Confrontations and Confidences

After spending two days in the company of the Dementor, Harry’s brain was very nearly numb. Though at first he had been able to summon up the positive energy necessary to create his Patronus, over the last several hours it had taken an incredible effort to produce each one. He had exhausted his joyful thoughts and felt nothing but his own physical and mental fatigue, so much so that he couldn’t even register the relief of arriving at his destination. Here, finally, was the departure point of the Azkaban prison rafts. Where a Muggle would have seen a rotting dock and rusted gates, Harry saw a hut-like guard’s station and the silhouettes of two wizards conferring at the water’s edge. They were pointing to something that seemed to be in flight, far off across the water.

Harry drew a deep breath and gathered the last reserves of his happiness. He concentrated on the moment last Christmas when he and Hermione had found Ron, still alive. He was almost there.

"Expecto Patronum!"

The men at the water’s edge looked up sharply, and, through a haze of exhaustion, Harry saw Mad-Eye Moody raise his wand. In moments, Moody had taken the Dementor off of Harry’s hands - Harry watched, barely able to stay on his broom, as Moody drove the creature squarely into the center of a prison raft.

"Keep him out there for me, lad," he barked to the young, redheaded wizard beside him. Dimly, Harry recognized Charlie Weasley, who raised his wand at once and waded into the Atlantic to hold the Dementor at bay.

Now it was done. Relieved of his burden, Harry landed at once, though the instant he let down his guard, he felt the full effects of the Dementor wash over him. He stood on shaking legs, barely able to keep hold of the Firebolt. Moody made straight for him.

"What happened?"

Harry merely shook his head, not feeling capable of coherent speech.

"Come on," Moody prodded gruffly after a moment. "Got to know, Harry. Find the Dementor wandering, did you?"

Harry nodded, and made himself summarize. "It came onto the... Cannons Quidditch pitch. At the tryouts. Two days ago."

Moody surveyed Harry carefully. "Took it on yourself to bring it up here?" Harry didn’t answer. After a moment, Moody nodded. "No choice, was there? Others weren’t keen on taking an ugly responsibility." He gave a sigh of disgust and clapped Harry on the shoulder. "You did the only thing. Now get in that guard station and lie down."

"I have to get back to...Stagsden."

"On what steam, boy? Can’t Apparate long distances in your condition." Moody gave a growling chuckle and turned Harry around by his shoulder. "Hell, you look like you’d be splinched just going across the street."

Numbly, Harry allowed the old Auror to steer him into the guard station, where he very gratefully sank onto a cot and leaned forward on his knees, shivering. Moody provided him with water and a huge slab of chocolate – "Get your strength up" – and, after extracting a promise from Harry that he wouldn’t try Disapparating until he’d had a real rest, Moody went back to the business of returning the escaped Dementor to Azkaban.

Left alone, Harry exhaled and tried to straighten up. Automatically he reached for the chocolate. He didn’t want it, but his body demanded it – he felt as though he had been soaked in a tank of ice water. Two days alone with a Dementor had chilled him to his bones and chocolate was the only way to get warm again. He bit into it, feeling sick to his stomach at the mouthful of sweetness, though he also took some measure of relief from the immediate heat that was restored to his blood. His veins seemed to thaw and his heart to start beating. Feeling as if he were made entirely of rubber, Harry collapsed down on his side. His eyes blurred and fell shut.

But what the chocolate had done for his body, nothing could do for his mind. The instant his eyes closed, he began to see images – pictures – on the insides of his eyelids. He choked and dug his face into the pillow, trying to blot them out. It didn’t work at all – Harry’s thoughts were as dark and nightmarish as his memories could make them – the Dementor’s presence had plunged him into a world where it was beyond painful to exist, and the pictures reeled ceaselessly through his brain. His mother’s frantic pleas... Cedric Diggory’s final request... Dumbledore, asking to die.... Hermione’s sobs, when she had received word of the attack on her parents... his own fear-maddened state when he had received the news of Ron’s abduction... then came the sickening flash of green light that had taken Hagrid’s life, followed by the hellish news of Percy Weasley’s murder – and Ginny, stepping between his own body and Lucius Malfoy’s curse, screaming for her father...

His brain recoiled from so much guilt and horror. Harry moaned and rolled up against the cold wall, as if it offered some escape. He pressed his forehead against it, wanting only to shut out the images, shut out the thoughts.

Almost at once, the strength of his exhaustion overtook the tumult in his mind. Fatigue dragged him headlong into a welcome blackness. Mercifully, as the sound of ocean waves crashing beyond the door drowned out the screaming in his head, Harry went unconscious.

*

He woke in darkness, but someone had a light – beside him, in the chair, someone was reading a letter by the beam of a wand. Harry couldn’t see who it was. He sat up at once, disoriented, feeling urgently for his glasses.

"Here."

Harry felt the glasses being stuck into his hand. Hurriedly he fixed them to his nose, and the first clear sight that met him was Charlie Weasley, a massive, crooked grin stretched across his freckled face as he lighted the lamps in the guard station.

Somehow, the sight cheered Harry.

"Hey, Charlie," he croaked. "Wh’time is it?"

"Nine. You’ve slept about twelve hours. Reckon you deserved it, doing what you did." Charlie’s face went a bit more serious. "You okay?"

Harry shrugged, and changed the subject. "I thought you lived in London now, with Bill."

"I do. But there’s sort of a test being done. We’re seeing what we can do with dragons, against the Dementors."

"Dragons?" Harry repeated, swinging his legs off the cot and shaking the fog from his head. He needed to get back to Stagsden. Nobody knew where he was.

"Yeah," Charlie answered earnestly, "I think they might be very effective - well, it was really my assistant’s idea, but I agree. They’ve got a lot of natural energy, dragons. It could be the sort of thing that makes this twenty-four hour Patronus business obsolete."

Harry nodded, not really listening. "Hey, Charlie – did anybody tell Sirius or anyone that I was here?"

Charlie shook his head. "Couldn’t get to anyone from here. Moody’s out dealing with everything on the island and Sirius hasn’t been up here since the move to Culparrat – he’s either in Wales or London, I expect. There’s no fireplace in this hut for contact, and I was told not to Disapparate and leave you by yourself under any circumstances."

Harry tried to hide his irritation. He wished that Charlie had woken him and sent him home earlier. The last thing he wanted to deal with now was a house full of worry.

Charlie seemed to read his mind. "I’d’ve woken you, Harry. But Mum drilled into all our heads last summer that we’re not to disturb you if you’re sleeping." He grinned again. "She says you’re too restless and you need quiet."

Harry felt himself flush. "Glad everyone knows my personal sleeping habits," he muttered, quite embarrassed to hear this description of himself from one of the older Weasley boys.

But Charlie was unaffected. He clipped Harry on the arm. "Come off it, you know Mum treats you just like us. We none of us have any secrets."

Harry flushed again, embarrassed this time by the implied affection in Charlie’s remark. Though being considered one of them wasn’t unpleasant, being teased as if by an older brother was still unfamiliar territory for Harry. He ducked his head and pointed to Charlie’s letter, changing the subject for the second time. "Who’s that from?"

It was Charlie’s turn to turn a bit pink. "Oh, it’s not from anyone," he returned too casually, shoving the parchment into one of the myriad pockets of his broad dragon keeper’s vest. "You know. Stuff for work. You’d – er – better get back to Stagsden before they go crazy trying to figure out where you are."

Harry watched Charlie fidget, and was tempted to remind him that none of them had any secrets. But he didn’t feel quite up to a laugh, and Charlie was right. It was high time he was home.

He thanked Charlie briefly for sitting with him, asked him to say goodbye to Moody, then grabbed up his Firebolt and Disapparated. He hoped both that he wasn’t too tired to pull off the long trip without hurting himself, and that no one at Lupin Lodge had got too upset, in his absence.

His first hope was realized the moment he opened his eyes and found himself standing safely in the middle of the cozy, firelit front room of Remus’s house.

His second hope was dashed a moment later.

"Harry – oh, my goodness –"

It was Hermione's cry, and she leapt from her chair by the fire to run across the room and flutter anxiously in front of him.

"Oh, Harry, what happened? At first, when you didn’t come home, we thought something with Malfoy – Ron nearly went over there – and then Sirius went to find Oliver but we still didn't know where you were, because Oliver didn’t – and then a woman went to the pub to find Ron and tell him about the Dementor, and Goldie directed her to our house and she came and told us what you did and oh – don't ever do that!" Hermione threw her arms around him and squeezed.

Harry endured it for a moment, then ducked out of her grasp. "I’m okay," he said flatly. It wasn’t a lie. He was, technically, unhurt.

"Harry! What happened to you? One of the players came over and said you'd chased a Dementor into the woods – " Ron was at his side in a flash, Hermione's cry having summoned him more effectively than magic. He peered at Harry with equal anxiety. "What went on? You okay? Sit down or something. Want anything?"

Harry let himself be bustled into a chair by the two of them, and tried not to get irritated. He knew that they still weren't over the war. When people had disappeared for two days during the war, the likelihood had been that they wouldn't be found alive.

"I'm okay," he repeated, "I'm okay. I just want to go to bed –"

He stopped in mid-sentence. Sirius was standing in front of him, and Harry had never seen his godfather’s face so furious, not even when he had first confronted Wormtail in the Shrieking Shack, after his escape from Azkaban.

"What the hell were you thinking." It was a demand.

Harry found himself at a loss. He hadn’t been thinking. There hadn’t been time for thinking; there had been nothing in his head except stopping the Dementor. Sirius should have known that; Sirius had been in the war. "I was at the Cannons tryout and a Dementor wandered onto the field, so somebody had to make sure it got driven back up to Azkaban and I figured..."

"You figured you wouldn't have anybody alert us. You figured you'd just disappear for two days and let us all wonder."

Harry felt anger rising up in him. Sirius was being unfair. "Look, it's not like I just ran off on some kind of holiday. There was something that needed to be done and –"

"Don't you ever – ever – go off like that again without telling someone. What do you think you are on about, Harry?" Sirius shook his head, his pale blue eyes darker than ever. "All that girl could tell me was that you'd gone after a Dementor. Is that true? You spent the last two days alone with a Dementor?"

Harry clenched his jaw. He'd known this wasn't going to go over well. "Had to," he muttered, thinking that after all he'd just done, he was in no damned mood to be yelled at for it. "What did you want me to do? Drive it over here and say hello, first? I just did the first thing I thought of! I went north!"

"There is always a way to let us know where you are!"

"Like what?" Harry challenged coldly. "You tell me what you would’ve done! You went up to Azkaban to deal with the Dementors yourself, and you’re the last person who should get near them!"

"I am an adult –"

"And what am I?!"

"You’re barely eighteen."

Harry gripped the arms of the chair, unable to find words for his anger. Finally, he managed, "If you don’t know by now that I’m not a child, then I can’t talk to you."

Sirius didn’t answer. His demeanor had suddenly shifted away from fury. He continued to look at Harry, but he wasn’t glaring now – his eyes were haunted.

"Hello, Harry." The calm greeting came from behind Sirius, and Harry’s head snapped toward it. Remus was in the hallway, looking gravely at him. "It's very good to see you," he said quietly. "I'm glad you're safe. Do you need anything?"

Harry nodded and stood up, ignoring the sounds of worry from Ron and Hermione, on either side of him. "I need to go to bed," he said shortly. He brushed past Sirius and toward the stairs, wanting to get out of the room and escape the anxiety in it. His godfather's eyes clouded as they followed him, but Harry ignored that, too.

"Don't worry about the Quidditch tryouts," Ron called after him. "Oliver knows what's happened, we talked to him already."

Harry spun around in horror, at the mention of tryouts. He’d forgotten, once the Dementor had taken control of his thoughts, that there was such a thing as Quidditch. Disappointment coursed through him. He had missed two days of training, and had probably been removed from the running. Oliver would never let him come back.

But Sirius gestured vaguely toward the stairs, nodding his agreement with Ron. "It’s nothing to worry about. Go on up and rest, Harry, I'll contact Oliver. He just wants to know where you are. I'm sure you'll be back on the pitch by tomorrow if that's what you want."

It was on the tip of Harry's tongue to protest. He didn’t want Sirius doing anything for him, just now. He was an adult, and it was his own responsibility to deal with his problems. Yet he was still so bone-tired that he just couldn't bring himself to argue anymore. And when Sirius repeated that he'd take care of things, a voice buried deep at the back of Harry's mind told him to go ahead and let Sirius do it. This was, after all, the sort of thing his father would be doing for him, if his father were alive. That was the point of a godfather.

Harry felt his eyes water and he turned away quickly, climbing up the stairs before he could start to think about his father, fearing that it might send his mind spiraling back into the sequence of nightmares he'd been living in for two days. He dragged his feet heavily upstairs to the second floor corridor, staving off all thoughts of his parents and of the war.

But he didn't have to fight his thoughts for very long. As he made his way toward his room, Harry's mind turned in a direction he hadn’t expected. He stepped away from his own door and walked slowly back to the door of the girls' room, instead. Ginny was the only occupant of the house that hadn't greeted him upon his return. He remembered how much he’d been looking forward to getting home from practice and telling her all about it. He wondered if she’d worried for him, at all, while he’d been gone.

Harry stopped outside her door and hesitated, not sure why his feet had led him here, or what he was about to do. He lifted his hand – perhaps to knock – but before he could choose a course of action, the door opened.

Ginny stood there, staring at him, her dressing gown not even tied. The room behind her was a wreck of open books and what looked like scattered potion ingredients and ruined parchment. Ginny’s own appearance was as disheveled as the room; her eyes were swollen, her face was pale, and her bright hair fell down in tangles. A crumpled tissue stuck out of her white-knuckled fist. She looked like she'd caught a very nasty flu, and though Harry knew why she was so upset, he preferred to believe that the flu was the problem.

"Are you sick?" he asked her quickly.

Her eyes did not leave his. "No," she said deliberately, not bothering to hide the tears in her voice.

Harry suddenly felt the weight of his own disappearance. The gravity of it hadn't struck him, when Sirius had given him an angry lecture, but it struck him now. He should have let somebody know where he was going, regardless of the circumstances. He should have found a way.

"I didn't mean to worry anyone," he heard himself say. "I didn't think –"

"People still get terrified that you're not coming back," Ginny interrupted sharply, her voice thick. She stared at him fiercely for another moment, then reached out her hand and touched his shoulder, as if testing to make sure that he really existed. A barely audible cry escaped her when her fingers came into contact with his robes. She dropped her hand, stepped close to him, and silently buried her face in his neck.

Harry stood, stunned. He felt her hands on his waist. Felt her body fit softly against his. She took a deep breath, which pushed against his chest, and then she exhaled shakily on his skin.

"You’re here," she managed.

It was as though he’d been electrocuted. Harry felt the hair rise up all over his body at the shock of being touched like this, by her. He shivered violently, then slumped against Ginny, forgetting everything, allowing her to hold him up.

"I’m sorry," he mumbled into her shoulder. "I’m sorry."

"No," she protested, her voice choked and muffled on his neck. "I know you didn’t want to go. I know. I know."

Her arms were around him now and she rocked him gently. Harry shut his eyes and let her do it, neither moving to hold her, nor moving to fight. He was dimly surprised that she was able to support his weight.

After a long time, Ginny raised her head. "Come on," she said quietly, pulling away from him, and turning him toward his bedroom door. Without a word, she guided him to his bed, pulled back the blankets, and helped him to sit. Hedwig hooted fretfully from her perch in the corner, as if she, too, had missed him and worried about him.

Harry sat, unmoving and exhausted, listening to bureau-drawers open and shut as thoughts raced through his head. His body was warm, where Ginny had been against him. The Dementor was back at Azkaban. Moody would take care of it. He didn’t have to think about it. Ginny had left imprints on his back, where her hands had moved. Maybe Oliver would let him go back to the tryouts, if Sirius explained things. Sirius was getting too damned overprotective. And Ginny...

Ginny. She had just put pajamas at the foot of his bed, and was now leaving the room. Harry turned toward her – he didn’t want her to go – but she dimmed the lights and left him alone, shutting the door behind her with a whispered, "Sleep well."

Harry looked at the closed door, feeling strangely lost. Somehow, he fumbled out of his robes and into the pajamas, then made his way under the covers. He drifted quickly toward another long rest, clinging to the remembered sensation of Ginny, breathing against him. The rise and fall of her.

He kept her at the front of his mind, a talisman against all darker thoughts, until sleep rushed over him in a wave and he passed out completely.

~*~

"Just a butterbeer for me please," Hermione said to Harry, smiling as she settled herself at one of the worn wooden tables at the Snout’s Fair. Harry didn’t smile back. He nodded silently and went up to the bar, where Ron was serving the other patrons, and stood there with his hands in his pockets, looking disinterestedly at the wall.

Hermione felt awful, watching him. It had been two days since he had come back from Azkaban, and they still hadn’t talked to each other at all; he’d either been at Quidditch practice, or sleeping. She had hoped that, tonight, he might tell her a little bit about what was happening in his head, but now that they were here, she doubted that he’d say anything. It was already shaping up to be the kind of night where she’d be the one doing all the talking. Harry had been extremely withdrawn ever since his return; he was so quiet, and looked so drained, that Hermione didn’t know what to do for him. It was like the first day of summer and the end of the war, all over again, and she was actually surprised that Harry had agreed to come to the pub with her at all.

She watched him as he spoke to Ron, and she tried not to look too worried about him when he came back to the table a moment later, two foaming butterbeers in his hands. He clunked them down on the table and slid into the chair across from her, looking idly down at his tankard.

Hermione struggled to find something casual to chat about. "So, Harry, were you surprised by the owls we got this morning?" she asked brightly, hoping that a light topic would steer them in the right direction. Earlier that day, they had all received invitations to the wedding of two of their former Gryffindor classmates: Lavender Brown and Seamus Finnigan. Hermione had found the invitations both beautiful and touching – the wedding was to take place on Hogwarts grounds, on September first, to commemorate the day the couple had met and the spot where they’d fallen in love.

Much to Hermione’s surprise, Harry gave her a bit of a smile. "No more surprised than I was to happen upon you and Ron reading in the sunroom yesterday." He cleared his throat falsely. "Looked like a good book."

Hermione blushed and threw one of the dancing peanuts at him, but she was so relieved to hear him joking that she couldn’t really be upset with him for teasing.

"Well," she said, changing the subject back again deftly, "we’ll have to get them wedding gifts, but I haven’t the faintest idea what they’d like. Lavender and I shared a room for seven years, and all I can really think about getting her is perfume, or lipstick, or a Love Potion kit. Though she wouldn’t need that anymore, I suppose."

Harry laughed, a little. "That’s a hard one," he agreed. "I’m not that close to Seamus, either. Maybe a frying pan in the shape of a shamrock?"

Hermione giggled. "Right. Or a purple tablecloth with brown trim?"

Harry groaned. "Not funny," he complained. "Where’s Ron?"

Hermione pretended to be highly offended by this remark, and immediately challenged Harry to come up with something better. They proceeded to entertain themselves by listing the most outrageous wedding gifts they could think of, and by the time she’d exhausted her ideas, Hermione was laughing so hard that she could barely breathe. Ron joined them at once, on pretense of clearing the table, and demanded to know what was so funny. Harry explained the joke, and asked Ron his opinion on the wedding gifts.

Ron snorted. "Pretty obvious, isn’t it?" He patted Hermione on the head in his maddeningly superior way. She shot him a look, but he merely patted her again. "I mean, all things considered, Hermione, you really owe Lavender a bunny rabbit." He grinned, whisked the dancing peanut shells away with his wand, and sauntered back over to the bar.

Hermione furrowed her brow, trying to figure out what on earth he was talking about, when she was startled by a loud noise. Harry had suddenly shouted with laughter and doubled over with a cry of "Good one!"

Ron laughed with him, lifting up a tankard from the bar and shouting, "Cheers!"

Hermione continued to feel puzzled. She looked from Ron to Harry, both curious and annoyed. "Well, what?" she demanded. "I don’t get it."

"You – " he explained, through his continued sniggering " – Lavender – Divination – rabbit – dead."

Hermione opened her mouth in amazement. She had entirely forgotten about that incident. "Yes, that’s right!" she laughed, putting her fingers to her mouth. "Poor Binky – I should have been nicer to Lavender about that, but honestly..." She trailed off and looked at Ron, who was standing behind the bar, laughing uncontrollably. She stuck out her tongue at him. He looked at it, then raised his eyebrows suggestively. She looked away in a hurry, feeling her heart flutter up into her throat.

"You know," she said to Harry, fanning her face with her hand and trying to keep her voice normal, "I can’t believe the things Ron remembers."

Harry snorted. "Versus the things he can’t remember to save his life?"

"Exactly!" She lifted her tankard.

Harry clinked his against it, exchanging with her the kind of smile earned only by many years of friendship. They sat sipping their butterbeers in silence for a few minutes, and Hermione felt very content. It had been good to bring Harry here. He was still smiling a bit, seemingly entertained by two wizards playing a game of Exploding Snap in the corner.

"So," he said mildly, keeping his eyes trained on the precarious card-deck, "I guess Ginny was busy tonight?" He took a swallow from his tankard.

Hermione’s eyes widened at his transparent question, but she willed herself not to act strange, or sound surprised. "I don’t know," she replied, as evenly as she could. "I asked her if she wanted to come along, but she said she didn’t feel like it. I think she’s working on something, actually. She’s been digging around in my books all week."

"Oh." Harry shrugged neutrally.

To anyone else he would have seemed disinterested, but years of watching Ron’s ears turn pink had trained Hermione’s eye. And Harry’s cheeks, she was thrilled to note, were unnaturally flushed. She could hardly restrain herself from teasing him, but she knew Harry far too well to try it. She’d never get anything out of him, if she made him uncomfortable. Instead, she gripped her hands together under the table and waited impatiently for him to say something else.

"What’s she working on?" he asked, after a moment, still watching the Snap game with incredible attention.

It was all Hermione could do not to giggle, but she bit back the urge. "She won’t tell me," she answered honestly. "Apparently it’s some sort of secret." She grinned inwardly as she delivered this tantalizing information, watching Harry struggle to maintain his expression of careful unconcern.

"Huh," he answered. He didn’t say anything else for awhile, and when he did, it had nothing to do with Ginny. "Oh, that’s going to explode, right there," he muttered, pointing to one wizard’s hand of cards. "He has to get rid of that one."

Hermione rolled her eyes, sipped her butterbeer, and thought about telling Harry that he was easier to read than a first year textbook. It was rather fun, though, just to watch him squirm. She had endured a few years of raised eyebrows and pointed smirking from him, regarding her relationship with Ron, and if Harry thought he was going to escape without taking a bit of his own medicine, he was dead wrong. She sat back again, waiting, feeling sure he’d ask something else if she stayed quiet.

Sure enough, after a very loud SNAP! from the corner, and a groan of disappointment from the wizard who had lost, Harry took another swig of butterbeer and tried again. "Can’t believe you let her throw your books around like that," he said casually, "if you don’t even know what she’s doing with them."

Hermione couldn’t resist. "Throw my books around?" she asked, feigning puzzlement. "Did she really? Where?"

Harry turned crimson, pressed his mouth shut, and concentrated very hard on his butterbeer.

Hermione permitted herself a wicked grin. She knew very well that Ginny had been throwing her books around in a chaos. She also knew that, if Harry had seen the mess, then he must have been in the girls’ room. She wondered just when that had happened, and just what had happened, and though it was normally the sort of thing she scoffed at Lavender for caring about, she still resolved to find out everything, later on, from Ginny.

She also decided not to torture Harry further.

"I asked her what she’s doing with all my things," she informed him simply. "And she told me. It’s just that I don’t believe her answer. She says she’s ‘gearing up for the school year’."

Harry looked up at her sharply, abandoning all earlier pretenses. "What school year?" he demanded. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, I don’t mean a regular school year, of course," Hermione explained quickly. "But she’s going to have to study, isn’t she? Whether or not there’s a Hogwarts to study in, she still needs to finish her education. I still have all my books and notes, and I told her she could have them if she wanted, so she’s really going to be fine in terms of..."

She trailed off. Harry was glaring at her as if she had somehow caused Hogwarts’ collapse. "It’s not nearly the same and you know it," he leveled. "It’s not fair she doesn’t get to finish."

Hermione put her chin in her hand. "I know that," she said quietly, feeling suddenly depressed. It was very hard to believe that Hogwarts could close for a year. Hard to believe that her school, which had almost always felt like a fortress, could suffer such serious collapse and destruction. It just didn’t seem real. She’d been there, and seen it, and still couldn’t quite convince herself of what had happened. It was going to be strange, she reflected, to attend a wedding by the lake, and have to face the crumbling castle again.

Harry had gone back to watching the Snap game, and was clearly finished commenting on both Hogwarts, and Ginny. Hermione continued to sink into her own serious thoughts. She didn’t have to worry about missing out on a year of school, but she worried, very much, about her future. About her parents. About her decision to go to Cortona, where the Thinker lived, whether or not she received an invitation. She still hadn’t broken that news to Ron. And when she did, he was going to be so unhappy....

Hermione sighed deeply and Harry looked over at her. Recovering herself, she gave him what she hoped was a winning smile and said pleasantly, "By the way, how are Quidditch trials working out? Since you’ve been back, I mean."

Harry groaned loudly, "Oliver is a slave driver. I shouldn’t even drink this butterbeer – he’ll be able to tell, tomorrow."

"It isn’t strong at all! It’s not as if it can give you a hangover."

"Well, according to him, it’s all taking precious milliseconds off my speed and agility." Harry shrugged. "I’m working out harder than anybody, but... I guess I should take it more seriously."

Hermione shook her head at once. "No. You should enjoy yourself, you know how Oliver is. And anyway, Viktor used to drink butterbeer."

"Oh, did he?" Harry grinned. "Viktor Krum?"

"Oh, shut up."

Harry laughed. "Yeah, well. I think I’ve got a good chance to be Seeker, and I’ll find out in another couple weeks. But the witch who’s my competition is few years older than I am, and to be honest, she's good."

Hermione leaned forward happily. When Harry talked about Quidditch, he could ramble on almost like a normal person. "The witch who told us what happened with the Dementor, you mean? Is she the other Seeker?"

"Yeah, Maureen Knight. She’s getting worse hell from Oliver than I am, and she gives him back more lip than the twins ever did in school. Anyway, there're only two of us, so we'll both end up on the team. It's just a matter of who's the reserve player."

"I’m sure you’ll be Seeker," assured Hermione. "And won’t Ron be ecstatic, to be best friends with someone on the Chudley Cannons!" She clapped her hands together, excited and pleased for Harry’s sake. "Oh, and when you’re a star, could you persuade Oliver to change the team colors? I never cared for that particular shade of orange, especially when Ron insists on wearing that hat all the time – it blends with his hair and makes his head look like a big pumpkin."

Harry laughed at that, and then motioned to Ron to send over two more butterbeers. They landed on the table a moment later, with a soft thud. Attached was a small note that read: Two’s your limit, Potter!

Harry made a face. "Honestly. I get drunk once and he thinks he has to stand guard. D’you have a quill?"

Hermione did. She handed it to Harry, who scribbled something hastily on the back of the note and sent it zooming back in Ron’s direction. Hermione watched as Ron opened the note, guffawed, and threw it in the waste bin.

"Language, Potter," he shouted. "Ladies present, and all that." He winked at Hermione.

"He’s a prat," Harry muttered.

"Yes," said Hermione slowly, sensing a possible opening. "Ron is very – protective of you."

Harry gave her a funny look. "I guess," he answered noncommittally.

Hermione bit her lip. She didn’t know how to bring up what she really wanted to talk about with Harry – she wasn’t even sure if it would somehow violate some sort of code between him and Ron. But she had to run the Thinker idea past someone. She felt guilty for not confiding her plans in Ron, first and foremost, but she didn’t want to ruin the summer by making him miserable. And now that she’d really made up her mind, she wanted to tell someone who knew her well, and somehow validate her choice.

Carefully, she began. "It’s strange to be finished with school, don’t you think?"

"Yeah," Harry replied, a bit gloomily.

Hermione pressed on. "Everyone will be moving on. You’ll be playing Quidditch, Ron will be working here, and I’ll be..."

Harry looked at her with interest. "Yeah?"

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and nervously glanced toward the bar, where Ron was practicing mixing drinks in the air. "We-ell," she began, sounding Harry out, "I sort of wanted to ask you..."

Harry waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he leaned forward curiously. "Go on," he prompted.

Hermione scratched the splintering wood of the table with her fingernail. After a moment, she asked slowly, "Has Ron – said anything to you about... about the possibility of my apprenticing a Thinker?"

"Hmph," was all Harry said. He sat back and glanced toward the bar.

"He has mentioned it, then?" Hermione pressed. "What did he say?"

Harry gave a short laugh. "Only that he’s glad you haven’t heard back from that one."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Oh really," she snapped. "How generous."

"Yeah," said Harry, looking very uncomfortable. "Look – I thought you knew that much already."

She put up a hand. "I did. Don’t worry, you didn’t give away any secrets. And I’m sorry, Harry, I don’t want to drag you into the middle of this."

"Too late," Harry sighed, and nearly drained his butterbeer with one long gulp. He clapped the tankard onto the table and exhaled. "So, are you going to be a Thinker, or what?"

Hermione wanted to say yes. But another look in Ron’s direction made her heart twist guiltily. "Well... just hypothetically... what would you think if I went to Cortona?"

"Cortona?"

"Where the Thinker lives. Off of Greece."

Harry shrugged. "Do you think you should go?" he asked. "Will they even let you in? You don’t have a letter or anything."

"True – but I think that not hearing back from Cortona is a test of sorts," Hermione replied in a rush, "and I have to try and see what happens, or else I won’t forgive myself. I could Think of something to help my parents, if I had the right training. I know I could."

"So you’re going."

Hermione shook her head rapidly. "No, no. I’m just saying, if I went. And, from the reading I’ve done, Thinker apprenticeships generally only last for half a year!"

"Which means you could do it in about two weeks."

"Well, I’d try to do it in four months. If Ron understands that I’m coming back at Christmas, then he might be less upset with the idea, don’t you think?"

"Sure," said Harry, taking a swig of butterbeer. "You’ll have a blazing row, tears will be shed, Ron will punch a tree, but in the end, you’ll persuade him. I’ve seen it before."

Hermione blinked. "Are we really as bad as that?"

"No," said Harry, nodding his head vigorously.

"Oh, Harry." Hermione sighed and looked over at Ron, who was clearly telling some sort of joke. The wizard listening to him was chortling loudly, and slapping his hand on the bar. "It’s not as if I’m leaving him. You have to help me pound that into his thick head."

Harry laughed. "Gladly." And then, more seriously, he added, "And I think you should go to Cortona."

"You do?" Hermione asked, hopefully.

"Yeah."

Feeling much better about the situation, and much more ready to break the news to Ron, Hermione slowly finished her second butterbeer. She was weighing the idea of staying until the bar closed and telling Ron everything on the walk home, when bells jingled, signalling that the door to the Snout's Fair had opened behind her.

Harry sat up straight and stared over her shoulder at the door, putting his hand to the pocket where he kept his wand. "Damn," he muttered under his breath.

"Who is it?" she started to ask, turning around in her chair.

She never finished speaking. Instead, she found herself looking into the cold, grey eyes of Draco Malfoy, who held her stare without blinking. He wore sweeping Quidditch robes that looked identical to the standard issue practice robes that Harry came home in every day, except that Harry’s practice uniform was garish orange, and Draco’s attire was dark gray, with white finishes. He stood there haughtily.

Behind him there stood a hulking man with ruddy cheeks and brush-like hair, who would have been athletically handsome if he hadn’t looked quite so menacing. He was carrying two brooms, one of them probably Draco’s. Hermione was struck by how closely his presence resembled Goyle’s, and she felt her stomach sink at the too-familiar sight. This was going to lead to a confrontation, she just knew it – she moved to the edge of her seat and saw Harry do the same.

Malfoy, however, looked entirely relaxed. His eyes flitted over her shoulder toward Harry; then he looked away, and stared in the direction of the bar. "Thirsty?" he said, over his shoulder, to the man behind him.

Hermione cast a worried glance at Ron, who was staring at Malfoy, his bar towel clutched in his hand, his face a mask.

"Go on and get whatever you want," Malfoy instructed his companion, who stepped toward the bar immediately. Malfoy, however, did not go near Ron. Instead, he headed toward Hermione’s table, slowly, looking arrogantly amused. She reflected that it was interesting that Malfoy had not approached her when they had been alone, but seemed to have no problem doing so when he had a massive friend alongside him. It was just like school – as if nothing significant had happened, as if no war had been fought. And, though she didn’t fear Draco Malfoy, she felt sick that he could be so unchanged.

"Well, well," Malfoy said softly, stopping a few feet from Hermione’s chair. She glanced around him at Ron, who filled two tankards without taking his eyes off of Malfoy for a second.

"Hello, Draco," Hermione said wearily. She wasn’t going to rise to it. The time for acting like children had passed.

Malfoy shot her a look that very clearly said he wanted nothing to do with her kind, then directed his stare toward Harry. "Does Weasley realize that you're cozying up to his girlfriend Potter?" he asked, still more softly. "Or do the two of you just share everything?"

Hermione blanched, praying that Ron hadn’t heard him.

Harry was on his feet. "Out," he said flatly, drawing his wand and holding it at his side. "Get out. You’re a disgrace."

Malfoy laughed, and Hermione shivered inwardly. At the same time, she felt a bit like laughing, herself. He obviously hadn’t grown up at all.

"It’s all right, Harry..." she began, then stopped when she saw that Ron was now on the customer side of the bar.

"Anything to say, Malfoy, you can say it loud enough for all of us," he called.

People around them in the pub began to watch, and whisper. Goldie came around the bar, Hermione noted gratefully, close enough to make a grab for Ron, should something happen.

Malfoy didn't bat an eye. Instead, he smirked and said tauntingly, still keeping his voice very low, "I hear you’re trying out for the Cannons, Potter. I suppose you just can't give up the limelight – you’d rather be a shining star on a terrible team than challenge yourself by trying out for one that actually wins occasionally." He smirked, and fingered the double F emblazoned near the clasps of his Quidditch robes. "What's the Chudley motto again?" He turned to his companion, who had rejoined him carrying two tankards. Malfoy took one and raised his voice, almost as if he knew that insulting the Cannons was almost as good as insulting Hermione. "Oh, that’s right – let's all keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best.'" He smiled coolly, and his friend erupted into rather unpleasant sounding chuckles.

Anger and frustration coursed through Hermione as she sat there watching them. She had been shocked and startled when she'd discovered that Draco Malfoy was spending the summer across the street from Lupin Lodge. Although she would never admit it to Ron, or to anyone, she blamed Draco almost entirely for her parents’ current condition. Ron was right. Draco had urged his father to go after the Grangers, and that was exactly what Lucius had done. In her mind, Draco deserved to be put away for life with the other Death Eaters, and she couldn't quite understand why he wasn't in prison.

On the other hand, a part of her felt that it wasn't worth giving someone like Draco Malfoy the time of day anymore. Without Voldemort to lead them, Malfoy and his cronies were really just a bunch of silly cowards, and she felt that her energy would be much better spent finding ways to help cure her parents, rather than hurling insults at old enemies.

"I didn't know that you and old Mulrod McNeirney knew each other." Ron's voice was now dangerously close and Hermione felt a surge of panic, as he advanced on their table. "Trying to buy your way onto the Falcons, Malfoy? What, are you going to get them all new broomsticks?" He laughed harshly. "I guess you learned more than just curses from your father."

Hermione winced, and shot a furious look at Ron – words like that were only going to make things worse – but Ron wasn’t paying attention to her. Hermione followed his eyes to their target, and she sucked in a breath. She hadn't thought it possible for Draco Malfoy's face to be any paler than it already was, but he had turned sheet white at the mention of his father. He handed his tankard off to McNeirney and wheeled slowly to face Ron, breathing unevenly.

"Mention him again," he challenged in a whisper, his fingertips touching the end of his wand.

Ron said nothing, but his blue eyes smoldered. The two young men stood facing each other, seething with anger, making no secret of their mutual hatred. Harry moved to Ron’s side with two quick steps, holding his wand up slightly. People around them edged their chairs backward, away from the possible duel.

After a rather tense moment, Malfoy turned to his blocky friend and said, "Obviously I was mistaken in thinking that this village –" he spat out the word as though it were the worst insult he could come up with " –had a reputable pub. My uncle informed me that this one was satisfactory, but it’s clear..." he glanced at Ron and continued "... that it’s gone downhill, this summer."

McNeirney grunted, and the two of them pivoted away. McNeirney held the door open and Draco sauntered through it, tossing out a final, "I hope you left him a tip, Mulrod, honestly. I don’t know how else he survives."

Ron made a choking sound, and strode quickly toward the door.

"Don’t!" Hermione said desperately, her voice high-pitched.

He stopped in his tracks and looked at her. She met his eyes with a silent, pleading look. He clenched his fists and looked agitatedly at the door, which swung shut behind Draco and McNeirney.

"Son of a – " Ron began, finishing his sentence with a flourish. Hermione glanced around at the patrons of the Snout’s Fair, who were still watching Ron, riveted. There were a few snorts of laughter, the sound of glasses clinking, and a shout of "Here, here!" from the corner. Ron looked toward the cheer and turned a bit red, seeming to realize for the first time that he was in public. He turned and looked at Goldie, who had taken up bartending for the moment. The older man waved at him to sit down.

"Take a moment, young Veesley," Goldie said, smiling so that his gold tooth flashed. "You vill be needink a break, now."

Ron thudded immediately into a chair beside Hermione, and emitted a string of epithets, low under his breath, as Harry resumed his seat.

Hermione didn’t want to hear it. She cupped Ron’s face with one hand and turned his chin until he looked at her. "Forget it," she said. "He won't come back."

Ron’s eyes were dark. But he stopped swearing.

"Do you really think he's bought his way onto the Falcons?" Harry asked, after a moment.

Ron exhaled loudly and shrugged, "Dunno. I just assumed. Mulrod McNeirney's not the Falmouth captain, but he's a pretty influential player. Been on the team for years. A lot of the other players from that team were members of Death Eater families, but he’s too stupid to’ve been involved in much, during the war. I suspect they’re trying to rebuild the team as much as possible, with the players they’ve got left, and you know all they care about is winning – they’re used to offering top salaries and getting top players."

"And they could use some help from the Malfoy trust fund," Harry finished.

"That’s my guess."

Harry looked very grave for a moment, then abruptly pushed back from the table and stood.

"Are you leaving?" Hermione asked worriedly, glancing at the door and hoping that Harry didn’t plan to follow Malfoy and do something rash.

"I’m just going home," Harry said, as if he could read Hermione’s thoughts. "I don’t care where Malfoy went."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, well, wherever he went, we’ll see him soon enough."

"I don’t see why we would," said Hermione, sharply, "unless we seek him out. It’s likely he’ll be gone soon. Remus said that Narcissa Malfoy would only live at her brother’s house until Malfoy Manor is restored. That can’t take much longer, can it?"

"Doesn’t matter. If he’s going to be playing Quidditch, then we’ll see him." Ron stood and clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder. "You might be up against the Slytherin captain again, after all. Think you can take him?"

A smile flickered across Harry’s face. "I reckon it won’t be a problem," he said grimly.

Ron nodded, as if he approved of this response, then headed back to Goldie and resumed working.

"Staying here?" Harry asked Hermione, picking up their empty tankards.

"I’m staying till the pub closes," Hermione answered automatically, her eyes on Ron. She wanted to talk to him. Alone. Though her agenda for the evening had changed – after Malfoy’s appearance, she was no longer in the mood to risk telling Ron anything about Cortona.

"See you later, then," Harry said, and Hermione wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, or if he sounded relieved to be leaving by himself.

She didn’t ask. "Night, Harry."

He returned their tankards to the bar and exited the pub. Hermione made her own way up to a barstool and settled there, watching Ron spin a bottle furiously in mid-air. He looked tense and unhappy, and he hadn’t even noticed her approach.

Hermione cleared her throat gently and, at the same time, Goldie prodded Ron in the ribs with his wand, causing Ron to fumble and almost drop his spinning bottle.

"You haff a customer," Goldie nudged, winking at Hermione.

"Wha–? Oh." Ron met Hermione’s eyes defiantly. He was still pale behind his freckles, but he grasped the spinning bottle by the neck and came to stand in front of her, setting the liquor down between them with a decided thud.

Hermione said nothing. She pushed a curl behind her ear, held eye contact, and waited for him to begin what had become their usual joke.

"Haven’t seen you here before," Ron finally said, his tone deceptively casual. "New to Stagsden, are you?"

"Mm-hmm." She clasped her hands in her lap and continued to look up at him. This exchange between them was usually a bit giddy, and teasing. Tonight it was something more serious – his words were joking, but his eyes were still fierce from confrontation. Hermione glanced quickly at Goldie to make sure she wasn’t being watched, then turned her face up to Ron completely and let him see all her emotions in one look. Ron matched her with a look of his own, so intense that Hermione felt the back of her neck go hot and cold, together.

He drummed his fingers once, on the bar. "What’ll you have, miss?" he asked lightly.

"Just water, thank you." She felt her breath shortening, under his stare. Deep down, she almost wanted him to fight Malfoy – she loved Ron and she didn’t ever want his pride insulted. But neither did she want him injured, or arrested - she didn’t want him to be less than what he was.

Ron nodded, filled a glass with water, and slid it across the bar. Hermione put her fingers around it and felt his fingertips caress the tops of hers, briefly. She shivered.

"I didn’t fight," Ron said, so quietly that she almost missed it. "Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. But I didn’t do anything. I meant my promise, all right?" He withdrew his hand before she could answer, and disappeared down the bar to serve another patron, leaving Hermione alone with her conflicted thoughts.

~*~

Ginny searched impatiently through the index of yet another book, praying that no one would come home from the Snout’s Fair early. She needed time to work, and she wanted to be alone - there was no point in telling anybody what she was doing. They’d only think she’d gone mad. Tonight, she had waited until Hermione had taken Harry out of the house to go and see Ron, then thrown herself into the books with more fervor than she’d ever had in school.

Now she sat on the floor of her room, at the foot of Hermione’s overstuffed bookcase, surrounded by texts that hadn’t helped her at all. Nowhere could she find the recipe she needed, and the longer it took, the more her stomach hurt. She skimmed down the list of ‘W’ topics with her index finger, and was once again disappointed. She groaned aloud, and rubbed her temples.

"Are you all right?" came a concerned voice, from behind her.

Ginny turned to see Remus in the doorway. She snapped the book shut guiltily. "Fine," she answered, feeling her head pound harder. "Just looking for... something."

"Anything I can help you with?"

"No," she answered quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, given the way that Remus was eyeing her now. He lifted an eyebrow and looked much as Hermione had, when Ginny had told her that she was just getting ready for the school year. He looked as though he didn’t quite believe her. She winced and pressed two fingers to her right temple.

It was so strange that she didn’t quite believe it, but recently, every time Remus came close to her, she felt a strange pull in her stomach. In her blood. She had wondered, at first, what was causing it, but as it had grown stronger over the past few days, it had occurred to Ginny that she was feeling the approach of the full moon. Though why she could feel it, she had no idea. She didn’t even know if she was right. She only knew that she was obsessed.

"All right," he said slowly, looking from Ginny’s eyes, to the mess of books around her on the floor. He opened his mouth as if to say something about them, then shut it and shook his head. "I’m going to bed. You can wake me if you need anything. There’s a very good headache powder in the pantry, behind the herbs."

Ginny made herself smile. "No, I’m fine. Goodnight, Remus."

He nodded, glanced at the books again, and went away down the hall.

The second she heard his door click shut at the end of the corridor, Ginny yanked another heavy volume from Hermione’s bottom shelf. She was getting desperate. There were only a few books left, and then she’d have to raid Remus’s own library. She wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to risk that - he’d let them know that many of the old books in his personal study had been his father’s, and that if Hermione in particular wanted to page through them, he’d prefer to be told so that he could put Bookbinding Spells on them, to keep them from falling apart.

Ginny flipped open The Top Ten Thousand Spells and Recipes: 1997 Edition and started muttering to herself, as she scanned down the ‘W’ section. "Come on. Be in here. Let one of these bloody books be useful, Hermione. Be in here, be in here, be - YES!"

She had yelled quite loudly. Ginny clapped her hand over her mouth and looked at the door, listening for Remus or Sirius. But it seemed they had slept through her cry of success. Softly, as if extreme quiet now would make up for her vocal blunder, she put her finger on the words she wanted, and read to herself in a rush.

Wolfsbane Potion

Possibly the most complex and most often-failed potion on current magical record, Wolfsbane Potion is also one of the most important in that it renders the otherwise dangerous werewolf docile on the night of the full moon. Because of its possibly lethal potency and its extreme fallibility, it is unlawful for the Magical Court Publishers’ to list its recipe. The recipe is available only in professional mediwizard texts, and in The New Book of Highly Complicated and Very Likely Lethal Potions, which is made available only to licensed apothecaries and registered werewolves.

Ginny groaned again, anxiously. She shut the book and slid it back into place on the shelf, feeling her stomach churn. She had to get her hands on that book of Lethal Potions. She was going to have to check in Remus’s things.

She sneaked quietly down the stairs and into the dark library, making her way to the back of the study where Remus kept his oldest volumes. Normally she wouldn’t have dug into someone else’s things without permission, but there was something happening in her body and mind that she couldn’t quite grip. It felt like magic, but it wasn’t the same as magic. It wasn’t wand-magic, anyway – this energy was compulsive, it seemed to dictate actions on its own and Ginny felt she had to follow it. If she didn’t follow it, she felt sick - headachy and nauseated. She wasn’t sure exactly what to make of it, but she was almost positive that she could trace it to the day that Remus had given a strange look to the dead seeds in her hand.

"Lumos." She ran the thin beam of wand-light over the spines of the books, feeling very much as if she were a first year invading the Hogwarts restricted section in the middle of the night. She almost expected Madam Pince to come and grip her by the shoulder, at any second. But she forgot her tension when her light illuminated an oddly-shaped book which was buried, on its side, behind a row of thick, dusty, leather-bound publications. Ginny carefully removed these, then worked the hidden book out of its tight position at the back of the bookcase and directed her wand light at the title.

"Wow," she breathed.

The New Book of Highly Complicated and Very Likely Lethal Potions was very tall, very slender, and bound in a strange, silvery cloth. It reminded her of Remus himself. Ginny quickly replaced the books she’d removed from in front of it, then opened the silver volume in the crook of her arm and flipped it to the appropriate page, checking over her shoulder every few seconds to assure herself that she was in private. And then, convinced that it was quiet, Ginny turned her attention to the recipe she’d been trying to get her hands on all day. Quickly she read the title of the page.

Wolfsbane Potion

To be attempted by mediwizards and licensed apothecaries only.

"Do you want more light?"

Ginny gasped, jumped, and whirled around, holding the book behind her with one hand, and her wand out in front of her with the other. Though her hand trembled with a rush of startled adrenaline, the beam of her wand illuminated a pair of familiar glasses, just outside the doorway.

"Oh... Harry, it’s you," Ginny managed, still gasping, only minimally relieved that it wasn’t Remus. She didn’t want to be caught by anyone, just now. She needed to work, and in private.

"Yeah." Harry stayed just outside the door, but he drew his wand and lit one of the lamps in the library.

Ginny winced in the light, and backed up a step, protective of her secret. "I don’t need the light," she said quickly, "I was just picking out something to read myself to sleep with."

Дата добавления: 2015-10-24