him again, and her caressing hand slid down his back, down under the
waistband of his jeans and pants, and slid gently over his bum. “But you and we
both need to understand this. This is how we live the deepest, most intimate
part of our lives.”
            He smiled back down at her. “I especially like that 'fuck me long
and slow by tea-time' part,” he said. “I like that quite a lot.”
            “I thought you would,” said Hermione, with a chuckle. “I think you
like it more than even Randy Ron, here.” Ron pulled a face, but she silenced
him with a gentle shake of her head. “Because it's not just fucking. It's not
just an orgasm. It's a loving touch. It's the greatest physical acceptance a
human being can offer. And you need that, Harry. You need that more than
anybody I've ever known.”
            Ron leaned down and began nuzzling at her breast. “So if I'm all
needy an' that, will you fuck me by tea-time, too?”
            Harry laughed and swung a pillow at him. “Sod off, you berk!”
            “Not to worry, Ronald,” she told him sweetly, as she started
undoing Harry's belt. “I'm sure I can, er, squeeze you in.”
            “Oh, Merlin!” cried Ron happily, closing his eyes.
===============================================================================
            She was still sore from the night and the morning, and even Harry's
slender, elegant length hurt. But the stunned reverence in his eyes as he slid
into her, well before his long, slow strokes built pleasure from pain, made
this the best time yet.
            “You're inside me, Harry,” she told him, as he slowly sheathed
himself. “You're inside me, and I love it, and I love you and I always want you
in me.”
            “Love you, oh, love you,” he breathed, “oh, love you so fucking
much.”
            Ron's hand was stroking his back, as gently as he'd ever stroked
her. “It's brilliant, mate, isn't it? Loving our girl, it's, it's the most
brilliant thing in the world.”
            Harry reached out to him, pulled him against them, kissed him,
open-mouthed and sloppily. “'Cause she's ours, Ron. 'Cause you'll share her
with me.”
            She smiled as she lifted her hips against Harry, and Ron leaned
down and kissed her. “He's right, you know,” he told her. “You're everything
I've ever wanted, everything I have, and you're twice as much 'cause I can
share you with Harry.”
            Pleasure had overwhelmed pain, by then, and she hadn't expected to
come, but she did, as Harry pushed into her in his slow, gentle strokes. It
wasn't the earth-shattering, mind-stopping orgasm she'd had an hour prior. It
was a smaller, softer thing, but sweet, as well, seeming to center not in her
clitoris, nor the Grafenberg spot, but throughout her whole vagina, from the
walls Harry gently stroked as he pressed, from the depths he reached with every
stroke, from the love and gratitude that seemed to pour from his every motion.
            The gentle wave of pleasure poured through her, and it felt like
drinking a warm mug of cocoa on a winter's day. She gently stroked Harry's
face. “I love you, Harry. You can go faster, you won't hurt me.”
            He kissed her again, and his thrusts picked up their pace. She'd
thought that it might, in fact, hurt, but it didn't, and she bucked up against
him, encouraging him as he fucked her, and while she didn't come again before
he spilled into her, the pleasure never subsided.
            He collapsed on her again, as he had the night before, and she held
him against her, loving the fast beat of his heart against her breast, and
remembered her Mother's words, and smiled. As was so often the case, her mother
had been right. The weight of Harry, pressed bonelessly down against her, as
his moist, softening penis slid from her, was one of the sweetest things she'd
ever felt.
            Harry had rolled to the side again, and she pulled Ron over to her.
“Your turn, now, my randy, patient boy.”
            Ron kissed her. “Are you sure, love? You've had a hell of a workout
today.”
            “Oh, I'm sure. I know I won't always be this insatiable, but
today.... I'm sure.”
            After the slenderness of Harry's cock, Ron's jolly stoutness
stretched her, and again, briefly, there was pain. But again the pain gave way
to pleasure, and Ron's strokes quickened within her, and she bucked her pelvis
against his as he pumped. He kisses were playful, his movements both urgent and
easy.
            Harry reached over from beside her, traced a finger over her chin,
over her lips, and she closed her mouth over the tip, and lifted her head,
sliding it in and over her moving tongue as if it was his cock. He smiled as he
withdrew his glistening finger from her mouth, and kissed her, then Ron, and as
the kiss broke, and Ron rubbed his cheek against Harry's face, he suddenly
stiffened, driving deeper into her than he had thus far.
            “Holy fuck, Harry,” he gasped, and Harry smiled at him.
            “Oh, Merlin!” Ron lowered his head to nip at Hermione's collarbone,
and s e looked down his freckled back to see Harry's hand pressed between the
cheeks of his bum.
            Harry grinned at her. “Your dad is a great influence!”
            “Oh, fuck,” said Ron, “that's the truth!”
***** Chapter Sixteen: “Beauty is a By-Product” *****
Chapter Notes
     “In gardens, beauty is a by-product. The main business is sex and
     death.”
     –Sam Llewelyn
                   Chapter Sixteen: “Beauty is a By-Product”
===============================================================================
                                        
            
They made their way back out to the kitchen, Hermione's gait again a little
careful, and Molly Weasley, its only occupant, clucked over them,
embarrassingly. “Boys, I do understand that this is new and exciting for you,
but you really mustn't push this poor girl. It's new to her, too, and she's not
used to it! Look at her, the poor thing!”
            Three red faces fell into six young palms.
            “You sit there and relax!” Molly said, her hand on Hermione's
shoulder. “I'll go up to the bedroom, and get you some cream for that. You'll
want to use it on your thighs and hips as well, as your muscles aren't used to
those sorts of motions, either.” She shook her head -- “Honestly!” -- and
bustled from the room.
            There was a moment’s silence, before Harry looked over at Ron. “I
think your mum's got used to the idea that you're snogging Hermione.”
            “Obliviate me,” came Hermione's voice, muffled by her hands and the
cloud of bushy hair hanging over her face. “I beg of you!”
            Ron reached across himself to touch her hand with the offside one,
so he could stroke her hair and back with the hand that had been holding that
hand.
            He'd opened his mouth to speak, but stopped, cocking his head
toward a sound, a quiet but very fast and determined Thump!-Thump!-
Thump! approaching rapidly from the back hallway, and they glanced over to see
the stolid, orange form of Crookshanks stomping with deliberate speed, bottle-
brush tail standing above him like a battle-flag, towards Hermione.
            Her face lit up in a huge smile. “Crookshanks!” She leaned down to
him as he approached, hauled him into her lap. “Is that my Cwookie boy?
Is that my Cwookie boy? Mummy is so glad to see you! Yes she is! I
was worried about you!”
            Crookshanks turned his face towards hers, chin angled just so, and
she obediently scratched under it, causing him to purr loudly, angling his head
slightly this way and that to direct the scratching fingers.
            Hermione smiled brightly back and forth between her boys. “I'm so
relieved to see him! I was afraid he was killed when the Death Eaters destroyed
the house! Nobody said anything about him, and I didn't want to ask, because,
you know, an actual person had been killed!”
            “Oh, love,” said Ron. “You should have said.”
            “Yeah,” said Harry, reaching over to rub the shorthaired spaces in
front of the half-Kneazle's ears with the pads of thumb and middle finger. “You
should have told us, Hermione.”
            “When? When Diggle was killed? After I killed Eloise?”
            “Hey!” Harry’s voice was sharp. “You did not kill Eloise!”
            She looked up at Harry, eyes bleak, and he leaned in and kissed
her, very tenderly.
            “You know you didn’t, “he told her, softly, his lips brushing hers,
as Ron leaned in to kiss her just as gently on the soft skin of her neck. His
other hand still stroking her hair.
            “See?” came Molly’s voice from behind team. “This is exactly what I
mean! Poor Hermione can barely walk, and you're--”
            She was stilled by a gentle, sad look from Ron, as Harry told her
again. “Death Eaters killed Eloise, Hermione. Not you.”
            “Eloise died because I’m not good enough,” she murmured, and buried
her face in Crookshanks' fur, and her voice was muffled as she finished, “and
here I was worried about my stupid cat!”
            Crookshanks' head rose sharply at that, affront all over his
features, as Molly Weasley knelt by her, taking her hand. “Dear, I've spoken to
Poppy Pomfrey. You did an exemplary job on each of your patients, Eloise
included.”
            Hermione looked miserably over at her. “But Madame Pomfrey told me
my spell killed her. She said she could have saved her.”
            Ron had moved around her, actually ducking under the table to get
behind her with Harry, and his mother gratefully took his chair even as she
grasped Hermione's hands in hers.
            “Hermione, dear, did you know that one of the people killed at
the Prophet offices was taken by a Dementor in front of her ten-year-old son?
Should he have conjured a Patronus to protect her?”
            Hermione's face snapped up to hers, shocked. “You can't expect a
ten-year-old to conjure a Patronus!”
            “Why not?” asked Molly. “You can do it.”
            “I've had years of training in magic generally, and a year of
intensive defensive training by Harry!”
            Molly simply looked at her, with wise, sympathetic eyes.
            “Oh, hell,” murmured Hermione, before dropping her face onto one
hand, her head shaking, with a sound that might have been very quiet, very sad
laughter.
            “Isn't it awful when she’s right?” Ron asked, stroking her hair
sympathetically. “Don't worry, love. You’ll get used to it.”
            Hermione smiled gratefully up at her mother-in-law, and stood,
bringing her husbands to their feet behind her. Crookshanks jumped gracefully
to the floor, and commenced twining among their feet. She gestured toward the
sink. “Shall we take care of the dishes?”
            “What? The Birthday Boy and his spouses wash dishes on his
birthday?” said Molly. “That sounds an excellent idea! And after that, you can
help in the garden!”
            “My, Harry,” said Hermione, her voice amused. “That's quite the
smile.”
            It was late in the afternoon, and the three of them were working in
an efficient row. Ron, in the lead, was pulling weeds from amongst the
alternating sweet peas and runner beans, and pulling away dead leaves.
Following him with a self-replenishing pail, Hermione was watering them. Harry,
taking up the rear, was tying off the longer loose tendrils to the stakes that
had been there to help them grow tall since planting season.
            Now, though, Harry was gazing at the ground with a sort of dreamy
smile, clearly a million miles away.
            He shook his head at Hermione's voice, and blushed as he looked up
at her.
            “What is it, Harry?” she asked, seeing how embarrassed he looked.
            His blush deepened, and he dropped his gaze. “I feel silly about
it.”
            Ron grinned past her at him, “All right, now you've no choice! Now
you have to spill it!”
            “Yeah,” replied Harry,”‘ Cause what I really need is for you to
have more reasons to take the mickey out of me!”
            Hermione touched his shoulder. “I won't take the mickey, Harry. And
I'd love to know where that smile came from.”
            He gazed into her eyes for a long moment, the smile returning. “Did
you know,” he told her, “that I’ve always thought that you had really beautiful
eyes?”
            “Harry!” It was Hermione's turn to blush, her lips turning upwards
in a smile. “That's so sweet!”
            “See, your eyes are very warm. They just.... I look into your eyes,
and I can see all the wheels turning behind them, but even more than how clever
they are, how brilliant, they’re just so full of warmth! And I noticed – back
the day this happened --” he waved his hand, pulling her elbow with it. “When
you were talking to me, in the Head Girl's room, when you were telling me....
You know...”
            “That I'm in love with you? You don't have to be afraid to say it,
Harry. It doesn't make you big-headed or something. I'm in love with you, just
as much as I am Ron. I am.”
            Harry's answering smile was sunrise. “Yeah. When you told me you're
in love with me. I noticed again what color your eyes are.”
            “They're brown, Harry,” Hermione said.
            “Not just any brown. They’re so warm, so rich. You know what brown
they are? They're this brown.” He pointed at the ground. “This is one of my
favorite places, Hermione, and this earth is one of my favorite things, because
it's so vibrant, so full of life, so nurturing, so full of strength that lets
good things grow in it.”
            “Why, Harry, that's so beautiful!” said Hermione, as Ron began
chuckling behind her.
            Harry blushed. “I remember wanting to tell you, then, but, somehow,
there's just no good way to tell a girl who loves you, 'Your eyes are the color
of dirt.'”
            Ron hooted with laughter, and even Hermione chuckled a bit at that.
“Yes, Harry, I can see the difficulties there.”
            Ron's laughter built, and Hermione tutted over at him. “Oh,
honestly, Ron, it's not that funny!”
            “Oh, yes it bloody wellis!” cried Ron, with great delight. “Do you
know what gives our earth here this color? It's the fertiliser! Mum gets a
shipment every spring from a Hippogriff ranch up in Wales! She mixes it in
every year!” Hermione began to blush as Ron grabbed her hands in his, and
practically sang to her, “Oh, Hermione, dear Hermione, how I love to gaze into
your turd-colored orbs!”
            Harry now barked with laughter, but Hermione's face fell, and Ron
was instantly contrite. “Love, I’m sorry, I'm just playing. You know I love
your eyes. You know that. I don’t come over all poetic-like, like the Boy-Who-
Waxed-Lyrical here, but...”
            “No, Ron. I'm just being silly.” Hermione shook her head. “When I
was in Muggle school, one of the other girls, Elspeth McGivern, used to say
that to me. Well, not that exactly, but...” Suddenly Hermione's voice was an
imitation, high and sharp and biting. “That's why your eyes are brown,
Hermione! Because you're so full of--”
            “Right, that's it!” said Ron. “We're off to find Elspeth! You point
her out to us, we'll do the hexing!”
            Ron's voice held no merriment, only cold anger, and when she
glanced over at Harry, his eyes were fierce.
            “Stop it, you two!” Hermione's voice was soft. “It's just... I'm
being childish. She always made me feel ugly. A couple of years ago, she
actually started modeling.”
            “Yeah,” growled Ron, “We’ll see how many jobs she gets when she's
got a nice big, hairy pair of bollocks!”
            “She's ugly,” said Harry.
            Hermione shook her head at him. “You've never even seen her.”
            “I don't have to. She had to try to make you feel small so she
could feel good about herself. That takes a kind of ugly that always shows, now
matter what. Just look at Draco Malfoy.”
            “Yeah,” said Ron, warming to Harry's theme. “Now, you, Hermione
Jane, you make me feel like a king, and The-Boy-Who-Sulks over here start
spouting poetry like Lord sodding Byron.”
            “Hey!” cried Harry.
            “Belt up, mate, it’s all in a good cause.” Ron turned back to
Hermione. “You're the beautiful one, Hermione. You're beautiful because we love
you, and you're beautiful because you make us feel special, but you're mainly
beautiful because you're beautiful. Or don't you remember the gasp that came up
when you walked into the Great hall with Viktor Krum?”
            Hermione smiled. “'Viktor Krum'? Not 'Vicky'?”
            “Nah,” said Ron with a smile. “I can be magnanimous in victory. As
I recall it wasn't Krum upstairs with you last night in Little Whinging. Not in
the shower this morning, and not helping Harry make you writhe and squirm in a
tent in the cupboard this afternoon.”
            Hermione smiled and leaned in to kiss him. “When did you get to be
so secure and so confident?”
            “When the most brilliant witch in the whole fucking world was
sentenced to life attached tome...and it was a good thing.”
            He kissed her, his hands sliding around her sides, and Harry leaned
back away from them, letting his arms stretch out before him, trying to give
them this moment. Their hands closed over his elbows at the same time, pulling
him in to them.
            “Where do you think you're going, you wanker?” said Ron, nuzzling
against his neck as Hermione kissed him.
            “Silly boy,” said Hermione. “This is not me and Ron, plus you.
Don't you get that yet? It's the three of us. It's always been the three of us.
Always. Sometimes, I used to cry at night, because I knew that we'd grow up,
and it wouldn't be any more. I'd be with Ron, or I'd be with you --” She
glanced over at Ron. “Yes, Ron, I did sometimes imagine that.” She looked back
to Harry. “It broke my heart to think that one day, I'd be part of a 'two of
us' that would come before the three of us.” She nudged her face back in
between Harry's and Ron's, and their noses had to anglejust so but they did,
and their lips came together, and the only sounds for a moment were the moist
motions of mouth against mouth against mouth. “Now, we’ll always be us. Always
be the three of us first.”
            There was a sound, and they turned, and Ginny was standing by the
row they'd been working. The sun had lowered further in the sky, and it painted
her in shades of fiery gold and deep purple shadows. Her eyes were very wide,
her mouth slightly open.
            “I'm sorry,” she said, her voice barely a breath. “I never knew. I
never knew!”
            “What's that, Gin?” asked Ron, reaching a hand out to her.
            “I... You’re beautiful.” She blinked, shook her head. “Together, I
mean. You're just-- I never knew you were so beautiful.” She turned, blinking
again, and if perhaps there were tears being held back by that blink, her voice
gave no sign. “Comeback inside, you three. Mum sent me out for you. It's time
for supper.”
            Supper was a much smaller affair. The twins had returned to their
shop, and Sirius had gone to the Den to be with Remus during his “lycanthropic
discomfort.” So they sat with Ginny and Molly and Arthur, dining on a delicious
stew, with leftover breads and rolls from the brunch.
            Arthur, who had an early day at work the next day, begged off early
and went to bed, and Ginny followed suit shortly thereafter, pressing kisses to
the cheeks of Harry, Ron, and Hermione before walking quickly from the kitchen,
her head down.
            As they stood to help Molly with the dishes, Hermione moved her leg
out to the side a bit, and winced, and Molly's hand flew immediately to her
mouth. “Oh, my goodness, Hermione, I’m so very sorry. I was so distracted by
your talk of Eloise when I got back to you this afternoon that I forgot to give
you this!”
            She reached into the pocket of her apron, and pulled out a small
glass jar with a hinged lid.
            “Now, this is self-replenishing, so you won't need to replace it.
You'll want to use a good, generous application. Now, you probably ought to
cast Depilario first, as this can be quite the gooey mess, and it's very hard
to wash out. Something about the oils in the hair.” Hermione stared at her,
silent and wide-eyed, while Ron's mouth opened and closed rapidly, and Harry
covered his with his own hand. “Remember, it should go on your hips and thighs
and your bottom, too. Those are all muscles that you're using in new ways, and
they're bound to be sore. Also, right up inside, don't be shy about it. I'm
sure the boys will be happy to help.”
            Now Ron's mouth had made up its mind, hanging open, as was Harry's,
while Hermione's lips were compressed almost to the point of disappearing, and
her eyes seemed the size of Molly’s dinner plates.
            “You know,” said Molly, sitting down at the head of the table
again, “I understand how new and exciting this all is for you, but you really
do need to be careful. Soon enough, the novelty will wear off, you know, and
it's important that you boys make a real effort if you want to please
Hermione.”
            Ron and Harry buried their faces in their hands as Hermione made a
strangled squeaking sound.
            “Well, honestly,” said Molly, “I do have seven children! It's not
like I'm a stranger to the idea! Anyway, Ronnie, you're a Weasley, and I won't
have you letting down the family. There's a proud tradition, you know: Weasley
men know how to please their women! Your father, for instance! He's simply
amazing! There's this thing he does with his--”
            “Muuum!” wailed Ron, in horror and despair, as Harry groaned and
Hermione let out a series of choking sounds.
            Molly's head fell back, and a howl of laughter escaped her, and
another, the mirth cascading out of her like the Niagara River hitting the
Falls. “Oh, my!” she managed eventually to gasp. “Oh, my goodness! Oh, dear,
that was fun!” She laughed again, hard and bubbling.
            The three teenagers stared at her, eyes wide and wary.
            “Oh, your faces!” she cried. “Oh, you can relax, dears, I'm only
teasing! Oh, that was wonderful! I don’t remember the last time I've had such
fun!” She reached out and tweaked Hermione's nose. “I have to say, dear, your
father is a wonderful influence!”
            She stood again, pressing the jar into Hermione's numb hand,
wrapped her unresponsive fingers around it. “You go to bed now, and use this.
That part wasn't a joke.” She walked to the kitchen door. “Remember what I said
about Depilario!”
            “Depilario!” said Harry, his wand moving very precisely, and he
watched, eyes wide and wondering, as each of Hermione's pubic hairs simply
crawled out of her skin, like a nest of tiny, impossibly thin worms. Ron
flicked his wand, and banished the loose hair, and they both stared,
fascinated, at her smooth, pink mons.
            “Oh, look at that, mate!” breathed Ron.
            Harry reached hesitantly for her, glanced up at Hermione's eyes.
“Can, uh... Can I?”
            Hermione smiled. “Of course you can, Harry. You know that.”
            His eyes widened further as his fingers ran over her bare vulva,
and Hermione's eyes fluttered closed. “Oooh, that's very nice, Harry.”
            “It's so smooth! So silky smooth! How long will it stay like this?”
            Hermione chuckled. “It’s Depilario, Harry. How long will your chin
be like that?”
            Harry nodded. “Till I do finite. I'm sorry, I'm not thinking, I'm
just... This is wonderful, Hermione.”
            Ron leaned down, and gently, softly kissed her mound. “Oh, yeah,
Hermione, this is great.” He looked up at her. “How do you like it?”
            “I don't know. It's...see, I've always been sort of, of leery of
this. My mother has a real issue about it. She says it shouldn't make a woman
sexier for her privates to be indistinguishable from a little girl's... But I
have to say, this feels really nice. Your fingers, Harry, your kiss, Ron. It's
so different without the hair. I think I kind of like it.”
            Ron reached up to the bedside table, brought down the jar of
healing cream, opening back the top, and holding the jar out to Harry. Harry
smiled as he scooped some out onto his fingers, and Hermione gasped as he began
working it into her skin. Soon Ron was at work, too, and they moved her and
rolled her a bit, this way and that as they massaged the soothing cream into
her skin, warming and cooling her aching muscles. Harry took a dab on his
fingertip, and smoothed it gently, lovingly along the surface of her Labia, and
she cooed and trilled at the gentle healing power of the cream.
            He held the jar out to Ron. “Your fingers are longer, mate.”
            And Ron dipped his middle finger into the cream, and ever so gently
slid it up inside of her. The breath whistled out of Hermione, and Ron paused.
            “Are you all right, love? Is it hurting?”
            Hermione snorted. “No, Ron, it's making me randy! I've heard of the
cure being worse than the disease, but never the cure causing the bloody
disease!”
            “Well,” said Harry, staring at Ron's finger disappearing up into
her, “It seems to be an epidemic, because I've certainly got a stiffie!”
            “Same here,” Ron admitted.
            “I can't, tonight, though,” said Hermione. “I really... I can't.
But I can wank you boys if you want.”
            Harry and Ron both shook their heads. “Love,” said Ron, “I've
survived more than one chubby without doing anything about it. I'll survive
this one, too.”
            Harry touched her arm. “If you do without, we do without.”
            They finished with the potion, and helped her into one of Harry's
T-Shirts and a pair of her white cotton knickers, and they both kept their
boxers on as they slipped with her beneath the cool, pink sheets. They shared
another three-way kiss, and Hermione pointed her wand.
            “Nox,” she said, and the room settles into darkness.
            “It certainly didn’t seem like a little girl's to me,” Harry said,
suddenly.
            Hermione's chuckle was musical. “Good night, Harry.”
            Remus Lupin ran a hand through his hair as he looked around the
basement of the Kennel. Sirius had magically expanded it into a full-featured
gymnasium, with floor mats and padded walls.
            Sirius and Tonks were standing together looking at something stuck
to the far wall of the room. Like him, they were both wearing brief running
shorts and trainers, Tonks having added a lime-green sports-bra to the outfit.
They all wore belts, with holsters for their wands.
            They looked very good there, Remus thought, all strong lines and
smooth proportions, muscle definition showing in their backs and thighs and
calves. She leaned over and bumped playfully against him, and he laughed and
reached up to touch her back, and as they turned toward one another, they
clearly caught a glimpse of Lupin in the corners of they eyes, and they turned
toward him.
            “You're looking tired,” said Sirius. “Long weekend?”
            Remus, who'd finished the last of the month's transformations that
morning, made a rude noise.
            Sirius grinned over at Tonks. “I think my favorite part of the
'Furry Little Problem' is winding him up when he has PMS.”
            She looked blankly at him.
            “Post-Moony-Syndrome!”
            “Remember, Sirius, I can always kill you next month, eat the
evidence, and blame the whole thing on a bad batch of potion.”
            “Bad potion?” Sirius’ smile was vulpine. “From our dear friend
Snivelus? Please!”
            Lupin shook his head, his eyes closing briefly. “He is a member of
the Order, Sirius. Don’t you think it's time we put aside our childhood grudges
and worked together like adults?”
            “No,” said Sirius. “I really don't. I don't trust him, Remus. The
way he talks about James? You’re the one who told me what Ron said to him!”
            Lupin looked down, and was distracted by Tonks' shapely legs as she
approached him. “I don't think he’s turned yet, Remus,” she told him, and he
looked up into her eyes, unusually solemn. “One way or the other.”
            “You may be right, Tonks,” he replied. “But if so, that's all the
more reason to be grown-up about this. To extend a hand to him. If all we show
him is hatred and distrust, why would he choose to side with us?”
            “After what he did to you?” cried Sirius. “What he tried to do to
me?”
            “I was careless about my potion, Sirius, and transformed in front
of students! I could have killed them! He was right to do it.” He drew a ragged
breath. “And, Sirius, even I thought you'd killed Peter and those Muggles.
Even I thought you were trying to kill Harry. Why wouldn't Severus?”
            “Enough,” said Tonks. “We're not here to have a sub-committee
meeting on Severus Snape. We're here for three-side combat training. I've been
giving some thought to some of the moves I think we can adapt. Sirius, did you
find a spell?”
            Sirius nodded. “Yes. It’s another ancient Peloponnesian spell. This
wasn't restricted to the Regimagi, though; any normal witch or wizard should
have the power to do it.”
            Tonks was frowning. “You know, it's a funny thing, that. I'd never
heard that Hermione was all that powerful a witch. When that Prophet article
hit, I thought all that was just there to get up Riddle's nose, but she did
manage to cast Nuptialis Unum.”
            Lupin glanced over at her. “It's not something that gets bandied
about when someone's a student,” he said. “Learning that one is unusually
powerful or weak can have an enormous effect on a student's academic
motivation, and seldom for the good. But Hermione was already a little above
average power when she arrived at Hogwarts, and both she and Ron have been
growing more powerful at an amazing rate ever since.”
            Sirius nodded. “It’s Harry. It's his love. You should really talk
to Albus about this when he gets back. Do you know that every single student he
taught defense to last year can conjure a corporeal Patronus?”
            Tonks' eyes widened.
            “Every one of them,” said Remus. “Even the girl who betrayed them.
Harry had a lot of love for that class.”
            “Have you noticed that your magic has gotten better since you've
known Harry?” asked Sirius. “Have you wondered why I had the strength to remain
at the Veil for as long as I did? Harry loves us. Harry loves us, and we're
more powerful than we would be. But it's nothing to his love for Ron and
Hermione – even before all this.”
            Sirius held his handout before him. “Anyway,” he said, “There's a
spell that's similar to Nuptialis Unum, only it isn't permanent. Until it's
broken, we'll be connected the way they are. Are you ready?”
            Tonks reached out and took his hand, and Remus took them both.
Sirius drew his wand from its sheath on his belt, tapped their clasped hands,
and incanted, “E Pluribus, Unum.”
            A chuckle escaped from Remus as the slightest breath of magic
rippled out over them, the tiniest zephyr of energy.
            “The motto from American money, Sirius?” asked the werewolf, with a
wry smile. “No wonder it didn’t work.”
            “That motto,” said Sirius, with great dignity, “was adopted by the
Americans from the annuals of Gentlemen’s Magazine, which used it every year
from its inception in 1731. It was added to the masthead of the annuals by the
magazine's co-founder, Sylvanus Urban, who allowed his  Muggle friend and
partner Edward Cave to take full credit for his works in the Muggle edition of
the Magazine. Urban, of course, was one of the great Wizards of his time. So
I’ve no doubt the Yanks got it from this spell, and not vice-versa.”
            He opened his hand. “As to it not working... We'll see.”
            Remus tried to pull his hand away, and found he could not. Sirius's
hand didn't feel any different under his fingers, but he could not release him.
Suddenly Tonks was running her fingertips up his arm, smiling, fascinated as
she watched.
            “It feels so normal,” she said. Then she tried to pull her fingers
away from him, and grinned as instead she pulled his arm along with her.
            “All right,” said Sirius. “First things first, I should think. We
can't fight if we can't move. I suggest we run some circuits.”
            “Merlin's hairy, wrinkled, fecund balls!” cried Tonks, as she tried
to extricate herself from the tangle of limbs and bodies on the padded floor.
It was the fourth time they’d tripped one another up and gone crashing down in
a flailing tangle. And while the strong, masculine bodies felt more then good
against her, well, they were working, weren't they, and this just wouldn't do
at all. “Your godson,” she told Sirius, “and his friends, they're fucking
miraculous!”
            “They really ran into that forest?” asked Remus, sliding his hand
quickly down the back of her thigh, no doubt in a hurry to get it away from her
bum. Oh, my, that did feel nice, though!
            “Full out,” she said, “and without missing a step. They're a bloody
marvel!”
            Sirius had managed to pull himself to his feet, and reached his
hands down to them. “Well, we're not going to learn how just sitting here!”
            And they took his hands and clambered to their feet.
            They sat again, on the padded floor, two hours later, side by side,
panting. They'd managed to find a rhythm, and done circuits of the room, and
some basic calisthenics, and were taking a break.
            “We should split up for lunch,” Remus said.
            “They can't split up for lunch,” reposted Sirius.
            Remus looked at him for a long moment. “Well, I'd hoped not to be
crass about it, Sirius, but I do, in fact, need to answer nature's call.”
            “They can't split up for that, either.”
            Remus looked impatient. “Sirius, stop being stubborn, I obviously
can't bring a you and Tonks with me to the loo. Break the spell.”
            “I can't,” said Sirius.
            “You-- What?”
            “I can't!”
            Tonks looked at him, interested, but Remus' face was horrified.
“You-- You didn't!”
            Sirius rolled his eyes. “You think I'm wizard enough to re-name a
Regimagus spell? Hell, to even cast it, under its own name?”
            “You told us it was temporary!” cried Remus.
            “It is temporary, Remus! Godric's arse, when did you get to be such
a drama queen! It’s temporary, all right?”
            “Then you can break it!”
            “No,” said Sirius, tiredly. “It'll wear off on its own.”
            “Well, thank Merlin for small favors,” muttered Lupin. “I'll just
have to hold it, then.”
            “For about seventy-two hours,” agreed Sirius.
            Lupin sat upright, eyes wide and round. “What? You said what?”
            Tonks laughed, and climbed to her feet, trailing a hand down to
Lupin's head. “Well, come on, then,” she said.
            “Come where?” cried Remus, as Sirius climbed to his feet as well.
            “To the toilet,” she replied, as if he were the world's thickest
living human. “You're not holding it for 72 hours, you'll explode, and I'll be
all messy.”
            “You're insane. Both of you.”
            She squatted down to bring her face closer to his eye level. It
left them eye-to-cloth-covered nipple, protruding against the lime-green
material of the sports bra.
            “Look, Remus, if I really horrify you that much, you
can Caecutus me before and Obliviateme afterwards, but you really do have to
pee.”
            “Oh, he isn’t horrified,” said Sirius, confidently. “He's putting
out as many pheromones as you are.”
            “Godric, Sirius, must you?”
            “Well, what's the sodding problem, Moony? You want her. She wants
you. We all like each other.”
            “I notice you don’t have much to say,” said Remus, gesturing back
and forth between them, “about wanting one another.”
            “Well, I certainly wasn’t longing for Sirius,” Tonks admitted, “But
he's a great friend, and I love him a lot, and I've got no problem with some
friendly exercise.” She looked at him for a long time. “But you're right, I'm
not in love with him like am with you.”
            Remus stared up at her, his eyes still wide.
            “Look,” she finally said, “If you don't share that, it's fine. It
can still be a little friendly exercise, or we can all pretend we're grown-ups,
and I won't pass out if I see your bits or you see mine.”
            Lupin reached up and grabbed her shoulders. He pulled her down to
him so hard that their teeth clacked audibly.
            “About sodding time,” said Sirius Black.
***** Chapter Seventeen: "Lessons, Hard and Easy" *****
                   Chapter Seventeen: Lessons, Hard and Easy
===============================================================================
            Harry's thrashing woke Ron. This was something Ron was used to.
Harry tended to have nightmares the first week or so after any change in his
environment. Every summer coming to the Burrow, every autumn going to Hogwarts,
last Christmas at Grimmauld Place.
            Hermione was already awake; her flat hand pushed up under Harry's
shirt, rubbing big, slow circles over his chest and belly.
            “Shhh.....” she told him, her other hand squirming up into his
hair. “Shhh, love. It's all right. You're here with me, here with us, here in
our bed. Come on, love, it's all right.”
            Harry's thrashing stilled, and he turned toward her. “Hermione?”
            She kissed him, very gently, very tenderly, and his face registered
a moment's confusion even as his hand settled comfortably on her hip. She
glanced over Harry's shoulder at him, but Ron shook his head slightly. You're
doing fine.
           “Come back to me, Harry, love,” she murmured, stroking him, and
kissed him again. “Come on back.”
            His eyes closed a moment, and then he drew her into his arms,
kissing her, his hands sliding up beneath the back of her shirt, fingers spread
wide, as if to feel as much of her as possible.
            “Oh, Hermione,” he breathed. “Oh, God!”
            “Bad one?” asked Ron.
            Harry nodded, closing his eyes. “The - the graveyard. Riddle's
voice - Kill the spare - Wormtail - Avada Kedavra- But it wasn't Cedric! It
wasn't Cedric!” He held Hermione tight against him, kissing her again, his
seeking fingers still moving over her warmth.
            “It was me, wasn't it, Harry?” she said, quietly.
            Harry barely managed a nod, as he fell back onto his pillow,
drawing Hermione up atop him, and he looked over to Ron as she nuzzled against
his neck. “You were there. You were just standing there, watching, with this
look on your face, so sad, but not surprised. Just... Defeated. Like you
already knew. Like me getting her killed was just a foregone conclusion.”
            Now Ron was kissing him, too, his lips gentle, his large hands
moving on Harry, softly, lovingly.
            “Harry....Harry. You will never see me look at you that way, Harry.
Never.”
            “What if I get her killed on you, Ron? It could happen.”
            “Harry,” began Hermione, gently, but Ron's firm voice interrupted
her.
            “You're right, Harry. This is a war, and people die. But even if
Hermione were killed, you wouldn't see me look at you like that. Not ever.”
            Harry's voice was a miserable, frightened whine. “How can you say
that, Ron? How can you know?”
            Ron's voice was calm and matter-of-fact. “Because if Hermione's
killed, Harry, her corpse'll land on top of yours and mine. You know that as
well as I do, mate. Nobody's killing our wife while we're still drawing breath.
That's how I know.”
            Hermione reached over and tugged a lock of Ron's hair, and, when he
came within range, kissed him thoroughly, before returning her mouth to
Harry's. “You two are the sweetest, most impossible men on the planet. How you
can lie here in our warm bed, building a pile of our corpses, I just don't
know! But I'll tell you this much: We are not going to die in this war! We're
not, because I simply won't allow it. We can't anyway. It's mathematically
impossible. Because I can't be killed while the two of you are still alive, but
neither of you can be killed while I'm alive. So, since none of us can be
killed until the others are already gone, we're obviously not going to be
killed. QED!”
            Harry burst out laughing. “There's clearly something wrong with
that argument, Hermione, but I'm honestly not sure what it is!” Harry snuggled
up to her again, kissed her with gentle, tender passion, lips opening, tongue
seeking hers, and when they parted, he smiled warmly at her. “Thanks, Hermione.
That made no sense at all, but I'm feeling loads better.”
            He kissed her again, and then settled back down, giving Ron a
sleepy kiss as well.
            Ron glanced over at Hermione in the moonlight spilling in through
the magical window, and saw her rather self-satisfied grin.
            “What's got you so smug?” he teased, and Harry smiled, and slit his
eyes open to regard her answer.
            Hermione chuckled warmly. “Do you have any idea how much of the
last five years I spent, seething with jealousy, because you got to be there to
comfort Harry in the night, and I didn't, because of some stupid rule?”
            “You know the part of this I love,” said Harry, his voice smiling.
“I love that Hermione Granger just said that girls not being allowed to spend
the night in the Boys' Dorm is a stupid rule!”
            Ron sniggered. “'Course it is. 'Cause, you know, teenaged boys with
a girl in their room for the night, they'd never touch her in an inappropriate
manner,” he said, reaching casually over to palm her breast through his
Gilderoy Lockhart T-Shirt.
            “Right you are, mate,” said Harry, pulling her to him, and sliding
his hand under her knickers to caress her bum. “Teenaged boys would never do
something like that.”
            “Certainly not,” agreed Hermione, as she lifted her hips off the
mattress to allow Harry to remove her knickers. He squirmed around on the big
king-sized bed, and trailed kisses up her inner thigh, and she curled her
fingers in his hair as she murmured, “It would be a shockingbreach of conduct!”
            She reached down and gave Ron's pyjama bottoms a tug, tossing her
head at him significantly.
            Ron grinned at her in the moonlight, kissed her gently, loving the
taste of her, the softness of her lips, the demanding boldness of her tongue.
            “Harry was right, you know,” he told her. “You are a right little
perv!”
            She raised an eyebrow, and Harry sniggered from between her thighs.
            “I don't say it like it's a bad thing,” Ron said, quickly, before
squirming around, guided by her touch, to where she wanted him.
            She suddenly gasped, and he knew Harry's mouth had reached her
center. Her hands were almost frantic as they pulled down his pyjama bottoms,
and she leaned in and took him in her mouth with a satisfied moan.
            It was a discovery that Ron and Harry had both been thrilled to
make over the four days since Harry's birthday: Hermione loved to suck their
cocks. “It makes me feel so powerful,” she'd told them breathlessly, after a
long afternoon of going back and forth between them. “I love to feel you go
hard in my mouth. I love that the tiniest movement of my tongue makes you
squirm, and cry my name. I love how you both taste and feel, and I love, oh, I
love that when you're in my mouth, I own you!”
            Harry, still flushed and panting from the orgasm she'd just drunk
from him like water after days in the desert, had laughed weakly. “You own us
anyway, Hermione. Don't you know that?”
            She had been silent a very long time. “Yeah,” she finally said,
smiling deeply. “But I never believe it more than when I have you in my mouth.”
            “How about when you have us in your fanny?” asked Harry.
            She'd laughed. “I can't concentrate enough then to be aware of it,
Harry,” she'd said, her look back and forth between them including Ron as well,
“because I'm too busy squirming, and crying your names and belonging to the two
of you, heart and mind and body and soul.”
            And fuck if that wasn't how he belonged to her now, as the wet heat
of her mouth engulfed him, and drew away, as her tongue traced the fold behind
the ridge of the glans, as her lips tenderly nibbled their way down his shaft
to his balls, leaving the erection lying against her cheek. She turned her
head, and his cock was sliding along her open mouth, until she closed her lips
again over the end and drew him in, her head angled to press the head against
the roof of her mouth, her tongue tracing little patterns over the silky skin
of the shaft.
            He whimpered as he lay there on his side, as she used his thigh for
a pillow and sucked and licked him between moans and squeals as Harry's mouth
played with her fanny, occasionally resting his own head on her thigh.
            Hermione very gently nipped Ron's glans with her teeth, and he
arched back, eyes wide, and found himself eye-to-wet-spot with Harry's Y-
fronts.
            Harry'd gone down on him a couple of times now since that first
morning, once more with Hermione, who'd pointed out spots on Ron's cock to pay
special attention to, and once while Hermione was going down on him. Ron
remembered kissing Harry and Hermione after that, tasting his own sex in
Harry's mouth, tasting Harry in Hermione's. The tastes were similar but not the
same, salty and smoky and, in Harry's case,  somehow dark. He didn't know how a
taste could be dark, but it was.
            He was still confused, because he couldn't figure out whether or
not he'd liked the taste.
            That wet spot glistened on Harry's Y-fronts, a few scant inches in
front of him. Ron eyed the spot, remembering the taste on Hermione's tongue,
and then he leaned slowly forward, extending his tongue, and flicked at the
glistening moisture. It was different without Hermione's taste there. Not
better or worse, but different. Well, the flavor of cotton and laundry soap
wasn't as good as Hermione's...
            “Fuck, Ron!” gasped Harry. “Please!”
            Ron looked down at his face, peering up at him, flushed and hungry,
from Hermione's smooth, silvery, moonlit fanny.
            Really? Ron's mind reeled. Look at him. From that one, tiny lick?
Really?
            Hermione's mouth moved over his length again, and Ron gasped,
losing his connection, for a moment, with the universe itself. Hell, yeah,
really!
            His hands were drawing Harry's pants down, and almost before he
knew what he was doing, Harry was in his mouth.
            He tasted like Harry, only more so. Salty sweat and the barest hint
of a spicy tang that made him think of Spanish food, and that slight undertone
of darkness.
            Harry's hand fisted in Ron's hair, and Ron moved his head, sliding
his mouth down over Harry's cock. It felt amazing in his mouth, twitching this
way and that in reaction to the slightest touches of his tongue. The skin of
the shaft was so soft, so smooth, and its length in his mouth was elegant.
            And the noises Harry was making! On some level, he knew they were
the same sounds Harry made when Hermione fellated him. But he was making them
because of Ron! Ron could suck harder, nibble over there, lick just here, and
those sounds would erupt from Harry!
            He barely noticed when Hermione's mouth drew back away from his own
cock, but her heard her gasp, and glanced up to see her staring at him, wide-
eyed and fascinated and aroused. He twitched an eyebrow at her as he moved
again, sliding Harry as deeply into his mouth as he could. The head of his cock
slammed against Ron's throat, and he gagged.
            Harry pulled for a moment away from Hermione's fanny. “Sorry,
mate!”
            “'S’all right,” said Ron, it coming out “sah-wye!” around Harry's
cock. Something about that brought the reality home to him: He had a cock in
his mouth. He had Harry's cock in his mouth! There was a roaring in his ears.
He had Harry's cock in his mouth!
            For a wild, yawning moment, he froze there. Was he going to freak
out? Spit Harry's cock from his mouth with a cry?
            His head moved slightly, and Harry moaned, low and deep and
guttural. “Ohhhh... Ron!”
            The voice, so full of pleasure and love, warmth and need. Ron
closed his eyes, and moved again, sucking and licking Harry's cock as if it
were an ice mouse.
            It was only a few seconds before Harry erupted into his mouth, a
twitching series of spurts that filled his mouth with that taste, that smoky,
salty taste, that taste whose hint of darkness Ron would always wonder at,
spicy and exotic in its undertones, mystery enough for lifetimes. Mystery he'd
happily spend his own lifetime exploring, one long taste at a time.
            Even as he swallowed, Hermione dove onto his cock with renewed
vigor, and suddenly, Ron was gone, his world contracted to the moist heat of
Hermione's mouth around him, her clever tongue and the gentlest of touches from
her teeth, and the orgasm thundered through him with the force of a volcanic
eruption, the most powerful orgasm he'd ever had, and as he spettered into her
mouth, she squirmed against Harry's face, and her eyes widened, and she cried
out, syllables that might have been meant to resolve into his name, into
Harry's name, into the names of gods and magic, and her eyes fluttered closed
for a long moment.
            Then she was pulling Ron up to kiss him, as Harry squirmed up as
well, and they lay together, kissing, tasting one another, tasting the
combinations, and Hermione was reaching for her wand, casting a charm that left
them clean and dry as they cuddled together in the moonlight. In less than a
minute, they were all asleep.
===============================================================================
            “Good,” said Sirius, looking his down at his three students. He'd
arrived with Remus and Tonks to bring them back to the Kennel for their first
training class, and found them in the back yard, watching Crookshanks chase
gnomes. All three were wearing cut-off denim shorts - the boys', he was amused
to note, briefer than Hermione's - and sandals, their legs casually touching.
The boys wore plain white vests - he remembered with bemusement the American
wizards he'd spent a few weeks hiding with calling those “wife-beaters” - and
Hermione wore a navy blue “boob-tube,” the lines of her shoulders and
collarbones elegant and beautiful. Oh, to be seventeen again! Sirius snorted to
himself. At seventeen, he'd been such a self-absorbed, reckless git, this girl
would have looked him up and down once, contempt in her eyes, and walked away.
And rightly so, too.
            They glanced up at Sirius's voice, and suddenly Hermione was
moving, wide-eyed, to her feet, staring back and forth from him to Tonks to
Remus, the backs of their hands brushing against one another.
            Sirius noticed how effortlessly the boys turned with their contact,
even as Hermione, staring, cried, “You didn't!”
            “No, Clever Boots,” he said. “I didn't. I researched, and found a
temporary version that was also used by the Peloponnesians. How else did you
think we could learn combat moves to teach you?”
            She smiled, suitably abashed, as Ron shrugged, climbing to his
feet, handing her her robes. “I just don't know why you cast it before coming
to get us,” he said. “Seems like it'd be a bit of a pain.”
            “He cast it the day before yesterday,” said Tonks. “Lasts about
three days. We'll time it better next time.”
            Ron was helping Harry to his feet, handing him his robes, as Remus
said, “Anyway, Apparition is easier than expected like this, and side-along
will be no problem.” He reached out and took hold of Harry's elbow. “You did
this before with Sirius, yes?”
            Harry nodded.
            “Come on, then, Ron, luv,” said Tonks with a cheeky grin. “Give us
a hug!”
            Ron laughed as he stepped up to her, arms wrapping her in a
friendly embrace.
            “You and me, Clever Boots?”
            Hermione leaned into Sirius, hugging him warmly.
            “All right, all, concentrate, please! The living room of the
Kennel!”
            And there was that sense of dark constriction, and the burrow's
back yard was gone.
===============================================================================
            They'd spent fifteen minutes running circuits of Sirius' basement
gymnasium (“Just to warm up,” Sirius had said) and begun learning the first
three-part maneuver Tonks had come up with.
            “The point is, rather than treating the connection as a
disadvantage, you make it an advantage. There are things you can do that no-one
else can, because you're all connected. So we're going to start simple, and use
Hermione as a whip.”
            Hermione's face swung around towards her. “Excuse me?”
            “Well, you're the lightest, so both of the boys working together
should be able to swing you. Still heavy enough to make a hell of an impact,
though. Thing is, normal people wouldn't be able to swing you aggressively this
way without losing the grip. Now, for you boys, the important part is not make
contact until the right time. Watch.”
            She and Remus and Sirius approached a large, heavy punching bag
hung from the ceiling from stout chains, and they swept into motion. She kept
her hands on both of theirs as Remus and Sirius swept her sideways, off her
feet, themselves moving in a graceful, dancelike pattern to avoid touching one
another as they spun, swinging her once, twice, thrice around, and then Sirius
was leaning an arm against Remus, while releasing his hold on Tonks, and she
snapped across the length of Lupin's body as her cousin leaned back away,
keeping his hands carefully in contact with Lupin's surprisingly well-defined
shoulder, anchoring and counterbalancing him. Tonks' feet, close together and
tightly controlled, smashed against the heavy bag with a deafening Smack! And
the bag flew back away from her, chains clanking loudly and throwing off
sparks, as Tonks rebounded back into Remus' arms.
            He held her there for a moment, and Hermione suddenly burst into a
dazzling smile. “Three days? Oh, that's great, you three! Congratulations,
really!”
            Tonks blushed. “Well, we're not here to talk about my love-life,
are we? This is im- You really think it's good?”
            “It's wonderful!” said Hermione.
            “You don't think it's... You know... weird?”
            Hermione raised an eyebrow, her hands moving against Harry's arm
and Ron's side.
            “Yeah, well...” Tonks laughed. “Right, anyway, you wanna see that
one again, or you wanna try it first?”
            “Let's try it,” said Ron, and they went to work.
            The first attempt ended with a high-pitched shriek, an “Oh,
bugger!” and a baffling tangle of limbs, from which one of Hermione's elegantly
shaped legs stood, briefly, like a flagpole, her toes pointed to the heavens.
            Then long, freckled fingers were wrapping around the knee, and Ron
was swinging himself out of the tangle, lifting Hermione gently to her feet
before squatting down to offer a hand to Harry.
            Harry nodded to him as he rose. “Switch places, you think?”
            “Yeah,” said Ron. “You're shorter, it'll work better.”
            “Steady on,” began Sirius, but Remus shushed him.
            Sirius raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, but acquiesced.
            Harry and Ron exchanged places, and they started again, swinging
Hermione's slender form up from the floor and around, Harry ducking easily
under Ron's arms as they danced their circular pattern, and then the boys came
together, shoulder-to-shoulder, guiding Hermione across their bodies in a
directed crack, and the sound of her feet against the heavy bag was thunderous,
and the chain suspending it pulled from the ceiling with a screeching crunch as
thick bolts were pulled from a wooden cross-beam. The bag sailed 12 feet to hit
the wall with a thud! and drop to the padded floor.
            Remus slowly raised an eyebrow at Sirius as the boys collected
Hermione back into their arms.
            “Oh, shut up, Moony,” said Sirius.
            The bag was re-hung, the chains magically re-enforced, and they
practiced the move for another hour.
            The next move was a graceful shoulder-roll, bringing any of the
three across the shoulders of either or both of the others in a swift, graceful
movement.
            “Oh, that's excellent!” Ron said, as Tonks demonstrated jumping up
to roll shoulder-to-shoulder across Remus' back to come down between him and
Sirius. “You see that, Harry? We can get the strongest wand in any direction,
and fast!”
            Harry smiled back, nodding once, decisively, and glanced at
Hermione. “What d'you think, love?”
            “Great!” she told him. “Any two of us can put the third in a
defensive position, on no notice at all.” She turned back to their instructors.
“Can we see that again with Sirius rolling? Tonks, I want a better look at how
you re-direct his weight.”
            “Sure thing,” said Tonks, and glanced back and forth between Remus
and Sirius. They nodded, and Tonks was ducking down, the motion of her arm and
back directing Sirius as he jumped to roll across her, Remus helping brace her
from the other side, and suddenly Tonks squeaked, her arm flailing, as Sirius
slid sideways and tumbled to the floor, rolling a few feet away from them
before stopping.
            The three adults stared at one another, eyes wide.
            “I...” said Sirius. “I, uh...”
            “Seventy-four hours,” said Remus, eyes on the wall-clock above the
door. “Eighteen minutes.” He stepped over and helped Sirius to his feet, and
the three of them looked awkwardly from one to another.
            “Perhaps we should call it a day,” said Hermione, quietly.
            Remus pulled Sirius against himself in a hug, and reached back with
one hand for Tonks, and, when she took his hand, pulled her in and kissed her
gently, before looking back up at Hermione. “I think perhaps that would be
best.”
            Sirius glanced up and pointed to two doors on the second wall.
“Shower rooms,” he said. Hermione didn't let herself think about the fact that
by all rights, those rooms should be underneath a house two lots along. Magical
dimension fiddling made her head hurt. “One for you, one for us. Ceiling's
shared, so silencing charms, right?”
            But none of them really felt like doing anything requiring a
silencing charm, and as she and Harry were gently washing the sweat from Ron's
matted hair, they heard a sound that could have been a sob, in a voice that
could have been Tonks'.
            Hermione rubbed the muscles in Ron's back, her hip against Harry's,
and was suddenly very glad of the ceaseless touch of their skin.
===============================================================================
***** Chapter Eighteen: “So Corrosive a Secret” *****
                   Chapter Eighteen: “So Corrosive a Secret”
===============================================================================
            “Headmaster, may I speak with you?”
            Albus Dumbledore looked up from his book, and smiled gently at the
dark form in his doorway. “Of course, Severus. I take it that Bellatrix is
sufficiently appeased that you are able to broach what's been troubling you?”
            “Yes, headmaster.”
            “Very well, then. Have a seat. May I offer you something?”
            “Thank you, no,” said Snape, settling smoothly into a chair.
            “How can I help you, Severus?”
            Severus Snape was silent for a very long time, then spoke quickly.
“You told the– Told Potter. That it was I who betrayed his parents to the Dark
Lord.”
            Dumbledore closed his eyes, nodding slowly. “I felt sure this was
the matter that concerned you, Severus. Yes. I told him.”
            “You had given me, Albus, your most solemn word that you would keep
my secret.”
            Dumbledore nodded again. “I did, Severus, and I broke that promise.
Worse, I did not alert you that I was doing so, nor that it had come to pass. I
had neither time nor opportunity to alert you in advance.”
            Snape's voice was venomous. “It was not your secret to tell!”
            Dumbledore inclined his head. “It was not. In the end, however, I
decided that it was not my secret to keep. Harry needed – Harry deserved – to
know. I came to this decision while collecting him to attend the inquest. I
deemed that for Harry to be kept in ignorance of what transpired leading to his
parents' death was too perilous. We would be standing in the Death Chamber,
standing before the Veil. I told him then and there. I wouldn't risk so
corrosive a secret to lie between us.”
            “What risk, Headmaster?” Snape's voice was still coldly angry.
“What possible hazard could be posed by Potter's ignorance? Who could it have
harmed?”
            The eyes Albus Dumbledore turned on his old friend were bleak, and
very old. “I do not know, Severus.”
            “Then how could you–”
            “How could I have known that Harry's ignorance of the prophecy, of
my fears about Voldemort's connection with him, would cost Sirius Black his
life?”
            Snape sat back away from the man who had shown him so much trust.
“And yet, Black lives.”
            “Professor Black,” corrected Dumbledore, softly. “I was to expect,
then, that a man would step whole and breathing from behind the Veil itself?
Sirius Black was dead, Severus, killed every bit as much by the corrosive power
of my secrecy as by Bellatrix. Did I have even an inkling of how your secret
could have resulted in similar peril? No. It would be easier to claim I did,
but I did not. I simply decided that the risk was too great.”
            The headmaster stood, and walked around to perch on the edge of his
desk, allowing him to place a gentle hand on Snape's shoulder.
            “And I will tell you this, Severus. Harry's reaction when I told
him confirmed for me that it was the right thing to do. He was in a very, very
dangerous state.”
            The Potions Master sneered as looked over to a shelf where several
of Dumbledore's prized trinkets were missing, replaced with other magical
oddments from his collection. “I imagine he loosed another of his famous
tantrums? Oh, the crying, the screaming and gnashing of teeth!”
            Dumbledore smiled at his old friend's wit. “No, Severus. He was
silent for a very long time, and then he nodded, and quietly thanked me for
telling him the truth.”
            Snape stared up at him for a long moment. “That seems unlike him.”
            “Indeed. I feared for him, then, Severus. It seemed as though his
fighting spirit itself had fled him. To stand him before the Veil in such a
state, with so terrible a secret hidden between us? What if it had come out?”
            Snape seemed sincerely baffled now. “But Headmaster... How could
it?”
            “Suppose I was placed under oath for the inquest? Suppose I was
asked questions about the purpose of the trap at the Department of Mysteries?
To be questioned about the prophecy brings us much too close to that unhappy
truth. No, Severus, I simply couldn't risk it.”
            “Potter told his friends.”
            Dumbledore nodded. “And Sirius as well, Severus. In this very
room.”
            Snape lowered his head for a moment. “Because Potter deemed it
necessary?”
            “Yes, Severus. Consider the peril that Miss Granger and Mister
Weasley face because of that prophecy. Surely they needed to know its content.
Surely they need to know that it was communicated back to the Dark Lord.”
            “And Black?”
            “Sirius is a trusted advisor. He has proven an inestimable help in
finding a way to bring about Tom's ultimate defeat.”
            “And when Weasley or Granger deems it necessary to tell someone?”
            “Then they will do so, Severus, and I will trust in their
judgment.”
            “I... see.” Snape stood, and moved swiftly to the door. “I cannot
claim to be pleased with this turn of events, Headmaster, nor mollified by your
explanation.”
            Dumbledore nodded. “I understand, Severus.”
            “I have much to think about, Headmaster. If you will excuse me?”
            “Of course,” said Dumbledore, but he spoke to the open door, and
the back of Snape's fluttering black robes.
===============================================================================
            “There are all sorts of possibilities,” said Sirius, sitting back
on his couch. Remus was at the far end, and Tonks was stretched out between
them, her head in Lupin's lap, her feet on Black's. “The question is, what are
you trying to achieve? It's actually harder with you lot, because you're all
co-operating. Imagine how easy it would be for two of you to disable the other,
or trip them up, all stuck together like that? The whole question of closing
space would be done with.”
            “Defensive formations are harder,” added Lupin. “Not just because
it's hard to protect someone you can't leave in safety while you fight, but
because any of you lot is likely to refuse to let the others put themselves in
harm's way.”
            “But equilateral stuff will work well. You'll be able to cover a
full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree field of fire, with some overlap, and that
makes for a strong offensive or defensive posture,” said Tonks. She sounded
very strong, very commanding, and it was an odd contrast to her comfortable
supine sprawl.
            “I think we can practice that last one you were demonstrating on
our own,” said Harry. “I like the way that roll could get us into positions so
fast.”
            Sirius lifted a brow, opened his mouth, and Hermione pointed
sternly at him from her seat on one of the comfortable armchairs, Harry and Ron
sitting cross-legged on the floor at her feet. “I'm warning you!”
            “All right, all right!” surrendered Sirius, grinning widely at her.
“I know better than to tempt terrible fate!”
            “Since when?” cried Remus, laughing.
            “Fair point!” agreed Sirius, and turned back to Hermione. “I find
it's much more fun to get into positions sloooowly.”
            Tonks bellowed with laughter as Hermione rolled her eyes. “Sirius,
you're a bad man!”
            He smiled over at Tonks, eyebrows wiggling devilishly, but the hand
that caressed her bare leg was tender and gentle, and Hermione smiled, then
glanced over to Remus, who was stroking Tonks' now-vermilion, now-magenta hair.
            “How is it working for you?” she asked.
            Harry and Ron exchanged a glance.
            “Feelings an' that,” said Ron.
            “We don't count,” Harry agreed.
            Hermione leaned towards Tonks, her expression interested, not
looking away as her hands whacked their heads.
            Tonks grinned back. “Good. This seems very weird, now, though,” she
said, lifting her feet away from Sirius. “'S funny, really. I used to wonder
how you lot hadn't gone mad, but after three days... I miss it. I feel empty.”
            Remus leaned down to her. “I don't have to be stuck to you to love
you,” he said, his hand cradling her head as he kissed her. “There are millions
of hearts that beat as one, though they be miles apart.”
            Sirius smiled fondly. “He was that sappy when we were in school,
too,” he chuckled. But his fingers never stopped tracing their dainty lines up
and down Tonks' shin.
            “And as I recall,” said Remus, glancing up at him, “you tried to be
all aloof and cool and above it all, and you melted like an Ice Mouse in a
dragon-weir!”
            “That was James' fault!” cried Sirius. “Once he'd gone all soft on
Lily, I had no-one to help me keep up my tough-rebel demeanor!”
            Remus smiled over at Harry, who was looking interested. “It was
rather a sight, I must say, Harry. Your father was as wild as Padfoot, here,
but your mother tamed him in short order.”
            “Ah, but he spiced her up more than a bit, too,” said Sirius. “You
remember that time we found them in the Owlery–”
            “Sirius, we are not telling their son about the Owlery!”
            “No.” Sirius smiled wistfully, then looked over at Remus, tilting
his head toward the chair. “You know, I've only just now realized how much
alike they are.”
            “You're always going on about how much Harry is like James!” said
Tonks.
            “No, my love,” said Remus. “That's not what he means. Lily Evans
was one of the smartest witches I've ever known. She was sweet natured, and
generous, a stickler for the rules, and utterly dedicated to fairness. Sound
familiar?”
            “Huh!” Tonks looked over at Hermione. “I've got to admit, from the
pictures I'd seen, I've been associating her with Ginny.”
            “Well, yes,” said Sirius. “She had that lovely red hair, and the
fiery temper. There were similarities there, too.”
            “Looks like you were doomed from the start, Harry,” said Tonks,
chuckling. “You know what they say: Men marry their mothers, because they are
their fathers.”
            “Oh, no,” said Sirius, very firmly. “I've made that mistake once.
Never again. Harry is not his father. He's a better man than James ever dreamed
of being.”
            Harry looked petulant. “I thought youliked my dad!”
            Sirius smiled at him. “I loved your dad.” His glance flickered to
Ron. “Not like that,you!” Ron shrugged with a can't-win-em-all smile. “But
you're still a better man than he was. You're smarter and stronger and kinder.
This past year, when I tried to lure you down to Hogsmeade? James would have
done that in a second. It took me a long time to realize what an idiot I was to
ask you, and I was ten times that stupid to be upset at you saying no.”
            Harry smiled. “On the other hand, Sirius, I'm willing to walk right
out into Dagenham. Didn't I see a bakery around the corner?”
            Tonks drew a deep breath and stood, and, after a pause, stepped
away from the Marauders. “Come on, then. I'll bring you.” She reached down to
help Harry and Ron to their feet, and smiled as they turned as one to guide
Hermione to her feet.
===============================================================================
            The bakery yielded warm, fresh garlic-and-cheese-rolls, and very
fresh butter from a small dairy case.
            As they were leaving, Hermione detoured them into the chemist's
next door. Tonks smiled as Hermione led her two boys into a section called
“Feminine Hygiene.” They made a bee-line for the far end of the aisle and
Hermione was squatting toward the floor. ”Uh-huh! Excellent! I thought I might
find these here!”
            “What's that?” asked Tonks.
            Hermione handed her the small brown box, whose beige label read,
“Mrs. MacGillicuddy's Organic Citrus Wipes.”
            Tonks frowned. “You wipe fruit with this?”
            Hermione blushed furiously. “No, they're for... You know...
Personal...”
            Tonks looked blankly at her.
            Ron looked back and forth between them, confused, and said, “No,
Tonks, she uses 'em to clean her fanny after she pees. You know, if there's no
bidet.”
            Hermione buried her face in her hands.
            “You use thesethings?” asked Tonks, her face confused.
            Hermione drew a breath, then charged in. “Fine. Yes. Yes, Tonks, I
use these. It's an all-organic, hypoallergenic specialty brand. No alcohol, no
artificial ingredients, even the citrus scent is natural. My mum is very
careful, because some of these things can be dangerous – did you know vaginal
deodorants are a leading cause of Cystitis? – but she swears by these. I wish
they didn't come in a foil packet, though.”
            Tonks laughed, holding up a defensive pair of hands. “I wasn't
criticizing, Hermione. I'm just wondering why you don't just use Cloacina.”
            Hermione's eyes widened. “Cloacina?” Her face snapped around as she
looked into nowhere. “Cloacina... The cleanser... Surname of Venus...” She spun
again to face Tonks. “You mean there's a spell? A spell just for vaginal
cleanliness?”
            Harry and Ron exchanged a wide-eyed glance, their mouths clamped
desperately shut. Better to throw fruit at Death Eaters than laugh at this!
            “Yeah. Grubbly-Plank teaches it in second year.”
            Harry looked up. “Is that what that was about? I remember that.
Remember, Ron? She was bringing groups of girls into the Cartomancy classroom?”
            “Yeah, you said something...” He reached a hand over brush a lock
of hair from Hermione's cheek, tuck it behind her ear. “I was pretty distracted
at the time.”
            “I missed it!” cried Hermione. “I can't believe I missed a whole
lesson from Second Year, and didn't even know it!”
            Tonks looked confused.
            “She was petrified,” said Harry. “Spent the whole of Third year
with–” He stopped himself even as Hermione's eyes widened. “With this gigantic
course-load, trying to catch up.”
            “Don't worry, love,” Tonks told her. “It wasn't a class. It wasn't
graded or like that. It was just informal-like.”
            “Can you show me?” Hermione asked her, eyes intent on hers.
            “What, here?”
            Hermione glanced around the chemist's shop, actually seeming, for a
moment, to be considering it, before shaking her head. “No. No, at the kennel
will be fine.”
===============================================================================
            Hermione had barely paused in the kitchen long enough to hand the
rolls and butter to Remus Lupin, before taking Tonk's arm and guiding her to
the stairs, the boys trailing helplessly along with them.
            “What do you suppose that's about?” Ron heard Sirius ask as they
made their way up in an uneven line.
            “Put a warming charm on those, would you?” Harry called back, and
Ron grinned. For a boy who so frequently went off the deep end without so much
as a glance, sometimes Harry showed surprising foresight.
            Almost before he'd finished forming that thought, Hermione was
leading them into their room, saying, over her shoulder, “Close the door, Ron.”
            He swung the door closed, and even as the latch clicked, Hermione
was telling Tonks, “Show me.”
            Tonks' eyebrow raised, and the amusement in her voice was edged,
now. “Right here?”
            “Well, yes,” said Hermione, as if it was the most obvious thing in
the world.
            “So I'm dropping my knickers and charming my cunt in front of two
randy teenaged boys? Shall I give 'em knob-jobs while I'm at it?”
            Ron battled the temptation to cry out an enthusiastic Oh, yes,
please! 'cause he knew Tonks would get a chuckle, but Harry's desperate eyes
sided with his common sense, so he held it in.
            “Oh!” said Hermione, blushing furiously. “Oh, I didn't– Oh, God,
Tonks, I'm sorry.” She chewed on her knuckle, tears forming in her eyes. “Oh,
damn...”
            Tonks' eyes widened. “Hermione?”
            “You have to understand,” Harry told her. “It's a whole lesson, and
it's from second year, and she didn't even know she didn't know it. So she's a
little crazy right now.”
            “I am not crazy!” snapped Hermione. She turned back to Tonks. “But
I have to learn this! Please don't make me wait until I'm back at school!”
            Expressions played across Tonks' face, and Ron thought it was time.
“Oh, Godric's balls, Tonks! Not that! If it waits till we're back, it'll be
Grubbly-Plank again! Don't make us watch Grubbly-Plank drop her knickers!
Hasn't Harry suffered enough?”
            Tonks smirked.
            “We won't look,” said Harry, his voice soft and reassuring.
            “Bugger that!” cried Ron. “I wanna see what colour she has it! I'm
betting plaid!”
            Hermione smacked Ron's arm, but Tonks burst out laughing. “All,
right, all right,” she said. “Sit on the edge of the bed.”
            Hermione sat, and the boys turned around to face away as they sat
on either side of her. Behind them, Ron heard the rustle of cloth, the odd
sucking sound of a sticking charm being undone. Hermione drew in a sharp
breath.
            Ron glanced over to Harry, whose wide eyes were on his. He found
himself wondering, in spite of himself, what Tonk's fanny looked like. Tonks
was plumper than Hermione – the memory of her form in his arms that morning, as
they Apparated, was suddenly very vivid – and his imagination sketched in the
more rounded shape of the gentle prominence of her belly sloping down to a
rounded mons tufted with fluffy, electric-pink pubic hair that resembled cotton
candy... Hermione's face leaning in close, lower lip between her teeth, her
dark brows drawn together in concentration as the tip of Tonks' wand moved in a
complicated pattern over her vulva.
            Harry's eyes were still wide, locked on his.
            Behind them, Tonks' voice breathed the word, “Cloacina.” Was there
a slight hitch in her voice?
            Hermione made a small, interested sound, a wordless exclamation.
            Tonks was a metamorphmagus. She could transform her body any way
she pleased. Ron suddenly saw in his mind's eye Tonks' labia, shaped much like
lips, reaching forward to kiss Hermione. Hermione's mouth opening to receive
the kiss, tongue reaching–
            “See how that works?” asked Tonks' voice, casually.
            “Yes...” Hermione's voice was very quiet. “Yes, I see that. Uh...
Yes.”
            Harry was sweating. Ron bit his lip. There was a rustle of fabric,
Tonks muttering a sticking charm, then her voice, cheerful, but, with an odd
note to it: “All right boys.”
            They turned around, Ron making an effort not to spin quickly, as if
he hoped to catch some glimpse – like pink cotton candy against the English-
rose skin – and Tonks smiled a little too brightly, glancing over at Harry, and
then very quickly away. Her eyes met Ron's and there was... something. She
blushed vividly as Ron looked quickly over to Harry, who was also blushing, as
was Hermione, and staring down at her feet as well.
            “Right,” said Tonks, with an awkward laugh. “I'm going to go see
what my pups are up to!” And she spun quickly and was out the door, closing it
gently but firmly behind her.
            As Ron turned back to them, he saw Harry slide from the bed,
turning as he moved, to kneel between Hermione's legs.
            “Harrry!” she cried, but he had two fingers up the inside of the
right leg of her cut-offs, and was burying his nose in the opening thus
created, eyes closed and breathing deep as Hermione squealed in protest,
swatting the back of has head, and Ron watched, wide-eyed and amazed, as Harry
breathed deep.
            The grin he turned up was wicked. “She's wet, Ron.”
            “Oh, my God,” squeaked Hermione, burying her face in her hands.
            “Why Hermione Jane,” said Ron, his fingers gentle as he turned her
face toward him. “I do believe that you got turned on by Tonks' fanny!”
            “Shut up,” she said, weakly.
            “Hermione,” asked Harry, his face and voice just a little too
serious as he rose up to as full a height he could reach on his knees, “are you
bisexual?”
            His fingers reached for her boob-tube. There was again the odd
sound of a sticking charm being released as he pulled it down, exposing one
breast, the nipple rosy and erect. “See that, Ron?”
            Ron nodded, leaning over to kiss the rosy, pebbled flesh, and Harry
rose to his feet, leaning over to kiss her softly on the mouth.
            “It's you two,” she said breathlessly into his mouth. “I could feel
the tension in you. I could tell you were hard.”
            “Oh,” said Ron, looking up at her from her breast. “Was that all?”
            Hermione was silent a long time. “No,” she finally said. “It was
her, too. That was so... It was really intimate, Ron.” Another silence.
“She's... She's really very sexy.”
            “She really is, isn't she,” said Harry, sitting beside her again,
and reaching around her to take hold of the lower hem of her top. Ron, seeing
what he was doing, leaned back away for a moment as Harry drew it up, and
Hermione smiled as she raised her hands above her shoulders. Ron was already
reaching for the buttons of her denim cut-offs.
            “So... How was it?” he asked, as he sank to his knees where Harry
had been, and smoothly pulled the fabric down her thighs. “What was it like?”
            Hermione looked down at him. “Ron, are you seriously asking me to
describe Tonks' vagina to you while you're pulling my knickers down?”
            “Yes,” said Ron, before leaning in to kiss Hermione's vulva, his
tongue probing with gentle insistence at her folds.
            “Tell us,” said Harry, and Ron glanced up to see his hands at her
breasts, fingers teasing those wonderful, pert nipples as his mouth dropped to
the pulse-point of her neck.
            “I don't believe you two!” Hermione said, breathily, trying
unconvincingly to sound outraged.
            Ron let his tongue trace a gentle line up her cleft, and her thighs
spread further, opening her before him, like a flower, an offering.
            “Hermione, you know Tonks is adorable,” Harry was saying. “She's
cute as all get out, and she has a great sense of humour, and an adventurous
disposition, so you know she'd be up for, well, anything! And she's a
metamorphmagus, so she could be anything you wanted her to be. Of course Ron
and I think she's sexy.”
            Hermione moaned, and Ron wasn't sure, but he thought it might be as
much from Harry's words as from Harry's clever hands at her nipples, his tongue
at her fanny. He took another long, slow lick, letting his tongue play with her
clitoris an extra moment, savoring her, salty, sweet-and-sour, before he leaned
back and looked up at her. “An she had her cunt right out there,” he said.
“Right in this room, right behind us, where all we'd have to do is look, and
we'd see it. See it right in front of your face. An' you were leaning forward
to look closely, weren't you? With your lower lip sucked in between your teeth,
taking in every detail you could. How fuckin' sexy is that?”
            “Could you smell her, Hermione?” Harry breathed, and now Ron was
groaning at the thought, Hermione's face in that mask of concentration,
nostrils flaring as she took in Tonks' scent. Oh, Merlin's blue balls, that was
fucking hot!
            “So she's sexy, and she's showing her fanny, and it's right in your
face, and of course it makes us randy,” Harry was saying as Ron leaned in for
another long, slow lick. “And, for fuck's sake, she's just shaggable as hell
all on her own. But, you know, don't you, love?”
            “Know what?” Hermione breathed.
            Ron leaned back again. “That we'd run across Tonks to get to you.”
And Harry whispered harshly in her ear, “Fuck, yes!”
            Suddenly Ron was standing, shucking his tee-shirt, ripping his
denims and Y-fronts – the cut-offs were too short for Boxers underneath – down,
and she spread herself further as he stepped closer, bending his knees to
position himself, and Harry said, “Wait!”
            His clothes were flying as well, and he told Hermione, “Turn
around, love. Turn around and kneel on the bed.”
            “Oh, yeah,” said Ron, straightening as Hermione turned. “I read
about this. Centaur fashion!”
            “Oh!” said Hermione. “Oh, I like that much better than the Muggle
term! It sounds much grander than 'Doggy Style!'”
            Ron started to position himself again, and Harry again interrupted.
“Just another second, mate,” he said, and then, to Hermione, “Pick up that
hand, love?”
            Then Harry was squirming around under her, and Hermione gasped –
“Oh, Harry!” – as Ron saw his head emerging from between her thighs, his legs
stretching across the bed, crotch below her face. Then Harry's fingers were
teasing her fanny, opening her up for Ron, sliding briefly within to perform
Barricadus.
            “Are you ready, love?” asked Harry, and Hermione groaned, “Oh, God,
yes!”
            Harry a quirked an upside-down eyebrow at Ron, who stepped forward.
Kneeling on the bed, Hermione was at the perfect height, and he pushed himself
slowly into her. Godric! He loved this, so much! How many nights had he lay
with his hand around his cock, trying to imagine what it would feel like to
replace his callused fingers with the wet softness of Hermione's fanny? There
was no counting. And now, here he was, sliding into her, and Merlin, she was so
tight, so much tighter than he'd imagined, and the heat of her-- that's what
Ron had never thought to imagine. In his fantasies, she’d been the same
temperature as his hand, but she was hot in there, warm and wonderful on his
cock like summer sun.
            Hermione was gasping as he slowly filled her. He'd learned this,
much more than from Fred and George's magazines – which he was realizing were
ridiculously wrong in so many ways – from Harry. Harry was always so
controlled, so careful at the beginning, as if he was afraid of not just
hurting Hermione, but breaking her. Eventually, in the end, he'd lose that
control, and pound into her with abandon, but he always started with such long,
slow strokes, and Ron could see that she loved it. So he held himself in check
at first, as he buried himself in her, buried himself to the hilt.
            “Oh, God, Ron,” breathed Hermione. “Oh, that's so amazing. Fuck me,
Ron, oh, fuck me!”
            It was as Ron was starting to slide himself out again that he felt
it. A quiver and a gasp – a different gasp – from Hermione, a clenching around
him, and then the softness of a tongue running up the exposed length of his
cock, to play with his bollocks.
            “Oh, fuck, Harry!” he cried. “Are you kidding me?”
            “No, Ron,” came Hermione's voice, an amused and breathy imitation
of her Correcting-Ron's-Essays tone, “He's licking us!”
            The tongue ran back down his length, and Hermione suddenly hissed
in a breath, and Ron could tell she'd sucked her lip between her teeth again,
though he could see only bushy brown curls at the back of her head, and her
fanny squeezed around him again.
            “Oh, bugger me!” breathed Ron, almost reverently.
            Hermione managed that self-mocking tone long enough to gasp, “I
don't think any of us are ready for that Ron.” She made a squeaking noise, and
Harry's tongue was stroking back along his dick again. “Yet!”
            Yet!?!?!? Ron's mind boggled. Even as he was lost in the heaven
that was Hermione's fanny, he suddenly imagined himself pressing into her arse.
Godric!
            Harry's tongue had stopped, and his voice gasped, “Ron, pull out a
tick.”
            Ron remembered asking Harry that on his birthday, and Hermione did,
too, for even at the words, she moaned, and her groan as Ron slid out of her
was more desire and arousal than loss, and Ron saw Harry's right hand, two
fingers sliding, squeezing into her, and even as Harry withdrew, Hermione was
pressing two of her own fingers inside herself. Ron pumped into her again, two,
three long slow pumps, and reached down with his own fingers, slicked them
wither her juices.
            He saw Hermione's head dip down, and then move up again, as Harry's
hips arced away from the mattress, and Ron knew she'd taken Harry in her mouth,
and one of her hands, slick-fingered, was sliding beneath Harry's raised hips
even as he felt Harry's fingers sliding onto his bum. He Waited. Harry was in
for a surprise, Ron thought, and he didn't want to accidentally hurt anyone if
Harry reacted too strongly.
            There it was! Harry's hips arched still higher, and Hermione made a
choking sound, and Ron felt a moment's stark terror as it seemed that Harry's
teeth were going to close hard, but he remembered and stopped himself in time,
merely squeezing Ron's ball gently with his teeth. Then Ron felt Harry's middle
finger seeking entrance at his own arse, and he thrust forward into Hermione's
fanny with his cock as he pressed his own index finger, still moist with the
scent of Hermione, into her bum. She cried out, her voice muffled around
Harry's cock, and suddenly Harry's tongue was back at work, laving over the
place where Ron and Hermione were joined, And Ron began pounding into her more
confidently, even as he slid that second moist finger into her bum.
            A moment later, He saw Hermione's head recoil again as he felt the
rhythm of Harry's tongue falter, and he tried to spare some concentration on
relaxing and being ready.
            As he'd known it would, Harry's second finger began pressing into
him and his eyes and teeth both clenched shut as a low sound escaped him. He
couldn't deny it: it hurt! Still, Ron found a place in himself to smirk at
himself. I don't say that like it's a bad thing! For it hurt, undeniably, and
quite a lot, but that stretching, that sense of being entered... He wished
there was a word for it. It wasn't intrusion, wasn't invasion, with the
implications of violence, of unwelcome entry. Harry's seeking fingers in him
hurt, but the pain was lessening, and as Harry's fingers explored, pleasure
blossomed from the sensation, and suddenly the fingers inside him were pressing
just there, and an electric jolt of pleasure, sharp and sure and unlike
anything he'd ever felt, and he shuddered a deep breath, pressing back as much
against Harry's fingers as he did forward into Hermione in his mad strokes.
            Harry's tongue quickened against his shaft, his bollocks, and, he
knew, Hermione's clitoris, and his own seeking fingers in her arse felt his
cock moving within her, and she cried out, her voice muffled by Harry's cock,
and she clenched around him, and suddenly Harry's fingers were pressing that
spot again, And he barely managed to gasp out, “Hermione!” before he felt
himself exploding into her.
            He pumped into her again, then once more, his fingers sliding
slowly out of her arse, and he saw the muscles in her shoulder working, and
suddenly Harry was arching again off the mattress, and crying out, the warmth
of his breath playing over Ron's balls as Harry's voice managed to get as far
as “Hermione, I'm--” before his unfinished warning was clearly rendered moot.
Hermione's head jerked back toward Ron, and she made a surprised, choking
sound, and then her head moved again, and her next gasp was clearer, and as her
head moved to the side there was a geyser of thick, white fluid, splashing into
her hair, and then another jet that rose clear, arcing over to spatter and rope
onto her back.
            They were frozen there for a long moment before Hermione collapsed
like a sack of wheat onto Harry, and he looked up, smiling, between her thighs
at Ron, then leaned up to lick her juices and his own semen from Ron's
softening cock. Ron reached a hand down and ran over Harry's cheek a caress as
gentle as he's ever given Hermione.
            “Love you, mate,” he rasped, huskily, then turned and sat beside
them on the bed.
===============================================================================
            Hermione followed her boys down the stairs perhaps twenty minutes
later, cleaning charms well practiced, and well used. She smiled as she stepped
easily down the steps, the muscles in her crotch and thighs and bottom feeling
loose and well exercised, and not the least bit sore. Her fingers were in her
boys' hair as they took the stairs side-by-side, and she loved their two
different textures, and her mind was spinning with possibilities.
            All she could think about was that feeling of being doubly filled,
of Ron's penis in her vagina, while his fingers filled her anus. Those latter
had hurt, rather a lot, but, like the old American song her father sometimes
liked to sing, it “hurt so good,” a pain she didn't want to let go of, even as
it started to subside and pleasure built from it. And now all she could think
was that where those fingers had been, something else might fit, something long
and sleek and straight and elegant that had felt so good in her mouth, and
erupted in a prodigious explosion of jism, which had filled her mouth, then
covered her cheek and eye, matted her hair – requiring three separate cleaning
charms to undo – and left warm, sticky designs on her back that Ron had said
reminded him of Arithmancy diagrams. She remembered the way Ron's fingers and
cock had moved against one another, with only a thin layer of her between them,
and imagined herself pressed between those sweaty bodies, those two penises
moving against one another within her. It made her light-headed to think about
it. She was a little afraid of it – slender though it was, Harry's penis was
thicker than Ron's two fingers – but she also remembered how afraid she'd been
of their erections that first day, and how she'd come to love them since.
            The bag of rolls was still on the kitchen counter, still gently
steaming from the warming charm, releasing a lovely scent of cheese and garlic
into the air of the kitchen. Of Sirius and Remus and Tonks there was no sign.
            Ron moved ahead now, leading them toward the table. “Merlin!” he
cried, grabbing the bag, “This smells great!”
            She exchanged an amused glance with Harry, and knew they were
sharing the same thought, the same combination of exasperation and wonder that,
minutes after what they'd just experienced together, Ron was Ron, ruled by his
stomach. Her eyes dropped from Harry's eyes to his mouth, and for a sudden
moment she was back there, on her knees, Ron sliding into her, Harry's tongue
taking long, loving licks from her clitoris along her spreading labia and
onward, she knew down Ron's shaft. Was he suddenly remembering what it was like
to be in her mouth, to feel her tongue along his shaft?
            There was a rattle of paper, and she looked to see Ron shaking the
bag at them. “Make goo-goo eyes later,” he said. “You don't get some of these
now, I'm going to scoff the lot!”
            “Nice!” cried a voice from the door into the hallway. “None for
us?”
            Sirius sauntered in, his robes loose around him, his limbs loose
and languorous. His eyes flickered to Hermione, and his smile grew wicked. “I
think I owe you a debt of thanks, Clever Boots! I don't know what went on
between you and Tonks, but...”
            Hermione flushed, but looked him straight in the eye as she leaned
herself against Ron's long, strong form, her hand stroking Harry's arm lazily.
            Sirius smiled. “I see the benefit was entirely mutual!”
            Harry blushed deeply now, but Sirius smiled at him as he reached
past to scoop a roll out of the bag in Ron's hands. “No need for that, Harry.
Good for you lot, I say.”
            Hermione heard a sound from the door, and saw Remus arrive with his
arm around Tonks, whose eyes met hers for a moment, before she blushed and
looked away.
            The mons was rounded and very pink, with pale brown hair that
looked as soft and downy as a new kitten's.
            Hermione held a hand out to her. “Tonks.”
            Tonks looked at her feet for a moment.
            “Tonks,” said Hermione again, and the older witch looked up shyly.
            Hermione's hand beckoned, and Tonks stepped over to take it. Her
hand was surprising soft in Hermione's. She ran her thumb in a gentle circle
over Tonks' knuckles.
            “Thank you,” Hermione finally said. “It meant the world to me.”
            Tonks swallowed, nodding roughly, and turned to Ron. “Give us
some!” she cried, reaching into the bag. “Where's the butter?”
===============================================================================
            That night, in their bed in the tent in the Burrow's front-hall
cupboard, they made slow, sweet, uninventive love, with much cuddling and
kissing as the boys took their turns fucking her,. Their hands and bodies and
lips gentle against hers.
            Afterwards, they lay together in a bit of a tangled pile, and Ron
said, “You know, I was thinking about those defensive maneuvers.”
            Harry looked over at Ron as Hermione stretched up over the head of
the bed for her wand.
            “So have I,” she said, and it was the sort of discussion that
generally would fascinate harry, but he must have been more tired than he
thought, because the next thing he knew he was waking up to sunshine streaming
in through the magical windows, thinking vaguely that he must have dreamed of
battle or dueling or something, because he was thinking the word “Obliviate.”
***** Chapter Nineteen: “The Burning Cathedral” *****
Chapter Notes
     "I walk without flinching through the burning cathedral of the
     summer. My bank of wild grass is majestic and full of music. It is a
     fire that solitude presses against my lips."
      
                                                                        -
     Violette Leduc,"Mad in Pursuit"
                  Chapter Nineteen: “The Burning Cathedral ”
===============================================================================
            They saw the smoke on the twelfth of August.
            It had been an idyllic few days, for all the hard work alternating
training with Madam Pomfrey and training with Sirius and Remus and Tonks — who
had twice more used E Pluribus Unum to give them three days of physical combat
training — and working around the Burrow, de-gnoming the garden — which
Crookshanks enjoyed helping with, chasing the hapless creatures to the Trio for
swift ejection — cleaning out the shed — full of Muggle items, some normal,
some improperly charmed, and brought home rather than disposed of by an
intrigued Arthur Weasley — and performing half-a-hundred other tasks, large and
small, that Molly Weasley asked of them.
            There was still time for Quidditch on the wireless — Ginny had
joined Harry and Ron in teasing Hermione for becoming excited when Cannons
beater Joey Jenkins scored a goal, apparently inadvertently — and for playing
in the fields out behind the Burrow, for lazing around in the sun, and swimming
in the delicious cool water of the lake.
            And of course, there were the nights. Nights of pleasure and
exploration, of gentle caresses and soft touches and fast, hard, deep strokes,
and cries of passion — followed, one embarrassing morning, by a red-faced Mr.
Weasley casting long-term silencing charms on the door, walls, and ceiling of
their cupboard.
            They were out at the lake, sitting on the dock with their feet in
the water, when the curls of smoke began to rise into the air off beyond the
tree line. Harry'd been joking about uses for the Bubblehead Charm, which
Hermione had countered, quite calmly explaining that for Harry's purpose, she'd
“--need a spare bubble, actually, down, you know... there. I've read about
this. Underwater sex is such a lovely fantasy, because, you know, it's
weightless. But apparently the water washes away a woman's natural
lubrication.”
            Ron stared at her, wide-eyed. “Hermione, hearing you talk all
clinical like that would be a complete mood-killer if it weren't so fucking
sexy!”
            “Language, Ron,” scolded Hermione, and Harry pointed and said,
“Look at that.”
            Black tendrils of smoke were reaching up into the air somewhere in
the distance.
            “Something in town, from the looks of it,” said Ron, with a shrug.
“If you wait a bit, and listen hard, you'll hear the Muggles' Screaming
Machine. Apparently, if you scream loud enough at a fire, it goes out, so the
Muggles made a machine to do it for them, 'cause people can't scream that
loud.”
            Harry and Hermione stared at him, eyes wide. His confident look
faltered for a moment, and he muttered darkly about the twins, and they
distantly heard the wail of sirens, and Ron burst into a smile.
            “See?” he cried. “There it is, the Screaming Machine!”
            Harry and Hermione both smiled, and Hermione said, “Ron...”
            Ron's face fell again. “I'm going to kill those two!” He muttered
something they didn't quite catch, although it might have involved the phrase
“anthill curse,” and looked back up. “So what's it for, then?”
            “It's to tell other drivers to get out of the way when the Fire
Engine is on its way to a fire,” said Harry.
            “And they put the fire out...?”
            “By pouring water on it,” said Hermione, and Ron grunted. “That's
hardly clever at all!”
            It was perhaps an hour later that Remus Lupin arrived by Floo,
looking harried and upset, and met hurriedly in the silencing-charmed kitchen
with Molly Weasley.
            They were waiting for him when he emerged, and he smiled weakly,
holding up his hands in playful surrender. “All right, all right,” he said
quietly. “Just a little Order business.”
            Harry laughed. “I love the way you say that, Remus,” he said, a
little darkly. “As if Order business somehow doesn't involve me.”
            “Harry!” gasped Hermione, shocked at his cheek toward a trusted
adult and friend.
            But Lupin was smiling gently at him. “Harry, do you really think
that every single thing the Order does is about you?”
            Harry and Ron merely stared at Lupin, arms crossed, while Hermione
blushed furiously, eyes darting back and forth between her boys.
            Lupin's smile quirked into more familiar, more personal lines.
“Padfoot told me you wouldn't buy that.”
            Harry grinned back at him, and Lupin thought for a moment more,
then relented. “All right. There's a fire in the village.”
            “Yeah,” said Ron, “we saw the smoke.”
            “It's the local church,” continued Lupin. “Saint Bubo's Cathedral.
Saint Andrew's to the Muggles. The fire appears to be magical. The Muggle fire
fighters are having no luck putting it out. We thought it might be some sort of
diversion aimed at bringing protection away from you, so I was here to warn
Molly to be on the lookout.”
            Harry's smile was sadder, quieter, as he touched Remus' shoulder.
“Thank you, Remus.”
            “Now, I'm treating you as an adult,” said Remus, “in telling you
this. I hope you're going to live up to that treatment, by not making life
harder for Molly. Will you stay inside, stay in your tent, and let us protect
you?”
            Harry considered him a long moment before answering.
            “All right, Remus,” he said. “We'll stay.”
===============================================================================
            It was an hour later that Sirius arrived. He carried with him a
smell of smoke, and there was a nasty burn on the right side of his face and
neck. Molly set about healing it, applying a poultice of Murtlap and bread
pudding, as he looked over at the Trio. “Remus told me he told you.”
            Harry nodded. “How bad is it?”
            “Bad,” said Sirius, curtly. Molly Weasley's lips set in a
disapproving line, but she kept her counsel.
            “These are self-directing Bluebell flames — like Arthur had in that
stove — but they're huge! Allowed to feed on the church, the smallest of them
is twelve feet tall. And someone is directing them. They've killed three Muggle
firemen.”
            “God damn it!” cried Harry, slamming his fist into his palm, and
Hermione laid a gentle hand on the back of his neck as Ron squeezed his
shoulder, just reminding him again, as always, that they were there and were on
his side.
            “Harry, dear,” said Molly, distractedly, as she removed the
poultice, “do please watch your language. Now would you cast Palliatus on
Sirius's face while I make a fresh one, please?”
            Harry cast another Palliatus, and Sirius's eyes closed for a moment
in grateful relief.
            “This is good work you're doing, right here, Harry,” Sirius told
him. “This is hero's work.”
            “He's right, you know, Harry,” said Hermione, angling her own wand
toward Sirius's neck. A blossom of healthy pink bloomed amidst the livid red
skin there, and spread, as she incanted under her breath, and beneath his skin
Sirius' ruptured capillaries knitted themselves back together. “This is what
we've been training for.”
            “It's not the only thing, love,” Harry replied darkly. He leaned
over a bit, giving Ron room to cast another spell that reversed the damage to
the skin cells on that side of Sirius's face and neck. “Three firemen are dead
because Riddle's still out there.”
            “You can't put that on yourself, mate,” said Ron, bringing his wand
closer to the pulse-point under Sirius' ear. “This'll sting, I think,” he told
Sirius, and turned back to Harry. “You're not responsible for what those
nutters do!”
            Sirius cracked an eye to look at Ron. “Three men died so those
nutters could try to get to Harry. He wouldn't be human if he didn't feel some
guilt about it.”
            “Sirius!” Molly's voice was nearly a whipcrack. “You, of all
people! I can't believe you'd be so irresponsible as to encourage him!”
            Sirius sighed. “We can't deal with something, Molly, without
looking it in the eye. Harry—”
            “Harry will feel responsible,” Harry interrupted, “no matter what
Sirius says.” He drew a breath. “The question is, what do we do about it?”
            The Floo roared to life once again, and Mundungus Fletcher rolled
out of it, coughing and brushing soot out of his hair. “Remus says to keep 'em
'way from th' windows!” he called.
            Harry's head snapped up, and the three of them were running for the
nearest window as Sirius sighed, “Well done, Dung!”
            “Bloody fucking Hell!” cried Ron, and Molly Weasley, following to
the window, opened her mouth to upbraid her son, then froze, staring into the
sky.
            “Oh, no!” she breathed.
            Above the tree-line, over the village, hung the letters of fire:
                                 MORE WILL DIE
                                WHERE IS POTTER
            “Harry,” said Hermione, plaintively.
            He turned to regard her with warm, green eyes. “I won't drag you
into that danger against your will, Hermione.”
            “We should change,” she told him, “before we go.”
            “Go?” cried Molly Weasley, as Sirius glared mightily at an
oblivious Fletcher. “You three are not going anywhere!”
            “She's right, you know,” Sirius added. “People have died to keep
you safe and out of their hands. Go in there now, and they've died for
nothing.”
            Harry looked at him for a long, long time. "Am I going to cower
here, then, in safety, while good men die in my name? Would you?" He turned to
Ron's mother. “Would you, Molly?”
            She took a step backwards then, looking at the quiet intensity of
the boy — no, of the young man — who stood upright and determined in front of
her.
            “If you die,” she finally said, “who will stand against him?”
            “You will, Mum,” said Ron. “An' you,” he angled his head toward
Sirius, “an' you,” toward Dung, “an' Remus an' Fred an' George an' Dad and
Dumbledore and the whole lot of you. Maybe that's 'the Power he Knows Not.'
That enough people love Harry to stand up for him when he's gone. Mum, Sirius,
you can't keep reserving Harry forever. He does have a job to do. The best
weapon in the world is worthless if you don't fire it.”
            “Harry is not a weapon!” cried his mother. “He's just a boy!”
            “No, Mum. He's a man. He's my husband, just like Hermione is my
wife. I know we're only sixteen, an' I hate it as much as you do that we've had
to stop being kids almost before we began.” Ron stood to his full height,
shoulder to shoulder with Harry, and beyond him, Hermione stood taller as well.
“You can't ask us to hide while our friends die for us, Mum. You can't.”
            “Harry, promise me you'll wait,” said Sirius, “just a bit.”
            Harry nodded.
            Sirius ran for the Floo, grabbing a handful of powder from the jar.
            “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place!” he called, and threw, and
followed the powder into the flames.
            They were coming back out of the front-hall closet, dressed in
tough denim jeans, t-shirts, and thick, woolly waistcoats -- “Need the bare
arms for getting around easily,” Ron had said, “but we want to protect what we
can” -- and sandals with engorgioed soles, when Sirius spun back out of the
Floo.
            “Come on!” he called, and trotted for the door into the back yard,
his left hand fishing in his pocket as the three teenagers followed him. He was
squatting at the edge of the dirt road as they arrived behind him, putting
something carefully on the ground, and then he stepped back, pointing his wand.
            “Finite Incantatum!” he cried, and the object on the ground in
front of him began to expand as if inflating, revealing itself to be a large,
gleaming, motorcycle.
            “Triumph, under all the extras,” said Sirius, with no small pride,
“1957, originally. But, you know, I've made a lot of changes.”
            He perched sidewise on the edge of the seat, and addressed his
three charges. “Now, as for the three of you... This is a damned dangerous
situation.” He looked at Harry. “You're being 'called out' like it's a school-
yard fight. Well, it isn't. I mean it. I'm deadly serious.”
            Ron chuckled. “Yeah, I heard Remus call you that when you broke
wind: Deadly Sirius.”
            Sirius smirked in spite of himself. “Yes, yes, we're all very tough
and funny here tonight. I was actually getting to a point more practical than a
pep talk. We're going in against Death Eaters. They're going to take every
unfair advantage they can, and we need to make sure that we don't lose touch.”
            He looked from one young pair of eyes to the next. “Now, when I was
researching to find E Pluribus Unum, I found one other ancient Peloponnesian
spell. Clever Boots, have you ever heard of Mentis Unum?”
            Hermione frowned a moment. “Yes... yes! It was some sort of pre-
marital education spell. I never learned the details.”
            Sirius grinned with dark amusement. “Yes. Our old Peloponnesian
friends were pretty serious about marriage.” His eyebrow quirked, indicating
their unconscious contacts, hand-to-hand-to-hand. “They wanted marriages to
work. They believed marriages were built on understanding. So they created
Mentis Unum. It works a bit like Legilimency. It's a mind-meld of sorts.
Uncontrolled and complete. Unrepeatable. Any two people can only do it once.
While it lasts, they are in contact. The caster experiences every part of the
other's mind. Every thought, every feeling, every memory. Every sight, every
sound, every touch, every reaction.”
            Ron nodded slowly. “You figure they're going to try and take us, so
they can deliver Harry to Riddle. You want to cast it on Harry, so you'll know
where he is, what's happening to him.”
            Sirius grinned. “Close. Not Harry, though.”
            Hermione shook her head. “No, Sirius. It should be Harry. He's the
one Riddle wants to kill personally.”
            “But he's not the one most likely to come up with a plan,” said
Sirius, and he turned to Ron. “You are.”
            Ron stared at him for a long moment, wide-eyed, unseeing, his brain
working through the possibilities. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah, all right.”
            Sirius's eyes were darkly approving, and they stared into Ron's as
he leaned forward, his forehead to Ron's, his wand-hand reaching beyond to
press wand-tip against the back of Ron's head. Ron squirmed a bit at that.
            “It's all right, Ron,” said Sirius, his moustache tickling Ron's
nose. “It's all right.” He drew a breath. “Mentis Unum!”
            They saw nothing happen to Ron, but Sirius's hair blew back, for an
instant, as if he were on his bike and flying, and then he dropped to his knees
and fell over, curling into a foetal position, hands on his head. The three
teenagers were instantly gathered around him, bent over and touching him,
concern in their eyes.
            With shocking suddenness, he spun and sat up, strong hands grasping
Ron's shoulders as his eyes, wide and wild, stared intensely into Ron's.
            “I....” he breathed. “I... I am going to kiss you, Ron Weasley,
right on the mouth!” And before any of them could react, he did so, as sweetly,
as tenderly, as any father had ever kissed his son, And then held him again at
arm's length, smiling at him. “You extraordinary man! You magnificent,
brilliant, humble, loving man!”
            He stood, practically vaulting off Ron's shoulders, then reached to
help the trio back to their feet, and was suddenly crushing Hermione to his
chest in a mighty embrace, gazing down into her eyes with something in his own
that made them think he might kiss her as well, and not with the fatherly
chastity he'd kissed Ron.
            “Oh, Clever Boots,” he breathed. “I thought I knew, but I had no
idea. No idea at all!” His hand came up and brushed wild hair back away from
her staring brown eyes. “I didn't begin to understand...” A flush rose into her
face as she remembered his words —Every thought, every feeling, every memory.
Every sight, every sound, every touch, every reaction — and felt his body
against hers. Sirius noticed, and immediately held her away again. “Er... yeah.
Sorry.” He jerked his head at Ron. “He, er... he loves you very much, you
know.”

            “I know,” breathed Hermione, nodding.
            “He's right to,” said Sirius, his eyes solemn.
            He looked over to Harry, took a half step toward him, and then back
again, shaking his head ruefully. “Er.r30; No. Getting into a whole weird area
there, I think.” He spun to look at Ron. “No, I couldn't have thought of that
before I damn near snogged Hermione! You try having a whole brain plugged into
yours all at once! It's a bit overwhelming!” He looked back at her. “Teaspoon
the size of Mars, maybe!”
            He coughed roughly and turned back toward his motorcycle. “One last
modification to make, I think.”
            He pulled a coin from his pocket — not a Sickle or Knut, but some
non-magical currency, small and coppery — and threw it to the ground, pointing
his wand and incanting quietly, and the coin was transfigured into a
streamlined side-car, which Sirius attached to the bike with a metal pin pulled
from the same pocket as the coin.
            “Sort yourselves, you lot,” he said, mounting the seat. “One behind
me, two in the sidecar.”
            Harry and Ron slid together into the sidecar, helping Hermione onto
the seat behind Sirius, and Harry kept hold of her ankle as she snuggled
against his godfather, wrapping her arms around him.
            Sirius glanced over his shoulder, looking a bit surprised. “Clever
Boots?”
            “Oh, don't be silly, Sirius. Let's go.”
            Sirius grinned over his shoulder at her. “Good enough, Clever
Boots!”
            And he started the bike, and set off down the dirt road towards
town.
===============================================================================
            “I wish we'd flown,” Sirius cried, as they skidded to a stop by the
milling crowd around the conflagration that engulfed St. Bubo's up to the
steeple.
            “And landed in the middle of this crowd of Muggles?” asked
Hermione, climbing gracefully over her boys to dismount the bike.
            “They're all going to be memory-charmed anyway,” said Sirius,
grumpily, as Ron and Harry clambered after her, turning as they did to look
back at the blaze.
            Humanoid flame-people, most as tall as a house, were running around
the church, pounding flaming fists against the wood, renewing the conflagration
whereever they touched.
            The town's largest fire engine was scorched, its tyres melted and
still flaming, and the fire brigade was reduced to performing crowd-control,
save for a command crew that was standing watch over three shrouded forms on
the ground, and a chief who was bellowing into his walk-talkie, “Alive, I said!
We can't handle— Send in the military, send in UNIT or whoever! Do you read
me!? Hello?”
            As he shook the radio, pounding it with the heel of his hand,
Hermione shook her head. “That can't possibly work this close to so much
uncontrolled magic. We have to get in there!”
            “I think I can help,” said a wistful, quiet voice, close behind
them, and they turned to see the silvery eyes of Luna Lovegood. She held up a
card with the Quibbler logo, and the word PRESS, and said, “Press Pass.”
            “Luna,” began Hermione, “I'm not sure--”
            “It will work,” said a stronger, female voice, all too familiar,
and Ron was already crying out as they turned.
            “Gin! Go home! What are you thinking!?”
            “What are you!?!?” Ginny Weasley asked her brother in an outraged
shriek. “You're thinking people are dying, and somebody has to do something!
Well, so am I!”
            Harry's face sunk into his palm, but lifted quickly as he heard a
formidable voice say, quite firmly. “I do approve of your friends!”
            As all five of the other young teenagers turned toward him, Neville
Longbottom said, quietly, “Thanks, Gran.”
            Harry threw his hands in the air. “We were all here anyway! Even
Luna lives in town! Neville, what are you doing here?”
            Neville pointed at the sky. The flaming challenge to Harry was far
clearer here. “They reported that on the Wireless. I figured you could use all
the help you could get.”
            “Right,” said Ron. “How's your Patronus holding up, Neville?”
            “Been practising.”
            Hermione raised an eyebrow, and Mrs. Longbottom frowned at her.
“It's a stupid rule.”
            “Good, good,” said Ron. “You want a piece of this, Mrs.
Longbottom?”
            “I did not come to sit safely on my bottom, young man!”
            Ron grinned. “Right you are! Now ordinarily, I'd be talking about
surrounding the building and going in with Aguamenti, but on the one hand, I
dunno that water will help with these, or I'm guessing the Muggles could have
handled this. On the other, the three of us aren't so much for the spreading
out thing these days. Now, I also figure that finité is no good here, or Remus
and Sirius would have made short work of the whole thing. Hello, Remus.”
            Lupin had approached, looking outraged. He turned to Sirius. “What.
Are. They--”
            Sirius snorted. “You're not seriously going to finish that
sentence, are you? Next time you've got a mission of some delicacy and
discretion, might I suggest that Mundungus Fletcher is not really your ideal
choice?”
            “Yeah, if we can skip the domestics, please,” said Ron, easily,
“We've ruled out Aguamentiandfinité and I'm about to recommend trying
Patronuses. Now, like I said, we can't split up, but that may work to our
advantage. We can form a sort of semicircle here, yeah, and use the Patronuses
to drive 'em that way--” he pointed with his wand “--into the Otter.”
            “Ron,” said Hermione, “Sirius said these were bluebell flames. If
so, I don't think Patronuses will affect them.”
            Ron nodded. “No. But they ought to do something about whatever
inimical force is directing 'em.”
            Harry grinned over at him. “'Inimical?'”
            “Hey, I've read a book!” cried Ron. He ruffled Hermione's hair.
“I'm married to most of 'em!” Hermione just rolled her eyes.
            Ron gestured to the others. “C'mon, c'mon, spread out, please, us
in the middle, we're the guests of honour, so let's not make it easy for 'em,
yeah?”
            The others moved out to form a curved line and raised their wands.
            “Happy thoughts!” called Harry, and he looked over at Ron and
Hermione and smiled.
            “On three,” said Ron. “One. Two. Th--”
            “Expecto Patronum!” boomed Augusta Longbottom's voice, and a huge,
silver Vulture flew from her wand. Ron shrugged as the rest joined the call.
Ginny's stallion and Luna's hare, Neville's toad and Lupin's big shaggy dog.
Sirius's wand spouted a muscular, bald silver man on a flying surfboard, which
Ron stared at, baffled. Finally, as one, his Jack Russell terrier and
Hermione's otter flew forward, flanking the magnificent silver form of Prongs,
who charged, overtaking the others.
            The fiery giants were driven back, toward the church, and on past
it; the Patronuses herding them toward the River Otter, broad and sluggish. As
they reached the banks they stopped, wavering, and then exploded, sending vast
fireballs speeding through the town, setting fire to houses and shops, with
what appeared to be ordinary flames. But there were dozens of fires, perhaps
hundreds, and the six teenagers and three adults looked harriedly at one
another.
            “You've got to split up and go!” Harry said.
            “And leave you unprotected?” cried Remus.
            “You've been training us,” Ron told him. “Are we helpless?”
            “The Muggles-” began Remus, but Ron was pointing to the ruins of
the burnt fire engine.
            “Stay here!” snapped Sirius, and Ron grinned at him.
            “We'll work on the church,” he promised.
            Then the others were gone, casting Aguamenti in fierce streams onto
houses and shops radiating out from the town square. He felt his hearts
swelling with pride, for a moment, for his friends, young and old, so brave, so
freely willing to put their lives on the line in defence of innocents.
            He turned back, nodding at Ron and Hermione, and the three called
“Aguamenti!” and streams of water blasted from their wands, battering against
the walls of the church, dousing flames, leaving behind wood both charred and
sodden.
            “Mummeeeee!”
            They froze, exchanging a look among the three of them. The voice
had come from inside the church.
            “Trap,” they said, in unison.
            “Mummy? Mummy!”
            “Doesn't mean they're not using a real kid,” said Ron. “Muggle, I
reckon. Their lot would find a Muggle kid disposable.”
            “Muuuuuummeeeeeeeeee!”
            “Bloody hell!” said Harry.
            Hermione nodded. “We can't risk it.”
            Ron pointed his wand over to some of the astonished-looking firemen
who were reduced to helplessly watching stick-wielding eccentrics fight fires
they were no longer equipped to deal with. “Accio Fireman!”
            The man, a young fire fighter in his twenties, flew helplessly
through the air to them, and Ron and Harry managed to catch him. He stared at
them, terrified, and Harry asked, “What's your name?”
            “B-Barraclough. Andy Barraclough.”
            “Right, Andy, listen,” said Harry. “You can see there's stuff going
on here you can't deal with. Stuff we can.”
            “Mummy, Pleeeeeasse!” cried the voice. “I'm scared!”
            Barraclough turned suddenly toward the church, and Ron grabbed his
arm. “No, mate, like my friend said, there's stuff going on you can't handle.
We're going in there, see, my friends and me. If I'm right, that kid's going to
come back out at you. It may be a bit, well, weird. Just get the kid, and get
him the hell away. Don't worry about anything else you hear. Got that?”
            Andy Barraclough nodded once, quickly.
            There was a mighty Crash! From within the church, and a wailing
shriek from the young voice, which just went on and on.
            “That's torn it!” cried Ron and the three of them ran together for
the door.
            “Bubblehead Charms!” cried Hermione. “Smoke!” And they were casting
the charm on themselves almost silently, surrounding their faces with bubbles
of sweet, cool air, as Hermione's Reducto took the heavy doors out of their
way, and they were within the huge, burning space.
            Flames moved freely along pews, up walls and over crossbeams, and
thick, black smoke roiled, obscuring their vision. Hermione's wand came up, and
her voice cried “Ventus!” Air blew steadily from her wand, pushing the smoke
back, and they saw him, a small boy, maybe seven years old, screaming and
writhing under a long, heavy wooden beam, covered in flames which licked over
onto him as well, his clothing cheerily burning as he screamed and screamed.
            “Harry, you and Hermione get the beam!” cried Ron, and they obeyed
him instantly, bringing up their wands to levitate the burning wood up off the
boy, whose screams where horrific and unceasing. Even as it lifted from the
boy, sliding upward into the air by careful inches — they did no-one any good
if it broke into burning pieces to rain down on the child again — Ron raised
his wand “Expecto Patronum!” The silver terrier leapt from his wand, and he
told it, “Bring him to Andy, then fetch a wizard! He'll need better than Muggle
remedies!”
            Ron's Patronus already had the burning child by the scruff of his
neck, and Harry and Hermione gently streamed him with clear water as he passed.
They stayed by unspoken agreement. If it was a trap, they didn't want their
attempted escape to preclude the boy's.
            They formed into a triangle, and re-cast Aguamenti, spraying water
at the flaming pews, and Andy Barraclough's voice bellowed, “Oi, in there! I've
got 'im, get the hell out of it!”
            “Good advice,” said Ron, angling his head at the door, and a deep
voice boomed, “A shame you shan't follow it! Stupefy!”
            But Ron was dropping as soon as the voice spoke, Harry and Hermione
rolling easily across him to face the voice, their wands covering about fifteen
degrees as they shouted their own Stupifies in response, and heard the distinct
thuds of two bodies hitting the floor.
            “Fuck!” cried Ron. “Can't leave 'em here to burn, even though they
are Death Eaters! Levicorpus!”
            He hoisted the masked wizard into the air, even as Harry followed
suit with the next, and even as they were turning to fling the unconscious
Death Eaters through the door, four more, sensing their advantage, stepped from
hiding. Hermione blocked two of them with a Protego but the angles were wrong,
and the Trio fell, stunned.
===============================================================================
            When Harry came back to awareness, the three of them were being
thrown to the floor of some sort of rough-hewn wooden cell, a box perhaps seven
feet by seven by seven.
            “Should have killed the other two,” said a rough voice. “It's
Potter he wants!”
            “An' if they were still all stuck together dead? You wanna carry
around that dead weight?”
            “Oh, fuck,” Ron moaned, rolling toward his loves.
            “'M here, Ron” said Harry.
            “Me, too,” said Hermione. “Can't've been out long.”
            They were starting to help one another to their feet when the cell
lurched into motion, and they heard the creak of large wheels turning. The door
they'd been thrown in through showed about a half-inch of light around it,
interrupted by hinges on one side and some sort of bar across the middle of the
other, and they staggered to their feet, then to that door, pressing their eyes
to the cracks, Harry on the side with the hinges — on the outside, of course —
Ron and Hermione on the other.
            Even as they watched, the cell lurched again, throwing them against
the back wall, and when they got their eyes back to the crack again, they saw
the fires of Ottery St. Catchpole dropping away.
            “Yeah, that's not good,” said Ron, and Hermione shushed him,
frowning in concentration.
            Harry closed his eyes, listening as well, wind rushing, metallic
clanking, the creaking of leather, muttering voices. Underlying, something
rhythmic, getting louder and louder. Fwoop! Fwoop! Fwoop!
            “You hear that, Harry?” Hermione's voice was a whisper.
“Thestrals!”
            Ron's eye was still pressed to the crack around the door. “Yeah, if
either of you guys is interested, we're about a million miles up in the air
now.”
            “Oh, we are not, Ron!” scolded Hermione. “The atmosphere doesn't
extend more than about a hundred and twenty, at the outside, and judging by air
pressure, I'd say we can't be higher than two or three.”
            “Still, I bet you'd fall for a long time from this height,” Ron
replied darkly.
            “Well, Ronald, if you'd bothered to study anything that wasn't
magic-related, you'd know that a falling object in Earth's gravity falls at an
acceleration of thirty-two feet per second, squared, until it reaches what's
called Terminal Velocity, at which point air resistance cancels out the
acceleration and the object maintains that speed, so Mmmph!”
            Ron leaned back from the kiss a moment later, smiling broadly at
her in the dim light inside the cart. “Sorry, love,” he said, “but I really
didn't want to hear the end of that calculation.”
            He reached up to stroke her hair fondly, and suddenly stopped,
staring at her hair, looking almost metallic in the sliver of silvery moonlight
shining in around the door.
            “Yes!” he cried. He pulled Hermione's face to him and kissed her
again. “You love me most, cause I'm such a fuckin' genius, do you know that?
C'mon!” he pulled her over close to the door. “Now, look, once I get one, it's
real important that you two not touch me, got it? Not at all.”
            “How are we supposed to work that, exactly, mate?” asked Harry.
            “Well, other than what I got, I mean,” he said, pressing Hermione's
head against the crack in the door. “Harry, I mean it, get back behind
Hermione, and hold her, I'm pretty sure this is gonna hurt.” he leaned down to
kiss her again. “I'm sorry, love, really. But you're gonna love this!”
            With that he took a stray set of her curls, and stuffed them into
the crack around the door.
            “Ron!” cried Hermione, baffled, “What are--”
            “Hang on!” said Ron. He had his eye to the crack now, and grabbed
more of Hermione's hair, twisting it into a loop and shoving it through the
crack, perhaps eight inches above where he's done it before. “Wait for it....”
he said quietly. “Waaaaaiiit.... foooorrrr.... iiiiiitttt.......”
            Then, with a triumphant “Hah!” he pulled the second handful of her
hair back in through the crack, and Hermione gasped.
            Ron was pawing at the handful of hair he had, discarding small
numbers until he was holding one single strand, shining in the thin stripe of
moonlight.
            “Hold her hands, Harry,” said Ron. “Keep her occupied!”
            Harry, his eyes widening, took hold of Hermione's hands, and said,
“Look at me, love. Look at me, that's all.”
            She suddenly flinched and jerked her head, and Ron backed off a
bit, and she cried out, eyes widening. “Oh my God, Ron! That's brilliant!”
            Ron grinned. “Ain't it, though? Nuptialis Unum keeps us in contact
no matter what. What'd you tell me? No power in Heaven or on Earth? Right,
then. If all that connects you to me is this strand of hair, then it can't
break. So if a metal bar from a door-latch is in its way, it'll just have to
give way, won' it?”
            Hermione's hands gripped Harry's tighter, and her teeth closed on
her lower lip for a moment. “That really hurts, Ron!”
            “I'm sorry, Hermione Jane! Just hang in with me, we're doing it!”
            Her hands gripped Harry's tightly, at the same time trying to pull
away, and tears ran from her clenched eyes. “Don't stop, Ron,” she whimpered.
“Oh, God, it hurts but don't stop!”
            “What would Fred and George have given to hear you say that?” asked
Harry with a cheeky grin.
            “That is not funny!” Hermione cried through a sound that was both
giggle and sob.
            “And yet,” Harry responded, his grin as irritating as he could make
it. His eyes flickered up to Ron who was working with great concentration,
pulling his hand back into the cart while moving it up and down at a deliberate
pace. Harry could see the single strand of hair stretched from his palm to the
crack around the door.
            “You are never getting oral sex again!” Hermione huffed at Harry.
“You're laughing at my pain! This hurts!”
            Harry opened his mouth to retort, when there was a SPFLANNNG! And
the door swung open. Ron hurled himself forward onto them, and they edged
together to the open door, and looked at the abstract geometry of the landscape
thousands of feet below.
            “Blimey,” said Harry. “Ron, mate, you sure you don't want to hear
Hermione's calculations?”
            Ron grinned sidewise at him. “I think we've got this covered, mate.
Brace yourself.” He took Hermione's hand and swung himself out the door. His
weight pulled Hermione to the brink, but Harry braced them both, and Ron swung
under, and they heard a Clunk! from beneath the floor.
            Hermione's eyes widened, and she looked up at Harry. “Two tugs. I
think he wants me to follow him.” She nodded to Harry, and slid from the door,
and he lay on the floor and let his upper body hand out, his hand stretched to
Hermione, who swung up underneath with Ron. Harry heard her say, quietly, “Very
good, Ron!”
            As Harry's eyes adjusted, he saw that Ron had fastened his belt
around the rear axle of the cart, and Hermione swung between their hands like a
trapeze artist. Ron looked hard at Harry, and jerked his head toward the front
axle, and Harry nodded, and allowed himself to slide into space.
            Nothing like broom-sports to cure a fear of heights! He thought,
and swung under the cart to grab the front axle.
            “Whazzat, Wally?” said the rough voice that Harry had heard as he
woke up.
            “Hitchhikers, idiot,” growled the second voice, apparently Wally,
“We're in the sky! It's nothing.”
            As their host assured his helper that there was nothing to worry
about, Harry wrapped his legs around the axle, and used one hand to buckle his
belt. Ron undid his own belt, and he and Hermione swung forward as well, and
they clung together around the axle.
            “Now what?” asked Harry, in a whisper.
            “Now,” hissed Hermione, “you, Harry, hold Ron's ankles while he
holds mine, you swing me up to this side of the cart, and I believe I can get
our wands.”
            “How're you going to do that?” asked Ron.
===============================================================================
           
            “I feel something, Wally! Don' you feel that?”
            “Shut up, Reg!” said Wally, sounding irritable. “It's gotta be the
bloody Thestrals.”
            As she swung up to the left, Hermione arced her body and slapped
hard against that side of the cart, and while Wally cried, “Bugger!” she swung
back, Ron and Harry whipcracking her with savage smiles, and she disappeared
for a moment past the left side of the cart, and they heard Reg yell, “Hey,
whah!?”
            Then Hermione was swinging back down, an unfamiliar wand in her
hand, and she pointed it up at the floor under their captors' feel, yelling,
“Reducto!” Then, even as a hole was blown through the floorboards, she shouted
“Accio wands!”
            “Fuck!” cried Wally, and a single wand and a cloth bag flew through
the hole and into Hermione's free hand.
            She threw the bag up to Harry who released Ron's right calf to
catch it, and she pointed the two wands back up at the hole just in time to see
two faces peering down through it. “Stupefy!” she cried, and the two men fell
with solid thuds!
            Harry, meanwhile, had dug their own wands out of the bag, and
Mobilicorpused Hermione up to their level, before distributing her wand and
Ron's back to them.
            “I say we take the Thestrals,” Harry said. “They may have holdout
wands, and I don't want 'em to wake up armed.”
            They used Mobilicorpus again, on one another, which ought to have
been impossible, to move out to the Thestrals, and Hermione reached back with
her wand and blasted the yoke holding the team of four Thestrals to the cart.
The cart floated impotently in their wake as the Thestrals flew away, and the
three young people made their way up to mount the leading pair, Harry on one
with Hermione behind him, Ron on the other, their hands stretched out to one
another.
            “You know the way home?” Hermione shouted across to Ron.
            “No idea!” Ron replied.
            Harry, hearing a distant roaring, smiled. “I have a feeling we're
going to know soon,” he called, and they were ready and waving cheerily as
Sirius's enormous motorcycle pulled up beside them, and he grinned back, waving
wildly, and called, “Follow Me!”
===============================================================================
***** Chapter Twenty: “The Breathing Rose” *****
Chapter Notes
     “But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.” -
     Oliver Wendell Holmes
                     Chapter Twenty: “The Breathing Rose”
===============================================================================
 
            “The ones you left in the cart,” Remus was saying as he accepted
the cup of tea from Molly, “were Wallace Widdershins and Reginald Rankinphile.
The two bodies from the church were Atticus Wainscoting and Bartlesby Took.”
            At the word “bodies,” all three of the teenagers flinched, but
Moody ignored them, taking on from Lupin. “Between them, they had about the
brainpower of a skrewt. Not a one of 'em wi' the brains to put that little trap
together. The beauty of it was, they could count on you lot t'try an' rescue
even them from the bloody fire! As soon as you started winning, you lost, see?”
He looked back and forth among them. “Now, what was it the Death Eater in the
church said again?”
            Hermione spoke, tiredly. They'd all repeated his one line again and
again for Moody, and she didn't see that it would help to do it again. “Andy
Barraclough yelled in and told us to get out. Ron said it was good advice. Then
one of the Death Eaters said 'A shame you shan't follow it,' and tried to
stupefy us, but Ron was already ducking.”
            “Shan't,” said Moody. “Shan't-shan't-shan't-shan't-shan't. None of
these four would ever say Shan't. Not ever!I'm guessing Mr. Shan't was the
leader. There was two escaped, right? Because you counted four more coming from
hiding while you were trying to save Wainscoting and Took. At least one of
those two had a bit of spark in the brain-pan. Not only does his speech show
some education and intelligence, but the plan to basically use the front lines
of his own gang as hostages against you lot was pretty damned smart.”
            “Th' bloke who thought of the plan,” said Ron, “isn't necessarily
who spoke. Smarter not to. We got something on the one who talked. Three of us
know his voice.”
            “And he's a left-handed caster,” said Harry. “I could tell by the
rotation of that Stupefy.”
            “And quick enough to duck our retaliatory hex,” added Hermione. “I
don't think he Apparated, I think he ducked.”
            “Wonderful!” grunted Alastor Moody, as he stood away from them. “A
smarter-than-average, reasonably literate, quick-ducking, left-handed Death
Eater who talks like the bloody wireless!” He strode grumpily toward the door.
“We've practically got him surrounded!”
===============================================================================
            As they shambled back into their tent in the front-hall cupboard,
Hermione moaned, her hand gingerly touching her scalp again.
            She'd burst into tears about the time Sirius had led them for their
landing at the Burrow, and a quick diagnostic spell from Ron – who'd proven
remarkably adept at them – had shown a bruise, larger than his hand and
spreading, and a kind of tearing separation between Hermione's scalp and skull,
which had been filling slowly with blood. They'd performed the proper healing
spells and Palliatus as well, but the spell was unequal to the pain of the
tearing, and Ron had looked solemn, and stayed that way through Moody's and
Remus's post mortem of the ambush.
            He looked just as solemn now as they ducked through the tent's
canvas door. “You should have told me, love.”
            She shook her head once, then winced, cutting the gesture off. “I
couldn't. You might have stopped.”
            “For fuck's sake, Hermione!” he cried. “I nearly tore your fucking
scalp right off your head!”
            “You couldn't. Nuptialis Unum--”
            Ron's voice was very rough. “You know what I'm saying, Hermione.”
            She reached up, and pulled his face down to hers, mouth moving on
his with sweet, loving, tenderness.
            Harry's first instinct was to turn away, but he found his eyes
captured by the movements of Hermione's mouth against Ron's, and he simply
gazed at them as they kissed, neither part of nor apart from the gesture, their
love, and he watched in fascination as their mouths parted, lips peeling gently
apart with a quiet, wet sound, and a single shining string of moisture
stretched between them, connecting them a moment longer before it broke. He
sighed and leaned in against them, his arms sliding around them both, and
Hermione lowered her forehead onto his collarbone, letting out a moan that
could be either pleasure or pain.
            He leaned over to her, pressed his lips into the top of her head,
kissing her tenderly, wishing with all his heart that he could lessen her pain,
and she and Ron both gasped at the same time, both stared at Harry, both asked
him, in astonished unison, “What did you do?”
            Harry looked back and forth between them, his own eyes widening at
the wonder he saw in theirs. “What d'you mean?”
            “My headdoesn't hurt,” said Hermione, while Ron was saying, “Mate,
there was this light—”
            Then Ron stopped himself, processing Hermione's words, and he drew
out his wand again, waving it over Hermione's head with a deft motion while
murmuring “Dermis Diagnosis.”
            His eyes and Harry's both widened. “Merlin's clanking balls!” Ron
breathed, almost reverently. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
            “What?” asked Hermione, annoyed as she had been when they first
treated her that she couldn't see the diagnostic spell as it glowed from her
scalp. “What is it?”
            “He kissed it better!” cried Ron, sounding almost offended. “What
the bloody hell is that!?!?”
            Harry shook his head, eyes wide. “You've got me, mate,” he said. “I
wasn't trying to...” He trailed off, sucking his lip between his teeth,
reminding Ron, for a startling moment, of Hermione. “Or... Hell, Ron, maybe I
was!” He turned to Hermione. “I was kissing your head, and all I wanted in the
whole world was for you not to hurt!” He turned to Ron. “How's that shoulde--”
            “No!” cried Hermione, and Harry and Ron both blinked at her. “No,
let me try!” And she leaned over and pressed her lips to Ron's left shoulder,
which had, in fact, been sprained when he'd leaped under the flying cart.
            Harry's eyes widened as a golden glow spread from her lips
throughout Ron's shoulder, and Ron sighed contentedly.
            He didn't even ask, but leaned over to press his lips to the right
side of Harry's neck, where, he'd realised on the Thestral flight back to the
Burrow, he'd received a fairly nasty burn on in the church. Harry moaned with
relief as waves of soothing comfort spread from Ron's surprisingly soft lips as
they worked gently on the remains of his burn.
            Ron straightened again, and looked back and forth between them with
a kind of sloe-eyed wonder, his mouth spreading in an ever-widening smile, and
Harry's lips and Hermione's followed, and they walked quickly toward the
bathroom, shedding clothes as they went.
===============================================================================
            As water sluiced over their naked bodies, and soapy cloths scrubbed
away soot and grime, they looked for minor hurts, small cuts and bruises, and
unmade the injuries with tender lips and loving tongues.
            Harry and Ron moved together over Hermione's chest, kissing her
scar again and again, and each time they did, it diminished a bit.
            Clean and dry, they carried her, naked, to the bed, kissing that
scar again and again and again, their hands moving lovingly over her body as
they did so, and as the scar became thinner and more indistinct, of course
their touches grew bolder, and she felt the heat pooling inside her as her
beautiful boys moved their hands and mouths on her body, fingers sliding into
her with familiar confidence, lips moving happily from from scar to breast,
pausing sometimes on the mole high up, a little to the left over her
breastbone, hardening and filling her nipples through their rapt and loving
attentions.
            She surrendered to them, larger and stronger than she was, but she
somehow never felt controlled or constrained by them. They were extensions of
herself, and had been much longer than the weeks since she'd spoken those two
words with which she had such a complicated relationship: Nuptialis Unum had
saved her boys and given her husbands and made her an adult before anyone had
intended. But even before that moment, she could no more have been intimidated
by their size or strength than she could have feared her own arms and hands.
Even in that first moment of nudity when their sex had terrified her, they had
comforted her. They had always, since one terrifying night in the girls' loo,
been her boys, and spell or no spell, they always would be.
            So she squirmed happily between their four strong hands, unafraid
and unashamed as her pleasure overtook her.
            Soon Harry was lying on his belly, her thighs over his shoulders,
as his mouth and fingers moved with happy confidence over her centre, his
pursed lips giving a rhythmic series of gently sucking kisses to her clitoris,
each setting off a small electric charge of pleasure through her as his long
fingers reached up inside her to caress that spot.
            Ron, meanwhile, was moving his hands over her body and Harry's,
kneeling beside them and moving firm gentle hands over them, his left on her
breasts and belly, his right on Harry's back and bottom, and she moaned with
arousal at the sight of those long, freckled fingers tracing along the cleft
between his buttocks, even as she moaned her pleasure at their touch to her
breasts, and Harry's mouth on her clitoris and hands within her.
            She came quickly, crying their names, and then reached for Ron's
cock, and gently tugged it, urging him up toward her.
            Hermione marvelled at the feeling of Ron's hard cock in her hand,
its firm stoutness, its upward curve, and she smiled as she looked at it,
something about the shape of the head giving it a look of cherubic jollity, and
she felt the softness of its skin sheathing the its hardness, felt the warmth
that went with its rosy colour, and wondered again, as she so often did, that
it had ever frightened her. It was such a happy, friendly thing, such an
expression of love for her, and she loved nothing more than to touch it, to
taste it, to feel it inside her, although she loved the sleek, straight
elegance of Harry's cock every bit as much.
            She looked down the length of her body as he lay, gazing at her
centre, where she lay open before him, letting her too-sensitive clitoris rest
after that orgasm, his fingers inside her still moving gently, reminding her
that she was a woman, and made to be filled by these happy, glorious cocks. His
green eyes rose to hers, and she said, languidly, “Fuck me, Harry. Come up,
darling, and slide your sweet, straight cock into me.”
            Both her husbands moaned at that, and she felt Ron's cock twitch in
her hand. They did so love when she said those words, and that power thrummed
within her – within her centre, sex, vagina, pussy, cunt – like a dynamo, and
she thrilled and revelled in it. She felt Harry's fingers move inside her,
performing Barricadusbefore his fingers slid from her, and his hands moved to
the bed on either side of himself.
            She leaned slightly toward Ron, and moved her lips in a closed-
mouthed, almost chaste kiss to the tip of Ron's cock, and he groaned and
pressed himself gently to her, and she let her lips slide around the large,
round head, and her tongue trace the line of the slit, now seeping that salty-
sweet taste that was Ron. She moved her mouth and lips over the glans for a few
moments as Harry shifted up over her, and then drew away, letting her lips
slide just as easily off Ron's cock so she could look into Harry's eyes as he
penetrated her.
            He always waited for her look, her permission, as if never quite
believing he was allowed to do this, and she loved staring into his eyes as he
pushed his cock into her, because every time, there was a moment of shock and
awe, a moment of jubilant disbelief as he realised again that he was inside
her, his cock sliding into her centre -- her pussy-- and that was as great a
pleasure to her as feeling her labia spread and stretch, just a little, to
allow his arrow-straight cock entrance, and the long, slow feeling of
penetration, as he pressed himself by gentle inches all the way until his long,
straight cock was within her as deep as it would go, his pubis settling atop
her mons.
            He kissed her then, as he always did, a kiss full of love and
gratitude, tender and almost tentative, a kiss that thanked her for the
unlikely miracle of allowing him that entrance.
            As he lifted his head away, his cheek brushed against Ron's cock,
and he turned his head and took its girth into his mouth with a grateful moan,
green eyes closing as he slid the stout, happy thing into his mouth, and the
sight of one husband's cock sliding through the other's lips sent a jolt of
electric pleasure through her, and Ron's throaty gasp of“Oh, fuck!” sent
another.
            She squirmed her hips, loving the feeling of how that moved Harry's
cock inside her, as she leaned up to lick Ron's balls. She loved the feeling of
them against her mouth and tongue, the fine, surprisingly soft red curls on his
wrinkle-textured sac under her tongue, as she licked and sucked his balls, and
she felt Ron's right hand fist in her hair, knew the left was in Harry's.
            “Fuck me, Harry,” she moaned between licks, and she bucked her
hips, and drew her knees up and out, opening herself deeper to him, and one at
a time, he hooked his arms under her knees, pulling her thighs up on either
side of her breasts, and he groaned around Ron's cock as he pulled back and
thrust into her again, harder and deeper, and Ron's hips bucked him toward
Harry's mouth.
            The salt of Ron's sweat was tart on her tongue as she licked his
balls, and the smell of his musk was strong and manly, and Harry's cock thrust
up inside her, and she squeezed him with her internal muscles, the phrase Kegel
exercises flashing through her mind, with remembered images of diagrams in
books, and she thrust her hips up against the force of Harry's as she drew one
of Ron's balls into her mouth and ran her tongue around it.
            “Trade,” said Harry, leaning around to kiss her through Ron's
scrotum, sucking the testicle from her mouth into his, and she leaned the other
way, and slid her mouth again over Ron's hard cock, filling her mouth with it
as she took it as deep as she could.
            God, she loved having the boy's cocks in her mouth almost as much
as in her vagina, and she moaned her pleasure at the feeling of that friendly
hard thing in her mouth, sucking it and moving her tongue over it.
            At her moan, Ron cried out, and his cock throbbed in her mouth, he
was so close, Harry's mouth and hers had already gotten him so close, and
Harry's cock was thrusting into her centre, she felt it piercing her, lancing
into her, so straight, so long, touching places inside her Ron would never know
– and even as she thought that, she moved her mouth over the thickness of Ron's
cock, and knew that when he fucked her, he stretched her in ways Harry never
could.
            Oh, she loved her two boys, their two cocks, their four strong
hands and how they all fit with her body. She loved the cock that slid into her
now in a series of hard, almost frantic thrusts, and she loved the cock that
filled her mouth and jerked and shuddered as she pleasured it. She loved the
sleek and the stout, the straight and the curved, the intent and the happy. She
loved the quick, sure hands of the Seeker, and the strong, certain hands of the
Keeper. She loved the compact, slender body moving over hers, muscles well-
defined under dark hair starting to fill in on the chest and abdomen, and she
loved the tall, rangy, freckled body above her as she sucked that stout cock,
with its firm, easy strength.
            Best of all, though, she loved that they were both hers, and she
theirs, loved that there were no painful choices, and no one left aside.
            And as she thought about it again, thought about the fact that she
was theirs and they hers, thought about the fact that one was fucking her while
she sucked the other's cock, the thought and sensation were one, and she was
coming again, crying unintelligibly around Ron's cock, which felt the
vibrations of her cry, and spasmed, filling her mouth with his salty-sweet
jism, as Harry's cock continued to thrust into her, slamming her again and
again with jolts of pleasure through the end of her orgasm, before he, too, was
crying out, and his cock throbbed inside her, and she felt the hot, sticky
ejaculate spurt up inside her, and she came again, a soft aftershock that came
from her knowledge of the pleasure she gave her boys, from the power her body
had over theirs.
            Harry kissed her again, his lips meeting hers around Ron's
softening shaft, and as Ron pulled away, Harry followed, taking Ron's cock in
his mouth for a moment more before he lowered his face to hers to kiss her
again, his tongue sliding into her mouth to taste Ron's sex as she moved her
mouth over his, and then Ron was at their sides, and she was kissing him as
well, letting him taste his own flavour in her mouth before he turned to kiss
Harry, and taste himself there as well.
            She sighed happily as her legs fell straight again, Harry's
softening cock sliding from her vagina, and she snuggled with her boys – her
men, her husbands, but always, first and foremost, her boys – feeling them warm
and firm and happily sated against her, kissing one and then the other and then
both, feeling their hands, still appreciative, on her body and their bodies,
still miraculous, under her fingers, and they all slid happily, almost
unnoticed, into sleep.
===============================================================================
            Harry, remembering the ghost of a smile that had quirked at
Hermione's lips in the Muggle clothing store, waited until she'd looked away,
and looked at Tonks, calling her over with a jerk of his head. He'd already
folded the money into his palm, and as Hermione closed her eyes, shaking her
head at Ron's antics as he clowned with a brassiere, his nimble fingers
gathered in the grey cotton fabric, and moved his hand casually behind him as
she glanced back at him.
            “I behave myself,” he said, with his most innocent expression, as
he shook the knickers behind his back, and felt Tonks' smooth, wand-callused
fingers take it and the money from him. “I want to live!”
            Hermione eyed him for a moment before turning back to Ron. “Why
can't you be more like Harry?”
            “Because if I were, you'd be bored silly?” Ron asked easily. “Plus,
I'm sexy as hell as I am, really, right Harry?”
            Harry heard the undertone in Ron's question, and felt a little
charge within him, the little thrill he got every time he realised his feelings
were all right with Ron, were shared and returned, just like his feelings for
Hermione. “Oh, yeah,” he agreed, a slight quaver in his voice, as he reached up
to take Ron's hand for a quick squeeze. “Dead sexy!”
            He saw Hermione's eyes fluttering between them, and the colour
rising to her cheeks, and a glance at Ron told him he'd seen it, too, and they
shared a surreptitious smile. Sometimes Harry thought the best thing in his
world was how much it turned Hermione on to see him with Ron, how much it
turned Ron on to see him with Hermione. Sometimes, he thought it was the fire
that lit within him to see them together. How could watching her lips close
around Ron be as arousing as feeling them on him? How could seeing Ron's
freckled fingers moving over her skin be as sensual as feeling them, broom-
callused and just a little hesitant, on his body? How could it be that both his
friends, lovers, spouses, felt the same?
            He felt the softness of Hermione's arm, fine pale hairs that could
only be seen in the sunlight, brushing against the back of his hand as she
maintained the casual connection while turning to take another three pair of
practical white cotton knickers and add them to her purchases. He felt Ron's
fingers, still in his, squeezing with surprising gentleness, and wondered how
close he'd come to missing this, to never having their love, their closeness,
their sex and intimacy, so deeply beyond the bonds of friendship that had for
five years been the centre of his life. Could it truly be that all it would
have taken was for Hermione to have tried a different spell, for Fudge or
Dumbledore to forbid his approaching the Veil, and he'd never have known this?
Never have known the touch of that freckled expanse, never have known the
velvety skin and lush curves between his fingers? Never have known the
sweetness of those kisses?
            He closed his eyes for a moment, surrendering himself to his
gratitude for whatever happenstance had brought him to this moment, to the
fine, soft hairs at the back of his left hand, and the firm, callused fingers
in his right, and then there were small soft fingers touching the moisture on
his cheeks, Hermione's voice, filed with concern, saying his name.
            “Harry?” Her voice was hushed, almost reverent, and now Ron was
looking closely as well.
            “All right, there, mate?” he asked.
            And all Harry could offer in response, tears pouring down his
cheeks as he drew them to him, held them close, felt two very different hands
stroking his hair, was one word, breathed again and again.
            “Love,” he breathed, holding them, squeezing them, kissing one then
the other, only distantly aware of the outraged sniffs of the shop-keeper, of
Remus Lupin gently distracting her with their payment. “Love.”
===============================================================================
            Their trip to Diagon Alley was less emotional, somehow, as they
trooped from Flourish and Blotts (where Hermione's pleasure was near-orgasmic)
to Scrivenshafts (Where she attempted to share her excitement about a new line
of quills with metamorphing nibs) to Madame Malkin's, where the proprietress
herself served them in a private room, with a few gentle words about her
discretion toward the young and in love, having read of their attached
condition in the Prophet.
            “Merlin's balls, Harry!” Ron whispered to him in some alarm.
“They're writing about our love life in the Prophet!?”
            “I don't want to think about it,” Harry moaned, feeling a sick,
leaden weight in his midsection, and Hermione leaned against his back, arms
sliding around him in a comforting hug, as she shot Ron a brief, angry look.
            “It doesn't matter, love,” she told Harry. “It doesn't matter. Let
them write what they want. We three know the truth; we know what we are.
Nothing else matters.”
            Madame Malkin measured them with professional efficiency, and they
left an hour later with several sets of school uniforms and robes, Lupin and
Tonks carrying their bags as they made their way back toward the Leaky
Cauldron.
            As they stepped inside, they were intercepted by Amos Diggory, who
approached Tonks first, speaking in an undertone.
            He seemed thinner – not slenderer, but less substantial, somehow -
- than he had two years ago at Stoat's Head Hill, thinner than he had nine
months after, at the Third Task. Harry shuddered, remembering the faint echo –
all he'd been able hear – of Amos Diggory's anguished cries over his son's
body. Now Amos Diggory seemed to be halfway to being one of the ghosts who
prowled the halls of Hogwarts, without bothering with the intermediate step of
dying.
            He was still bluff and friendly as he turned from Tonks to Harry
and his loves though, and told them, “I'm terribly sorry, but Minister
Scrimgeour is here. He'd like a word.”
            “I don't think,” Ron said, darkly, “That he'll much like any words
Harry has for him.”
            “Hush, Ron,” said Hermione. “He's a new Minister, and it isn't fair
to punish him for the misdeeds of the old.”
            Harry merely nodded his assent, and they set off, following Mr.
Diggory into one of the small, private rooms, which had been worked up into an
impromptu office for Scrimgeour.
            The leonine man glanced up at the three young people, eyes
flickering to take in Lupin and Tonks, and he returned his attention to the
desk before him, scratching with his quill on a number of parchment scrolls for
several seconds, before finally looking up at them again.
            “Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, Miss Granger. Perhaps now, young
lady, you'll consent to calling me 'Minister.'”
            “Of course, Minister,” Hermione replied easily, but Harry felt the
tension in her muscles.
            Scrimgeour stood, impressively tall and powerful, still, and limped
around the table that had been transfigured into a desk for him, to lean one
hip against it, as he looked at each of the three of them, taking in the
contact, and crossed his arms. Finally, he looked directly at Harry, and spoke.
“You did very well at St. Bubo's the other evening.”
            “Thank you,” said Harry, his voice neutral.
            “The Ministry would like to commend you. I'd like to commend you.”
            Harry nodded again, his expression closing down a bit more. “Thank
you,” he said. “We did our best.”
            “I thought, perhaps next week,” Scrimgeour continued. “A small
ceremony, at the Ministry...”
            “Before the press,” said Harry.
            “Well, of course,” said Scrimgeour. “Your heroism deserves
recognition, and, in these dark times, it is perhaps well for the people to see
such heroes, to know that courage and strength exist in this world.”
            “And to conclude, from the nature of the ceremony,” Harry said, his
tone carefully neutral, “that we work for you. That what we do reflects on the
Ministry? That you can take credit for it?”
            Scrimgeour's face coloured as Harry spoke, and his lips thinned to
a hard line. “You will show proper respect! My office is entitled to it, and
frankly, so am I! I was fighting the likes of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named before
you were born!”
            “No you weren't, Minister” said Hermione, quietly. “I've read up on
your career. You were arresting the likes of Widdershins and Rankinphile and
Wainscoting and Took. It's good work, important work, but you've never faced a
foe like Riddle, and Harry's bested him thrice. And without one bit of help
from the ministry.”
            “All three of you used magic, while under age, in the presence of
Muggles,” the Minister began, his voice resonant and hard.
            “Yeah,” said Ron, wholly unimpressed by the implicit threat. “To
protect them in a life-threatening situation in which they'd already seen
magic. You want to call out the full Wizengamot to try us on that one? I mean,
seeing how well that worked out for Fudge, an' all.”
            Scrimgeour's jaw tightened, and his knuckles whitened on his wand,
and Harry thought for a mad moment that the Minister would snap it between his
hands in his anger. Then, like the closing of a furnace door, the bland
political expression dropped back over his face, and he said, quietly. “The
Ministry of Magic is a powerful friend, and a formidable enemy. You should
consider carefully before you choose which we will be.”
            “I have all the enemies I need, Minister,” said Harry. “Tom Riddle
is all the enemy either of us needs. Instead of trying to threaten us or co-opt
us, maybe you should ask yourself what you can do about him.”
            Scrimgeour's face grew darker, and he controlled himself with a
visible effort, before turning his attention to the adults. “Auror Tonks--”
            “No, sir,” said Tonks, brightly.
            Scrimgeour stood away from the desk, and limped across to stand
over her, glaring down into her face. Remus Lupin, out of his line of sight,
grinned across to Harry, Ron and Hermione.
            “What. Did. You. Say. To. Me. Auror Tonks?” Scrimgeour bit off each
word, his voice dangerously low.
            “What you ordered us to, Minister,” replied Tonks. “A year ago,
sir, if you'll recall. You lot work for the Auror Department, and there is a
chain of command. You do not take orders from some clueless political hacks. I
don't care if it's the bloody Minister himself, if you get an order from
outside your chain of command, your answer is 'No, sir.' If the ministry wants
something from my Aurors, they can bloody well come to me, and if I, as Chief
Auror, see fit, I'll pass that order down the chain.”
            Scrimgeour straightened, stepped back a step, eyes wide and
eyebrows high. “My goodness!” His voice was suddenly soft and weak, as if he'd
been punched in the gut. When he looked down at her again, his voice was almost
abashed. “Is that what I am, now, then? A clueless political hack?”
            He limped back to the desk again, sat heavily, pushing his hand
back through his leonine mane. When he looked back to the three teenagers, his
demeanour was almost penitent. “These attacks by You-Know-Who's forces are
causing a lot of fear. People are losing faith in the Ministry's ability to
protect them, and that makes them harder to protect. I have a duty, Mr. Potter.
Will you help me?”
            Harry looked at his feet for a moment, and then at his loves, and
only then, finally, back at Scrimgeour. “I won't be your mouthpiece, Minister.”
He held the back of his left hand before him. “Did you honestly think I would?”
            “I am not Cornelius Fudge,” said Scrimgeour, bitterly.
            “But you became head of a the same Ministry he did, the same
Ministry that promoted Dolores Umbridge, and put her in charge of Hogwarts.”
            Hermione spoke up. “I've read in the Prophet that the Ministry has
reinstated her. There was talk of misunderstandings.” Hermione's voice was
bitter and contemptuous. “She attempted to use Cruciatus on a student,
Minister, right in front of me! What sort of misunderstanding is that?”
            Scrimgeour looked angry. “If Fudge hadn't called her a criminal in
public, she'd be gone now. That gave her grounds to sue the Ministry! We're
lucky she settled for reinstatement! The lawsuit could have cost us--”
            “It doesn't matter,” said Harry, tiredly. “I won't endorse a
bureaucracy that cares about looking responsible to the exclusion of being
responsible.”
            “You're Dumbledore's man, then,” said the Minister, unhappily.
            Harry smiled a By George, I think you've got it! smile.
            “Through and through,” he said.
===============================================================================
            “Where's Sirius, anyway?” asked Harry, back in their tent in the
Burrow, as the three of them helped Remus and Tonks pack all the clothing
they'd bought, school uniforms and casual clothes, into a large bundle for
Remus to bring to France, to Fleur's Tante Solange, to receive the same
treatment as the robes Sirius had given them for Harry's birthday.
            “I got a message from him,” Lupin responded, as Tonks tucked more
into the bundle. “Apparently, he was going on a brief trip with Professor
Dumbledore. Something Albus had put off.”
            Ron looked interested. “You think they're fetching that first
Horcrux? Remember, the one he mentioned at the Grangers' house, that first
morning? Marvolo Gaunt's ring?”
            Harry and Hermione both turned quickly to him, then to Lupin, whose
eyes had widened, and he nodded slowly.
            “Yes.... Yes, you know I think that may be it!”
            “Excellent!” said Ron, and Harry nodded.
            Remus nodded. “I'm sure it will make for a fascinating story. I'll
ask him about it when I get back.”
            Hermione looked at Tonks, packing more clothing into the bundle,
then at the large pile of books on the table. Harry could almost hear her
longing to dive into them and start studying sixth-year subjects.
            “Well,” said Remus Lupin, “I'm off, then!” He started to hoist the
bundle of clothing when Hermione held up one hand.
            “Oh, Remus, just a moment please!” She bustled over to him, the
boys following obediently, and reached into the bundle, rummaging about for a
moment, then withdrew, pale grey fabric in her hand. “Thanks, Remus,” she said,
kissing the older man on the cheek, and then squeezed Tonks' hand. “Thank you,
Tonks.”
            The two adult wizards left together, and as the cupboard door
closed, Hermione turned back and grinned at her boys, unfurling the light-grey
knickers in front of her with a wry smile. They boys grinned, looking at the
dark-grey block letters across the front: HERE COMES TROUBLE.
            “The rest,” Hermione said tartly, “can be magicked to a fare-thee-
well. These, you're going to have to take off me the old-fashioned way!”
***** Chapter Twenty-One: “Teachers' Dirty Looks” *****
Chapter Notes
     Please Note: There is dialogue late in this chapter that was lifted
     directly from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling.
     This is deliberate, a way of showing that though we are AU, these are
     still our Harry, Ron and Hermione, reacting as we know they would.
                  Chapter Twenty-One: “Teachers' Dirty Looks”
===============================================================================
            “So he's gone on ahead?” asked Harry, as Lupin and Tonks walked
them quickly through King's Cross Station. An attack in the midst of this
crowded Muggle station didn't seem terribly likely, but “the Battle of St.
Bubo's,” as it was now being called, had made everyone nervous, and the Order
had decided that an escort was especially important.
            “That's right,” said Tonks. “He wanted to get his quarters and
classroom ready before you lot started showing up.”
            “I think,” added Remus Lupin, “That he also wished to stay near
Albus. Apparently, something happened up at Little Hangleton that has Sirius
worried about him.”
            “What?” Harry pulled to an immediate stop, Ron and Hermione pulling
up short. “Something's wrong with Professor Dumbledore?”
            “No, no,” Lupin shook his head patiently while still keeping a
weather eye on the passing crowd. “Nothing like that. I don't have all the
details myself, but Sirius seemed concerned that... Well, honestly, I don't
understand it. I think the Headmaster did something risky, and Sirius is
concerned, that's all.”
            Harry regarded him for another moment, and then nodded, and they
moved forward again through the crowd, the trio pushing their own baggage-cart
as Lupin and Tonks bracketed them, watching the crowds efficiently and
unobtrusively.
            Ron nudged Harry, and brought his lips close to Harry's ear. “Is it
just me, or are Lupin and Tonks really sexy when they're all strong an'
protective like that?”
            Harry found himself grinning sidewise at his husband, as Hermione's
hand found his.
            “Abort,” said Tonks, suddenly, in a quiet, conversational tone,
taking hold of the baggage cart and pulling it sideways. She smiled over at
Remus Lupin and said, in just such an easy tone, “We're going over to Plan B,
no fooling, Remus.”
            But Remus clearly wasn't fooling around either, taking three
trotting steps into a corner behind a set of lockers, where he cast a Patronus,
which ran promptly through the wall before anyone else could see it. Then he
was back beside the cart, pulling it quickly and casually towards another exit,
as Harry, Ron and Hermione kept pace, looking around in spite of themselves for
whatever danger Tonks had seen.
            It all looked painfully ordinary, though, the greatest apparent
danger being the risk of death by boredom. The station was thronged, as always,
by families, businesspeople, a couple of school groups, but nothing that seemed
off or frightening, nothing more dangerous than the inherent hazards of the
wares sold from the steaming chip cart.
            They were just passing a broken, rusty door marked JAN T R when
Tonks quickly turned, grasped the knob, and pulled the cart through. Ron led
his loves through after her, Remus Lupin bringing up the rear.
            Harry'd spent enough time amongst the world of magic not to be
shocked that the small janitor's closet was instead a large, airy waiting room,
with sunlight shining in through windows which should, by rights, have opened
into a boiler room. Tonks had prowled once around the perimeter of the room
before returning to them.
            “Alastor should be here soon,” she told Harry.
            Even as she spoke, the door banged open, and Alastor Moody thudded
in, his false leg very loud on the concrete floor off the waiting room. “All,
right, Nymphadora,” he rumbled, his magical eye circling, as Tonks threw him a
filthy scowl, “what did you see?”
            “Three young men,” she answered darkly. “Early twenties, heavyset
builds, six feet or above, moving back and forth between Platform 9 and
Platform 10. All wearing the same shirt. Yellow, black line-art of a Muggle
motorcycle.”
            Ron's and Harry's mouths dropped open and Ron cried, “That's it?
Three blokes in Muggle shirts?”
            “Didn't feel right,” said Tonks, not the least bit apologetic nor
defensive, and Moody was suddenly stock-still, his magical eye showing only a
white orb as it looked back through his own head, and the wall of the magicked
room.
            He nodded slowly. “Good work, then,” he told her. “I don't like the
look of 'em either.” He turned back to Harry, Hermione and Ron. “I sent word to
Shacklebolt as soon as I heard Lupin's Patronus. Ministry car'll be here within
the hour.”
            “Car?” asked Ron. “Cool! Where are we driving?”
            “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” answered Moody dryly.
“Perhaps you've heard of it.”
            “Hogwarts!?!?” cried Hermione. “That's got to be a twelve-hour
drive!”
            Remus shook his head at them. “It's a Ministry car, remember?
Magic.”
            “Well, that's good, then,” said Harry.
            Tonks nodded. “Shouldn't be more than eight hours, tops.”
            “Eight hours?” cried Ron. “What are we going to do stuck in the
back seat of a car for eight hours?”
            “Oh,” said Hermione, “I'm sure we can think of something.”
            Tonks smirked as Hermione's boys sniggered, and Lupin said, with a
very straight face, “Perhaps it would be best not to distract your driver, my
dear.”
            Hermione's look should have vaporised him where he stood. “I meant
reading and making preparations for school.”
            “Of course you did,” replied Lupin, with that same too-innocent
air.
            “You,” Hermione told him, “have been hanging around with Sirius too
much.”
            He smiled as he started pushing their luggage cart toward the far
wall of the room, where a door appeared. “I daresay you're right.” The grin
turned wolfish. “I daresay we'd've opted for distracting the driver!”
===============================================================================
            The first hour had been fun, as the scenery flew by the Ministry
car – a Rover 800 – at an amazing rate.
            “Ludicrous speed!” Hermione had shouted, pointing determinedly
forward, and Harry and Ron had both stared at her, baffled. She'd looked back
and forth between them for a moment, then shaken her head. “You boys are
desperately in need of some cultural literacy!”
            The boys had laughed and joked as the miles rolled by, and Ron was
pleased to see that the kitchen in back was well stocked with sandwich makings.
Hermione had checked that there was a full loo roll in the bathroom before they
returned to their seats, sandwiches in hand.
            An hour later, they were crowded into that small loo, practically
in one another's laps as they struggled to maintain some level of dignity
through the process. In the end, the only way to avoid painful bruising was for
whoever was on the left to use the toilet paper on whoever was seated. Nobody
much wanted to look one another in the eye for a while after that, and Ron said
darkly to Tonks when they got back to the back seat, “Keep your wand ready. If
I need to go again, I'll just shit my pants and have you Scourgify!”
            The sullen silence that followed slowly transfigured itself into a
sleepy one, and soon Hermione was sprawled over onto Ron, who was snoring
loudly with his head on Harry's shoulder, as Harry's forehead rocked gently on
the cool glass of the car window, issuing his own, oddly-dainty snores.
            Lupin, in the seat opposite them, glanced over at Tonks with a warm
smile, and she squirmed quietly into his lap and kissed him.
===============================================================================
            As the Trio stepped into the Great Hall, Remus and Tonks close
behind them, They heard Professor Dumbledore's voice ringing out through the
room.
            “Lastly, some staffing changes. It is with great pleasure that I
announce that, this year, Defence Against the Dark Arts will be taught by
Sirius Black. Professor Black has had a most extraordinary history of resisting
and defending against the very darkest of magic, under the most inopportune of
circumstances. Falsely accused of a most dreadful crime, he suffered some
thirteen years amongst the Dementors of Azkaban, and survived with his sanity
intact. I'm sure you will all learn very much from him.”
            The applause had started at the mention of Sirius' name, and was
thunderous by the time Dumbledore had finished, but Harry was frowning up at
Dumbledore, barely visible through the standing, applauding throng of students.
He glanced over at Ron, saying, “Did you–?”
            Ron nodded. He'd heard it too, the slight reticence in Dumbledore's
tone that seemed to suggest reserve, the slightest hint of distance. A year
ago, they wouldn't have noticed it, but they'd spent more time with Dumbledore
this year and more time with Sirius as well; there was something in his smile,
as he stood and waved, that suggested something odd between the two men.
            Harry glanced to Hermione next, but she was looking in the
direction of the other end of the staff table, eyes wide and intense, head
craning this way and that, almost franticly, trying to get a look at–
            “It is also my great pleasure to announce that Professor Charity
Burbage,” Dumbledore continued,  and Harry heard the slight extra suggestion of
warmth in his voice that made an even greater contrast to the odd hint of chill
Harry'd felt in his introduction of Sirius, “has been invited to take a walking
tour of Canada's Muggle cultural sites. This was an irresistible opportunity
for our esteemed Muggle Studies professor, and she is merrily studying the
happy Muggle fisherfolk of Newfoundland even as we speak! As much as we'll miss
her, it is my pleasure to announce what I consider a great coup for our school.
For the first time ever, Muggle Studies at Hogwarts will be taught by teachers
who are uniquely qualified for the job. Moreover, they are two of the most
courageous people I have ever known, and I am convinced that they will prove a
peerless asset to this school, and to all of your education. I must in passing
mention that they are Muggles, but I know I can trust you to show them the
respect you show all of your teachers.”
            Hermione's hands closed over Harry and Ron's shoulders to hoist her
head above the level of the still-standing students, and she squealed with
uncharacteristically girlish delight, “Mummy! Daddy!” as Dumbledore finished,
“Please welcome Doctors David and Jane Granger!”
            Hermione launched herself forward, dragging the boys along behind
her as she raced past the students, sitting and standing, who applauded, most
looking a little confused, as their new Muggle Studies professors stood and
waved. The trio broke through the crowd, and Hermione squealed again as she led
them in a breakneck turn about the end of the staff table, and threw herself at
her parents, Harry's and Ron's additional weight almost tackling them to the
floor, and Harry found himself supporting Jane Granger as her daughter's right
arm squeezed her, while Ron squeezed David's shoulder, before the Grangers
gathered all three of them into a joint hug, David tousling Harry's hair over
his wife's head, Jane stroking Ron's chest in a gesture that was oddly
touching.
            Both Grangers kissed their daughter, and then, to their surprise,
Harry and Ron as well, and as Jane pushed a stray lock of wild hair off her
daughter's forehead, David told her, “I'm so, so sorry we weren't able to speak
to you before we left, Hermione.”
            Jane squeezed Harry close to her side as she told her daughter, “It
all happened so fast, but we had to do what we thought was right. The
opportunity to distract Riddle and goad him into making mistakes was too good
to miss.”
            “Well,” Harry told her, touching his prickling scar, “if your goal
was to wind him right up, you more than succeeded. He does his best these days
to block this–” Harry gestured again to his scar. “–But I can tell he's still
off the deep end over it.”
            “Good!” said David, with a dark intensity Harry hadn't seen from
him. “That's why we're back here, as well. Keep him at a nice, fast boil, and
see how much he'll stuff up for us. We figure, there ought to be at least two
more good Prophet interviews in taking this post, so we'll do our best to keep
him from having a single rational thought.”
            “Exactly!” said Jane, and reached up to cup her daughter's cheek.
“You're not angry with us, are you?”
            “How could I be,” asked Hermione, in a tone that suggested she
strongly wished she could, “after all I've done?” She took a deep breath, and
squeezed her parents again. “I'm so sorry for all the times I've frightened
you. So sorry for all the times I will. When I read that interview, I was
terrified!”
            “All three of us were,” added Harry, and Ron chuckled and added,
“Us two, mainly of your daughter, admittedly...”
            Jane laughed and reached up to ruffle Ron's hair. “So were we, Ron,
so were we.”
            “Still,” said David, letting his voice carry a bit, “we figured,
Australia should be safe enough. If we were just hiding from Riddle and his
lame-brains, I'd think Belgium would be far enough.”
            There came a gasp from the students nearest them – the Slytherin
table – and David Granger winked as his daughter as Blaise Zabini glared
mightily at them, and Draco Malfoy pulled Pansy Parkinson's hands away from her
face. Hermione looked worried, but Harry grinned back at his father-in-law,
thoroughly approving of his refusal to be cowed.
            “Listen,” said Jane, leaning closer and lowering her voice, as the
affronted Slytherins returned to their meals. “Before you go back to your
table....” She looked significantly at them, her expression reminding them that
they were teachers and students now, not just family. “Do you know what's going
on between Albus and Sirius? They're being perfectly cordial, but... I don't
know, there's something there.”
            Harry shook his head. “I noticed it too, and, from something Remus
said, it may have something to do with s trip they took a few days ago.” He
lowered his voice further. “Order business, if you know what I mean.” The
Grangers nodded. “But I don't know what it is.” He paused before adding, a
little darkly, “I intend to find out, though.”
            As they slid into seats at the Gryffindor table, Seamus Finnigan
clapped Harry's shoulder, crying out gleefully, “There y’are, ya lot o' pervs!
Good summer, was it?”
            Dean Thomas rolled his eyes, lowering his face into his hands as
Hermione reddened, but Ron just laughed, saying, “Yeah, I can't decide whether
the best part was running away from Dementors or being attacked by Death
Eaters.”
            “Gotta be the Dementors,” replied Seamus, his tone darkening a bit.
“I mean, our new perfessers there haven't so much as a Wingardium Leviosa
between 'em, an' a whole team o' them lame-brained Death Eaters couldn't lay a
finger on 'em! Where's the challenge! Nah, dodgin' the Dementors is the real
fun.” He glanced over at Dean, whose face had gone very still. “Oh, Dean, mate,
I'm sorry. I didn't t'ink.”
            “Hey, Dean,” said Harry, as Hermione frowned between the dark-
skinned boy and his Irish best friend, “I almost forgot! I got a message for
you. We met the New Amsterdam Travellers, and Lu, their captain, said to tell
you Hello! She said you taught her to fly, by owl-post. She was really excited
to meet us, cause we–” He stopped, seeing Dean's expression become increasingly
stricken. “What?”
            Dean shook his head, looking down at the table, then drew a deep
breath, and looked back up at Harry. “She, uh... She disappeared. In the
attack. Just vanished and gone. Best–” He drew in another breath. “Best guess
is she got Kissed while she was trying to Disapparate, and, you know, just sort
of went nowhere. That's what they think, anyway.”
            “Oh, Dean!” Hermione's eyes were bright with tears. “I'm sorry!”
She reached a hand across the table, and took his, squeezing, and then she and
Harry said, at the same time, “I'm so sorry! It's my fault!”
            The two stopped and stared at one another, and Dean laughed a
quiet, sad laugh. “Yeah, there's a lot of that going around.” He patted
Hermione' hand. “Your parents already came by and apologised 'cause it was
their fault.” His tone darkened. “See, personally, I tend to think it was
Riddle's fault. But...” He shrugged. “Whatever. Thanks. She was great, and I
miss her, and I hope she shows up alive and well.” He reached for more roast
beef. “Well, come on!” he cried with slightly forced jollity “We can't have the
Hope of the Wizarding World go hungry, now, can we?”
            Ron grinned over at him as he started loading his own plate. “Have
you been talking to my mum?”
            After the meal, as the students started milling toward the door,
Harry steered Ron and Hermione with him to make their way towards the
Headmaster's tall chair, but they'd made very little headway before a sneering
voice said. “So how does this work, anyway?”
            They turned, and saw Draco Malfoy, arms crossed insouciantly over
his chest, the large forms of Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. Malfoy curled his
lip in disgust. “I suppose you two flip a coin to see who buggers whom, and the
loser flips over the Mudblood and pretends she's a boy!”
            Ron's hands curled into fists, and he took a step forward, but the
ease of Harry's voice completely derailed him.
            “Actually, Draco,” Harry said, his tone as casual and pleasant as
if discussing Nargles with Luna Lovegood, “We've tried to have Ron bugger me
many times. But every time I feel his thumbs prying my cheeks apart, all I can
think of is your dad, in Azkaban, bending over for Crabbe's and Goyle's dads,
and, well–” he shuddered theatrically, with the expression of a man who's just
hit “six-days-dead-skunk's-rectum” in his bag of Bertie Bott's “–Eeeurch!Talk
about a mood-killer!”
            Such colour as there was dropped from Malfoy's pale, pointy face,
and he was about to launch himself when Crabbe grabbed his elbow, just as
Professor McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip. “Mister Potter! I will not
have such disgraceful language in the Great Hall from a member of my house!
Whatever debauchery your summer may have been filled with, in this school you
will comport yourselves with some dignity! Ten points from Gryffindor!”
            Harry turned slowly towards his head of house, and when he spoke,
his voice was low and even, and Minerva McGonagall's eyes widened and she took
a step backwards. “I apologise for my behaviour, Professor,” he said, “but what
goes on in my marriage-bed is not 'debauchery,' and I'd appreciate it if you
would show us that respect.”
            McGonagall's lips thinned and then relaxed, and she inclined her
head to her student. “You are, of course, quite correct, and I apologise. But I
do require that you behave with decorum in these halls!”
            “Of course, Professor,” said Harry, at once.
            Draco Malfoy's eyes had widened as Harry rounded on his professor,
but he'd been quick to seize the distraction and turn with Crabbe and Goyle in
tow, and stalk toward the doors.
            “Can't believe Granger's parents are professors!” said Crabbe, and
Goyle grunted agreement.
            Malfoy's scowl darkened. “This used to be a school!” he growled.
“Now, there's Mudbloods everywhere you look, and filthy Muggles teaching!
Mordred! I can smell the filthy Muggle stink from here!”
            “Just out of curiosity,” said a woman's voice, sharp and
penetrating, with that hectoring undertone that made him wonder why the Weasel
hadn't strangled the Mudblood by Third Year, “just which of us filthy Muggles
do you smell?”
            Malfoy turned to see Granger's parents looking blandly at him.
            “Both of you!” he snarled. “You're filth, and no real wizard will
tolerate you!”
            “Both of us,” said David Granger to his wife, in the tones of a man
deciding which magazine to purchase,
            “Very well, then,” said Jane Granger. “That's two hundred points
from Slytherin House, then.”
            “What!?!?” Malfoy's face hovered between outrage and bafflement.
            “Openly insulting a professor to his or her face is surely worth a
hundred points,” David explained, not unkindly, “And you've just told us in so
many words that you've done it twice.” His voice hardened. “Two-hundred
points.”
            “But–!” squeaked Malfoy. “But you can't!”
            “Oh,” said a deep and silky voice behind him, and Malfoy spun to
see Severus Snape towering over him, his black robes elegant, and dark eyes
sharp beneath his lank, greasy hair. “I think you'll find they have. That will
be fifty more points from Slytherin, and you will need to post an owl order to
Flourish and Blotts. You will not be taking potions this year after all, Mr.
Malfoy, you will be taking Muggle Studies, and perhaps, while in that
classroom, you will learn when to simply keep your mouth shut for your own
good! Do you understand me? I expect my students to behave with some foresight,
not bellow out their every impulse with no thought for the consequences like
some idiot Gryffindor! Now, go to your room.”
            Malfoy stared at him darkly for a moment, then even more angrily at
the Grangers, before he turned, with a muttered, “Yes, sir,” and stalked from
the Great Hall.
            Harry, meanwhile, had managed to lead Hermione and Ron to the
Headmaster's seat, and said, “Professor Dumbledore?”
            “Yes, yes, my boy,” Dumbledore answered, with a smile.
            “Professor, I wonder if we could have a word tonight. In private.”
            Dumbledore's eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “Of course, Harry. Shall
we retire to my office?”
            Harry nodded. “I'd like Professor Black to be there as well.”
            Something in Dumbledore stilled, and the smile he turned back to
Harry seemed to lack a small spark. “I'm sure Professor Black is quite busy
tonight, Harry, preparing coursework, lesson plans–”
            “Please,” said Harry, his tone quite firm, and the headmaster
looked at him for a long moment, then, eyebrows rising, back an forth between
Hermione and Ron as well. Their expressions were as resolute as Harry's.
            “Very well, then.” Dumbledore smiled ruefully. “Apparently,
marriage has been a growth experience for all of you.” He turned and called
down the table to Sirius, “Professor Black! Mr Potter desires a word with us
this evening. Will you join us in my office?”
            Sirius's face was concerned as he glanced from Dumbledore to Harry
and his loves, and he nodded, and soon the five were ensconced before the cosy
fire place, as Dumbledore offered Jelly Babies from a white paper bag – “A gift
from a very old friend!” – glasses of pumpkin juice.
            “Very well, Harry,” Dumbledore said, his features warm and amused.
“You've called us to order. How can we help you?”
            Harry looked back and forth between the headmaster and Sirius. “I
want to know what's going on between you.”
            “Do you, now?” Dumbledore chuckled. “Harry, have you been given
some position here at Hogwarts I was somehow unaware of? Social director,
perhaps?”
            Harry simply looked back and forth between them again.
            “Listen, Harry,” began Sirius, “I know you mean well, but–”
            Harry cut him off. “Remus told me you went off together, and
something happened between you. He thinks it has something to do with one of
the Horcruxes, with Gaunt's ring.”
            “Well, now, Harry,” began Dumbledore, his voice firmer, but this
time Ron spoke. “Look, Professor, you tell us this has nothing to do with the
Horcruxes, well, we'll apologise an' slink off, won't we, an' call Harry a berk
for dragging us in here.”
            For just a moment, Dumbledore's face hardened, then he sighed,
shoulders drooping, and his face dropped, again for just an instant, into a
truculent pout, before he looked over to Sirius Black. “I've no choice, have
I?”
            “Albus...” Sirius's expression was solemn, and very kind. “I've
just been wanting to know what's going on.”
            “Well, then, Sirius,” the ancient wizard replied, looking for a
moment, impossibly old, “perhaps it would be best if you started. Please, tell
the story.... And I will explain myself.”
            Sirius looked at his headmaster and friend for a very long time,
then nodded, turning to Harry, Ron and Hermione. “The day before you went into
Diagon Alley to stock up for school, I bumped into Albus preparing to leave for
Little Hangleton. He told me he felt it wise to look there for Marvolo Gaunt's
ring. You know he believed it to be a Horcrux.”
            The three students nodded, Ron reaching for another jelly baby.
            “I offered to come along, and, well....” Sirius glanced over to
Dumbledore.
            “Yes...” Dumbledore appeared both amused and sheepish. “You no
doubt noticed I seemed oddly reluctant toward your company. In truth, I had
intended to undertake this little sojourn alone, but....” Again Dumbledore
paused, eyebrows raised, tapping his pursed lips with one finger, before he
drew a deep breath and said, “But, well, quite frankly, I could think of no
credible reason to demur.”
            “So off we went to Little Hangleton, to Gaunt's house. Horrible,
ramshackle affair. Practically a cave. Mummified corpse of a snake nailed to
the door, looked like it had been there for years. Well, it took a bit of
searching, but Albus found the ring.... And he tried to put it on! I mean,
honestly, as if he was shopping for Jewellery in Madame Malkin's! I was– Well,
honestly, I was so horrified, I almost didn't get to my wand in time. I
levitated it right out of his hand. Well, of course, it had the most dreadful
curses on it! We got it back to Bill, and, well, suffice it to say he had a few
choice words for Riddle, and, when he found that Albus was simply going to put
it on, well, he had plenty to say about that as well!”
            They looked over at Dumbledore, and were astonished to see that he
was blushing furiously.
            “Well,” said Sirius, “Albus was quite vexed with me, and, well,
I've not got a straight answer from him since.” He looked significantly at the
older man. “Perhaps we all will now.”
            Dumbledore shifted in his seat as if it weren't – as they all knew
it to be – one of the most comfortable chairs in the United Kingdom, and
finally he turned, not to Harry or Sirius, but to Ron.
            “Dear boy,” he said. “I have no doubt you're well familiar with the
Tales of Beedle the Bard?”
            Ron blinked in surprise, as if Dumbledore had interrupted the
conversation to discuss the latest issue of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the
Mad Muggle. “Well, sure! Who doesn't?”
            Dumbledore smiled kindly at him. “Well, I daresay your spouses, for
a start,” he pointed out and Ron blushed, nodding, realising that Muggle-raised
children would have no idea of the famous children's tales. “In any case, ”
Dumbledore continued, “perhaps you'd be so kind as to tell us the Tale of the
Three Brothers?”
            “Uuhhhmmm.... Yeah. Yeah, alright,” said Ron, confused as to his
purpose. “So, long ago an' far away – or, hell, I dunno, long ago an' right
around the corner – there were these three blokes, three brothers, see?
Wizards. An' they were off travelling, you know, having adventures, and
battling trolls, you, know, like that.
            “An' one midnight, well, they come across a river, right? Wild,
raging thing, so deep an' fast they can't cross it. 'Course, duh! Wizards,
yeah? So they conjure this bridge, and say, 'Yeah, it’s good to be us,' and
they're about halfway across when this tall, mysterious bloke in a long dark
cloak appears, see, and he says, 'I can teach you how to bottle fame and
stopper–'” He broke off his sudden imitation of their Potions Master as Sirius
bellowed his laughter and even Dumbledore smiled a bit. “Nah, what he says is,
'Lo, mortals, for I am Death Itself, an' you have cheated me by making this
bridge! This river's for dying in, an' you're just walking over it pretty as
you please!' Now, Death is, you know, pretty honked off about this, but, he's a
tricky one, too, ain't he? So He comes over all oily an' smiles, 'Yeah, that's
a good trick! An', for besting mer13;' You know, as if beating death isn't its
own reward, yeah? 'An' for besting me, I grant each of you a boon! Ask what you
will, I can't refuse you.'”
            Hermione was watching Ron with avid eyes, and Harry had to admit
that he told the story well. He took a sip of pumpkin juice, watching his
husband as he warmed further to his tale.
            “Now the oldest brother, he was a bit of a bully, honestly. Liked
to get in fights, and such. You know the type. So he says to Death, 'I want the
king of all wands! I want a wand that no other wand can beat.' So Death, well,
he snaps a branch of an Elder tree by the riverbank, and fashions it into a
wand, an' gives it to the oldest brother. He says, 'This wand cannot be bested.
Your wish is granted!'
            “Next comes the middle brother, see, and he's the most arrogant sod
you ever did see! So he wants to just push Death's nose in it that they beat
him, see? So he tells death he wants to be able to to bring back the dead, see?
Snatch 'em right out of Death's hands, basically. So Death, well, he sort of
shrugs like it doesn't matter, doesn't he? And he picks up a stone from the
riverside, and he gives it to the middle brother, and tells him 'With this
stone, you may summon the dead.' An’, you know, Brother number two sort of does
his little victory dance, and goes you know, ‘Take that, death! I’m the king,
now!'
            “So death turns to the youngest brother. An' you know, like all
youngest brothers, he's much smarter than his older brothers, all humble and
noble an' that, yeah? Obviously, the hero of the story.” Hermione laughed at
him, swatting his knee playfully, and he grinned at her, and continued. “'Strue
though. The youngest brother is humble, and he's smart, and he doesn't trust
Death one bit. So he tells Death, 'I wanna be able to hide from you, so you can
never find me.'
            “Well, Death really doesn't like that. He was fine with giving the
Elder brother the Elder wand, and he didn't say a word about the Middle brother
bein' able to bring back the dead, but you could see it his eyes, he was
downright furious at this. But, you know, when Death makes a promise, he has to
keep it, yeah? So, grumbling under his breath the whole time, he takes off his
own invisibility cloak–”
            “Death’s got an Invisibility Cloak?” Harry interrupted.
            “So he can sneak up on people,” said Ron. “Sometimes he gets bored
of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking . . .” Hermione swatted his
knee again, and he harrumphed. “Yeah, so Death hands his invisibility cloak
over to the heroic youngest brother, see, and the three brothers go on their
way.
            “Now, once they're across the river, they split up an' go their
separate ways.
            “The oldest brother, well, he goes all over hell an' gone to get to
this village, see, where there's this wizard he had a pissing match with, like,
years before, you know. This jammy little pointy-faced git with blond hair and
a sneer. You know the type.”
            “Ronald....” cautioned Dumbledore.
            “Yeah, yeah, all right. So he finds this git in the tavern, see,
an' he calls him out, an', you know, he's got the Elder wand, the unbeatable
wand. So there's the git, dead on the floor, an' the elder brother gulping down
the firewhiskey, spouting off, all about how his wand can't be beat, and he's
the Stud Duck of all wizardkind. Then, you know, he takes the prettiest serving
wench upstairs, and passes out afore he get his trousers down.”
            “I'm sure your mother didn't tell you that part, Ron,” giggled
Hermione.
            “Nah, 's what you call artistic license.” He squeezed her hand.
“Anyway, you just know he doesn't make it through the night. Passed out, flat
on his face after going on about his unbeatable wand? Somebody sneaks into his
room, slits his throat, and steals it, don't they?
            “So Death takes him after all.
            “Now the middle brother, he goes home, 'cause, you know, once you
slap Death silly, well, what's left, you know? So he gets home, wanting to
settle down with his pretty little lady he knew before he left, but she's gone
and died while he was adventuring see? Just curled up her tootsies. Well, he's
all upset at first, but then he says, 'Hey? Why else did I beat Death?' So he
takes out the stone, yeah, and turns it over three times, an' his lovely girl
comes back to him, like a ghost, you know, like Myrtle, only prettier.
            “Well, this sounds all right, but it turns out all pear-shaped.
She's all miserable, 'cause she doesn't belong in this world. Myrtle an' Nick
an' them stay because they chose to, you know? Chose not to move on. You told
me that, Harry. Well, she, you know, she didn't want to hang around. She'd
moved on. An' now she was dragged back where she didn't belong any more, for a
man who claimed to love her, but didn't seem to care about that, and who she
couldn't even touch. So she was miserable, and so was he, and after a few
months of this, well, he hung himself, didn't he? Just so he could be with her
on her terms.
            “So Death claimed the middle brother as his own, an' – other than
one 'Who’s the king now, git?' – didn't even gloat.”
            Dumbledore nodded approvingly, and Harry asked, “And the youngest
brother?”
            “Well, he's a youngest brother, inne? Smart, wise, humble, noble.
So he lived a long life, always on the move, rescuing damsels, and saving
townsfolk and deciding arguments, and generally being sexy as hell with his
blue eyes and freckles and ginger hair.... And when he'd lived a long full
life, married well, seen children grown and happy, well, he decided he'd gone
on long enough. And then, finally, he removed the cloak, that invisibility
cloak so perfect even Death couldn't see through it, and he gave it to his son,
and waited.
            “An', when Death came for him, he greeted him as an old friend, and
they left this world together, as equals.”
            Dumbledore clapped his hands slowly. “Well done, my boy! A grand
tale, well-told!” As Ron ducked his head, his ears turning pink, Dumbledore
drew in a breath. “I imagine that you are wondering why I requested it,
however. I assure you, it was not a mere distraction from my, er...
Disagreement with Sirius.” He drew in a deep breath. “In fact, it is at the
very heart of it. The Tale of the Three Brothers is offered as a fairy tale. A
fable for children about the wisdom of humility, perhaps, and the cost of
hubris. But it is more than that. It is said that all legends and myths have
their basis in fact. Muggles think dragons and centaurs and hippogriffs are
mythical creatures. Well, the Tale of the Three Brothers is such a tale. Have
any of you heard of the Deathly Hallows?”
            Sirius Black sat forward, eyes wide. “The Deathly– Albus, are you
joking? I'd expect such nonsense from, say, old Xenophilius Lovegood – pretty
dotty on the subject, actually, isn't he? – But surely you're not seriously
suggesting that the Deathly Hallows are real! That three brothers bested Death,
and were given gifts?”
            “No, Sirius,” said Dumbledore calmly. “That is the part that I'm
sure is a myth. No doubt they were made by extraordinarily powerful wizards–”
            “But, Albus–”
            “Sirius, did you never stop to think about James' cloak? Have you
ever seen its like?” The headmaster turned to Harry. “Harry, have you got your
father's cloak?”
            “Yes, Professor.” Harry dug in his pocket, pulling the invisibility
cloak from its depths, and, following the angle of Dumbledore's head, handed it
to Sirius.
            As Sirius examine the fabric, Dumbledore leaned over to him. “Have
you ever seen its like, Sirius? It's perfect. Flawless, peerless. You played
with that for years, Sirius, and never once thought on its origins?”
            “James....” Sirius spoke slowly. “James was given the cloak by his
father. It was an.... An heirloom, a family heirloom.”
            “Exactly!” said Dumbledore, excitedly. “Passed down from generation
to generation, from father to son! And yet, it remains perfect! The
enchantments that render it and its wearer unseen have lost not one iota of
their power! This is no mere disillusioned travelling cloak! It is perfection,
passed down through the generations! Don't you see, Sirius?”
            Sirius' eyes were wide, as were Harry's and Ron's and Hermione's,
and they nodded as one. Dumbledore turned to his desk, and dug in the drawers,
returning in a moment with a copy of the Quibbler. He placed it on the table
before them and pointed at the corner of the cover. There, among the
publisher's trademarks, he tapped a symbol: a triangle, enclosing a circle
above a vertical line. “This symbol,” said Dumbledore, is the sign of the
Deathly Hallows. The Elder Wand.” He drew his fingertip down the line. “The
Resurrection Stone.” He traced the circle. “And the Invisibility Cloak.” His
fingertip followed the three lines of the enclosing triangle. He looked again
at Sirius. “Look at that symbol, Sirius. Do you recognise it?”
            Sirius stared at the symbol for a long moment, and his mouth
dropped open. “You're not serious!”
            “Oh, but I am, Sirius, I am!” Dumbledore's eyes burned into his.
“Remember I told you that I had seen the memory of a Ministry official who had
visited Marvolo Gaunt's house? Gaunt, so proud of his heritage, directly
descended from the Peverells! Hallows lore holds that the Peverell brothers
were creators of the Hallows! And the stone on the ring was marked, scratched,
with that very symbol!” Dumbledore sat back, hands slapping his thighs. “I
couldn't be more certain. That stone was the Resurrection Stone!”
            “But.... But, Professor....” Harry's voice was hushed. “You've
always taught me that death is.... Death is not the worst thing, not something
to be afraid of. The next step in our journey. Why would you....” Harry pushed
his hand back through his hair, Ron's hand on one shoulder, Hermione's on the
other. “Why!?!?”
            Professor Dumbledore drew in a long breath, and let out a deep
sigh. “Harry... When I was very young... Not much older than you... Well, let's
just say my choices in friends... In love... Were not so wise as yours. The
results were...catastrophic. Someone died. Someone.... Someone very dear to me,
and it was...my fault. All my fault.”
            Harry sat back, remembering a moment in this very room, more than a
year before, speaking with Dumbledore and Sirius after Cedric's murder,
Riddle's reconstitution. Professor Dumbledore had, with Sirius's help,
explained the shades of his parents called forth by Priori Incantatum. They'd
said quite a lot that day, and in the days that followed, but it had boiled
down to something very simple.
            “But there's no spell, Professor,” Harry said, “that can reawaken
the dead. I trust you know that.”
            “Professor,” added Hermione. “Even in the story, the stone didn't
work. Not really. It was like the Monkey's Paw.”
            Dumbledore looked defeated, and turned his face down, to the floor.
“It's moot now, in any case. After Maltrucido Flammaria, the stone is gone.
There was.... There was nothing left.” He glanced back up at them, then dropped
his gaze. “Now, if you would excuse me,” he murmured, his voice sounding weak
and tired and older then the stone walls around them, “the hour grows very
late, and all of us have classes in the morning.”
            Sirius glanced over at his godson and nodded, and the three
teenagers stood and followed him to the door. As Sirius reached for the knob,
Harry turned back. “Professor? Are you.... Will you be all right?”
            Dumbledore's head bobbed gently, and his voice was gentle as he
said, “Good night, Harry.”
            As the door closed behind him, Harry thought he heard that sad
voice once more, barely a breath.
            “I only wanted to say I'm sorry.”
===============================================================================
***** Chapter Twenty-Two: “The Greater Part” *****
Chapter Notes
     “But friendship is precious, not only in the shade, but in the
     sunshine of life; and thanks to a benevolent arrangement of things,
     the greater part of life is sunshine.”  -Thomas Jefferson
                    Chapter Twenty-Two: “The Greater Part”
===============================================================================
            After Sirius had walked them back to the Fat Lady – who opened the
entrance-hole to a murmured "Dilligrout" – and bade them good night, Harry, Ron
and Hermione found the common room quiet.
            It was well after midnight, and the lamps were out, leaving only
the merry light from the fire crackling in the fireplace. At a low table
dragged over into its light, Ginny was playing chess with Luna Lovegood, whose
Ravenclaw-blue tie looked out of place in the crimson and gold Gryffindor
common room.
            "Hi," said Ginny, with a smile as they approached. "Have a seat, I
work better with an audience."
            "Hello," added Luna, "I'm so glad the Death Eaters didn't kill
you."
            "Yeah," said Ron, with a sidewise grin. "Us, too."
            Ginny moved her knight. "So you were in quite the hurry to talk to
Professor Dumbledore," she said. "Anything important?"
            Harry opened and shut his mouth a couple of times.
            "It's sort of complicated," offered Hermione. "I couldn't say it
wasn't important, but...well, not the way we thought it might be."
            "So, not to do with Mr. Riddle, then?" asked Luna, moving her War
Eagle – there are no bishops in Wizard's Chess – into position, and sitting
back with a smile.
            Ginny looked quizzically at her – Are you sure? – and Luna nodded
at her as Ron said, "Well – not really." He glanced over at Harry, who nodded
fractionally. "It was some sort of magical gadget Riddle's using to prolong his
life, but, well, it, uh...." He considered a moment. "It had a whole power
Riddle didn't even know about, and it sort of left Professor Dumbledore with
a... well, with a painful decision."
            "Really?" Luna looked over at Ron, expression placidly interested.
            Ginny shrugged and directed her knight again, and it moved,
attacking Luna's War Eagle. Luna looked down at the board, crestfallen. "Oh,
dear. I was hoping they'd breed. I think chess would be ever so much more
interesting with Hippogriffs, don't you?"
            "I s'pose so," said Ron, smiling.
            Hermione leaned in to catch Luna's eye. "Luna, do you remember the
Tale of the Three Brothers?"
            Luna's focus swung to her, and her silvery eyes brightened. "Oh! Do
you mean Mr. Riddle's device was a Hallow?"
            Hermione nodded with a satisfied smile. "Sirius mentioned a
Xenophilius Lovegood who was very interested in the Deathly Hallows."
            "Really?" Luna looked very interested now. "That's very
interesting, because my father's name is also Xenophilius Lovegood, and he's
been fascinated by the Hallows for years! What a co-incidence! I wonder if
magical lines of force converge on the name."
            Ron nodded sagely. "I'm sure that must be it," he said, as
Hermione's eyes widened.
            "Anyway, Harry," Luna said, her voice taking on a confidential
tone, "Don't worry. I'd never tell my father about your cloak. He might ask me
to try to take it away from you, and that would just be terribly awkward, don't
you think?"
            Ginny looked amongst them. "Wait, wait! Are you telling me that you
think Harry's Invisibility Cloak was given to the youngest brother by Death
Itself, and passed down through the generations?"
            "Why not?" asked Ron. "Dumbledore does."
            "Well," amended Harry, "He thinks these Deathly Hallows were made
by very powerful wizards. He doesn't believe they were given away by Death
itself."
            "Oh, yes," Luna replied, nodding happily. "It's a very hard thing
to believe in, even for someone as good at believing in things as Dumbledore."
            Ginny sat back. "You know, I did always think your cloak was pretty
amazing, Harry. I mean, you know, Invisibility Cloaks are pretty rare, but
yours seemed much better than the ones I'd heard about."
            Hermione was still focused on Luna, though. "It's about your
mother, isn't it, Luna? That's why your father has such an interest in the
Hallows."
            "Oh, yes," Luna replied easily, gesturing one of her pawns to move
forward. "That's another reason I'd never tell him about Harry's cloak. If
anyone controls all three of the Hallows, they become Master of Death. We
couldn't have that. Daddy didn't see it happen. It was really very horrible.
Daddy oughtn't to see--" She went suddenly silent, and then looked down at the
chess set. "Well, it would be bad."
            Ginny had forgotten the game. She reached a hand out, and ran it
down the length of Luna's long, silvery blond hair. "Was it the wand?" she
asked her brother, looking for a tone of normalcy. "Had Riddle somehow got hold
of the unbeatable wand?"
            Harry shook his head. "No, it was the stone."
            Luna looked up at him. Her eyes glistened. "Mr. Riddle was using
the Resurrection Stone to prolong his own life? And now the Headmaster has it?"
            It was Ron who spoke, his voice very kind. "It was, Luna, but he
doesn't have it any more. In order to stop Riddle using it, it had to be
destroyed."
            Her voice was hushed, almost inaudible. "Professor Dumbledore's
destroyed the Resurrection Stone? One of the Three Hallows is gone forever?"
            "I'm sorry, Luna," said Harry, quietly.
            Luna looked up at him for a moment, then her face burst into a
broad, untroubled smile, lighting the room like a beam of sunshine. "That's
wonderful! Now no-one can ever bring them together!" She looked at their
stunned faces, and explained, "We're safe! Daddy's safe!" She sprang to her
feet, skipped toward the exit, paused, returned to them, and one by one, kissed
each of them, sweetly, as if in benediction, on the lips. First Ron, then
Harry, then Hermione, then Ginny. The she rounded again, skipped toward the
portrait hole and was gone.
            The four Gryffindors sat silent for a few moments, and Ginny opened
the case for the chess set, telling the pieces, "Well, come on, game's over."
            Luna's surviving pieces sighed in relief and trotted into the case.
===============================================================================
            The door to the Gryffindor Head Girl's Room still opened to
"Catseye," and the interior looked much as it had. The room itself had been
expanded and the twin-sized bed had been replaced by or transformed into a vast
king-sized expanse, with velvety hangings in maroon and gold. Their trunks were
lined up side-by-side-by-side across the foot, and Pigwidgeon's and Hedwig's
cages hung, open, on opposing arms of what looked like an oversized hat-rack by
the window. Crookshanks was curled up more-or-less in the centre of the bed,
looking remarkably comfortable. The desk had become a sort of "U"-shaped
workstation, with lamps and inkwells and cups for quills, conveniently located
around the writing spaces. Their books had been placed in shelves above their
respective desks, and a merry, golden fire danced and licked in their
fireplace. They stood together just inside the door, looking at the room, at
the large chest of drawers divided into three segments, at their tripartite
desk, at the large, regal bed, at the couch where they had first, so long and
short a time ago, pledged themselves to one another, pledged their hearts to
one another, and their gazes moved as one to the door beyond, and they walked
together, hand-in-hand-in-hand, to the bathroom. It was exactly as they
remembered: Toilet and sink and huge, luxurious tub, fluffy white towels on
racks.
            "I was so scared," Hermione breathed. "It was so stupid, because I
trusted you two completely, trusted you with my life and body and heart and
soul and everything, everything, but I was still so scared."
            Harry brought her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss into her palm,
curled her fingers closed over it. "You were so brave, Hermione. You stood
naked with two randy sods like us, and you trusted us. I faced Death Eaters and
Dementors and Voldemort, but never anything as scary as that."
            "Yeah, that's poetic and all," said Ron, "but if you don't let me
in front of that toilet, I'm going to piss myself."
            "You're such a romantic, Ron!" said Hermione, with a fond smile,
and they stepped over, and Hermione watched with frank interest as Ron peed.
Harry stroked her hair as she went, and Ron stooped down to rest his head on
her shoulder, joining her in avidly watching Harry, making the smaller boy
laugh.
            "Come on," Harry said. "Let's have a bath before bed."
            He shucked off his jumper and reached for the taps, this one then
that, playing them like a musician, and the bathroom filled with the sounds of
roaring water, and a sort of fresh, leafy, outdoorsy scent, as sweet and clean
as the Weasley's garden, and Ron grinned over at him as he pulled his own
school jumper over his head.
            "That's what you ought to do for a living, mate," he told Harry,
"once you're done with Riddle. Professional bath-drawer. The right scent for
any mood and occasion!"
            Harry laughed at that as he pulled down his uniform trousers.
"There a lot of money in that, Ron?"
            "Oh, yeah, galleons and galleons," replied Ron. "Far as the eye can
see!"
            They undressed unhurriedly, leaving their uniforms in the laundry
basket, and slid easily into the warm bathwater, and, with soft cloths and
peaty-smelling liquid soap, washed one another, hands moving easily over each
other's forms, happily and comfortably familiar as they cleaned and cared for
one another.
            "Harry," murmured Hermione, as she smoothly scrubbed down the
furrow of Ron's bottom, "I've been thinking about what you said to Malfoy."
            "I'm sure you have," chuckled Ron. "You're a right perv when it
comes to seeing me and Harry together, and that's the truth!"
            A bright flush rose into Hermione's cheeks and she stared down at
Ron's strong, round bottom, but soldiered on determinedly. "You said-- Well,
the way you said it, really.... Do you think being anally penetrated is
something to be ashamed of?"
            Harry and Ron both turned to stare wide-eyed at her, and her flush
deepened, but so did the determined line of her jaw. She reached her left hand
to Harry's cock, hard and slender and straight in the water, and gave it a
single soap-slippery stroke.
            Harry's eyes closed and he sighed his appreciation for her hand,
her touch, then drew a breath and looked at her. "No," he said. "No, I don't. I
just knew it would get under Malfoy's skin." He glanced from Hermione to Ron.
"I've actually been thinking about it rather a lot, to be honest with you."
            Ron drew his lower lip between his teeth, but Hermione smiled
sweetly at him. "So have I," she said. "I've been thinking about having both of
you inside me. I know it's awfully greedy, but I just can't help it."
            "Oh, fuck!" cried Ron, as Harry's mouth dropped open.
            "I'm sorry," Hermione said, and Ron grabbed her and pulled her face
to his for the strongest, most passionate kiss Harry'd ever seen.
            "Sorry!?!?" Ron cried, "Hermione, you're the bestgirl a bloke could
possibly ever want!"
            Hermione's blush deepened further, but the corners of her mouth
turned up, and there was a glint of wickedness in her eyes as she turned to
Harry. "And you, Harry? Would you like to take me up the anus while Ron slides
his penis into my vagina?"
            Harry's face split into a broad grin, and he looked over her
shoulder. "Fuck, Ron, I see what you mean about her talking all clinical!"
            Her voice dropped a register. "If you prefer, Harry, I can invite
you to push your long, slender cock into my arse while Ron's fucks my cunt. I'm
nothing if not adaptable."
            Harry was against her now, kissing her hard, as well, while Ron
moaned, "Here?"
            Hermione looked over at him. "Well, as sentimental as I am about
this tub, I think this will be complicated enough without the risk of drowning.
And we do have that big new bed out there...."
            They were out of the bath and dry in seconds.  Hermione handed Ron
her wand and took one cock in each hand to lead her randy boys back to their
room. A gesture from Harry's wand parted their bed-curtains, and she was on her
knees on the bed, releasing those beautiful hard cocks, and turning to kiss
them, first Ron, then Harry.
            Harry's hand slid over her mons, his fingertips encountering a line
of fresh moisture, and he groaned and kissed her shoulder, as Ron's hands moved
up to her breasts, and she sighed happily between them before directing Ron to
lie down on his back. She threw a leg across him, and glanced back at Harry.
            "Will you cast Barricadus, love?"
            Harry made a small happy noise, his mouth against her shoulder
blade, as he slid his fingers up inside her to cast the contraceptive spell,
and she made her own small sound feeling his fingers move inside her.
            Then she reached under herself, and took Ron's hard cock in her
hand, and pressed it up into her folds, lowering herself slowly onto him, and
she moaned as that stout cock filled her, sliding up deep inside her, and Harry
just held her sides at first as she fucked Ron, sliding up and down on his
cock, before she leaned forward over him.
            "Cast-- Cast Lubricus, Harry," she gasped, and he gently slid the
tip of his wand between her rounded cheeks, and murmured the spell, his wand
ejaculating warm gel across her anus, and he reached with one hand, and circled
the puckered pink ring with the pad of his middle finger, listening as her
breath caught, and then pressed it in.
            He loved having his finger in her arse while she and Ron fucked. He
could actually feel the motion of Ron's cock against his finger through her,
and he thought how soon he'd be feeling it, not with his finger, but his own
hard cock, and he groaned even as she did. A second finger joined the first,
and he worked them, scissoring them, stretching her.
            "Now, Harry," she gasped, sinking all the way down onto Ron.
"Please."
            Harry pulled his fingers from her, and moved over, to press the
head of his cock against her anus, and he put his hands on her hips to steady
her, steady himself.
            "Now," she gasped again, and Harry started to press himself
forward, into her. It was a whole new world. As tight as her arse was around
his fingers, he didn't know why he should gasp with wonder as it squeezed his
cock, and he was shocked by the low, harsh sound she made as he slowly, slowly
pressed himself into her.
            "Are you all right, love?" he asked.
            "Bugger me, Potter," she growled, her voice guttural. Ron groaned
aloud, and bucked up into her slightly.
            Harry sucked in a sharp breath at that, and stared at his husband.
"I feel you, mate!" he gasped. "Fuck! I feel you inside her!"
            Ron moaned wordlessly, but Harry felt the tremor of his cock inside
Hermione, and he began to slowly draw himself back, before thrusting forward
again.
            Hermione's voice this time was high-pitched, and tinged with pain,
and Harry immediately froze, crying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
            Show looked over her shoulder at him, beckoned him with a toss of
her head, and, when he leaned over her, kissed him, long and slow, her tongue
sliding against his.
            "Bugger me, Harry," she said as they broke. "Good and hard. Don't
worry, just do it!"
===============================================================================
            The first penetration by Harry's cock, slender and elegant though
it be, still far thicker than his two fingers, had sent an electric jolt of
tearing pain through Hermione. But inside that was another feeling, a pleasure
she'd never imagined, as intense and vibrant in its own way as Ron's stout,
jolly cock happily thrusting up into her vagina, and she grunted, low and
rough, her face momentarily clenching with the pain.
            Dear Harry, so solicitous, concerned for her as he slowly slid his
cock into her arse-hole! She'd been surprised by the low, harsh sound of her
own voice, rasping, "Bugger me, Potter!"
            Then she realised more of what she was feeling inside her, and
Harry gasped to Ron, gasped, "I feel you, mate! Fuck! I feel you inside her!"
            Ron's moan thrummed from his chest into hers, and Harry drew back
and thrust into her arse again, even harder. She couldn't withhold the sharp,
high-pitched squeal of pain, and Harry froze again, frightened, crying out his
apology even as the pain began to subside, even as her anus began to realise
that the pleasure was greater, and she beckoned him, kissed him, long and deep
and loving, and she felt the power of her sexuality roaring within her like a
storm as she told him, "Bugger me, Harry. Good and hard. Don't worry, just do
it!"
            Harry thrust into her again, harder, faster, and the pain was a
steady hum, now, and the pleasure a rising crescendo, and she whimpered against
Ron's shoulder, feeling his hardness still inside her, and she kissed Ron,
nodded her encouragement, and he resumed his thrusting too.
            It was like nothing she'd ever felt before; it was transcendent.
The heart's joy of Ron's happy cock in her pussy was matched easily by Harry's
long, straight, elegant cock sliding straight and deep into her arse, and she
felt the two cocks pressing against one another inside her, moving against one
other with just the thin, sensitive tissues of her body separating them, and
her boys kissed passionately over her shoulder as their cocks frotted against
one another inside her body, using her tender flesh as a medium.
            The boys quickly built a rhythm, communicating by looks and nods
over her shoulder, by the lightest of touches, as she turned from one mouth to
the other, kissing, tasting, and her body was pressed back and forth between
them, moved from one to the other, and their cocks pistoning up inside her slid
against one another through the thin barrier of her body in accelerating
counterpoint, and she ground and bucked, first toward Ron and then Harry, and
she whimpered, whimpered her pleasure, whimpered their names, whimpered her
love for them.
            "Fuck, Hermione, Ron, Fuck!" Harry cried, and he grabbed not
Hermione's hips, but Ron's, and drove himself as hard and deep into her arse as
he could, and she felt his cock spasm and twitch inside her, felt the thick,
hot, fluid erupt into her, and Ron's blue eyes widened before her, and he
moaned, "Fucking hell!" and then he grabbed Harry's arse in his large hands,
and pulled himself into her as deep as he could, and his pubis slamming into
her clitoris sent her spiralling into orgasm even as she felt his jism filling
her, and red light washed through her vision, and she squirmed between her
boys, collapsing down onto Ron's chest as Harry sprawled onto her back.
            They lay together like that, panting, moaning, Harry's face over
her shoulder, and she turned her head to nuzzle her lips against his, too
drained, for the moment, to even kiss him, as Ron nibbled gently on her neck
and shoulder. Both of them slowly softened within her, and she sighed as their
cocks receded, sliding gently out of her.
            "Hey...." Ron groaned, and she turned her head to face him. His
eyes were loving, happy, sleepy, and he kissed her gently and murmured against
her mouth, "Not that this isn't grand, but are you lot planning one moving one
way or the other before I suffocate?"
            "Oh, fuck!" cried Harry, and slid sideways, and while it made it
much easier for Hermione to breath, she still missed the comfort of his
boneless weight on her.
            "I'm sorry," Harry said, as Hermione squirmed off to Ron's other
side. "I shouldn't have been so thoughtless!"
            "Shut up, you tosser," said Ron easily, drawing him in for a kiss.
"We both loved having you there. You should know that by now."
            Hermione made a happy little sound, kissing Ron's shoulder, and
Harry lifted his head to look across his husband at his wife. "Hermione..." She
looked over at Harry, reached across Ron to touch his chest. "What's it like?"
            "Oh, Harry!" Her eyes were happy, liquid. "Oh, Harry, Ron, it
was... I've never felt anything like it! To feel you both inside me, moving
against each other? Oh, God, Harry, I can't even begin to--" She stopped,
looking into Harry's eyes, and Ron turned from her face to his, interested.
"Oh!" said Hermione. "Well, it... it hurt at first. Rather a lot, actually. But
it was wonderful, too. I think you'll need considerably more preparation,
though."
            "Merlin!" cried Ron, suddenly understanding where this was going.
            "Ron's rather, er, thicker than you are, after all."
            Ron smiled. "I always knew," he said, "I was the thick one!"
===============================================================================
            Harry sat upright, eyes wide, crying out wordlessly. Ron and
Hermione were against him almost immediately, holding and stroking him, cooing
and crooning to him, murmuring again and again "It's all right, it's all right,
there we are, it's all right."
            Finally his breathing slowed enough for him to gasp. "God! Oh, God,
oh, God!"
            "All right, now, mate?" asked Ron. "Here an' now?"
            Harry's eyes snapped to his husband's, and he shook his head,
saying, "No, Ron, I mean, yeah, all right, yeah, but it wasn't that sort." He
shuddered slightly, then glanced back and forth between them with something
like a smile playing with his expression. "It was actually, sort of.... It was
sort of refreshingly generically terrifying, actually."
            Hermione regarded him through narrowed eyes. "Come again?"
            "It, you know," Harry said, "It wasn't about my guilt, it wasn't
about Cedric or Riddle being back, or any of that lot. I mean, you know, it was
horrible.... But it wasn't my fault." He half smiled at Hermione. "It's sort of
a nice change of pace." He paused again, his face growing more serious. "It
was... Luna's mum. She was trying to steal my cloak. She was.... I don't really
know what happened, you understand, but... you saw Luna. She as like – " He
shook his head. "Horrible, horrible. She kept saying – I dunno how, she had no
– . Anyway, she kept saying her daughter needed her, and she wanted the cloak,
and... well, when she touched me, I guess that was when I woke up."
            "Oh, mate...." Ron leaned in and kissed him. "Oh, mate, that's
rough."
            "Oh, Harry!" Hermione snuggled against his side, and they lay for a
long time, trying to relax in the darkness.
            "Well," said Ron, finally, "I can't get back to sleep."
            "Nor I," responded Hermione.
            "Only one thing to do then," said Harry, squirming down under the
covers, and after a moment, Hermione squealed aloud, and then groaned, a long,
low sound.
            "Great idea, mate," said Ron, pushing the borrowed tee shirt up her
chest and lowering his mouth onto one rosy nipple.
            Hermione managed to gasp her agreement, "Oh, yes! Ten points to
Gryffindor!"
===============================================================================
            An hour later, as the sun rose, they were up and dressed, sitting
comfortably on a couch in the Common Room, Hermione reading from her Ancient
Runes text while her boys huddled together over Quidditch Weekly, playfully
jostling one another as Ron proclaimed the Cannon's certain victory in the
coming season, which Harry seemed to find doubtful.
            "Ah!" cried a happy, Irish-accented voice. "There ya three are, the
very picture of domestic bliss!" Seamus dropped himself into a chair opposite
their couch and grinned over at them. "You lot have had quite the eventful
summer, haven't you?"
            "Yeah, well, you know," said Harry. "Something to do."
            Seamus laughed aloud at that. "Aye, yeah, I just wasted my summer
on swimming and Quidditch and that!"
            Ron started to put down the magazine, and Seamus reached for it.
"Oi, give it here, ya part-time poofter! I wanna see if Ballycastle traded
Washington back to the Finches!"
            Ron's brows came together as he passed over the magazine, and
Seamus replied with an equally puzzled, "What?"
            "You called me a poofter," replied Ron, mildly, seeming more
confused than offended.
            Seamus snorted. "'S not exactly Advanced Arithmancy, seeing as you
look at Harry like you look at Granger."
            Hermione glanced up from her book. "If you're on a first-name basis
with my husbands, Seamus, I'd appreciate if you'd do me the courtesy of not
referring to me by my last name."
            Seamus looked embarrassed. "I am sorry about that, Hermione."
            "It's perfectly all right." Hermione returned to her textbook.
            "See, that's it," said Ron. "You're calling us pervs and poofters
and whatnot, but it doesn't seem to bother you."
            "Should it?" asked Seamus.
            "That me and Harry are also together, I mean? Hell, I don't know."
            Seamus shrugged. "After me cousin, you lot would have to really put
your backs into it t' bother me, and quite frankly, the only one of you who
isn't too lazy to bother with it is Grang – er, Hermione, I mean."
            "Why thank you, Seamus!" said Hermione dryly from behind her books,
as Ron and Harry both snorted. The book lowered slowly, revealing her dark
eyebrows, gathered in a frown, as she looked at Seamus. "Your cousin?"
            "Oh, aye! A few removes off on me Mam's side. He's a Muggle,
actually. Very into this sort of I'm here and I'm queer, I'm out, proud, and
out loud thing. Campaigns for equal rights and that."
            "And you find that annoying, do you?" asked Hermione, her voice an
icy lance.
            "Perish the thought, gracious lady!" cried Seamus, holding his
hands up. "On t'other hand, I do think that a six-foot-three, two-hundred-
fifty-pound bloke in pink tights should expect to garner the odd startled look,
and there's no point in shouting at folks for being a bit perplexed."
Hermione's eyes widened. "He's a good bloke, though," Seamus finished, "on
those odd occasions you can distract him from how outrageous he is."
            "Yes, well," said Hermione, "There are some things that we just
can't help --" She drew her elbow in toward herself, dragging Ron's toward her.
"--but I think you'll find that we tend to keep our sex life behind closed
doors."
            "Ye really have then? The three of you, I mean. You've done sex.
Together."
            Hermione stared blankly at him as Harry and Ron grinned
involuntarily.
            "Ah, ye have, ya great pervs!" Seamus's smile was wide and happy.
"Look at you three, all together like that, doing sex together whenever you
like! How lovely is that! That's lovely, that is! That's what life should be,
isn't it? Free an' whole fer everyone! I'm so proud o' the three of you!"
            Hermione's eyes had widened through Seamus's happy cry, and she
managed a "Yes, well...." as she raised her book over her rapidly pinkening
cheeks. Her two boys shared a look as well, knowing what was coming.
            "Good on you," Seamus was saying. "So...." He swallowed and glanced
around a bit before leaning closer. "What's it like?"
            Hermione's book slapped down on her thighs with a loud smack!
"Seamus Finnigan, what we have and do together is very private and very
special, and we will not be handing it around in boy talk for your masturbatory
entertainment!"
            Seamus's eyes widened and he leaned back away, hands held
placatingly in front of him. "I didn't mean any harm, Gra -- Hermione. I'm just
curious. I can't help being a teenaged boy!"
            Hermione looked a little guilty. "Well, I'm sorry, Seamus, but be
that as it may, boy-talk about my sex life is not something I'm willing to take
part in."
            "Well isn't that lovely to hear!" came another voice, and they
turned to see Lavender Brown toss her hair back as she raised her chin in
disapproval. She turned to Parvati. "Honestly, it's a scandal, and I don't
think it should be allowed here."
            Parvati glanced over at Hermione before returning to her best
friend. "Oh, I don't know, Lavender. I mean, this is an accident of magic. It's
not Hermione's fault she didn't know the spell was permanent."
            "Know-it-all Granger didn't know? Oh, please!" Lavender turned
away. "She wanted them both, that's all, and knew she'd never be pretty enough
to win either the normal way. She saw her chance and she took it!"
            Lavender stalked off toward the portrait hole, and Parvati
approached Hermione and her boys. "I'm sorry about Lavender. We don't all think
that. I just wanted you to know that."
            Hermione smiled and nodded.  "Thank you, Parvati."
            Parvati nodded as Seamus stood and went to meet Dean as he made his
way down the stairs from the dormitory, chatting with Neville, and she started
to turn away, then stopped, biting her lip before turning back to Hermione, and
blurting out, "Did it hurt? You know, at first?"
            Hermione returned her gaze for a long moment before replying, "Just
a little, at first. Ron was very gentle. After that, it was wonderful, and not
scary at all." She paused. "But you can expect to feel a bit sore for the
couple of days immediately afterwards."
            Parvati's brown complexion darkened, and she turned and scurried
away, her hand over her mouth.
            "What was that?" asked Harry, seeming amused.
            "Yeah," added Ron. "I thought you weren't prepared to share our
personal, private --"
            "That was different!" cried Hermione. "She was obviously scared!"
            "You think Seamus wasn't?" said Ron. "I think if you get to have
girl-talk, we should get to have boy-talk!"
            "All right, fine!" snapped Hermione, packing her books away in her
bag as the other Gryffindors began making their way out for breakfast. "You
have your boy-talk, then!"
            "Can't say fairer than that," said Ron, and he leaned over and
nudged Harry with his elbow. "Hey, Harry! Guess what?"
            Harry grinned back at him. "What, Ron?"
            "I'm shagging Hermione!" Ron announced to him, grinning widely.
            "Yeah?" said Harry, smiling. "Me, too! How is it?"
            "Brilliant!" cried Ron, and Harry grinned as he handed him his
school-bag, replying, "Yeah, same here!"
            Hermione, having slung her bag over her shoulder, swatted them
both, unsuccessfully trying to quash her own snort of laughter.
===============================================================================
            As they entered the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall intercepted
them before they could reach the Gryffindor table, and drew the three of them
aside.
            "Miss Granger," she said, sternly -- but not without some twinkle,
"I am aware that, as Prefects, you and Mr. Weasley are entitled to a certain
amount of leeway in awarding a small number of house points. I'm fairly
certain, however, that nothing that took place in the Gryffindor Head Girl's
suite this morning at half-four qualifies Gryffindor for ten points."
            Hermione's face coloured and eyes widened as she clamped her hands
over her mouth, as Harry and Ron attempted to stifle their sniggers.
            Neither was quite sure whether their Head of House winked at
Hermione as she murmured, "I have removed those points, and I suggest that, in
future, perhaps other words of encouragement might be more appropriate!"
            As McGonagall turned away, Hermione turned, too, and buried her
face between her boys' shoulders, her own shoulders jerking up and down, and
Ron's eyes widened with concern until he heard the first giggle escape her.
***** Chapter Twenty-Three: “Adversarial Positions” *****
                 Chapter Twenty-Three: “Adversarial Positions”
===============================================================================
            “Missster Potter....” Severus Snape's voice was a long, low, slow
hiss. “Missster Weasley....” The lank black hair swayed in front of his eyes as
he looked back and forth between the two boys. “What, pray tell, are you doing
in my dungeon? I am fairly certain that I recall not accepting you into my
N.E.W.T.-level class, as you share between you the competence and skill of a
flobberworm.”
            Harry opened his mouth to retort, and closed it again, drawing a
deep breath and considering as Hermione opened her mouth to speak, only to be
silenced by Snape's interruption: “I did not give you leave to speak, Miss
Granger.”
            “Hermione is taking your class,” Harry said, tersely.
            “What?” asked Snape, sharply. “Miss Granger is taking the
class...What?”
            Ron's face colored, and his mouth opened, blue eyes hard as
diamonds, but Hermione put a hand over his lips and stilled him.
            “Well, Potter?” demanded Snape, his face so close to Harry's that
his greasy black hair brushed Harry's forehead.
            Harry's eyes blazed, and he bit off a word at a time. “Hermione.
Is. Taking. Your. Course...” There was a long pause then, as he stared
unyielding back into Snape's black eyes. “Professor,” he finished at long last.
            “Is she?” Snape's eyes narrowed as he regarded her. “Did I invite
you to bring guests?”
            “Sir, you know that I'm magically bound--”
            “Did I invite--”
            “Ah, Severus!” Albus Dumbledore swept into the classroom with a
benign smile, and if he was aware of the hostility sparking between his Potions
master and the three students, he gave no sign. “Hard as it is to imagine on
the first day of classes, I found myself with a few free minutes, so I thought
I'd stop in and see how things were going with this most unusual arrangement.”
            Snape stood silently for a long moment, then let out a long slow
breath through his nose, glaring over at Ron and Harry. “I am not a circus
kelpie, performing tricks for an audience!”
            “Indeed not,” said Dumbledore, mildly. “I expect you've instructed
Messrs Potter and Weasley that they will be required to audit the class, and
that, while they will not be receiving grades, they will be required to perform
all the class-work?”
            Snape's head angled over slightly. “I had not – yet – broached that
solution, Headmaster.”
            “Well, then, Severus, I do apologize for stealing your thunder!”
            There was a moment's quiet. “Not at all, Headmaster,” Snape finally
said. “Of course, these two willful louts have failed to bring proper class
materials, such as books and cauldrons...”
            Dumbledore waved a hand in the air, “My fault, Severus, I do
apologize. I had not thought to inform them of the need.” He brightened.
“Still, no harm done! They can share a school cauldron--” Dumbledore took one
from the shelves lining one wall of the classroom, and set it in front them. “-
-and, of course, there are more than enough used textbooks here as well!”
            Dumbledore's long index finger slid along the decaying spines of
the books in the shelf along the rear of the room. “Now, then....” he murmured,
drawing one from the shelf. “When I was in school, I always had used
textbooks.” He riffled through the pages and returned it to its place in the
shelf before drawing another. “It was great fun feeling the history of Hogwarts
stretching out behind me as I turned the pages, and more than once I thought I
would fail Charms entirely were it not for the most helpful annotations of
previous students!” His face lit up as he riffled through the pages of the
older book he now held. “Excellent! See here!” He adjusted his half-moon
glasses on his long, crooked nose, and began to read. “Crush with flat side of
silver dagger, releases juice better than cutting.” He smiled up at the class
as if he'd just read them an undiscovered Shakespearean sonnet. Snape stood
very still. “You see? This brilliant student of days past discovered a better
way of brewing the Draught of Living Death!” Dumbledore looked up at Snape. “I
daresay the notes and additions in this book are a veritable treasure-trove of
magical knowledge! I would suggest, Severus, that Messrs Potter and Weasley be
assigned the task of transcribing, evaluating, and formalizing these notes.
Perhaps by end of year, they'll have performed a service.” He gestured with the
book. “I daresay this boy wizard of yesteryear deserves the regard of
posterity.”
            Snape stared at the Headmaster for a long moment. Dumbledore
returned the gaze with an expression of mild expectation. “An excellent
suggestion, Headmaster,” he finally agreed. “I thank you.”
            Dumbledore smiled beneficently. “It's always a pleasure, Severus,
to help my teachers with their classes!”
===============================================================================
            The chalk striking the blackboard made an odd sound, and most of
the class looked puzzled as the seconds went by and the small, bushy-haired
woman wrote, in a remarkably neat and even hand, Doctor Jane Granger.
            She handed the chalk to her husband, and he scrawled his own name
below hers, again with a series of scraping CLACK!s: Doctor David Granger.
            Draco Malfoy slouched in his seat, regarding the two dentists with
narrow grey eyes, and ground his teeth. He was still stunned by the outrage of
Snape – Snape! -- condemning him to this hell. Muggle Studies had always been
more a joke than a class, an elective course so disrespected that students from
two or even three different years would be mixed together to form a class large
enough to teach. But this was insupportable! This degradation of having these
powerless vermin, these Muggles, yammering worthlessly at him, in authority
over him. This nonsense wouldn't have been permitted when his father had been
on the Board of Governors!
            True, Lucius Malfoy might be languishing in Azkaban just then, but
he would soon be restored to his rightful place, and when he was, well, there
would be retribution, wouldn't there? Of course there would!
            “Now,” said Jane Granger – Merlin, the Mudblood was almost her
already! -- “Who arrived here at Hogwarts this year on the Hogwarts Express?”
            Hands rose around the classroom, and Draco snorted. What kind of
idiot question was that?
            “Mr Malfoy!” said David Granger. “Did you arrive here by another
route?”
            Draco stared at him for a long moment. “No.”
            Granger stared at him and Draco wondered if he was going to demand
to be called Sir.Well, he could hang 'til he rotted if he thought that!
            But Granger turned to the class's only other Slytherin. “Mr. Nott?”
            “I Flooed to the Three Broomsticks, and walked from there,” said
Theodore Nott, his face and tone, as always, maddeningly neutral. “I prefer to
avoid the hugger mugger.”
            “Fair enough,” replied the Mudblood's mother, just as if Nott had
been speaking to her rather than her husband. “The rest of you, though, arrived
aboard the Express?”
            “Your grasp of the obvious,” Draco drawled, “is passable, at
least.”
            The Grangers passed one another switching sides at the front of the
classroom, without acknowledging him.
            “Miss Weasley,” said David Granger, pointing at the little blood
traitor. “Can you tell us when the Express began bringing students to
Hogwarts?”
            The vivacious redhead frowned. “I think it was in the Nineteen-
Twenties.”
            David Granger nodded in approval. “Just so. And before that?”
            The Weasley girl nodded. “Before that, there were coaches, from all
over Britain.”
            “Yes!” affirmed Jane Granger. She pointed to a Ravenclaw. “Mr.,
er...”
            “Corner,” he said. “Michael Corner.”
            “Thank you, Mr. Corner. Can you tell me some of the other ways
Wizarding folk get around?”
            “There is Apparition, of course, and the Floo Network.”
            “Good, good.” It was the husband again.
            Draco was finding these trades of position annoying, though he
couldn't say why he was paying attention. “What is this?” he asked sullenly.
“Worthless as it is, we're supposed to be studying you Muggles, not teaching
you about civilized folk!”
            The woman stepped over to him, leaned close to him. She did look
very like her daughter, her hair wild, her eyes bright and intense. He couldn't
imagine how her husband could stand her, though his daughter had clearly
inherited much from him, as well. “And you, Mr. Malfoy? Perhaps you can tell me
how civilized folk get around.”
            He stared back into her eyes, not giving an inch to this powerless
wretch. “Surely your know-it-all daughter has told you of the Knight Bus,” he
spat, “and cars!”
            The Grangers both smiled. “Excellent, excellent!” said David
Granger. “Knight Bus, cars, coaches, the Express, which is, after all, a
locomotive. What do these all have in common, Mr. Malfoy?”
            Draco scowled. “Are you thick? We've just been over that! They are
magical means of transportation!”
            Jane Granger leaned in again, almost nose-to-nose with him. “They
are all,” she said slowly, her voice sharp and precise, “imitations of Muggle
technologies.”
            She whirled away from him and asked the class, in a pleased-
sounding voice, “Now, what else can you name that Magical folk have adapted
from the Muggle world?”
            A few hands rose.
            “Miss Weasley?”
            “Dad says the Wireless is based on a Muggle device called a
'Rodeo'?”
            Jane Granger's lips quirked as she suppressed a smile. “Radio,
yes.”
            David Granger pointed. “Mr. Goldstien?”
            “Eyeglasses. In fact, they're not even an adaptation, they're just
the same for us as for you.”
            “Oh, yes,” said Jamie Duncan, with some enthusiasm, “Wizards
wouldn't dare use magic to try to fix their eyes. Far too risky! There's too
much about eyes that nobody understands!”
            “Actually,” said Michael Corner, “that's a very good point! Almost
all healing magic is based in Muggle medical science. We wouldn't do something
silly like stitching up a body with needle and thread, or hollow out teeth and
fill them with metal--” The Grangers exchanged an amused glance, and Corner
blushed and shrugged. “Well, sorry, but...” He squared his shoulders. “The
point is, the understanding of how bodies work has always come from Muggle
medicine. We just have better ways of using that knowledge to fix things!”
            “Oh, come on now!” Draco spat. “You may as well say that houses and
clothing come from Muggles!”
            “Well, they do,” said Nott, mildly. Malfoy stared venomously at
him. Nott returned his gaze with equanimity “No sense denying it, you know.
It's simply the truth. Wizards generally don't invent things. We don't need
to.”
            Draco turned away from him, face red, only to find David Granger
standing in front of him.
            “In fact,” Granger said, eyes locked with Draco's, “But for
Muggles, Wizards would still live in caves. Very comfortable caves, but caves
nonetheless.”
            Draco Malfoy's mouth dropped open, but before he could respond,
Granger's tone softened. “You see, with magic, you don't need to come up with
brute-force solutions to problems like housing and food. Warming charms and
cushioning charms and your cave's as good as a palace. If you can Imperius a
gazelle, you needn't chase it with a club.”
            “That,” said Jane Granger, from right behind him, “is why you study
us, why there is a Muggle Studies class for us to teach and you--” Her hand
rested for a moment on Draco's head before he shrugged her off, turning to
stare balefully as she continued. “--to learn. When you study Muggles, you
study your own future.”
            “Now!” said David Granger, stepping back to the chalkboard as
Malfoy seethed, “Let's take a look at some of the Muggle technologies that are
most likely to be adapted to Magical use. Who knows what a Computer is?”
            As the class packed up their books, after what seemed like weeks of
maunderings about things called “Information Technologies” and “Television,”
Draco snarled aloud, “Arrogant, ignorant, condescending Muggles! Who do they
think--” There was a sound or motion, and he looked up to see the Weasley girl
standing in front of him.
            “You know, Draco,” she said, “for somebody who's obviously got some
brains, you are one of the stupidest people I have ever met.”
            “I am at least,” he sneered, “intelligent enough to know that pure
blood is better than mongrel! Maybe if your family could figure that out, you
wouldn't be so poor.”
            “You see?” Weasley nodded as if he'd just made her point for her.
“Any farmer can tell you that mixed breeds are hardier and healthier than pure.
But you don't get it.”
            She pointed at him. “Who's the best wizard or witch in this school?
Their daughter! You know it as well as I do! How stupid do you have to be to
deny what you see before your eyes because it doesn't fit in with some stupid
prejudices you learned from your idiot father?”
            “My father is a brilliant, powerful man!”
            “Your father is a self-impressed airhead who's never had an actual
thought in his entire life! He's just nodded and accepted whatever ideas got
handed down to him without the slightest thought or examination!” Draco opened
his mouth to snap out a retort, but Weasley rode him down, her brown eyes
flashing with energy and passion. “For Godric's sake, Draco, just because you
inherited an empty head with your fortune, that doesn't mean it has to staythat
way! Think for yourself for once! These people have something to teach you, if
you're just smart enough to let them!”
            And she spun on her heel and marched from the room, leaving Draco
staring after the flow of her robes and long red hair.
===============================================================================
            The sixth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins had been shifting
uncomfortably in their seats for some minutes when Professor Sirius Black swept
almost majestically into the DADA classroom for his first class. His dark robes
flowed out behind him with the speed of his loping gait as he crossed to the
front of the room and turned, picking up sparkling undertones of deep maroon
and threads of gold in the shafts of sunlight through the windows.
            “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “and welcome to
Defense Against the Dark Arts. I know you've had as many teachers as you've had
years, and each has brought a different approach to the teaching of this
subject. I can do no less, so in today's class, I'll be teaching you how to
defend yourself against someone attacking you with a piece of fruit.”
            There was a baffled silence, and then Neville said, his hand half-
raised, “Did, er... did you say... fruit?”
            “Yes!” cried Sirius, with great enthusiasm. “Elderberries,
pomegranate, apples, pears, oranges, whole and sliced--”
            “What about poin-ted sticks?” interrupted Dean Thomas, his eyes and
lips in a sly grin, and an oddly nasal accent put on his voice.
            Sirius barked with laughter, and he grinned over at the Gryffindor,
jabbing a quick, straight finger in his direction. “Yes! Thank you, Mr. Thomas,
and one point to Gryffindor for recognizing the source, and one point taken
from Gryffindor for interrupting, and to keep Draco Malfoy from decrying the
unfairness of it all, as we all know how passionately he resists the injustice
of unfair allocation of house points!”
            There was chuckling from the Gryffindor side of the room, and
Sirius grinned, then turned toward the Slytherins with a more placating
expression. “No offense intended, Mr. Malfoy, I promise. All in a spirit of
fun.”
            “I'll still be reporting your prejudicial comments to my father,”
Malfoy spat.
            “Please do,” responded Sirius dryly. “It will give him something to
talk about with his cell-mates. I'm sure he's not considered enough of a
security risk to be placed in solitary confinement as I was.”
            Malfoy's mouth clamped shut as Sirius turned away from him. “Which,
in fact, brings us, in a roundabout fashion, to the subject of this class, and
why the comedy routine Dean so kindly helped me with is relevant.”
            Sirius gestured with his wand, and chalk rose to sweep quietly and
smoothly across the board, writing almost without impact, “Oppositional
Orientations in Attitudes and Magic.”
            “Magic,” said Sirius, “like our outlooks and attitudes, comes in
light and dark. You know this, of course. You've been learning about Dark magic
and how to defend against it for five years now, while every other class you've
taken has taught you Light Arts, although they are seldom referred to as such.
            “What you need to understand is that our attitudes and intentions
make a huge difference in the kinds of magic we can produce effectively, and in
how effective magic is when used against us.”
            Sirius looked into the eyes of various students in turn. “Now, my
godson has taught many of you the Patronus Charm. Very advanced magic, that, by
the way: far above what would normally be expected of students in your year.”
He pointed at Pansy Parkinson. “Miss Parkinson, can you tell us the uses of the
Patronus Charm?”
            She glared at him a moment, then bit out the words, “It is an
advanced defensive spell, not unlike a shield charm, and is the only known
spell that can combat Dementors.”
            “Very good!” said Sirius, looking into her eyes with a wide,
charming smile. “Ten points to Slytherin.” There was a mutinous grumble from
the Gryffindor side, and he winked at them. “Fair's fair, after all. You'll get
your chances. For instance, Mr. Finnegan, can you tell me how you cast the
Patronus charm?”
            “Well, Professor,” said Seamus, “Ye summon in your heart an' mind
the happiest thought you can, the happiest you can imagine--”
            “Exactly! Ten points to Gryffindor. Notice: Dementors are the
darkest of Dark creatures; they consume happiness, hope, and good cheer. But
they are combated with those same emotions! Happiness, hope, cheer, the very
feelings a Dementor robs you of, are the seeds of its undoing. The lightness of
your attitude as you cast the spell is in opposition to the darkness of the
Dementor, d'you see?”
            He turned and gestured with his wand, and the chalk underlined the
words it had written before: “Oppositional Orientations in Attitudes and
Magic.” “Your attitude,” he said, “is in opposition to the orientation of the
magic you are combating! You are light to the Dementor's dark, and how well you
can maintain that state is how successfully you can combat them.”
            He moved back before the class. “This is most starkly demonstrated
by comparing the Patronus and the Dementor, but it is universal in combating
all forms of dark magic!”
            He paced back and forth in the front of the classroom, chewing his
lip for a moment, as if building up to something. “Now, to help illustrate the
point, I'm going to spend a little more time with Dementors. Since they have
abandoned their posts at Azkaban to throw in with Riddle's rabble, this may be
more practical than any of us would prefer.” He drew a breath. “You are all
aware that I have a lot of years of experience in dealing with Dementors. Now,
I had an advantage that you almost certainly lack. Can any of you name it?”
            Several hands rose, and Sirius pointed toward Daphne Greengrass, a
quiet, pretty Slytherin girl. Draco Malfoy scowled at her, but she elevated her
nose slightly and answered Sirius, “I believe that you are something of a
beast.”
            “Just so,” responded Sirius, in no way put out by the girl's
provocative phrasing.“I am an Animagus. Now, does any of you happen to know
what my Animagus form is?”
            “A rather mangy dog,” drawled Draco, without raising his hand or
waiting to be recognized.
            Sirius cocked a brow at him. “The score stands at one all, Mr.
Malfoy, a byproduct of my innate fairness.” he gave it a beat. “Don't press
your luck.”
            Sirius turned back to the class, and his shape flowed, and he stood
for a long moment as a large, shaggy black dog before resuming his human form.
            “Now dogs are, by nature very social, very cheerful creatures. Do
you see the advantage that offered in Azkaban?”
            There was a puzzled silence, and Sirius shrugged.
            “Well then,” he said. “You see, by spending my time in dog form, I
was able to smell my neighbors in nearby cells, and thereby feel a sense of
companionship -- even isolated in a solitary cell. And sometimes.. Well...”
            He grinned again, and moved back to the door into his office. “I've
asked another teacher who has had the poor fortune to meet the Dementors of
Azkaban to join me for today's class. You all know Professor Hagrid.”
            There were cheers from the Gryffindor side of the classroom, and a
deep silence from the Slytherin.
            The half-giant ducked his huge shaggy head as he entered the
classroom proper and started to sit on Sirius' desk.
            “Hang on, Hagrid!” cried Sirius, and pointed his wand at the desk.
“Petrificus Impervio!” The desk made an odd, crunching sound as it turned to
stone.
            “Than's, Sirius,” said Hagrid, then sat on it. Small chunks of
stone crunched and ran as gravel from the overhand of the desk to pool on the
floor.
            “Now, Hagrid, I wanted to ask you to talk to the class about your
stay in Azkaban, three and a half years ago.”
            “Well, i' was awful. I's a terrible, terrible place, tha', an' you
lot should always ma'e sure you're on the righ' side o' the law, so's yer don'
end up there.”
            Sirius smiled gently. “How long were you there?”
            “Thir'y-nine days,” said Hagrid, quietly. “From the eighth er May
to the sixteenth er June.”
            “And what was it like, being around the Dementors that long?”
            “I' was ruddy awful, it was!” Hagrid's eyes had a haunted look as
he spoke to the class. “Some of yeh will ha'e met Dementers in yer Third Year,
when they was lookin' fer--” he cut himself off, and Sirius chuckled as he
continued, “Well, yeh know, anyway, the Dementers, they make ye feel 'opeless,
don' they? Like you'll never know a cheerful moment er a smile again.” Tears
were forming in the half-giant's eyes. “I'll tell yer, I missed Fang somethin'
awful! 'E needs me, you know. I was worried abou' him, an' with them Dementers
about, I could only imagine him lonesome an' dyin' wi'out me. Well, after abou'
a day, I though' I could 'ear 'im barkin', I was so fixed on 'im. Just 'earin
tha', well, that kep' me goin' a' first.”
            He wiped his eyes on his sleeves. “Af'er a day er so, though, I
realized this dog barkin', 'e didn' soun' nothin' like ol' Fang does. Wasn't
bayin', like, more sharp an' 'appy. Abou' broke muh 'eart, I'll tell yer! There
was a dog a' Azkaban! I couldn' figger it, frankly. Wha' could a dog do to get
sen' ta Azkaban?”
            Hermione gasped, and Sirius, behind Hagrid, held up a warning
finger to the class, as other eyes began to widen as well.
            “Well, anaway,” said Hagrid, “The dog didn' seem, didn' soun'
unhappy, so I took ta talking to i' when the Dementers wasn' abou'. Yeh know,
'Nice doggie, who's a good dog' an' like that. An' the dog would bark back, an'
it really helped me keep muh spirits up.” he took a breath. “Wi'out tha' dog, I
think I'd like ter ha'e gone mad, I would!”
            He shifted a bit, more gravel sprinkling from under him as he
crushed more of the edgework of the stone desk. “Whe' they let me ou' I tried
to look fer the dog. I figgered i' mus' be in one o' ther neighborin' cells, I
pounded a couple o' doors right an proper 'fore they hauled me out! I still
think abou' the poor dog sometimes. Hopin' it's okay. I don' mind sayin' it,
tha' dog saved my life!”
            “You're welcome,” said Sirius, quietly.
            Hagrid froze for a moment, eyes widening as the light dawned, and
Sirius said, “And I owe you a debt as well. You did find my cell, and you
struck the door a mighty blow. It loosened the stone and morter around the
bottom hinge. I had to dig at it for a few weeks, but if it weren't for that
blow, I'd've never--”
            Sirius got no further as Hagrid stood and spun, grabbing him up in
crushing embrace, crying out, “I' was you, Sirius! You were ma doggie frien'!
Yeh saved me, Sirius!” He planted great slobbering kisses on both of Sirius'
cheeks. “Yeh saved me an' that's th truth! Oh, bless ye, Sirius Black, bless ye
fer good an' all!”
===============================================================================
            “Well,” said Sirius, as he passed the serving bowl of Salad across
the small dining table in his quarters to Jane Granger, “I had more in the
lesson plan, practice conjuring Patronuses, mainly, but, well, when Hagrid gets
himself going, there's really not much else that can make a dent.”
            “How d'you like teaching?” David asked, as he buttered his third
fresh roll of the evening.
            The smile that spread across Sirius' face was quite unlike any that
either of the once and future dentists had ever seen from him. “I love it. I
truly do. I never had a notion how rewarding it could be, but seeing those
students faces as they began to get it how important a positive attitude is in
combating dark magic? That was worth any price! I used to tease Remus something
fierce, but I completely understand his love of it now.”
            “I find it very difficult,” Jane responded. “I try and try to keep
my objectivity, but....” She took a long pull at her pumpkin juice. “Everything
I've ever read about teaching says that one of the most important parts is
never putting yourself into an adversarial position with a student, but....”
            There was a silence.
            “Draco Malfoy,” said all three, in unison.
            Another long moment, and Sirius lifted a mug of Butterbeer and set
it down one long draught later, his mustache decorated with foam. “Well, we
can't ask to all start off perfect. We're only human, after all.”
            A large, fat owl flew in the window, and circled the table,
dropping a series of parchment envelopes, all folded shut in the complex
origami typical of howlers.
            “Oh, those loony buggers,” began Sirius, as the squadron of letters
floated into the air.
            “With all respect for our beloved Saviour,” the letters spoke in
awed unison, “your humble supplicants offer this hymn.” And then they began to
sing:
            “Almighty Sirius, From death's realm now returned! Grant us please
a boon, If in faith it's earned! From forces dark and wizards fell Deliver us
from Evil's knell, Oh, Sirius protect us with your wrath!”
===============================================================================
***** Chapter Twenty-Four - "A Riddle..." *****
                     Chapter Twenty-Four - "A Riddle..." 
===============================================================================
           Hermione's palm slapped over the spidery script, and she looked
sternly back and forth from one husband to the other.
            “You will not,” she said firmly, “simply experiment willy-nilly
with these spells!”
            “Honestly, Hermione,” said Harry, a twinkle in his eyes as he
enjoyed turning her scolding tone back on her. “We're not complete idiots!”
            “Yeah,” agreed Ron, “We're only partial idiots.” He looked over at
Harry across the “U” of their tripartite workstation. “Two thirds, you think,
mate?”
            Harry grinned. “Maybe three-quarters!” He turned back to Hermione.
“I was just seeing if I could reproduce the wand movement. Still, it sounds
pretty harmless, though. I mean, it says, For Privacy, not – which one was it,
Ron?”
            “Sectus... Sectum...” Ron flipped through his parchments of notes.
            “Sectumsempra,” agreed Harry. “For enemies! Now that sounds pretty
dangerous!”
            Hermione nodded grimly, “Since the Latin translates as Cut forever,
I should say so!”
            “Anyway,” said Ron, “We are going to have to try these out
sometime. I'm thinking in the Room of Requirement.”
            “I just wish this 'Half Blood Prince' had been a bit more voluble,”
said Harry, and Ron laughed, “Voluble? Mate, I can tell you're sleeping with
Hermione!”
            “I don't like him,” said Hermione, suddenly.
            “Should've thought of that before you got stuck to him,” said Ron,
as Harry made a great show of looking hurt.
            The gaze Hermione turned on Ron should  have left a smoking, six-
inch hole through his head. “I meant the 'Half Blood Prince!'”
            “How can you not like him?” asked Harry. “Look at these notes! He's
almost a better student than you!”
            “Look at these notes!” replied Hermione. “They're terse, curt.
Always negative. Sneaky, angry, smug. God, even his handwriting! Look at it!
Whoever he was, he always wrote with an angry hand. He gives me the creeps.”
            “The creeps?” Harry smiled at her. “That's not the usual scientific
outlook I expect from you!”
            “I can't help that,” said Hermione. “I don't like him, and if
Dumbledore hadn't suggested it, I wouldn't want to see you have any part of
that book!”
            There came a gentle knock at their door, and the three turned to
regard one another for a moment, the boys shrugging, before Hermione called
“Come in!”
            The door creaked slowly inward, and the bright blue eyes, twinkling
behind half-moon glasses, and crooked nose of Albus Dumbledore appeared around
it. “Do please pardon the interruption!”
            “Of course, Professor!” Harry was on his feet instantly, Hermione
and Ron close behind. “What can we do for you?”
            Dumbledore stepped softly into the room, closing the door behind
him, and smiled around, as if in discovery, as he moved over to the battered
sofa where Hermione had spilled her heart to her boys, and he sank into it with
a pleased, luxuriating sigh. He stroked one hand along the arm of the sofa,
then looked back up to the three Gryffindors. “Ah, yes. To be truthful, there
are just one or two things I wanted to mention to you.”
            He gestured and four steaming mugs of hot cocoa appeared on the
small coffee table before the sofa, and Hermione and her boys brought their
chairs over to sit facing the headmaster, each reaching for a mug. It was still
early in September, yes, but nights could already be cool here in the Scottish
Highlands.
            Dumbledore leaned forward a bit and was looking clearly into
Hermione's eyes. “Miss Granger, you don't think much of divination, do you?”
            Hermione's eyes widened a bit, and she sat back, shaking her head
with some small apology. “No, sir, I can't really say--”
            “Quite right, quite right, Miss Granger. Sadly, it is a difficult
art to teach, simply because it is an unreliable and sporadic talent, one which
even visits Muggles on occasion. True prophecies come to seers perhaps once or
twice in a lifetime. Other, shall we say, communications from, well, whatever
their source, come little more often. These dispatches from the beyond, Miss
Granger, are usually to be listened to, to be respected. But they are not to be
slavishly obeyed, Miss Granger! Do you understand me?”
            Hermione's eyes were wide upon his. “Only academically, sir.”
            The headmaster nodded, took a pull at his cocoa, leaving steaming
foam on his moustache. “I shall say this, then. There is both light and
darkness in everyone, and some, less fortunate than yourselves, live on a
knife-edge. These conflicts can be even stronger in someone's school years,
when they are first confronting who they will become. The extremes of such a
youngster, perhaps at the time no older than yourselves, can be very, very
great indeed, but that is because the conflict within them is also great.
Sometimes that conflict can live long into their lives.” Dumbledore drank more
cocoa. “They can live on a knife-edge, and if it makes them difficult to
understand, or to like, it is still important, still crucial, that they have
the chance to fall on the light side. For their sake, and ours.” He waved his
wand, and the book Harry and Ron had been poring over sailed across and into
his hands, and he regarded it for a moment, before placing it on the table. “It
is important to trust and respect your senses, Miss Granger, but more important
to be informed rather than ruled by them. To put what they tell you to
constructive use, but to make your own decisions.”
            Hermione nodded slowly as he stood, and walked toward the door, and
Ron said, “Wasn't there something else, Professor?”
            Dumbledore paused, his hand on the knob, and nodded. “Yes, thank
you, Ronald, I'd quite forgotten.” He smiled gently. “I had it in mind to offer
the three of you some direct, individual tutoring, from time to time, in the
evenings. If I send word, would you be so kind as to visit my office of an
evening?”
            “Of course, Professor,” said Harry, at once, as Ron smiled and
said, “Sure, yeah,” and Hermione made distracted noises of acceptance while
frowning down at the book on the table. She shook herself from her daze,
looking up at the Headmaster. “Certainly, sir.”
            “Thank you!” Dumbledore smiled warmly, and was gone, the door
closing softly behind him.
            They stood for a long moment, regarding the closed door, before Ron
said, “He's a sweet old man, and an absolute bloody genius, but, Merlin, there
are times when I'd give real money if he'd just say what's on his mind!”
            Hermione tutted and rolled her eyes before bending down, to lift
the tatty old potions book, wrinkling her nose with distaste as she stared at
its cover.
===============================================================================
            Harry and Ron looked up sharply at Professor Vector. The plan had
been for them to quietly read assignments during the lecture portions of
Hermione's Advanced Arithmancy classes, but, as it turned out, Vector's voice
held a sharp, electric edge, and it was impossible not to focus on her as she
lectured. Her features were severe, with a sleek elegance that would be more
attractive if it didn't remind the boys quite so much of a dragon, and her long
limbs moved with the exacting grace of a dancer as she moved in front of the
blackboard, directing several chalks at once to draw complex diagrams of
equations.
            Ron glanced down at the parchment on which he was meant to be
taking notes on their History of Magic reading – or, more likely, playing
“hangman” with Harry – and was startled to see he had drawn the equations as
Vector had, and added his own small arrows showing how the forces traveled and
interacted within the diagram.
            There was a lot going on here that Ron didn't understand, but the
geometry of the magical structures Vector was describing made sense to him in
the way a chessboard did, lines of magical force directed through the equation
as the movements of various pieces sent their influence across the board,
interacting in various ways.
            He looked back up at Vector again, smiling slightly, and tuned in
on her voice.
            “So you understand,” she was saying, “that when we increase the
number of variables, the axioms themselves never change.”
            Ron nodded firmly. Of course they didn't, otherwise the balance
would... Ron's eyes suddenly widened, and he glanced over at Hermione, who was
scribbling notes furiously on her parchment, her lower lip sucked in between
her teeth in that way that always made his heart beat a little faster, and Ron
grinned. He was understanding Arithmancy. He was understanding Advanced
Arithmancy!
            He was still grinning, much to Harry's amusement and Hermione's
puzzled annoyance – she did so hate not to understand what was going on! -- as
they filed from the classroom twenty minutes later, when Colin Creevey trotted
up with a small roll of parchment.
            “For you,” he said, holding it out generally toward them, “from
Professor Dumbledore!”
            “Thanks, Colin,” said Harry, taking it from him, as Hermione
favored him with a smile, and Colin's head bobbed in a brief nod, his smile
like the flash charm of his camera, before he turned to trot off after the
other fifth-year Gryffindors.
            Harry opened the parchment with an easy gesture and glanced down
into it, then looked back up at his husband and wife. “Tonight,” he said
quietly. “After supper.”
===============================================================================
            It took Harry and Ron, when they arrived back in their room at
about midnight, nearly an hour to calm Hermione's rage over what they had seen.
They had followed the memories of a long dead Ministry official named Bob Ogden
in visiting a hovel they had recognized, from Sirius Black's description, as
the home of Tom Riddle's maternal grandfather.
            Marvolo Gaunt seemed almost more ape than man, and his splay-eyed
children, son Morfin – whose attack on a Muggle had precipitated Ogden's visit,
to serve him a summons to appear at trial for the attack – and the plain, lank-
haired, heavy-featured daughter Merope, were little better. Morfin was violent
and cruel, and Merope cowed into terrified servility.
            It was at this that Hermione began to seethe, and when the memory
ended with Ogden in full retreat from the Gaunt men's rage, and Dumbledore
revealed the conjectured history of Merope's love for, and marriage to, the
handsome Muggle Tom Riddle, she had snarled mightily.
            “Miss Granger,” murmured Dumbledore, “your outrage does you great
credit, and it can have few worthier targets than Marvolo Gaunt.”
            “Oh, yes!” Hermione's tone was rich with contempt. “Let's lay all
the blame on Marvolo Gaunt, and none for shallow Tom Riddle, or the whole,
sick, patriarchal society that happily assumed that no woman as plain as poor
Merope Gaunt could possibly win a man!” She stood and began pacing, waving her
arms over her head in frustration, Harry and Ron following as unobtrusively as
they could, and ducking out of the way of those swinging arms. “Not to mention
the insufferable sexism of the underlying assumption, that she could only find
fulfillment through a man's attentions!”
            Dumbledore had sat back, eyes wide and face a little chastened, and
Ron had to bite his cheek savagely to suppress a smile at the thought that the
Headmaster was probably thinking he'd had it easy a few minutes ago, shifting
uncomfortably as the shade of Marvolo Gaunt waved his ring before the Ministry
man, bellowing of it bearing the Peverell coat of arms. Poor old sod, thought
Ron, probably thought that was as bad as his night would get!
            Hermione's eyes had widened, then, and she'd become immediately
apologetic, stammering, “I'm s-sorry, Professor! Naturally, I didn't mean to
imply that, that you-- I mean--”
            “Quite all right, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore's voice was so gentle
that the interruption seemed more like a rescue. “It can be most distressing to
see the way people lived in days gone by with norms and attitudes we would
never accept today.”
            Her eyes flashed, and Ron and Harry both felt the muscles tense in
her back and shoulders, but she clamped her mouth shut for a moment, and
managed to croak out, “Thank you, Professor.”
            She was quiet after that, but by the time they'd returned to their
room, she had built up steam again, and she snarled and grunted her way through
bathing, as Harry and Ron washed her gently and wordlessly, and with reverent
affection, and then getting ready for bed.
            “Days gone by!” she finally growled. “Doesn't he know that that
paternalistic, sexist repression of women is still everywhere in the world? Not
just places like Saudi Arabia, where women aren't allowed to drive cars, and
are executed for being raped, but right here in Britain, where we're paid less
than men for doing the same jobs? God spare me an old white man telling me that
sexism and male patriarchy are things of the past!”
            “But that's the Muggle world, innit?” asked Ron. “I mean, you know,
I'm not saying that we Wizards're all that modern and forward-thinking or
anything, but, well, Witches have been playing Quidditch with an' against
Wizards for centuries!”
            This brought Hermione up short. “R-- Really?”
            “Yeah,” said Ron, “the Holyhead Harpies were formed in 1203 'cause
Witches weren't allowed to play competitively, and beat every every team in the
league! Put the kneazel among the snidgets, I'll tell you! Within three years,
the whole league was hiring witches!”
            Hermione sat back. “I did not know that!” She hummed quietly to
herself for a moment, then went on, “And it is true that Hogwarts has had
almost as many Headmistresses as Headmasters. Women have been Aurors, and in
the seats of Government, too.”
            “We've not been making aeroplanes or fellytones, or shooting guys
off to the moon, Hermione Jane,” said Ron quietly, “but that doesn't make the
magical world primitive.”
            Hermione gasped, and put her hands to Ron's face, her eyes wide.
“Oh, Ron, I'm so sorry! I never realized before how I've been-- I've been
married to my own, Muggle-raised expectations and prejudices.”
            “Well, you're married to us now,” said Ron, smiling, his head
angling briefly at Harry, “so enough with the two-timing!”
            “Merope never had a chance,” Harry said suddenly. “That's not
because she was a woman, or because she was-- because of how she looked.”
            Hermione turned toward him, her face red and eyes wide, mouth
parted and vulnerable.
            “She never had a chance because she was raised by that awful man,”
he continued. “Because she wasn't loved, because she was bullied and terrorized
and made to feel worthless. How could she grow up to be normal or strong with
all that?”
            “You did, mate,” said Ron.
            Harry swallowed. “Yeah, well... I'm not the point.” He reached out
and took Hermione's hand in both of his. “Hermione... You are not Merope. You
know that, right? You were never like that.”
            “Harry,” Hermione began, her tone exasperated, but her voice tiny,
“this is not about me--”
            “Yeah, it is,” Harry said quickly. “Oh, all that stuff about social
justice and equality for women, that's all real and that, but, Hermione... You
think we don't know why you always have to work so hard, always have to be the
smartest and the best? You've always been good enough, Hermione. I don't know
why you keep insisting on believing you aren't. You've always been smart enough
and strong enough and brave enough. You've always been pretty enough. I dunno
how it happened, 'cause I know your parents never made you feel this way, but
you don't need to... You're the smartest person I know, Hermione, and the
bravest, and the best. You're the most beautiful girl I ever saw. You're more
than good enough, Hermione, and you always have been.”
            There was a long, frozen moment then, Hermione staring at Harry,
unmoving as if she'd been petrified again, and then she threw herself at Harry,
arms around his neck, face buried in his chest, and wailed disconsolately,
sobbing and crying.
            Harry's eyes widened, and he patted her back awkwardly, saying,
“Hermione, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—”
            “Shut it, ya daft pillock!” Ron told him fondly. “Don't you
remember what Dumbledore told you, back when we got together? Not all tears are
villains or some such?”
            Hermione, still sobbing against his chest, nodded vehemently, and
Harry, distracted by Ron, found his fingers stroking lovingly through her hair.
            Ron wrapped himself around them both, pressed against Hermione's
back, and he pressed kisses into the crown of her head, before looking up, and
bringing his lips with slow, tender passion to Harry's, mouth moving against
his husband's over their wife's head, and when they parted, Ron gazed happily
into his startled green eyes, and said, “Harry, I don't know when you started
turning into The Boy Who Says Exactly The Right Thing, but keep it up!”
            Hermione's head nodded vehemently against his chest again, and then
she reached up, tangled her fingers in Harry's hair, and pulled his face down
to hers, and he tasted the salt of her tears and that indefinable Hermione
flavor of her mouth, felt himself stirring in his pyjama bottoms as her tongue
moved against his.
            The nightshirt she was wearing – one of Ron's old “Cannons” t-
shirts – had ridden up with her movements, and was ringed around her waist, as
she sat half on Harry's lap with her legs splayed open, her soft pink folds
visible and beautiful as she pulled back from the kiss. Her nipples had erected
to peaks within the “A” and the “N” on the CANNONS logo, and she sighed. “I
don't know what I've done to deserve two such lovely, wonderful boys,” she
breathed, “but I'm so very grateful.”
            “No more than we,” said Harry, kissing her again, trying with all
his might to communicate to her just how he treasured her, how lucky he felt to
have her in his life, and while his mouth moved over hers, Ron was moving
around, laying down, kissing the soft, soft skin inside her thighs, and she
sighed again.
            Harry broke the kiss to look down at Ron, loving the sight of him
moving over Hermione, loving the tenderness of his lips, the slow sensuality of
his tongue, the reverence and love in his expression.
            Ron's lips closed, nibbling, over the exposed pink folds, the small
nub of Hermione's clitoris, and then his tongue was tracing its way up the
creases, and darting inside her.
            There was a flicker in his expression, and Hermione made a small
noise. “Almost time?”
            Ron nodded up to her. “Tomorrow, I think.”
            There was a bit of movement in his shoulders before he returned his
mouth to her center, and Hermione tugged at his hair, to urge him away from her
center.
            “You don't have to, Ron,” Hermione said softly. “If... You know. If
it bothers you.”
            Ron shook his head very slightly. “It's not that, love. I mean it
tastes a little different, yeah, 'cause of the blood, but I don't mind that.
Hell, I cut my finger, I stick it in my mouth, right? I just... It tastes to me
like... Possibilities. Possibilities denied.”
            Harry's brow furrowed, and Hermione slid her fingers through Ron's
hair. “What do you mean, Ron?”
            Ron shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Well, you know, when this
happens, it's all what would make a baby, right? Washing out of your body
because no baby got made.”
            Hermione's smile widened. “More or less, Ron. I mean, it's also to
help my body prepare for a baby to grow inside it... Oh.” Her eyes were wide.
“Oh, Ron...!”
            Ron's blush deepened, his eyes closing. “Yeah. Yeah, see, every
time it happens, I think about the baby that isn't. The baby that won't be. I
mean, you know, don't get me wrong! We're only sixteen, I'm not looking for a
baby any time soon!”
            “Christ,” breathed Harry, “I should hope not!”
            “But I imagine it, Hermione. I imagine the babies that would come
out of you, and I...” He shrugged again. “Well, they'd be cute little sprogs,
wouldn't they?”
            “Ron...” Hermione's voice was solemn. “You said it yourself. We're
only sixteen.”
            “I know, I know. We have to get rid of Riddle, first, grow up,
build a life. Years an' years. Plus, you'll have to come up with the spell, so-
-”
            “Spell?” asked Hermione.
            “Yeah,” said Ron, simply. “You know, so Harry an' me can both be
the father.”
            She stared at him for a long, stunned moment, and then something in
her eyes melted, and she pulled him up to her face, kissing him long and deep
while her hands moved over his face and hair, and Harry's slid down their backs
in long caresses that ended  with gentle loving squeezes of their bums.
            Ron dropped a hand down to the soft pink labia, encountered
wetness. She made a low happy noise as his fingers slid inside her, and he
parted from the kiss just long enough to breathe “Barricadus” as he moved the
fingers just so, and she breathed “Yes, oh, yes, Ron.”
            But as Ron's fingers slid out of her again, they traced a line of 
moisture to one of her hips, while his other slid under her, and he was turning
her toward Harry.
            “Come on, mate,” Ron said, reaching down to slip a hand under her
knee, and lift it, spreading her open in offer to their husband. Hermione
groaned. “Come fuck our girl.”
            “Oh, fuck, Ron!” breathed Hermione, and Harry's eyes widened at the
arousal that filled her expression.
            His mouth and eyes quirked in a wicked grin. “You sure you don't
mind, mate?”
            Hermione moaned again, eyes filling with a kind of wild discovery.
“Fuck me, Harry,” she said. “Fuck me.”
            His eyebrow rose. “I wasn't asking you.”
            The grunt she let out was low and needy, as Ron said, “Please,
she's all yours, Harry.”
            Harry moved against her, shoving down his pyjama pants, freeing his
long, straight erection. They lay together on their sides now, the glans of
Harry's cock nestled against her folds, feeling the moisture, Ron holding her
for him from behind.
            She groaned again, tried to buck her hips toward Harry, to envelope
him, but Ron held her in place, murmuring in her ear, “Uh-uh-uh!”
            Harry leaned up past her face to kiss Ron, and she gasped and
groaned, and then he shifted and pressed himself smoothly into her.
            She grunted again, grasping him with her internal muscles, as he
pulled back and thrust again into her, and his mouth claimed Ron's again.
            Then his hands were sliding down over her hips, back to grasp her
bottom, prying her cheeks gently apart. His lips left Ron's and he gasped to
him as he thrust into Hermione, “There's another way in, mate.”
            She whimpered, “Open me, Harry, open me for him.”
            One at a time, he brought his hands up to Ron' mouth, and Ron
sucked in the first two fingers of each, lubricating them with his saliva, and
Harry brought his hands back down as he fucked her, spreading her cheeks again,
and pressing one index finger into her anus.
            Ron wasn't trying to control her any more, and she was bucking in
to meet each of Harry's thrusts, making harsh, low, guttural sounds every time
Harry added another finger, slowly and gently and one at a time.
            Ron was spooned against her back now, and Harry reached with one
hand to guide his stout cock to Hermione's anus, and Ron broke character from
the fantasy to breathe in her ear, “Are you ready, love?”
            She couldn't even gasp the word “Yes.” She just nodded frantically
against Harry's chest.
            She cried out as Ron entered her, pressing into the tightly
puckered ring that gripped his cock as her fanny, even her mouth, never had,
and she twisted to look back at him, and he kissed her with slow passion as he
felt his cock in her tightest of places, and felt Harry's within her, moving
against him.
            “Fuck me, fuck me,” Hermione moaned, turning her head back and
forth to meet her boys' mouths between obscene cries, “Fuck my arse, fuck my
cunt, fuck me, fill me, yes, Ron, Harry, fucking me, fucking through me, fuck
me!”
            She was still twisted to reach both mouths, and Ron's hand was
pushing her shirt up her chest, and Harry grunted, “Thanks, mate,” and lowered
his mouth onto a tender, rosy nipple, and she shrieked with pleasure, thrusting
her hips both forward and back, fucking her boys, both boys, as they frotted
one another through her.
            Then she shrieked, her eyes rolling back, muscles stiffening, and
the boys leaned away to see her, see her face, to watch and savor her orgasm,
as long as they could, until her twitching spasms and their own now-frenzied
thrusts were more then they could take, and first Ron, then Harry, were crying
out their own profane litanies of love and pleasure, as their orgasms burst
within her.
            They lay together then, tangled, sweaty, panting, kissing languidly
as they slowly softened within her, until her own pressures gently, slowly
ejected them.
            “That,” Hermione breathed, finally, the first to find words, “was
amazing.” She craned a bit to look at Ron. “What made you...?”
            “You know we love you too much to pass you around like a comic
book,” Ron replied. “So I thought... I dunno... It'd be fun to pretend.”
            She squirmed onto her back, and reached down to the two soft, moist
willies, slid her fingers down them gently, and then brought her hands to her
mouth, lapping up the combined flavors of them.
            “Love?” Ron gasped, startled, staring at the hand that had gathered
the moisture of his cock as she licked it.
            “I don't care,” she replied. “I love you.”
            Ron opened his mouth, then closed it again, and as she smiled and
murmured “Good man,” he leaned down and closed his lips again over hers.
            Then Harry's lips were nuzzling in against theirs, and both
Hermione and Ron allowed their mouths to relax open, and Harry's questing
tongue to slide against theirs.
            Hermione reached to the head of the bed for her wand, and barely
breathed “Nox!”
            They lay together for a long time, caressing and kissing in the
dark, before slipping off to sleep.
===============================================================================
***** Chapter Twenty-Five - "...Wrapped in a Mystery..." *****
              Chapter Twenty-Five - "...Wrapped in a Mystery..." 
===============================================================================
                        The crowd had gathered on the shore of the Black Lake
partway through the Wednesday afternoon before Hermione's birthday, milling and
staring, muttering amongst themselves. Harry and his loves wandered out amongst
them, Hermione rolling her eyes at Harry's curious need to see what had drawn
them to the water's edge.
            They had not yet made it, however, to the lake's shore when the
crowd gasped, and it was Hermione who boosted herself up on her boys' shoulders
to see over the heads of the gathered students to see the wilted, dripping peak
of the purple velvet hat rising slowly out of the water.
            The crowd parted before the rising, approaching hat, and the long
white hair that spread on the surface around it, so that, by the time
Dumbledore had stepped ashore, there was a path waiting for him, Harry, Ron and
Hermione standing on one flank of it, watching, wide-eyed, as the headmaster
stepped toward them, water streaming from his hair, his beard, his velvet
robes.
            He stopped before them. "Harry, Ronald, Hermione," he said warmly,
not seeming to notice the water streaming from the tip of his long, crooked
nose. "I'm glad to see you here. Perhaps you could accompany me up to my
office? I have...some news."
            The trio trailed along behind the ancient wizard as he mounted the
path back up toward the castle, stepping carefully around the puddles he left
behind him, as the rest of the students gathered in to follow, still muttering
amongst themselves. Dumbledore smiled kindly around at the various students and
teachers as they made their way through the Entrance Hall, and left them behind
as he led Harry and his spouses up stairs and down corridors. Finally, he
leaned down to murmur "Ice Mice" into the stone ear of his guardian gargoyle –
which winced as a stream of mossy water flowed from Dumbledore's hat onto its
granite face.
            When they got to the office, Dumbledore took his seat at his desk,
resting his arms on his desktop with a wet squelch, and looked down at the
spreading puddle there as if noticing for the first time that he was wet. He
blinked at the water for a moment.
            "Ah, excuse me," he murmured and drew his wand, his fingers
swinging it deftly in a complicated motion. Hot air blew from it in a jet, and
he pointed it at his sleeve, blowing drops of water off of it even as it dried
the fabric, then switched hands to dry the other sleeve, before looking back up
at Harry, Hermione and Ron.
            "Yes," he said, water pouring from his hair, his beard, and his
rather bedraggled-looking hat. "Better. Now, then--"
            The water flowing from his hair had begun pattering down on his
arms on the desk, and he hurrumphed, moved his wand again, and pointed it at
his own face, his long, wet beard and hair flying this way and that as the hot
air jetted from its tip, his pointed, purple hat flying backwards.
            "Now, then," he repeated as he continued to dry himself, the jet
from his wand flinging water away from his hair and beard as they flew around
his face in a whipping dance of coarse white hair. "I've just a had most
illuminating, if disappointing, meeting with the Mer-Queen."
            "The Mer-Queen, sir?" asked Hermione, beating Harry to the question
as he had ducked away from flying water as it blew away from one leg of
Dumbledore's moustache.
            "Yes, indeed, Hermione – I'm so sorry, Harry, here you are--" The
headmaster conjured a towel and handed it to Harry. "The Queen of the Mer-Folk-
- Oh, you knew that."
            Dumbledore paused a moment, tilting his head back as he blew hot
air under his chin, spraying all three of them with more water as his beard
reached for them in streaming tendrils, like some watery gorgon. Harry mopped
his glasses dry – again – and handed the conjured towel to Hermione as Ron
smirked.
            "You see," Dumbledore continued, as if there had been no
interruption, "Shortly before young Tom Riddle left this school, a most
precious artifact, one of the few known to have been created by Rowena
Ravenclaw, disappeared from the Great Hall. It was a wooden puzzle-box,
containing an undetectable extensible charm. It was the first dimensionally
transcendental magical object."
            Hermione had sat forward then. "Ravenclaw's puzzle-box! You
mentioned that before! You said that Regulus Black had named it as a Horcrux!"
            "Just so, Miss Granger! Young Mr. Black discovered that Tom had
written a genuinely brilliant scroll on its properties while it was displayed
in the Great Hall, and that he had frequently been seen near its case, seeming
almost possessive of it." Dumbledore paused as he stood and turned his wand on
his back and backside, cleaning and drying them and his seat as well. "Sadly,
however, as logical as were Mr. Black's deductions, they were equally wrong. As
it turns out, the puzzle-box was stolen by a young Mr. Sandoval Shunpike, a
Slytherin in Tom's class, who, it would seem, thought to sell it to Borgin and
Burkes for a gay galleon indeed. Mr. Shunpike, however – yes, Harry, he was
Stanley's grandfather – was a favorite target of a rather strapping young bully
named Gunther Goyle, whose grandson I believe you're also acquainted with, and
apparently that worthy relieved him of his prize, and, unaware of its worth,
hurled it as far as he could out into the Black Lake."
            "Well," said Ron, grinning, "there's a snidget whose crap landed
right under the branch he'd perched on!"
            "Now, Ronald," said Dumbledore quietly, "There's no need to speak
ill of your classmates or their forebears!" He fished in a pocket of his now-
dried robes and produced a yoyo, the white, waxed-paper sack of jelly babies, a
pair of Sears Craftsman Vice-Grip Pliers, what appeared to be an old Ronson
lighter, and a large, jointed, cartoonish action-figure of a dinosaur before
finally producing a wooden cube, perhaps six inches on a side, intricately
carved with runes and designs. He tossed this offhandedly on the desk and began
stuffing the rest of his booty back into the same pocket.
            "I did not, in fact, know any of this. I'd begun looking for signs
of the puzzle box, asking among some contacts. Headmistress Derwent–" he
gestured at the sleeping portrait of a kindly-looking woman. "–mentioned it to
the Stained-Glass Mermaid in the Prefect's Bath, and she spoke with some mer-
folk, and, soon enough, the Mer-Queen advised her to invite me to meet." He
sank back into his seat, gesturing at the wooden cube. "And there it is.
Beautifully preserved in the Mer-Queen's vault, and without even a breath of
Tom Riddle attached to it."
            Harry sat back wearily, rubbed his hands down his face. "Great," he
said. "So we have no idea what the Ravenclaw Horcrux is."
            "Now, Harry," said Hermione, "Rowena Ravenclaw left very few
artifacts behind – fewer than any other founder! Other than the puzzle box,
there was only the first remembrall, which is still safe in the Royal Wizarding
Museum. Well, and the lost diadem, of course, but that's, well, lost, and has
been for hundreds of years, so I think we can rule that out."
            "Quite so, Hermione," said Dumbledore, quietly, as he looked
broodingly at the box on the table, "quite so." He looked up at Harry. "Of
course, this castle has stood here since Rowena Ravenclaw, since all the
founders, walked its hallways, and who knows what else may have been secreted
here. Certainly I do not claim to know all this castle's secrets! But I think
we have to consider it likely that Tom did not acquire a Ravenclaw artifact to
use in his dark rite."
            He frowned down at the box on his desk for a moment, and Hermione
reached to put a hand on his. "There is this, Headmaster," she said, quietly.
"You've recovered a priceless treasure for the school. Perhaps you can display
it again."
            He blinked up at Hermione, her face so earnest, looking to find a
nugget of sunshine in this gloomy outcome. "Oh, my dear young lady!" he said,
very softly. "My very, very dear.... Tomorrow is your birthday, is it not?"
            Hermione's and her husbands' eyes widened and she managed to gasp
out a very soft, quiet, "Uhh.... I...."
            "Yes, it is, Professor," said Ron, matter-of-factly.
            Hermione's eyes flashed as she spun toward Ron, hissing, "Ron! Are
you mad?"
            "Well it is," Ron replied, reasonably, and Harry grinned as
Hermione turned back to the Headmaster.
            "Sir," Hermione said in a rush, "I couldn't possibly-- I mean,
you're surely not considering... I mean, consider its value, sir!"
            He simply smiled at her. "A greater value, I daresay, in the hands
of someone who appreciates its history and its brilliance, than gathering dust
and avaricious glances in a glass case in the Great Hall. Hogwarts has done
without it thus far, Miss Granger. I daresay we can continue to muddle along."
He lifted the wooden box and wrapped her slack fingers around it. "You've had a
difficult year, Miss Granger. Happy birthday."
===============================================================================
            Hermione was laying back on the bed, her feet hanging over the
side, the left on Ron's right shoulder, the right on Harry's left while the
boys, sitting cross-legged on the floor, played with the Chudley Cannons Pro
Quidditch game Kingsley had given Harry for his birthday. In her hands, she
rotated the elaborately engraved wooden cube, listening absently to the boys'
laughter and the tiny, heroic battle-cries of the miniature players.
            "That was never a proper Gladstone Glide!" Ron was crying, his
voice edged with laughter. "You'd fall off a real broom if you tried that!"
            "Did I charm the game?" Harry shot back. "It's a goal, mate, and
you'll have to learn to live with it!"
            The wood was very smooth in her hands, almost like ceramic, but
infinitely warmer, carrying the unmistakable sense of life that wood always
carried, and that slight vibrating thrill of magic that hummed silently from
its depths. It looked – it was – so small in her hands, but would open, if she
worked out how, into stunning depths, holding within it far more than could
meet the eye.
            She remembered the darkly handsome young man, no older than she,
Harry had told her about, his initial friendliness a mask for venomous evil, an
evil that would unleash a monster upon his schoolmates, just because he could.
Why had Tom Riddle, growing up an orphan, unloved but talented and handsome,
with opportunity unfolding before him, grown twisted, grown a monster himself,
every bit as deadly and poisonous as the Basilisk that served him? Harry'd had
no better start, and still he had grown kind and loving and brave.
            Why had Tom Riddle grown as he had? What had twisted him in his
youth, warped and darkened him, redirected his course into cruelty and hatred?
            She turned the cube over in her hands again, looked at the
engraving here, a stylized, smiling sun.
            Turn the thought over, she told herself, and was almost surprised
to hear her voice speaking aloud: "Harry? Why aren't you evil?"
            Harry blinked, shook his head, turning to look up at her, his
expression baffled. His seeker dove face-first into the floor, and screamed
imprecations at him as it gathered the parts of her miniature broken broom.
"D'you think it'd be sexier or something, love?"
            She sniggered, pushing at his forehead with her toes, and he
reached up, grabbed her ankle, and tenderly kissed the sole of her foot.
Hermione smiled down at her youngest husband, his green eyes showing a
seriousness underlying his merriment.
            "Really, Hermione," he asked. "What do you mean?"
            "She means Riddle, Harry," said Ron. "Probably 'cos you got hatred
an' scorn from your caretakers, and Tom Riddle just got benign neglect. So why
is he a raving, homicidal nutter, and you're the hero with your name in the
title?"
            Harry looked over at him, then back at Hermione, letting the smooth
lines of her bare calves and thighs distract him for a moment, guiding his eyes
into the shadows beneath her pleated uniform skirt. Her shoes were on the floor
by her desk, her tights and knickers in the laundry basket – "They itch!" – and
he loved thinking about her bare fanny, its smiling cleft, the moist pink
inverted-teardrop shape at its apex, right up there in the shadows. He looked
up at her face again, saw a quirk of recognition, acknowledgment, in her dark
brows, the slightest curl of the right corner of her mouth, and she momentarily
shifted one knee, allowing a brief view of smooth skin, a soft, dry, pink
crease. Then it was the pleats of grey twill again, and a hint of indulgence in
Hermione's expression, and Harry's heart filled with gratitude for the
privilege of this amazing girl, this wife, so passionate, so generous to his
need.
            "God, Hermione," he finally breathed, his eyes again on hers, his
attention returned to her question. "I don't know. How can I answer that?"
            "The other night, you said it was us," said Ron. "You think that's
it? Me an' Hermione, the heroes who saved the Wizarding World from a new 'Dark
Lord?'"
            "Or maybe it's more than that," said Hermione. "From the day you
turned eleven, Harry, after ten years of being taught that you were nothing,
you learned that you were...important. I don't mean, you know, The Boy Who
Lived, we three know that's rubbish. I mean...you were important to someone.
Hagrid cared about you, liked you, not because you were Harry Potter, but
because you were you: A little boy who'd once been a baby he'd doted on, and
carried to safety. You came here, you made a friend in Ron, and Dumbledore was
kind to you, nurtured you. I want to know more about what Tom Riddle's years
here were like. I want to know if anybody really cared about him. Maybe they
didn't. Maybe that made the difference."
            "And maybe he was just an evil git," said Ron. "Maybe he was just a
monster all along."
            Hermione frowned. "I don't like to think that, Ron. I don't want to
believe it. If that's all it is, then where is free will? Where is the power of
choice?"
            Harry nodded slowly. "It is our choices, more than our abilities,
that makes us what we are." Hermione's eyes and Ron's both regarded him with
some surprise. "It's something Dumbledore once told me."
            "He's a funny ol' man," mused Ron. "Y'know, I've been thinking a
lot 'bout...you know, that with the Ring, an' Sirius." Harry and Hermione
nodded. The miniature Cannons and Bats had landed on the floor between the
boys, and were entertaining themselves playing catch with a pebble that Harry
had shaken out of his left shoe when they'd first sat down on the floor.
            "He was so sad," murmured Hermione.
            "Yeah." Ron was quiet a moment. "It's like, before then, he was, he
was, I dunno.... He was a statue, you know? A hero-- No, not a hero, a hero's
guide, you know, the wise old man who tells the hero how to win, you know?"
            "But he's not, is he?" asked Harry. "He's.... He's a man. Just an
old man, who's doing the best he can. He's smart and he's wise, he's got power
and knows secrets I can't even imagine.... But he's just an old man, and he's
got pain and regrets for the mistakes he's made."
            "And so is Tom Riddle," Hermione said.
            Harry's jaw stiffened and eyes hardened. "Dumbledore is nothing
like Riddle!"
            "No, he's kind where Riddle is cruel, and wise where Riddle is
foolish.... But they're the same in this: Riddle's also just an old man. He's
immensely powerful, but he's not a monster. Just a frightened, sad old man."
            "I can't think that, Hermione," said Harry, quietly. "I have to
kill him. You know the prophecy: Neither can live while the other survives."
            "Well," Hermione replied tartly, "I guess if you want to surrender
your life and free will to some voice from the beyond, that's up to you, but as
we're stuck to you, I'd think we should at least be consulted!"
            Ron grinned back and forth between them. "Oh, cool! You two can row
and I can watch!"
            "Shut it, Ron," they both snapped at him, and he smiled happily.
            Harry turned back to his wife. "If I don't kill him, Hermione,
he'll kill me! Then where are you? Where are the other Muggle-borns? Where are
'Blood Traitors' like the Weasleys?"
            "Just because some mouldy old prophecy tells you you have to kill
him, that doesn't mean that you do, Harry," Hermione said. "You have to combat
him, yes, you have to beat him, have to stop him, have to end the threat he
poses...but I don't believe you have to kill to do it. I've never believed
that!"
            "Hermione, Dumbledore says--"
            "Dumbledore's just an old man who can make mistakes! Dumbledore
also says the Power the Dark Lord Knows Not is love!Harry, love and murder
don't mix! They just don't!"
            Harry opened his mouth to retort, then sat back, mouth still open,
and nothing issuing from it.
            "Ouch!" said Ron, happily. "I always wondered what that looks like
from the outside!"
            Harry and Hermione both turned hooded eyes on him. Ron's smile
widened.
            "See," he said, "this is about where I just go for the generic
insult, and she runs off to wank--" Hermione's foot smacked his head, and Harry
started laughing, and then Hermione, and the anger of the moment was gone.
            They laughed quietly and happily together for a while, and then
Harry turned again to his wife, his beautiful, brilliant wife, and said,
quietly, "You're right, Hermione. I'd never thought about it that way before,
but you're right. Dumbledore told me I don't have to be bound by the prophecy.
Told me I can choose."
            Hermione smiled back at him, and quietly said, in a passable
impression of the Headmaster's voice, "It is our choices, Harry, more than our
abilities, that makes us what we are."
            Harry stood, reaching down with one hand to guide Ron, rising and
bracketing Hermione on the bed. She lay back from her sitting position, holding
herself up on her elbows, and Harry smiled at her, reaching a confident hand
which sunk through the charmed fabric of her white linen uniform shirt and the
cotton bra beneath it to slide tenderly over the fluid-soft warmth of her
breast, fingers rumbling slowly as she liked across her nipple. "Then I
choose," Harry said quietly, "To start celebrating your birthday right now."
            Ron had moved behind her, and pressed himself against her, the
charmed fabric of their clothing ephemeral against the warmth of their loving
skin, and they were naked against each other as Harry's mouth darted down onto
hers.
===============================================================================
            Hermione's heart pounded in her breast like a trip hammer as she
fell back between her boys, her breath coming in a panting sigh. She looked
back and forth at the two larger bodies, sheened with sweat, at the two faces,
smiling, happy, eyes alight as they looked back at hers, and she was consumed
for a moment by her knowledge of her own good fortune, at the happy miracle of
the love of these two beautiful boys, brave and true and strong and impulsive
and everything she could ever, ever want. She let her attention turn inward
again, to the quivering of her muscles, the languid ache of her vagina and her
anus, both stretched and released by those beautiful cocks, both quietly
seeping out the seed of her husbands, and she smiled at the familiar, happy
ache that was the aftermath of their usual three-way lovemaking, and a thought
occurred to her, and the smile became a laugh.
            Harry cocked an inquiring eyebrow at her, and Hermione responded,
"It's just occurred to me how similar your birthday gift to me was to what
you're always after me to give to you!"
            Harry looked a bit abashed, and Ron laughed over at him. Hermione
had turned in time to see the fondness in his eyes as he said, "Don't be a
wanker. She loves it, you know she does! Didn't you just hear her begging us
for more of our mighty man-cocks?"
            Hermione flushed as her eyes dropped. "Oh, lord! I said that,
didn't I? I actually said 'Mighty man-cocks!'"
            Harry was laughing now. "I'm afraid you did, love. Don't worry. In
context, it was very sweet."
            "'Course, we still have to take the mickey out of you for it,"
added Ron.
            "Absolutely," agreed Harry.
            "It's a moral imperative," Ron supplied.
            Hermione lay her head back, groaning and laughing at the same time,
and then shivered slightly as Harry's gentle fingertips played with her left
nipple, stroking and tweaking it as he asked, very quietly, very seriously,
"What do you want, Hermione? Really? Whatever it is, this is your birthday, and
you've given us both so much."
            "Yeah," agreed Ron. "An' that's even before you used the phrase
'Mighty man-cocks!'"
            Hermione giggled, covering her face, and then sighed, letting
herself enjoy the touch of her boys' hands, casually loving on her body.
            "Nah, really, love," said Ron, quietly. "What would you like?
Really?"
            There was a moment's silence, and Hermione's voice, when it came,
was almost inaudible: "R-- Really?"
            She looked shyly over her hands at the boys, some part of her
enjoying the ridiculousness of shyness, lying naked between two boys whose seed
was still seeping from her anus and vagina.
            Ron and Harry exchanged a glance and grinned. "Yeah, love," said
Ron, and Harry finished the sentence: "Really."
            "I want..." Her voice trailed off, and she set her jaw, and
swallowed, and started again, her voice firm and determined: "I want to watch
you two shag."
            The two boys stared back at her, eyes wide, mouths hanging open.
            "Well, honestly," she huffed, "it's hardly like you haven't been
exploring the pleasures of physical intimacy between yourselves! There's no
reason to act all shocked now!"
            The boys' mouths closed, while their eyes remained wide, and they
turned slowly to stare at one another.
            "She does have a point," Harry finally said.
            "And she is a right little perv," Ron added. Harry nodded happily.
            Hermione stretched languidly, like a cat, lifting her pelvis and
her moist, shining center, still dripping their semen from two different
openings, and she growled, very low, "Yes, I am."
            "Jesus!" breathed Harry, while Ron whimpered, "Merlin!" then they
glanced at one another and chuckled.
            "Remember when she was all bookish an' proper an' by-the-rules an'
that?" mused Ron.
            "You mean the way she's going to be as soon as we walk out of this
room, mate?" asked Harry. "Don't you feel sorry for all those people who don't
know what a tigress hides under all that?"
            He leaned over and kissed her breast as Ron laughed again, low and
throaty. "No I bloody don't. She's all ours."
            Hermione looked back and forth between her boys again, drinking in
their want, their love, their desire, their admiration. Drinking in the way
they now knew every inch of her body and corner of her soul, and loved every
last bit of it.
            Harry turned to face his husband. "Do you want to fuck me, Ron? Do
you want to fuck my arse?"
            Ron and Hermione gasped as one.
            "Oh, mate..." Ron began, and Hermione said, "Harry, I thought you
would be shagging Ron. You're, you know.... Slenderer...."
            Harry looked disappointed. "Well..." he said, "If it's what you
prefer, Hermione...."
            She was shaking her head quickly as he spoke. "Harry! No, Harry,
no, it's up to the two of you! I just thought it would be easier."
            "Yeah, mate," began Ron, and Harry interrupted him with a kiss,
which, as always, drew a happy noise from Hermione.
            "I want to be fucked," Harry said as he drew away. "I want to be
filled. I want to feel what Hermione feels. I want you to fuck me, Ron. I want
you to fuck me hard."
            Ron smiled seriously at Harry. There was merriment in their eyes –
they'd both noticed the small sounds Hermione made every time Harry said "fuck"
– but a solemnity, as well. This, they both knew, was a new bond, an important
bond, as permanent and unbreakable in its own way as Nuptialis Unum.
            "All right, Harry," Ron finally said. "All right, then, I'll fuck
you."
            Hermione let out a little squeal of pleasure, and pushed herself up
toward the head of the bed, her legs apart, and feet stretched down by them,
touching their biceps as she moved a languid hand down to slide over her moist
center, her clitoris, still too sensitive from the shagging she'd had already,
and already tingling with her need and anticipation.
            Ron's hand slid over the curve of Harry's bum, down into its cleft,
then out again.
            "You know," said Ron, in a low voice, husky and fraught, that made
Harry's eyes widen and her own tingling sex pulse again, "I should really get
these fingers good and slick, don't you think?"
            He reached up to her, and Harry's eyes stayed fixed on his fingers
with atavistic fascination as he slid them, slowly, so slowly, up into her. She
sighed at the penetration, gentle and firm, of Ron's first two fingers, filling
her even though the two together were still slenderer than even Harry's cock.
He slid the fingers into her once, twice, thrice, and the low sound escaped
her, furtive and unbidden, and then his hand withdrew, slick fingers shining
with her sex, and he paused to wave them under Harry's nose, and she saw his
nostrils flare as he took in the scent, tongue licking his lips, and then Ron's
hand passed further back, and down again over one rounded cheek of Harry's
arse.
            The two fingers left a shining trail on the pale skin and then
disappeared again into the cleft. She watched Harry's eyes slide closed in
grateful pleasure, and then open again in surprise, and a low grunt forced out
of him.
            "Another!" Harry groaned.
            "But..." Ron's voice faltered back to normal. "I've only got two
ready--"
            "Another!"
            The cobalt blue eyes flickered up to lock for a moment with hers,
and Hermione glanced back down into Harry's eyes again, then nodded.
            Ron shifted his hand, and she saw Harry wince and then smile. "God,
Ron, I want you to fuck me!"
            She and Ron both made small noises at that, but Hermione closed her
eyes. "You have to work up to that," she murmured. "Remember what my father
told us."
            Harry's grin up at her was savage. "You know, Hermione, I love your
Dad and all, I really do, but I'm starting to think we shouldn't talk about him
quite so much during sex. I. Want. Ron's. Cock." He paused. "Now!"
            Ron groaned again, as Hermione gasped, and then he was moving
between Harry's legs, spreading them with his knees, then Harry's cheeks with
his hands. He glanced up at Hermione.
            "Can you see, love?"
            But all Hermione wanted to see were Harry's green eyes, and she
nodded, glancing up at Ron again, and he sidled closer, and leaned forward on
his left hand, guiding his cock with with his right.
            The sound that came from Harry had an edge of real pain, and a kind
of animal satisfaction as his eyes widened in a kind of happy shock, feeling
Ron's cock pressing into him, and he stared into Hermione's eyes.
            "Oh, fuck, Ron, oh, fuck, that's so good. Oh, fuck, you're inside
me Ron, you're in me, fuck me."
            Ron's right hand was helping hold him up too, and he lowered
himself to kiss Harry's shoulder as he drew back and thrust again, deeper and
harder, and Harry cried out "Yes!"
            Hermione felt empty, needy, and her fingers begin circling her
clitoris and pressing into her entrance again, part of her remembering all the
times she'd done that while seeing her boys together in her imagination. Had
the first time been in Third Year? She thought it had.
            "Fuck, mate," whispered Ron, "Merlin, Harry, I love you, you're so
tight. Oh, Godric, oh!"
            Harry's eyes wandered down from Hermione's, over her breasts,
lingeringly, down her belly to her fingers sliding into her, the ball of her
thumb rolling over her clit.
            "Bring that to me," he moaned. Ron thrust into him again, and he
grunted his pleasure. "I want it, I want to taste it, please Hermione."
            She slid down toward him, and he angled his head so that his mouth
met her vagina, his lips closing over the swollen clit in a tender kiss.
Another thrust from Ron moved his face against her sex, and she cried out and
thrust her hips back, pushing herself harder against his mouth, fucking it as
his tongue caressed her, and Ron hissed in amazement, "Oh, fuck!"
            Harry's mouth slid hard over her pussy with every thrust of Ron's
and she curled her fingers in his wild, black hair, hearing her own voice
moaning half-formed words of love and need. "Fuck me, Harry, fuck me with your
mouth."
            Ron grunted as he thrust again, building a rhythm, and then he
gasped, "He can fuck you with more than that, Hermione. If you want, I can fuck
him right into you!"
            "Oh, fuck!" cried Harry. "Oh, fuck, oh, yes, I want, Hermione, I
want Ron--" the name was a sharp grunt as he accepted another thrust "--to fuck
me into-- your sweet, sweet cunt!"
            "Oh, God!" she cried, already threading her legs under Harry's
arms, and he lifted himself and half-crawled, half rode the force of Ron's next
thrust, and she scooted down the bed to meet him, and Harry's cock slid hard
and fast into her on the wave of it, and she cried out, a bit of pain that was
pleasure, and Ron and Harry both gasped.
            She pulled Harry's mouth to hers, tasting her juices on his lips as
he kissed her, and Ron's thrust drove him into her again, deeper than before,
and she gasped. Then Ron was leaning down over Harry's shoulder, his face
nuzzling hers, and she turned her head to kiss him too, and then he was away,
then thrusting again, fucking Harry into her with tender savagery, and she
couldn't believe what she was feeling.
            Harry's cock routing within her with the force of Ron's thrusts
hurt even as it pleased, and she was honestly surprised to feel the tightening
and heat coiling within her.
            Then it was on her, red waves of lava-hot pleasure radiating out
through her from her hard-fucked center, her hands scrabbling at Harry's and
Ron's shoulders, and she felt Harry's cock spasm inside her, filling her with
his seed, and then Ron was crying out, "Love you, love you, love, love you,
mate," and Harry gasped, his eyes suddenly wide on hers.
            "That's what you feel," he murmured to her. "God, it's-- It's-- Oh,
God!"
            Then Ron collapsed bonelessly atop them, and she basked happily in
the pressure of their combined weight for the moments she could bear it, then
shoved at their shoulders, and they squirmed to lay on either side of her,
kissing her, kissing one another.
            On the carpet, the captain of the miniature Ballycastle Bats told
the toy Cannons' leader, "I think that's game." And they gathered into teams
and marched back into the open carton.
===============================================================================
            "Headmaster," said Hermione softly. "I think we need to know more
about Tom Riddle's school days. Harry's told us that the version from the Diary
seemed very confident and satisfied...but...was he? What was day-to-day life
like for him here at Hogwarts? Especially in his earlier years?"
            Dumbledore lifted a hand from his desk and touched it to his chin,
the knuckle of his index finger against his lips. "As I recall, he did not have
a happy first year," he said. He turned to Harry. "You were quite joyous to
encounter Hogwarts and magic, to learn that you were not alone, that there were
others like you. For young Tom, it was a very different thing. He had, for
years, in the orphanage, been special, indeed unique. His power gave him sway
over the other children, even some of the staff. He wasn't loved, or popular
there, but as is so tragically often the case, he had managed to convince
himself that being feared was just as good, that wielding power over others was
even better."
            "And then he was here," said Ron. "Where everybody could do magic,
and nobody was really impressed by it. It just took the pins right out from
under him, didn't it?"
            "Just so, Ronald. He quickly determined to make up for that by
learning more and better than other boys and girls his age. He was a formidable
student, quite brilliant in his way. But..." Dumbledore paused.
            "But the other students," Hermione murmured, "felt he was currying
favor with the adults, or, worse, making them look bad in comparison, and
shunned him. So all his hard work and study and effort, instead of gaining him
acceptance, ended up isolating him still further."
            "And you, sir?" asked Harry. "You and the other teachers?"
            Dumbledore sighed deeply. "We failed him, of course. I know that I
attempted to reach out to him, and was more than once rebuffed. I know other
teachers had the same experience. But I don't believe any of us tried as hard
as we ought. He was a dark little boy with sometimes savage impulses, and I
know, for myself, that I felt repelled by that darkness. As much as I wanted to
help guide him away from it, I also did not crave his company. We... I failed
him."
            They sat silent, for a while, in the softly-lit office.
            Finally Dumbledore sighed. "He is very much our failure. My
failure. Had I made a greater effort to reach him, to include him, to encourage
others to include him, he might perhaps have learned that love has value. He
might not be...." The silence gathered again, like an almost palpable force,
which the sudden, harsh rasp of Dumbledore's voice seemed to buttress, rather
than breaking it. "But he is," Dumbledore whispered, his voice bitter with
regret. "He is."
===============================================================================
            It was nearly midnight when they arrived back at Gryffindor Tower,
and the common room was dark and quiet. They almost missed the stout, nearly
still form with its back to them, in the wingchair by the fire, until the sound
of the turning page drew their eyes. The fingers holding the book were pudgy
and familiar, and the page they could see was beautifully illustrated with a
moving painting of a Flitterbloom capturing a mosquito.
            "Wait," Hermione murmured to the boys, and moved toward the chair,
trailing them along behind. Neville Longbottom looked up at her as they
arrived, shrugging a little guiltily.
            "I'm sorry," he told them. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
            "Shhhhh...." said Hermione quietly, and perched on the arm of the
chair beside him. "You didn't disturb anyone." Ron reached and pulled over two
smaller chairs for himself and Harry. "I just saw you over here reading, and I
wanted to see you."
            He blinked at her for a moment, before finally asking, "Er... why?"
            But it was Ron who answered. "Because you're pretty bloody amazing,
Neville, and Miss 'Talk About Your Feelings' here doesn't think we've told you
that enough." Hermione turned to scowl at him, but instead her mouth dropped
open in amazement as he finished, "And you know what? Neither do I. You're a
great friend to us, Neville."
            Neville's cheeks pinkened. "No... I'm a bit of a waste, really. I
know that."
            "Neville!" Harry's voice was firm, almost angry. "I don't want to
hear rubbish like that! You're our friend, and you've put up with a lot from
us. You may not think we appreciate it, but we do."
            Neville actually squirmed in his seat, as if uncertain whether he
wanted to melt or bask in their words.
            "And besides that," Hermione said, "You're very sweet as well." She
leaned in and kissed his cheek, holding her palm against the other to keep his
face within reach. He turned his gaze up to her eyes for a long moment, then
away again, and she ruffled his hair. "Now tell me," she asked, "what are you
reading about?"
            His eyes lit, and his expression was immediately animated.
"Flitterbloom! You know, it's actually a very close relative of Devil's Snare.
Well, I was reading in Kiwi Herbology Journalthat in Tazmania, there's a farm
where they breed a kind of hybrid that can constrain a creature without harming
it at all! They're using it as fencing for a hippogriff ranch. Anyway, this one
grower, a fellow named Jackson, thinks they can be trained..."
            It was almost two before they all got to bed, and Harry, Ron, and
Hermione knew far more than they ever thought they had wanted to about
Flitterbloom plants.... But they were nowhere near bored.
 
***** Chapter Twenty-Six - "...Inside an Enigma" *****
                  Chapter Twenty-Six - "...Inside an Enigma" 
===============================================================================
            Hermione shifted her back against the sofa in the common room,
drawing in her legs to let Dean and Seamus pass without tripping, and Ron's
flaccid penis slid against her neck and lay warm against her skin, over her
shoulder. She gathered her robe a little closer at the throat, a wicked smile
playing with the right corner of her mouth. She was fully dressed, all three of
them were. Ron was slouched on the sofa, reading his Transfiguration
assignment, with Harry beside him, sitting sideways on the couch, his bare feet
against Ron's hip. She was sitting in front of Ron on the floor, where he from
time to time used her head as a handy work surface, balancing his textbook
there while he turned pages, jotted down notes, and took the occasional nibble
on his liquorice wand. The nape of her neck lay against his crotch, providing
warm, firm support, but the charmed fabric of their uniforms was causing this
not-entirely-unwelcome distraction. His penis had stiffened and then softened
four times in the hour and a half or so they'd sat like that, and he
occasionally reached down and stroked her hair tenderly as he read.
            She shifted her shoulders a bit, feeling his member sliding against
her, and heard Harry's low chuckle. She glanced over at him, and immediately
blushed at the amused glitter in his eyes. He stretched his neck, then rubbed
his cheek against his shoulder, as if using it to stroke an invisible kitten
sitting there, and she felt her face heat further. He tilted his head over,
made an odd, near-nodding gesture with his mouth open, and she could almost
feel and taste Ron's soft cock sliding into her mouth and stiffening there, and
a deep, needy shudder ran through her as she blushed.
            Harry's expression was suddenly bland and he was turning a page of
Goshawk's “Standard Book of Spells” as Neville passed, smiling and nodding down
at them, and then, as soon as his back was turned, Harry tilted his head again,
his tongue sliding slowly along the air at his shoulder, his green eyes never
leaving hers. She actually felt the dampness seeping into her knickers.
            It was possible. That was one of the things that was now driving
her mad. Within their charmed clothing, it would be perfectly possible to turn
her head and lick the stout, flaccid cock resting on her shoulder, perfectly
possible to draw it into her mouth, at least for a stroke, right here in the
middle of the Gryffindor Common Room, and no-one would be the wiser. The
presence of Ron's cock seemed to tingle against her jaw, calling for her head
to turn, for her mouth to open, and she stood suddenly, practically barking the
command, “Come on!”
            Ron started, as if suddenly waking, and stood, gathering his books
obediently, and Harry was already sliding and swivelling to his feet, and they
followed her brisk stride toward their suite's half-open door.
            “Need the loo?” asked Ron casually, and was taken aback when she
snapped at him, “Shush!”
            Ron glanced over to Harry, his eyes a desperate plea – What did I
do!?!?!? – and Hermione gestured them in the door ahead of her, and then
slammed the door shut behind her. As soon as it was closed she spun toward Ron,
her hands fisting in the grey cotton of his jumper, spinning him and smashing
him back against the wall.
            “Hermione, what--?” was as far as he got before she'd pulled open
his belt and button, with a single swift gesture, and sunk to her knees as she
jerked his grey twill trousers and pants savagely down.
            His blue eyes widened as his puzzled frown began to invert itself,
and then Hermione had leaned forward, drawing him into her mouth. She loved the
taste of Ron, not so different than taste of his cheek or hand, but muskier. As
always, she was sort of surprised by how he filled her mouth, and as always,
she felt her own blood sing in her veins as his filled his cock. She loved to
feel it thicken, lengthen, stiffen, but even more she loved the way it warmed
as the blood filled it, seeming hotter than his actual body temperature.
            She drew her mouth back, long and slow, sliding her lips back over
his shaft, then leaned into him again, sliding the head of his cock against the
roof of her mouth. She felt, more than heard, Harry sliding to the floor, his
back against the door's wooden slats, leaving his feet stretched out ahead of
him, only the left brushing against her ankle.
            His groan, though, she heard, and smiled around Ron's cock. Ron's
long fingers were sliding along the crown of her head, now, tangling in her
hair, and she felt a pulse of excitement at his need, at the way he fought his
own impulse to guide her head, trying to respect her desire to do this her way
while still wanting, needing, to simply thrust into her mouth.
            She leaned back away from him, looked up into still-startled blue
eyes. “Go ahead,” she breathed. “Sometimes I like to be an artist, but today?
Today I just want the Boy Who Teased over here to see you fuck my face. Go
ahead, Ron. Fuck me. Fuck my swotty mouth 'til you fill it with your seed.”
            “Oh, God,” Harry moaned, and although she heard his zip, she didn't
spare him a glance, leaning forward to engulf Ron's stout cock. She felt Ron's
fingers fisting in her hair, and he thrust into her mouth, and she sucked and
licked as he simply fucked, fucked her mouth like he did her pussy, and through
his happy groans, she heard Harry's breath quicken, heard his hand and cock, a
light slap-slap-slap sound as he masturbated, and she felt her sex, hot and
wet, sticking her knickers to her, as Ron's thick cock thrust into her, again
and again.
            “Oh!” Ron's voice was surprise and understanding all in one moment
of happy discovery. “You like this, mate? We're your own living porno, right
here before your eyes. Wank to us, mate, wank to us while I fuck our girl's
mouth!”
            Hermione groaned around Ron's cock at that. “Ah.” Ron's voice held
another layer of happy discovery. “You like that, don't you, Hermione? You like
Harry watching, don't you, love?”
            Hermione moaned and nodded as she sucked him and Ron thrust again
into her mouth.
            “Hear that, mate?” Ron's voice as he spoke to Harry was low and
rough. “She likes you wanking to us. She loves it! You did it before, too,
didn't you? You imagined our proper little Hermione with her mouth full of my
cock, and you fucked your own hand, didn't you? Last year? Before that?”
            “Yule Ball,” Harry managed to groan as he pumped at himself.
            “Hear that, love?” Ron's voice was hoarse. The rhythm of his
thrusts grew slower, but no less firm. “Hear what he thought of? You in your
gorgeous blue gown, us all rowing with each other, all heat an' passion an'
jealousy, an' then Harry's got his cock in his hand, imagining you on your
knees in your blue dress robes, sucking my cock as he strokes his. Were you
watching, Harry? In your fantasy? Were we right there in the common room,and
you skulking in some dark corner, maybe under your cloak, fucking your hand and
biting your lip so we wouldn't hear you there as you watched her suck my cock?”
            On the last three words he thrust harder, too hard, and she gagged
a bit, and backed off for air. He glanced down at her, concerned, and she
smiled, a tigress of want, and fairly leapt again onto his glistening cock. His
grip in her hair tightened, and he thrust again, hard, once, twice, thrice, and
she felt him twitch and spasm in her mouth as the jism erupted from his cock,
salty-smoky on her tongue, and she leaned away, her mouth open, letting his
seed drip from it as the second spurt splashed onto her face and a failing
third onto her neck and the collar of her robes, and Harry moaned in a tone
almost like despair, “Ooooohh.... God.....”
            She sat back away from Ron, onto her heels, let her robes slide
back off of her onto the floor, and pulled up the pleated grey skirt. The dark,
shining line of moisture, its outlines fuzzy as it seeped into the fabric, was
clearly visible against the white of her plain, charmed, cotton knickers.
            “Oooohhh....?” Harry's moan sounded almost like a question, and his
hand sped as he pulled and jerked at his hard, straight cock. Hermione spared
him only a glance, but looked back up at Ron.
            “My turn,” she told him. “My turn to come now.”
            He grinned again as he sank to his knees. “I don't know about
Harry,” he told her, licking his lips, “But I used to fuck my hand dreaming of
doing this. Dreaming of tasting you and fucking you with my mouth, and feeling,
seeing you, hearing you, coming for me. Oh, yes.”
            She groaned aloud even as Harry moaned, “Me, too.... Watch you....
God!”
            Ron didn't even bother to pull down her knickers at first, just
leaned down and licked, aiming for that wet stripe.
            The tingle of magic from the charmed fabric was like a pleasant
electrical vibration against her sex as Ron's mouth and nose sank through it,
and then he was licking her, his tongue travelling in long, slow, licks up the
length of her vagina, and he hooked his elbows around her knees and reached
over, his thumbs finding skin instead of cotton, and opening her to his tongue,
so it could run along each crease, circling her plump clitoris at the top of
each stroke. He turned his left hand more sideways, holding her open with his
thumb and forefinger, so the middle two fingers of his right hand could slide
up into her, feeling for that gently pebbled flesh he know so well, while the
top pad of his palm held her clit toward him like a jewel on a pillow, there
under the wet white cotton, waiting for his eager lips.
            He closed his lips over her clit in a gently sucking kiss,
listening to her cries and Harry's harsh panting, and then another and another
and another. He let the heel of his left hand press gently inward, putting more
pressure on that spot his fingertips stroked so deep inside her, and he kissed
and kissed and kissed her clitoris. Hermione's head was thrashing from side to
side, her eyes fluttering closed then opening again.
            She felt herself gushing into his mouth, over and under his
fingers, and she bucked her centre against his mouth, even though the extra
pressure was almost too much, too much, and she heard Harry moan “Eat her, Ron,
drink her come, lick her! Eat her!”
            Her head snapped toward his again, her eyes opening, to meet, lock
with his green ones, and Ron's hands squeezed again towards one another, as his
lips sucked and released, and she made the smallest of sounds in her throat and
Harry's cock erupted a white jet of semen that splashed his thighs and knees
and then her world was lost in an electric explosion from her centre, clitoris
and Grafenberg spot both releasing at once, and she knew she was crying out,
but she didn't know what, nor how loudly, and Harry was moaning, “Yes, fuck,
oh, God, fuck, yes....”
            She let herself collapse to the floor, and Ron smiled down at her,
for a long moment, before he turned to Harry. “Mate, I don't know what you were
doing to her out there... But thanks!”
            Harry's grin back was sly and savage, as he reached for his wand to
Scourgify.
            “Don't mention it,” he said.
            Hermione moaned, low and sweet and sated, but then moved, squirmed
across the floor to take Harry in her arms.
            “You know that's not it anymore, right, Harry?” she asked.
            “What's not what, Love?” he asked, but Ron noticed that his eyes
looked a bit shifty.
            “You're not on the outside, Harry,” said Hermione quietly. “You're
not alone, not hiding in the corner watching me with Ron.” She took his hand
and moved it down to her still-moist centre, speaking quietly and earnestly
even as she slid his middle two fingers into herself. “This is yours, love.
Every bit as much as it's Ron's.” She pulled his hand up to her face, and
lapped slowly at his sex-slicked ring finger. “I'm yours, now and forever,
every bit as much.”
            She moved his hand, now, to his own lips, and his eyes slowly
closed again as he slid the middle finger into his mouth. “Taste us, Harry,”
she told him, “taste us both, because we're yours.”
===============================================================================
            Harry jack-knifed forward over the common-room table, sending his
and Ron's pieces running for cover and leaping from the chessboard.
            “Harry!” cried Neville, leaping from the wing-chair, as Dean and
Seamus spun to look. Ron had already moved to hold him, one arm around him so
he could firmly grip both his shoulders, as he scrabbled for his forehead.
Hermione picked his glasses from the table, and leaned toward him, running the
fingers of her left hand through his hair.
            He looked up a moment later, still grimacing, holding his palms
pressed to his scar, to see what seemed to be the whole of Gryffindor
surrounding him, staring wide-eyed down at him, and he hissed between gritted
teeth, “I'm fine!”
            “Oh, sure, you are!” cried Dean, rolling his eyes. “Any fool can
see that!”
            Hermione was gently pulling on Harry's wrists drawing his hands
away from his forehead so she could lean in and press a gentle kiss onto his
scar.
            Somewhere, Lavender Brown hissed, “Oh, now that's disgusting! Does
she have to do that right in front of ev—Oww!”
            Ginny Weasley stepped through the crowd, helping to block the view
of Harry, and Neville grinned and stood beside her, facing back into the room,
spreading his robes wide with his hands. He looked down at Seamus, and he and
Dean turned and took up positions, spreading their robes as well, creating a
semicircular space in which Hermione and then Ron pressed kiss after kiss onto
Harry's scar, as he breathed deeply, his eyes closed again, clearly recovering
a bit more with each touch of his spouses' lips.
            Ron's hand was gripping his shoulder, strong, firm... there, as he
always would be, not through the magic of Nuptialis Unum, but through the
older, truer magic of love too deep for romance or friendship, love that was at
the core of everything he felt.
            Finally, Harry gently moved them away from himself, enough to give
him room to stand, and his voice was strong and firm when he spoke. “Come on.
We have to go see Professor Dumbledore, right away!”
===============================================================================
            “He was glad, thrilled,” Harry was telling the headmaster, “and
even then, even so, he was raging, angry to be there at all. Like he'd have
just as soon killed every last one of them as released them. Like he hates
them.”
            “He does, Harry.” Dumbledore's voice was gentle and sad. “Tom hates
to be dependent. He hates them because he needs them. Hates them because he
fears them, because if he needs them, they have power over him. It's a sad and
lonely thing, Harry, to be Tom Riddle. He'll never have the strength you have,
because he can't stand to truly need others.”
            When they'd arrived at Dumbledore's office, perhaps twenty minutes
before, the words had been spilling from Harry in a rush: “He's on the move!
Attacking, killing, it's hard to see, he's so charged up!”
            Dumbledore had conjured a sofa for them, a perfect replica of the
Grangers' sofa – now safely ensconced in their quarters in the Teachers' Wing –
and produced large mugs of hot cocoa. “Sit down, please. Drink.”
            “But, Professor!” Harry's eyes and voice were frantic. “Please,
he's-- They're--”
            “It's all right, Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly. “It's already
happened, hasn't it?”
            Harry shuddered, sinking down onto the couch, his husband and wife
on either side of him. “Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, it's done now.”
            “Very well, then.” Dumbledore gestured with a mug of steaming
cocoa, the whipped cream on top already melting. “Relax, drink. A frantic mind
is a disorderly mind, and I need you thinking as clearly as possible. Just
drink.” He looked back and forth. “You, too, you two. You, too.”
            Ron took his mug, and brought it to his lips. He quaffed, and the
sigh as he lowered the mug was one of calm well-being. “Go on, Mate,” he said.
“He's right, you need to calm down and think it all through.”
            Hermione sipped contemplatively at her cocoa, and Harry finally
followed them, drinking deeply, and exhaling the steam. Finally he looked up at
his headmaster and spoke. “I think they attacked Azkaban, Professor. Riddle,
and as many of his Death Eaters as he had out free. And-- Professor, the
Dementors went with him! It was-- It was horrible, a massacre! They were
Kissing guards, and Kissing some of the prisoners, as well, collecting others
to join them. I think they killed a lot of people!”
            Dumbledore was on his feet again, trotting to a wall of portraits.
“Armando, if you'd be so kind as to visit Auror Headquarters? Thank you. Dylis,
perhaps the Minister's office? And Phineas Nigellus, I would be grateful indeed
if you would visit Grimmauld Place, and alert Remus Lupin.”
            The portrait of Headmaster Armando Dippet merely nodded and walked
calmly but swiftly off to his right. Dylis Derwent cried “But of course,
Albus!” before doing likewise. Phineas Nigellus Black nodded sagely, glanced
sidelong at Harry, then walked off to his left.
            It was Dylis Derwent who returned first. “Headmaster!” she cried,
and Dumbledore turned toward her portrait. “Minister Scrimgeour has confirmed
it. Tom Riddle has led the Dementors in an attack on Azkaban, and freed all of
the Death Eaters. Every last human guard was Kissed or killed, and many of the
other prisoners as well! It's a massacre, a catastrophe! Oh, Albus!”
            There was a scramble amongst frames and Dexter Fortescue stepped in
to take Derwent's hand, cooing, “There, there, Dylis. Chin up!”
            Dumbledore nodded gravely. “If you would, Dylis, St. Mungo's needs
to be informed.”
            “Of course, of course,” she murmured, and shuffled from her frame.
            No sooner had she gone than Armando Dippet was storming back into
his frame. “The treacherous blackguards! The Aurors are on the way, Albus! 
This is an outrage! The ministry has housed and fed the Dementors for
centuries!”
            “Yeah, well, maybe that's the problem,” snarled Harry, “with making
deals with something that evil!”
            Hermione gasped. Dippet's head snapped up to his, and Fortescue
glanced up from Dylis Derwent's frame.
            “The lad makes a good point,” said Fortescue, and Dippet nodded,
grunting. “Perhaps so.”
            “Ah, yes!” Phineas Nigellus had just returned to his frame in time
to catch that last. “All hail the moral purity that will go down in flames for
the satisfaction of never having sullied its hands!” He turned to Dumbledore.
“Your message has been delivered, and Mr. Lupin says he's alerting the Order.”
            The door burst open, and Phineas Nigellus' last scion burst in,
crying “Is it true? Albus, is it true?”
            Dumbledore's voice was quiet, and very sad. “Yes, Sirius, I fear it
is. The loss of life will be... Fearsome.” He looked up at the solemn, dark
man. “I fear we no longer have a choice. Will you start gathering the
ingredients?”
            Sirius nodded gravely, reaching with one hand to squeeze Harry's
shoulder. “Of course, sir. I'll start immediately.”
            “What, sir?” asked Harry, his glance moving back and forth between
Headmaster and godfather. “Ingredients for what?”
            Dumbledore's face dipped for a moment before it rose, to regard
Harry coolly. “For a last resort I'd hoped never to face. One so horrible...”
he paused. “Harry, do you understand how the Horcruxes work?”
            “Well, with parts of Riddle's soul outside his body, he can't be
killed...”
            “Because those parts of his soul anchor him to this corporeal
world, Harry. Between the soul fragments and Tom Riddle are magical
connections. They are like anchors holding a ship, and that can only work if
there are anchor chains. But chains have two ends: One end at the anchor, at
the Horcrux... And one end at the ship itself. We've been attempting to sever
the chains by destroying Horcruxes, but if we can't find all six of them, where
are we? We are lost! The answer, then, is to sever the connections at Tom
himself.”
            “How would we do that?” asked Hermione.
            Ron sat forward and answered. “The same way we destroyed the
locket,” he said, hoarsely. “Maltrucido Flammaria.”
            Dumbledore nodded, as Sirius patted Ron's shoulder. “Just so,
Ronald, just so. You understand, I trust, why I'd hoped to avoid that.”
            “Merlin!” Ron moaned. “It's horrible to think about. How do we
douse him? Some variation of Aguamenti that sprays that stuff instead of
water?”
            It was Sirius who answered that, his tone casual enough to cause a
shudder to run through Hermione. “No, we considered that, but it gives Riddle a
direction to run, unless we can circle him, and I'm not a big fan of the
circular-firing-squad as a strategy.” His tone became grave. “We're going to
brew a vat of the stuff, a huge vat, prefect's-bath-sized, enough to englobe
him, and banish it to a...a holding space, for want of a better word.” He
looked to Harry. “When the time comes, you'll conjure it around him.”
            Harry closed his eyes and shuddered, imagining the scene, Riddle's
red, reptilian eyes round in surprise as he finds himself within a vast blob,
of steaming, corrosive, sulphurous, horrific death; imagining the green flames
turning on the pale flesh, corroding, dissolving, burning and eating the
slender body as the high, piping voice shrieked. Would the sound of his screams
escape? Would he and Ron and Hermione hear his cries? Or would they be
smothered in the foulness of the dark potion?
            Ron's fingers, closing over his shoulder, brought him from this
awful reverie, and he glanced up at his husband, then past him at his wife,
whose face was closed, and mouth compressed into a thin line.
            “I actually,” said Sirius, softly, “feel much as you do, Clever
Boots.”
            Her eyes leapt up to his, flashing. “I doubt that!”
            “Don't,” said Sirius Black. “It's terrible, terrible. But what
choice has he left us? With his Horcruxes spread about, and some of them
unknown...” He paused, looked long into Hermione's eyes. “It's his own magic,
his own evil, that has taken away any more humane options. He's forced us into
this monstrous step. It's all that he's left us.”
===============================================================================
            The three young Gryffindors were still sombre when Professor
Dumbledore invited them back to meet with him in his office four days later.
The headmaster was equally solemn as he greeted them, and showed them to chairs
by his Pensieve.
            “I had planned,” he told them, “to show you memories of a house-
elf, which persuaded me that one of the Horcruxes would prove to be a cup
belonging to Helga Hufflepuff. After we spoke about Tom's youth, though, and
his days here, I've decided to share something rather different with you,
instead.”
            Soon the four of them stood in a semicircle within a memory. Unlike
the other experiences they'd had within the Pensieve, this seemed strange and
unreal. Only the three central figures, two small boys and a small girl, were
clear. Furniture and surroundings were blurred, mostly appearing in monochrome,
and walls were foggy shadows. “This,” Dumbledore told them gravely, “is a
memory within a memory. It is from my own memory of an interview this past
August with a very old Muggle gentleman named Dennis Bishop. He is in a coma
now, in a nursing home, and was then, but we were able to arrive at... A
meeting of the minds, shall we say?”
            “Do you mean Legilimency, sir?” asked Hermione.
            Dumbledore's nod was solemn. “Mr. Bishop's conscious mind was
unable to grant me consent,” he murmured, “But his unconscious welcomed me
gladly. In his boyhood, he lost his parents to Influenza in 1929, and lived in
the same orphanage as young Tom Riddle. You'll recall that, on one trip to the
seaside, Tom disappeared with two students for several hours, and, when they
returned, both the students, a boy and a girl, were withdrawn. Neither was ever
quite right again.”
            “I remember, sir,” said Harry, quietly.
            “Mr. Bishop was that little boy. I do not know what transpired on
that day. Mr. Bishop's mind shies away from it so powerfully that I was not
able to see it, nor feel more than a sense of deep, soul-deep, horror. But I
did gather other impressions of Tom during their boyhood together in the
orphanage.”
            One of the two boys in the memory began speaking, his voice
excited, his eyes electric. “That's the way to be! Did you see? Did you see how
he killed that interfering fool in his car?”
            The girl's voice when she spoke seemed muffled, as if she was
speaking under a pillow, and her face gathered in clarity as her voice did,
then blurred into insubstantial mistiness: “Don't be a fool, Tom! It's a
chapterplay! He didn't kill him, if we could go back next week, we could see
how the hero escapes the car!”
            The dark-haired, dark-eyed boy stared her down with withering
contempt. “The car went off the cliff, and exploded. He never left the car. He
is dead. He was a buffoon, and he's dead. He never stood a chance! Did you see
the way those henchmen cringed? Did you see the way he killed the one who
displeased him? That is how you get power! That is how you keep it, make
everybody afraid to displease you! Then you'll be in control! Then you'll be
safe!”
            “It's only a movie, Tom,” murmured the other boy, smaller, fairer,
and the dark-haired boy spun toward him, literal bolts of lightning flashing
from his eyes.
            “Silence!” the boy Tom Riddle barked, and the hand he raised to
strike the other boy was quite literally the size of a piano.
            As it fell toward the upturned face, the four observers felt
themselves falling, tumbling, upwards, and then they were standing in a
cavernous space full of children and long tables, clattering silverware and
creaking chairs.
            Hermione glanced over at the Headmaster. “It wasn't really this
big, was it, Professor?”
            Dumbledore's head shook gently. “Quite so, Miss Granger. I stood in
the room myself, and it seated about fifty. But in young Dennis Bishop's mind,
it was a vast space indeed.”
            “It's spaghetti day!” cried young Dennis, his voice high with
excitement, as he rushed to take a tray and join the line at the counter. A
kindly woman in a greyish apron served a heap of steaming pasta with watery red
sauce onto Dennis' plate, and he gleefully turned and charged back toward his
table.
            Tom Riddle was watching with cold contempt.
            “What's he so mad at?” asked Ron.
            Dumbledore opened his mouth to reply, but Harry was already
speaking. “He's happy. Not Riddle. Dennis. Look at him, look how happy, how
excited he is.” He looked up at Dumbledore. “Quite the pasta lover, our Dennis
Bishop, eh?”
            Dumbledore nodded sadly. “For a little while yet.”
            Tom Riddle was staring at Dennis with furious concentration as the
smaller boy sat at the table, and began happily rolling steaming noodles onto
his fork. Dumbledore gestured with a hand, and they noticed a small blond girl,
about Dennis' age, watching Riddle with equally hooded eyes.
            Suddenly, Dennis was screaming, shrieking, and they turned quickly
back to him. Piled high on his plate now, instead of pasta, were a steaming,
writhing tangle of grey-brown earthworms. The slithered around in their tangle,
some plopping from the edges of the plate; Their heads quested blindly from the
fork they were twirled around, and, most horribly of all, there were two, one
still alive and flailing, hanging from the corner of Dennis' mouth. He screamed
again, spitting, pushing the bowl away from himself, while his table-neighbours
also began to scream, staring at him, at his plate. A much older girl spun away
and vomited in a watery red jet of noodles and sauce onto the floor.
            Tom Riddle's lips twitched into contemptuous smirk, and he watched
with quiet satisfaction until a small hand had grabbed his elbow, and spun him
to face her wrath.
            It was the little blond girl, and she spat her angry words into
Riddle's incredulous face. “You did that! You did! You're a horrible, filthy,
awful little boy, and it's no wonder that nobody likes you, and nobody will
ever adopt you!”
            He finally found his voice, and his words were a sibilant hiss,
vicious and violent. “Have a care, Amy Benson! Or would you like some of the
same?”
            “You don't scare me, Tom Riddle! You're a beast! Poor Dennis! That
was the only thing that ever really made him happy, and now you've ruined it
for him, forever!”
            Riddle was leaning savagely in toward her, and his words seemed
birthed in sulphur: “I should scare you, little sow! Soon enough, I'll teach
you that!”
            She did blanch then, stepped slowly back a step, then two, before
turning to run away.
            Riddle screamed after her: “I don't need them to like me! I don't
need anybody! Not you, not some grown-ups! I am enough! I, alone, am all I
need!”
===============================================================================
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