Silence's Kiss (Harry Potter)

[eM15]

Post split into multiple messages due to misclick. Oops.

Wonder if Hermione will realize she could theoretically blackmail Draco into being a closet bigoted idiot. Doing so would have consequences for her, but the options's on the table.

Click to shrink...

I can't confirm or deny your musing, but I can tell you without spoilers that I've got some serious Draco interactions in the medium to long term. I look forward to seeing your reactions!

 

[eM15]

Hogwarts was alive. The breathing in and out of its magic spoke to that. Now it had been brought to my attention, though, I could close my eyes and just barely feel the tinge of pride and satisfaction. The castle seemed… glad that I was happy with my new workspace. That would be something to work around. For a myriad of reasons, I didn't want anyone save for Harry, Ron, and maybe Luna to have access to Hogswatch. Even beyond the probably-illegal books I would most definitely be storing here, I had come to value my privacy.

Before, I'd always simply described what needed to happen and willed it to be so. With this, though, I needed to convince a rudimentary intelligence that allowing and even maintaining the spells were a good idea. Certainly, I would need to dive deep into my various runic texts. Most of the runes I knew already dealt in cold, hard facts—not abstract ideas and justifications. I wasn't even sure where I would start. It was an entirely new sort of challenge.

Truthfully, I was more than a bit excited.

It was late, but I hadn't the luxury of going to sleep. I doubted I'd be able to either, not with the buzzing excitement of a new venture into the unknown and the eager flush of pride from the magic all around me. The sooner I got the wards set up, the sooner I'd be able to move my more sensitive materials over, and the sooner I'd be able to get to work on saving my life. I knew for a fact that the answers were out there waiting to be found. I just had to find them. Thus resolved, I put quill to parchment and got to work.

Concern and Critique​

"Good morning, everyone. I'm Professor Babbling, and welcome to the Study of Ancient Runes! Rubbish name if you care for my opinion, and given that I'm the one teaching the class, I'm forced to assume that you do!" Professor Babbling was a tall woman, though didn't seem to look all that much older than the seventh years I'd seen. She paced as she talked, bouncing with every step and gesticulating wildly. The classroom itself was arranged oddly, with desks set in a semicircle. Watching the professor speak, I could only assume this was so she had more space to pace about. She'd also assigned seats, insisting on making sure the Gryffindors and the Slytherins we took the class with were mixed up thoroughly.

"While Study of Ancient Runes is technically correct as a term," she continued, "it doesn't truly encapsulate what all we're going to be learning about here. Personally, I'd rename this class to 'Metamagic', but that term is new enough that the board didn't want to go for it.

"In Charms, you learn charms, yes, but you also learn how to wave your wand and what different wand motions mean, and later on you learn why they're like that. You know, the basics of wizardry." She glanced around the classroom. "I suppose you might not, actually. Quills out! Our lecture's starting now. Right, then. As you might recall, this is the Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. There are some old biases about what genders use what sort of magic—and I'll leave the breakdown of that to the illustrious Professor Binns—but that's bunk. Really, they're just two very broad categories of magic. In simplest terms, wizardry is magic that focuses on wandwork, witchcraft is magic that doesn't. Potions, arithmancy, divination, and runes are all examples of witchcraft. There's obviously things that fall outside of those neat boxes because life laughs at petty human attempts at categorization, but that's the gist of it.

"So if Charms boils down to the study of magic from the perspective of a wizard, then this class is the study of magic from the perspective of a witch. Runes—" Professor Babbling flicked her wand, and a series of runes which I was reasonably sure translated to 'Study of Magic' appeared on the chalkboard, "—are the language with which we write magic out. Any language whose sole purpose is to describe magic is thus known as a 'Runic Language'. We use these for enchanting, rituals, spellcrafting, and all sorts of other fun things. There are those who would tell you that runes have some inherent magic for some reason or other. It's a common idea. It's also incredibly wrong.

"Runes have power not because they're some inherently correct way of describing magic, but because they've been used to describe magic for so long that they've ground a rut into magic itself. Every culture has their own way of doing it, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. On the more advanced side, there's also the fact that magic comes from willpower and intent. Using a special mystical language helps focus our intent. It's the same as spell incantations. They do have some power due to the strength of their Legacy, but once that's been carved into your core then it becomes largely about intent. That's why wordless wizardry is possible."

She stopped herself short, seemingly having realised something suddenly. "I suppose that's a bit of a digression though, isn't it? Ah, well. Someone would have taught you that eventually. Back to this class. While you're here, we're going to be learning about the various runic alphabets that you might run into. We're also going to be asking and answering questions such as 'How does magic work?', 'What is magic?', and if you continue on with this class through your NEWTs, 'Why does magic work the way it does?'. For this year, we're going to be focusing primarily on the 'How' by way of the runic languages of the British Isles. Everyone please open your copy of Spellman's Syllabary to page 4…"

The rest of the class went along accordingly as Professor Babbling lectured, leading herself off on tangents before stopping herself and returning to topic. It quickly became clear that the rest of the class was playing catch-up compared to me. At least, more than was normal in my classes. She asked questions, and I answered, and she seemed to take that as a sign to go on to more advanced tangents until one of the other Gryffindors raised their hand to say that they were completely lost. Professor Babbling looked sheepish at that, and had stopped calling on me entirely.

"Ah, that's time, then," she mused as the bell rang out. "Your homework is a foot on what sort of things in your life use runes, and how they might do so. Granger, if you could stay back?" Dutifully, I stayed seated at my desk as everyone pushed their way out the door to head to lunch. Professor Babbling picked up a glass of water and took a drink before leaning against her desk. "Oh, don't be a stranger, come up here."

I picked up my bag and approached. "Professor?"

"Oh, none of that." She sighed. "It's my first year as a full teacher, you know. Been a student teacher up 'til now. Not quite used to the formality yet. Just call me 'Babbling' outside of class, yeah?"

I blinked. That was strange, and I wasn't quite sure if I cared for it. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes!" she said. "So I'm given to understand that you've got a condition that bars you from wizardry entirely, and that Dumbledore's set you up with a primer for ritual? Based on what McGonagall's been saying, I've no doubt you've already been making up for lost time in that avenue, yeah?"

"I've been studying over the summer," I allowed. There was no chance that I told her the full extent of what I'd gotten up to.

A genuine smile spread across her face. "Excellent! And you stayed with a magical family? No doubt you've already figured out the limits on the Trace, yeah?" I flushed slightly, unable to contain the reaction. "Brilliant. Five points to Gryffindor."

"Ma'am?" I sputtered.

"Between you and me," she said, "The Trace was put in place by You-Know-Who's lackeys back in the first war, and they've managed to keep it going ever since by yelling to 'think of the children!' whenever anyone brings up repealing it. Getting around that's something to be commended, far as I'm concerned."

"Er, Pro—" she stopped me with a look. "Babbling?"

"Right, right. Sorry about that. Name's appropriate, don't you think? I come by it honestly. Just excited to be teaching a properly studious ritualist. In my first year as a real teacher, even! I must've done something particularly good in a past life to earn that." I blinked at her. "Right," she said. "The reason I held you behind. So, you've got a disability, and it means you can't muck about with your wand. Simply put, Hogwarts really isn't built for people like you. Charms is mandatory, after all, and that's a class on a highly fundamental field of magic packed up in a way that's mostly useless to you. Dumbledore's taken some steps, but probably not enough. It means that you're going to need to get very good very quickly if you want to keep up. Far as I'm concerned, that means two things. First is that I'm opening my office hours up to you anytime I'm not teaching a class, not just the listed times. No doubt you're going to need somebody as a resource, and I'm happy to be that person. The second thing it means is that you are quite literally always going to be ahead in my class. If it weren't for the massive workload you'll already have, the opportunity cost of certain foundational things you might miss, and the sheer impracticality of scheduling, I'd move you right up to my fourth year classes and call it a day."

Babbling finally stopped to take a breath. "That does mean classes are going to be a bit strange for you. Way I see this working is you following along with classes as normal, but I'll assign you homework separately after everyone else has left. No doubt it will be more project based than essays. Designing and executing new rituals or what have you. If you have a different idea, though, I'm all ears."

"No, that's…" I trailed off, lost in thought. "None of the other professors have really put this much thought into how to help, except maybe Dumbledore."

She gave me a sympathetic smile. "I can sympathise. I've got dyscalculia, you know? Number blindness. It means I can't do maths for the most part. Had to go to a muggle doctor to figure out a name for it. Makes arithmancy a right nightmare—I send any I need done to Vector nowadays. Snape in particular was the poster boy of unhelpfulness when he taught me. Point is, the magic world really doesn't know what to do with people who don't fit within their narrow views of normal. Being crippled, or traumatised, or having difficulty reading or doing maths or using a wand—those are all personal issues. We just aren't 'trying hard enough'. Rubbish, that. So when Dumbledore told me about you, I had a pretty good idea of what you were gonna be going through, and I'm here to help." I reeled slightly as Babbling gave voice to the vague ideas that had been floating around in the back of my head, only to be knocked out of it when she clapped her hands. "So, what are your thoughts on that separate homework track plan?"

"That sounds…" I thought for a moment, trying to weigh the benefits of having someone help me versus the risks of trusting someone else to look at my work. The things she was saying made sense, and most of it were ideas I'd already loosely had, but hadn't it been the same with the Diary? Still, there was nothing saying that I had to ask her specifically for help with curing me, or anything actually important. I could ask around the problem. "I think that I would like that."

"Splendid! So before we do anything, I'll need to get a good sense of exactly how advanced you already are. If you could gather up copies of the rituals you've already done and any that you've modified at all, we'll call that your first homework assignment. Due next class." I nodded. "Good! Now, we should probably get going. We're both missing lunch."

Feeling thoroughly off-centre, I made my way out of the classroom, already compiling a list of which of my projects I was willing to show her.

---

Professor Lupin, it seemed, was a good teacher. The first good Defence teacher that we'd ever had. He hadn't let Harry or I have a turn with the boggart that first class, but that made a sort of sense. I couldn't quite cast on command—my wand was quickly becoming relegated to the sole role of stirring potions when needed—and the sorts of things that scared Harry weren't the type one wanted popping up in a classroom. A Gryffindor's Gryffindor, him. Despite that, though, I left the class with a few strange thoughts I didn't quite know what to do with.

I knew I recognised his boggart from somewhere, but I couldn't quite place it. Everyone else's had been easy—spiders, mummies, rats, and the like. His was the only one I couldn't place. As always, not knowing irritated me. On that subject, Neville's boggart had been Professor Snape. It was in the wake of the man almost forcing Neville to poison his pet toad—something avoided by my instructions whispered behind the professor's back—but it pushed my respect for Neville up a notch. Neville was nervous, yes, and easily scared, but he walked in to the den of his worst fear in the world at least once a week. His sorting made an uncomfortable amount of sense painted in that light.

Frankly, I didn't quite know how to place Professor Snape. He was a bully as surely as Malfoy was, biased towards Slytherins and willfully cruel. He made a point of making me cast any and all spells that might come up in the making of a potion, never allowing me to defer it to the partner who could actually use a wand. When that delayed the potion, he seemed to delight in making an example of me. Him being Neville's worst fear was no coincidence. The man was awful.

At the same time, he'd saved me. He'd saved Harry all the way back in first year, too.

The whole thing was uncomfortable to think about, which just made me focus on it even more. It begged endless questions. There was a 'why' that I was missing, and it meant I couldn't even begin to predict him. Why would he save my life one day only to belittle me the next? The question went unanswered, and god did I hate questions without answers.

That thought of unanswerable questions brought my mind to Luna. She'd been a good friend when I needed it, and Black Manor was just as dangerous as anything that I'd done with Harry and Ron…

"Hey, guys?" I asked, looking across the table to Harry and Ron. We'd situated ourselves in Hogswatch for the evening. Ron was practising a spell for Charms with a frown, and Harry was thumbing through his Defence textbook and writing down any good duelling spells he could find. It seemed like Professor Lupin had really piqued his interest in the subject. That, combined with his and Ron's self stated goal of making up for my physical inability to duel, and I had been happy to point out where in the book he should be looking. It was nice to see them taking their studies seriously for once, even if it wasn't strictly classwork.

Ron jumped at the distraction eagerly. "What's up?"

"I think that I'll be able to try warding up the room soon," I said, "but I want to show Hogswatch to Luna first."

Harry perked up. "That girl from the train? Why?"

"Because I trust her. She's a friend, and she helped me get into Black Manor. It would've been much harder to do without her."

"You could've brought me." Ron crossed his arms. "You didn't need Loony for that."

I was mostly sure that he wasn't serious, but I really couldn't let that awful name stand. "Luna, Ron. Her name is Luna. And like I said then, unless you wanted to join me in a week of trawling through every book in a dusty old library right after doing literal blood magic to get in—" My tone was light, but the response was immediate.

"Blood magic?" Ron asked. "You can't do that! Hermione, that stuff's evil!"

"I can, actually. It's just magic—"

"It's blood magic! Nothing good comes out of blood magic."

"Because you have such extensive experience with it, I'm sure," I drawled, but Ron was having none of it.

"Course I don't, 'cause I'm not a bloody dark wizard!"

"Sorry," Harry interrupted. "But what's blood magic? It doesn't sound good."

Ron spoke before I could. "Dark arts, Harry. It's nasty stuff. People who do blood magic get addicted, go proper mad, and go off and get themselves hurt. Charlie told me all about it once, told me a story that Dad had told him about what You-Know-Who's lot used to do with blood magic. Had nightmares for a week after." He looked vaguely green at the thought. "I reckon Black knows all about it."

"It's just magic. Magic that happens to use blood as a component. It's not addictive, just really useful. Besides, there's no way I would have gotten into Black Manor without it. It's not like I'm using any malefica."

Ron turned his attention back to me. "Why would you need blood magic to get into that place anyway? Alohomora still works, doesn't it?"

"Because, don't you think that literal centuries of dark mages might have figured out a way to stop a first year spell? There were wards, Ron. Blood wards. They would've torn me apart. You didn't feel it. The magic there, it was angry."

"Now you're sounding like Loony too!"

Harry stepped between us once again. "Hermione, what do you mean the magic was angry? How does that work?"

"You know how when you cast a really strong spell, you can sort of feel it in your arms as it comes out?" Harry nodded. "Well, there's a trick you can learn to detect the magic around you. I picked it up last year. I'm not as good at it as Luna is, but when I focus I can feel it. When the magic's really strong, it doesn't think, exactly, but it certainly seems to feel things. Hogwarts, for example. When we walked in the doors for the first time this year, I could feel it. Hogwarts was happy we were here. It missed us."

That seemed to floor Harry a bit. "Really?"

"Really." I smiled at him. "Once I get Hogswatch warded, I was going to try to teach you two. And Luna could help me with that."

"Did Luna do the blood magic too?" Ron asked.

"Seeing as I needed her to come with me into the Manor, yes, she did. Besides, a lot of blood magic's not harmful, or even illegal. You just need a licence."

"Do you have a licence?"

"Well no, but seeing as it is literally a life or death issue, I don't care. I didn't have a licence for brewing polyjuice potion either—which is restricted, by the way—but we still needed it, so I made it. Same thing here." I sighed. "I thought you wanted me to tell you things. Wasn't that the promise?"

"I would've thought that you'd tell us if you were planning to do the bloody dark arts! They're what put you here in the first place!"

"Ron," I hissed. "If I thought that the way to save my life would be legal, or even nice, don't you think I would have looked anywhere else but the home of the family known for producing the most dark wizards in history? I don't have the luxury of nice, though, do I? The nice books that the Healers have say I'm going to die. I can't—I refuse to accept that. So yes, I'm going to be learning some dark arts—like blood magic—and I'm going to do them without hurting people—like I've already proven I can." I stood suddenly, causing Harry to flinch. There was a pang of guilt at that, but I ignored it easily enough. "I'm going to invite Luna to Hogswatch. She's willing to help me do what it takes to not die. When you're done telling me to be scared of my own magic, then I will be happy to key you into the wards once I make them."

Gathering my things, I turned on my heel and left. Sir Fabeon swung aside to let me pass by without a word. Honestly, what was his problem? Magic was magic. I wasn't hurting anybody! Part of me wanted to show him some of the nastier hexes I'd been taught, some of the things I'd found in Black Manor. At least then he'd see my blood-mask for its actual innocence.

The problem was that he wouldn't, though, would he? Ron was too stubborn. Scared, even. Things just the tiniest bit outside of what he'd been taught were anathema. Something to be feared. It was absolutely mental. Magic was magic, and it wasn't like I had hurt anyone. I could, too, even without a wand. Potions that would force men to love or hate, enchantments that would flense skin and boil bone. They had been so easy to learn, too. The Diary had taught me so many ways to hurt people. It said that it was all to keep me safe, and I'd believed it, but I knew that it was only ever because I thought it understood me, and so I craved its praise.

There was an ocean of things that Ron had never dreamt of, and he was terrified of the shallows.

It made sense. When had he ever had to step outside of his comfort zone? He'd known he'd been magic all his life, been raised by a big, loving family. The Burrow was many things I found uncomfortable, but it was unquestionably safe. I couldn't imagine anything bad ever having happened there—not in our lifetime at least. He'd never had professors out for his blood specifically, or been lonely—not really, or been used and thrown aside, or looked an oncoming death in the face.

My feet carried me to the Astronomy tower, empty for the evening. A near-forgotten part of my mind gave muffled warning about the oncoming curfew. I ignored it, opting to go to climb up to the top floor and lean out over the railing. Almost all of Hogwarts sprawled before me, the Headmaster's tower rising up against a background set by the Great Hall and the Scottish highlands cast in shadow. The Black Lake was true to its name, seeming as if a void in the world. Beyond even that laid the clear night sky.

Dad used to make a point of dragging Mum and I out to the country to stargaze every summer. He likely would have this past summer, too, were I not a liability to bring home. Looking out at the stars always brought those memories back. It soothed me some, and brought a pang of loneliness. I missed them. That first year, before Harry and Ron and I had become friends, I'd written to them every day and cried myself to sleep half the time. I hadn't thought about them much last year—the Memory in the Diary was charming; I wasn't shocked he had earned such loyal followers—but the ugly, cloying thought that I might not see them ever again if I didn't dive deep into any scrap of hidden magic I could get my hands on brought them back to mind to the point of distraction.

Mum would keep a stiff upper lip, I knew, even if it hurt. She had always been the strongest woman I'd ever met. Dad, though… The news would break him. It hurt to lie to them, to hide how little time I had left (and a year had never felt so short), but I knew that telling them would only hurt them worse. Mum would do something drastic, and Dad might start drinking again. It was better this way.

I looked out at the stars to distract myself from the thought. They were bright, the candles and torches of Hogwarts doing little to dim the sky. Truthfully, they were brighter than they should have been. I let myself muse that there must be an enchantment of sorts on the tower to make them more clear. Fond memories of Dad and Astronomy classes alike brought the names of stars and constellations readily to mind. There was Cancer (I'd always imagined it as a crooked lamp, not a crab), and the twins Gemini just next to it. I could see Taurus the bull with the twinkling light of Mars next to the horns. A dementor crossed across the sky, but I ignored it entirely. Orion the hunter was aiming for Taurus' legs, and his loyal hounds Canis Minor and Major were right behind. There, in Canis Major, was its brightest star—the brightest star in the sky, even—Sirius.

Sirius…

Harry ought to have understood. Probably did, really. His life was bloody awful. He'd watched his parents die as an infant, grown up in a house that hated him (even if he hated talking about it), had a professor try to kill him in his first year, had stood by Professor Snape as he faced down the Diary and its basilisk, and was now being hunted by a mad murderer. I knew that Harry understood that fear, the indecision. The feeling of having to do something, even if it ended up being wrong. He just hated confrontation. Sure, I knew in my heart that he'd have gladly faced down that basilisk on his lonesome for me, but that didn't count in his eyes. To him, telling Ron to stop being a prat would count as a terrifying confrontation.

Was it wrong of me to be mad at him, too?

Because if he really understood, then he should know how hard it was to not be able to count on anyone. The uncertainty hurt. If I found a way to survive, but I needed to spill a drop of blood to do so, would Ron stand by me? Would Harry? Even worse, if I needed to do something like sacrifice some poor goat—and I truly hoped I wouldn't have to—would they condemn me? At the Storytelling, Salem had said that Gyffes had sacrificed his wife. If something like that was the cost, would it be better to just let nature take its course?

A stabbing sensation ripped through my gut at the thought, pressing my fists into a white-knucle grip on the railing and gritting my teeth with a groan. My mind reeled for a moment, as I wondered if there were some symptoms I hadn't been told about before I realised. My Vows. My eternally binding Vows. Letting an honest opportunity to survive go, no matter how vile, would seal my fate. Thaumeal Inversion was supposed to be painless, but my Vows most certainly weren't. After all, corpses made for very poor students.

Ron thought he could lecture me on the dangers of blood magic, as if I wasn't horribly, agonisingly aware. As if he knew better than me, who had been student to a fledgling Dark Lord. No I'd… I'd do what I had to to survive. Even if that meant hurting someone, though I'd hold back until the final moment to do it. I'd search as hard as I could to find some kinder option right up until then, but I knew that in the end I would do whatever it took, no matter the cost.

The pain lost its edge and began to ebb away.

There were still prickles around my stomach, but they would heal. Things tended to heal faster the more magic suffused them, I knew, and I radiated magic like a furnace. Still, it left me doubled over the edge of the tower and looking down to the long drop. I flinched back as I realised, vertigo overcoming me. As it passed, I let out a deep sigh and placed my forehead on the cool stone railing.

"Daddy used to sit on the edge of the roof to think, too." I jumped up and span around, looking for the voice, only to find Luna fixing me with a gentle smile. A few deep breaths started to calm my racing heart.

"Luna! You scared me half to death!"

"I'm sorry to hear that." She walked up and sat down, placing her back to the railing. "Though maybe it would be more like three quarters?" Her voice sounded as serious as ever, earning a shocked and guilty little giggle from me.

I spun and sat down next to her. "What were you saying, about your dad?"

She hummed. "After Mum left, Daddy would go up to the roof of the house and think whenever he got sad."

"Why the roof?" I pressed. I'd quickly learned that Luna talked around things before getting to them.

"He liked to look down. I asked him why once, and he said that looking at his options brought him peace. Then he hugged me and told me that he wasn't going anywhere. I don't think you're going anywhere either." Luna wobbled from side to side for a moment before looking at me. "Was that what you were doing?"

"No, I just…" I said, reeling from how easily Luna could talk about the most awful things I'd ever heard. "I don't know why I'm here. I just like to look at the stars. My Dad, he loves the stars too. We used to spend hours and hours looking up at night while he told me all about them." The sharing felt right, in the face of it. It made it a fair trade. She leaned in then, placing her head on my shoulder and filling me with an unexpected warmth. "How'd you find me?"

"Harry and Ron were looking for you, and thought you might be with me. They found Ginny in the library to ask her to find me, but I was sitting next to her, and then they asked me to find you. I just asked the derk sprites."

"Derk sprites?" I asked with no small amount of disbelief.

"They like to gossip about people who don't know what to do," she explained. "Daddy says they do it because they don't know what to do either. Did you know Professor Snape has a hard time choosing what robes to wear in the mornings?"

"Really?" I laughed.

"Apparently he likes to make sure they billow correctly."

That earned another fit of giggles from me. I wasn't quite sure about the derk sprites, but that idea sounded shockingly plausible. After a moment, though, laughter gave way to silence, and I realised something. "So is Ginny talking to you again?"

"She is," Luna hummed. "It's nice. She apologised, and I asked her what for because I thought apologies were for things you did and not what you didn't do, and she didn't know how to answer. She's very careful with me, I think, but she wants to be friends again. I do too." Then, more quietly: "I missed her."

"That's good. I talked to her during the Sorting, and she said she was 'done being stupid'. Her words, not mine," I assured. "I'm glad she actually did it."

Luna picked up my arm and started tracing little patterns on it with deft fingers. "Ron apologised too."

Annoyance filled me instantly. "That boy, I swear I'll— What did Ron do to you?"

"He interrupted my reading, but he wasn't sorry about that. I don't mind, though. The apology was for you."

The irritation filtered out of me much more slowly than it had come. "Well if he's really sorry, he ought to say so to my face."

"That's what Ginny said," Luna hummed. "He's waiting for you in your common room, I think."

"And he's done being thick?" I let out a sigh. "I just don't know what to do, Luna, and it's like he expects me to because knowing what to do is my thing, but only if I can wrap everything up in a pretty little bow. But I… nothing about this is pretty. I'm not pretty. I don't know how to do… pretty."

Luna seemed to weigh that in her mind for a moment, rocking her head back and forth on my shoulder like the thought had a physical weight. She was a very tactile person like that, I'd noticed. Expressive, even if her face stayed perpetually serene. "I think you're wrong," she finally said. My response was eaten up by the sound of the bells down below ringing out ten times. Curfew. "Do you think we should go?"

"Maybe," I said, looking down at the arm Luna was tracing patterns on. "But I don't think I want to go anywhere just yet."

She just hummed once more.

---

"Hermione!" Harry called out as soon as he saw me walk through the portrait hole. Ron jerked awake from his spot on his couch. The rest of the common room was empty, and the fireplace had burned its way down to coals.

"Hermione?" Ron rubbed his eyes. "Where were you? Harry and I looked everywhere!"

"Not everywhere, or you would have found me." I made my way to their couch and plopped down.

Ron sighed. "Right, but where were you?"

"Looking at the stars," I said. "I needed to think."

Harry cut in. "Did Luna find you?"

"Yes, she did." I crossed my arms. "And believe it or not, we managed to spend a whole hour together without doing any restricted magic." Ron winced.

"Er, right. Sorry," he mumbled. "Look, Harry and I talked, and I guess I'm just worried. That stuff—it's dangerous!"

"And sneaking dragons through the school and facing down a nest of acromantulas isn't?"

Ron shuddered at the memory. "Yeah, fair enough. Point made. Harry and I, we're behind you, right? I don't—I don't like that you're doing all that rot, but you're probably clever enough to sort it out. Just tell us about it, yeah?"

"I did tell you about it," I hissed, "and you called me evil!"

"No, I didn't! I called the magic evil!"

I let out a terse sigh. "There's no such thing as evil magic. That's like saying there are evil rocks, or evil candles. The rock doesn't throw itself, and you don't say it's the candles fault your house burned down. Magic, it's just—" Power, I didn't say, well aware of how that would sound. "It's just a tool. You can use it for good or evil, and I won't be scared of a tool."

"I never thought I'd miss the Hermione that was all about the rules," he said with audible frustration. "What happened to her?"

I rolled that around in my mouth for a moment. "She died," I finally said. "Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever." Harry and Ron both winced, and I didn't bother to push down my satisfaction at the sight. "Thanks to Harry and Snape, you've still got this Hermione though, and this Hermione is quite willing to do whatever she has to—even the dark arts—if it means she can keep herself and her friends safe."

Ron grit his teeth. "Well dark magic didn't bloody well keep my uncles safe, did they? Or Harry's parents, remember them?"

"Ron!" I hissed, but he continued on.

"So don't tell me it's harmless," he said. "'Cause it's not harmless. It's the opposite."

I took a look at his red face and the shine of unshed tears in his eyes and relented some, and something like guilt sunk down in my stomach before I suppressed it. "Look, not all dark magic's a dark art, and not all of the dark arts are harmful. 'Dark art' is just a term the Ministry uses for magic it doesn't like. There are spells and potions with very legitimate uses in things like farming and medicine that have been classified as dark arts because someone in the Ministry got scared of what they might be able to do. I mean, parselmouth is a dark art! I don't see Harry up and hexing people for fun. And the actually awful spells—the malefica? They're the sorts of thing I'm staying away from. Most of those would need a wand anyway. I know what I'm doing. Trust me," I assured. "The only person I even could hurt is myself."

"Yeah," Ron grumbled. "That's what I'm worried about. Harry and I, we can't keep you safe if you go blowing yourself up or whatever." He stood up. "I'm going to bed. See you tomorrow." With that, he trudged up the stairs to his dorm.

I looked to Harry, who seemed just as floored as I was. There was a long pause before he spoke up. "Ron's just scared. Honestly, I am too. Just… let us know? We want to help you."

"I did let you know, and here we are."

"Before you do it," Harry insisted. "Neither of us want you to die, Hermione."

"Would you even know what to look for? Or would you just panic because the spell has a scary word in the name? I won't be afraid of my magic—of myself. I refuse." I deflated with a sigh before reluctantly conceding the point. "But I guess I could at least warn you about the risks beforehand."

"That's…" Harry trailed off. "I guess that works."

"I'll be careful, I promise."

"I know you will, just…" He stood up. "Good night, Hermione."

"Good night," I echoed, and watched him disappear up the stairs. The embers in the fireplace gave little light to the room, casting everything behind the chairs in shadow. Crookshanks rounded the corner suddenly, making a beeline to me and planting himself in my lap. I scratched him dutifully, but it did little for my mood.

Had the castle always felt this lonely?

 

[eM15]

You're going to be different, after. You've always felt like an other, looking in from the outside. At least until those boys found you. It was as if there was some cosmic joke you were never in on, people judging you for it all the while. Because you were different. Better, some might say.

It's only going to get worse from here.

You'll be an outsider, unable to turn to anyone, even those who claim to care. Sometimes you'll wonder if you're even human. You'll be something more after the change. Something less. Certainly, you're going to be something else.

No going back now. One wonders if it will be worth the price. Perhaps you should have considered that before, hm?​

Memory II - Something Other​

Remus was alone. In fact, Remus was always alone. He'd been alone for nearly twelve years to the day. It was for the best. The people Remus loved tended to die—or worse. There was no reason to put that sort of fate on anyone.

Remus Lupin was a shabby man clad in shabby clothes in a shabby cottage on the shabby end of a small wizarding community. The cottage itself was a fair distance from the rest of the village. Better that way. The cottage hadn't always been like that, of course, and neither had Remus. Nearly twelve years to the day.

It was early August, a few days after the full moon, and Remus was exhausted.

They called it lycanthropy. The deluded called it a blessing to be shared. Most thought it a disease, and its afflicted to be walking infection vectors. Remus thought it to be a curse put upon the world by some vengeful god. For nearly twelve years he had been unable to keep a job due to the fear which inevitably took root when the truth of his condition came out. A fear, he thought, that wasn't entirely unwarranted.

Truthfully, he scared himself. To become a mindless, bloodthirsty beast every month without fail was a horrible thing. Even beyond the agony that came with breaking bones and tearing tendons, Remus knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he couldn't ever truly trust himself. There was always a part of him deep inside baying for blood, and he knew it all too well.

The cottage Remus called home was a sickly, broken down thing, even after he'd put his not insignificant magical talents to work. The roof leaked, the walls groaned and shuddered in the wind, the floorboards creaked and splintered, and the idea of keeping warm in the winter months was fanciful at best. The cellar doors, though, and the great silver chains binding them were the toughest that money could buy. It gave him some peace of mind to know he wouldn't be afflicting his curse on anyone else. Not if he could help it.

James had… never understood that fear. He knew the danger existed, certainly, in the same distant way he knew about dying of old age, but he'd never been one to be scared of danger. Not when he could find some way to cheat it. That was always his way. If he was just clever enough and charming enough, he thought, danger would never touch him.

The whole world had seen how that worked out for him.

Peter had always been nervous back when he was alive, yes, but that wasn't fear. More than that, it was nervousness about everything outside rather than anything within: bad grades, detentions, getting caught, abandonment, the Death Eaters, and of course Lord Voldemort himself. The war had been so hard on them all, and they'd all been so very young…

In his more self-aware moments—when he wasn't so up as to be unreasonable or so down as to be incapable of actual conversation—Sirius had almost understood. He was a Black, he'd explained, and that meant a lot of things. Part of that was being able to walk into any room and being the one most willing to get things done, no matter how horrid that thing might be. It also meant true, undying, unwavering loyalty. He used to joke about how they'd messed the brainwashing up with him, that the loyalty meant to go to his House had ended up with them instead. Remus cursed himself for how quick to laugh he'd been back then. The traitor had been telling them all about how he'd betray them and why all along, and he'd passed it off as jokes!

Because that was the thing about Sirius! He'd always been mad. He didn't understand the context of normal people. When he scared himself, it wasn't because he actually scared himself, it was because he had scared everyone else and didn't want to be left behind because of it. A fat lot of good that thought was, when he'd gone running back to his family with tail between his legs at the first hint of reward. And reward was what it would have to be. Sirius had never quite understood fear. Not in the normal way. Voldemort had to have promised him something, because simple threats would never have worked.

Whatever it was, Remus hoped it was worth it. Remus, James, Pete, and even Lily—they had all loved Sirius, and they'd all thought that he had loved them right back. He wanted to know what it was that Sirius had been promised that could possibly have been worth more than that.

As he sat there on an uneven and creaky chair in his broken down, perpetually shabby cottage, Remus hated Sirius. It was the only thing left to do. In his more uncharitable moments, he managed to hate James and Peter and Lily too. He'd told them, hadn't he? He'd told them that Sirius was unpredictable, that yes he cared, but that nobody ever knew what mad thing he was going to do next. Most of all, Remus hated himself. He should have seen it coming. James and Lily and Peter, they shouldn't have had to die. It should have been him.

God, what he would give for it to have been him.

Most recently, Remus had been working as a bookseller. It had been good, honest work for a good seven months, right up until the owner pieced together that the only time he took off was the day after each full moon. The old man had refused to even be in the same room after—he'd given his termination notice over floo.

Remus couldn't even blame the old shopkeeper. How could he? The deep gouges and thick locks in his cellar told far too clear a story for that. Though it was hard to blame a man for wanting to stay safe, it did mean that he was out of a job. That was worse than just tightening up his budget; it left Remus painfully alone with his thoughts.

He shook his head clear and stood. That was the last thing he needed. Remus checked around his cottage for something that needed done, anything to pull him out of his own head. He found it in the form of a dwindling pile of split wood by the fireplace. Sure, it was summer, but he never really knew when the rain would come, bringing biting wind along with it. It was mostly useless, he knew that, but it was something to do.

Making his way outside, he headed over to the log pile leaning against the building. He'd got a good deal on the wood by way of a friend of the bookshop's owner. He'd have to make it last through the winter. That connection had dried up, and even magical fire had to feed on something to keep burning. Remus hadn't the nutrition to spare for that source to be him—not consistently. That sort of thing took a toll on the body. His body had paid toll enough, he thought.

That in mind, he grabbed a log and set it on a wide stump in the yard. He almost reached for his wand, but thought better of it. Taking the easy route would rather defeat the point of the exercise, wouldn't it? So, he went back inside and grabbed an axe hanging from a peg in a closet. The poor thing had seen better days. He gave it an appraising look before shrugging and hauling it back to the stump.The handle was rotten and broke with the first swing, causing the axe head to go flying off to the side. He sighed and pulled out his wand.

This was a thing that only magic could do, and Remus welcomed the mundanity. Jamming the handle back in the head, he cast an array of spells at it. The mending charm, of course, then a sticking charm, and one for reinforcement to hold it all together. He gave another look at the axe head itself—it really shouldn't have bounced like that—and ran calloused fingers over the edge. The thing was dull as anything, and half rusted besides. He debated for a moment whether to try and charm it, but decided there was a better solution. A quick transfiguration fixed both problems nicely.

Stowing his wand and feeling only slightly silly—a quick Diffindo would split wood as surely as anything—Remus hefted the axe and slammed it down once more. The log split cleanly into two. Idly, Remus checked the axe over. The handle had held well enough, and the head was still shiny and sharp. He wasn't terribly surprised. They were simple spells, and transfiguration was something of a strength of his. Always had been, even if his skills always paled in comparison to…

He grabbed another log and split it in a single stroke to distract him from the errant thoughts.

Grab, set, raise, chop. Don't think. Grab, set, raise, chop. Don't think.

It wasn't long before Remus fell into a pattern, and the pile of wood grew to a point that called out 'Enough' even through his daze. He took a moment to breathe deep, muscles aching. He was an academic at heart, and he knew it. Manual labour like this wasn't something he did often, though he considered that he might need to get back into the habit. There was no telling what his next job would be. Construction was always good work, if backbreaking. The companies tended to not care too much for sick time, though, and expected diligent work no matter the day. It never took them too long to figure out why he was always so exhausted after the full moon.

Remus whipped out his wand and cast an Impervius charm over the pile. He'd need to undo it before burning it, of course, but it would keep the elements away where the far too porous walls of his home wouldn't. This wood needed to keep for a good long while.

Rolling up his sleeves, Remus began grabbing the wedges of wood and stacking them up in his aching arms. He entertained a break briefly, before shaking the idea out of his head. That would defeat the point. Slowly, he made his way inside, fumbling with the door handle with hands full of logs before getting frustrated and whisking it open with wandless magic. He piled it up by the fireplace neatly; he hadn't the luxury of disorder of any sort.

Just as he was setting the last piece down, he heard the telltale Crack! of apparition from outside. Remus wondered at that for just a moment. He was too far outside of the town proper for him to hear anyone apparating there, and there wasn't anyone he knew of that would care to visit. Nobody to miss him if he just disappeared.

Remus dismissed the thought, deciding that they were likely lost. The least he could do was point them in the right direction. Thus resolved, he stood up from his crouch and wiped his hands on his pants. They'd need a cleaning, he noted, not that the thin fabric could take many more of those. He opened up his front door and rounded the corner of the building towards where he'd heard the noise, calling out all the while.

"I think you're a bit lost, town's…" He trailed off as he finally saw who it was that had popped in. Standing before him was an ancient looking wizard with kind eyes, a long white beard, and deep blue robes muttered with moving constellations. Remus would recognise him anywhere. "Town's that way," he muttered as he reconciled the sight. "Dumbledore?"

The old man smiled as he approached. "The very same. It's good to see you again, Remus."

"It's good to see me? It's good to see you!" Remus closed the distance between them with long strides, clasping Dumbledore's hand tight. "It's been years! How have you been? Are the kids still giving you trouble?"

"It is my distinct pleasure to assure you that they've never stopped," Dumbledore said. "Some of the Weasley boys in particular would make you proud, I think." He gestured to the cottage. "May I come in?"

"Of course!" Remus said. "Where are my manners? Follow me. I'll put on a pot of tea." Turning back, he led Dumbledore inside, feeling only slightly self conscious at the state of it. He cleared off a table with one whisk of his wand and put the kettle on with another before pulling the chair out for the old Headmaster and sitting down himself. "So, the Weasley boys? How are Molly and Arthur doing?"

"By the state of their children, it seems they're doing well for themselves. Molly finally got the daughter she wanted, though I'm afraid it took seven tries to do it." Dumbledore's eyes seemed to twinkle at this. Remus had never known how it was that he did that, whether it was the result of a spell or simply a facet of who he was. It had never failed to set him at ease, though, not since his very first day at Hogwarts. Dumbledore was a very rare sort of man, in Remus' opinion—one that you couldn't help but trust. Even rarer, he was someone who would pay that trust back in full.

"I'd imagine they were both thrilled at that," Remus said. "Though I doubt you came all this way to talk about the Weasleys." The kettle interrupted them then, and conversation paused as Remus poured them both a cup. "So, what brings Albus Dumbledore all the way down to Yorkshire?"

"Is it not enough to wish to see an old friend?" Dumbledore blew on his tea and took a sip. Remus would bet money there was a cooling charm on his breath. The man always seemed to live and breathe magic like that.

"If that were the case, then I imagine you would have done so before now." Remus put a hand up. "I understand, you're a busy man. I can only imagine just how busy. I don't blame you for it, but it's been twelve years, Albus. I doubt that this is a mere social call."

Dumbledore took a long sip, and let out a sigh. The youthful sort of energy which emanated out from him like sunshine disappeared. For just a moment, he looked old in truth. Remus swore that the room grew colder. "I'm afraid that you're right. I come bearing bad news best learned in person, but I hope to leaven it with an opportunity for you."

"What's this news? Surely it can't be as dramatic as all that?" Remus laughed some despite his sudden nerves. It was an old defence mechanism he'd picked up in school, and not one that he'd ever managed to break.

"I'm afraid," Dumbledore said after a long moment, "that Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban."

Remus' smile fell immediately and he pushed to his feet, planting both hands on the table. "Escaped? How? It's Azkaban, nobody can escape Azkaban!" He ignored the small, insistent part of him that told him that he was wrong, that if anyone could escape Azkaban, it would be Sirius. That same part still insisted that nobody had ever been so dedicated as he, and breaking out after over a decade hounded by dementors would be just like him.

"We're not sure. The Ministry already has its aurors out in force attempting to find him. The news will break to the public with tomorrow's Prophet." Dumbledore's voice grew very small, then. "I thought that you deserved to hear about it more personally than that."

"Why now?" he asked, feeling as if the walls were closing around him and hoping it wasn't reflected in his voice. "It's been twelve years, why now?"

"We don't know that part, though between all of us we have some very strong suspicions. According to the aurors stationed at Azkaban, Sirius has been muttering in his sleep about someone being at Hogwarts." Dumbledore laid down the facts like they were a terrible burden. Realisation dawned on Remus, and he felt as the weight of it pressed his shoulders down into a slump. It became too much suddenly, and he slumped back into his seat, boneless.

"James' son—little Harry—he'd be attending by now, wouldn't he?" As Remus spoke it, he hoped against hope that he was wrong, that James' son had gone to attend some other school, even as he knew it to be in vain. Nobody with any say in the matter would allow the Boy-Who-Lived to attend any school but the best.

"He'll be going into his third year," Dumbledore said simply. "We fear the worst."

Remus grabbed his cup of tea and drank from it in a futile attempt to calm himself, ignoring his shaking hands. "Harry," he whispered. "Is he safe?"

"He is. Lily was a phenomenal witch, and she gave her life to fuel a powerful ward around him. I've never seen anything like it before, and I hope and doubt that I will ever see its like again. He is kept somewhere that no Death Eater will be able to find so long as Harry still breathes." Dumbledore paused for a few moments. "You've never met the boy, have you?"

"No," Remus said. "I didn't—I couldn't. I'm dangerous."

"Not, I suspect, to him." That thought filled the room for a long time before he continued. "He has Lily's eyes, you know, and James' hair."

Remus barked a sad, dry laugh. "The infamous Potter hair. I suspect he curses his father for it every day."

"Nothing of the sort. He's a very kind boy, one who'd give anything for his friends."

"Sounds familiar."

"Eerily so. I think that he would like nothing more than to get to know someone who knew his parents—who he might have called 'Uncle' in a kinder world." Remus didn't respond, opting instead to drain his cup and scald his tongue. It didn't help. "Thus we come to the opportunity."

"You want me to take up the Defense post, don't you." It wasn't a question.

"I do."

"Then you're an old fool," Remus spat, and slammed the cup down, causing the table to shake.

"Some have accused me of that," Dumbledore said calmly. "But that is the price of kindness."

"Kindness? I'm dangerous!" He stood and turned to face the old man, who barely blinked.

"Only sometimes, and it's a danger easily managed. Your cellar speaks to that."

"Your governors will have your head," Remus tried.

"I suspect they will try, yes, but only if they find out." He smiled.

Remus laughed. "I doubt they're that thick. Someone's going to notice the gaps in my teaching."

"Gaps easily covered by a substitute."

"And what happens when I break out of that bloody shack and bite someone?" He turned and began to pace. "What happens when I ruin a child's life—their entire future—by accident?"

"Have you done so before?" Dumbledore let the question sit for a moment as Remus deflated some.

"No."

"There we have it, then." The old man smiled. "I suspect that you will find the burden significantly easier to manage under the effects of the Wolfsbane."

Remus sat back down and placed his head in his hands, energy spent. "The ingredients are so expensive—I can't let you do that."

"I find that few are in a position to 'let' me do anything. I think that I will do it regardless." His tone was pleasant, as if they hadn't just been discussing the escape of a mass murderer.

"And who's going to brew it? I've nowhere near the skill necessary. Believe me, I've tried."

"Severus is a fine potion master. I suspect he'll be more than up to the task."

Remus shot Dumbledore a look. "Severus. As in Severus Snape? He'd rather see me dead than help me." He pinched the bridge of his nose, more for effect than to dispel any headache. "And I can hardly blame him. We were awful to him, Dumbledore. I was awful to him. God's sake, Sirius almost used me to try to kill him!"

"But he didn't succeed." Dumbledore reached out and placed a hand on Remus' shoulder. "For so long as we live, it is never too late to right the wrongs of our past. I believe that with everything that I am." He squeezed once, and let go.

Silence filled the space between them for a minute while Remus reeled from the implications of everything that had already been said and the questions that hadn't yet been asked. "Why me?" he eventually whispered.

"You'll have to speak up, I'm afraid. My ears aren't what they used to be." Remus scoffed and turned to look him in the eyes. He didn't believe that act for a second.

"I said, why me, Dumbledore? I know the position's cursed, but surely there were other options."

Dumbledore smiled softly. "Of course there were. There are always other options."

"So why me?"

"I'm afraid the truth is rather unpleasant."

"My life is unpleasant," Remus spat.

"Very well," Dumbledore said. "It's because of Sirius, as I'm sure you've gathered. There are, undoubtedly, a number of people who could provide a level of safety to Harry and the rest of the school while serving as an instructor. Off the top of my head, I can think of a number of retired aurors and hit-wizards who would do admirably. But each of them are as talented protectors and warriors as they are not just because of the spells they know, but because of how they have been taught to think. Their jobs mandate that they think as a typical dark wizard might. This serves them well for their role, but it is also why I believe they would utterly fail. You and I both know that Sirius Black has never exactly behaved in ways that might be called typical."

"I don't think I've ever understood how Sirius thought," Remus said. "I thought I did, but…"

"Perhaps. But you cannot deny that you have a far better idea than most, Remus." There was another long silence. "Harry never knew either of his parents, of course. I believe he has some vague recollections of being well loved, but not much more." Remus stayed quiet. "Don't you think he deserves someone in his life who knew them as well as you did? You couldn't be there for James and Lily. Neither could I. For all that the world rejoiced and for all that we now live in peace, I believe each of us failed that night." Dumbledore stood from his chair, grasping Remus' shoulder tight. "That just means each of us needs to do better. Otherwise, we'll keep failing day after day, until we look back and wonder where it all went wrong. We don't have to keep failing. It's never too late to make things right."

Dumbledore let go, straightening himself back up. "Thank you for having me. I expect that I've given you quite a lot to think about. Please, consider my offer. Good day." He turned to leave, soft footfalls filling the room. Just as he approached the door and reached for the handle, a soft-spoken word stopped him in his tracks.

"Wait."

Turning back to face him, Dumbledore waited. Remus closed his eyes and clenched shaking hands tight, calloused fingers woven together in a white-knuckle grip.

"If they haven't caught Sirius by September—by the time school's due to start up again," he said quickly, pushing the words out before they abandoned him, "and if you haven't found anyone better… then I'll take the job."

Remus heard Dumbledore shuffle slightly. "Then I would begin drafting lesson plans now," he said with regret evident in his voice. "Sirius Black has always been far too clever for his own good."

---

Killing curse green. That's what they'd always said. Sirius had been the first, all the way back in second year. "Watch out for Evans," he'd called out in the halls one day. "Her eyes are killing curse green!" The phrase had stuck. They'd all accepted it at the time, that the killing curse must have been green. The books said so, and nobody had really questioned it. That is until they grew up and went to war, and saw someone cast it for the first time. Bright soul-searing green amidst a backdrop of desperation and panic and grief. He'd… never forget it. But Sirius had been bang on. Lily Evans' eyes were exactly the colour of the killing curse.

Remus had always wondered since then why it was that a 12-year old Sirius had known the exact shade of one of the Unforgivables. He'd never worked up the courage to ask, and Sirius had never given an answer.

He was able to ignore it for the most part. That stab of familiarity, the pain of what was lost, and the agony of what could have been. He kept his distance and put his all into his teaching, being as impartial as he could possibly be. That had lasted right up until the very first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, after twelve years to the day. Harry hadn't had his form signed, and so had been kept within the bounds of the castle. Privately, Remus suspected that McGonagall (and it was so hard to think of her as just Minerva) would have manufactured a reason to keep him inside, if only for his own safety.

By chance, Lupin had run into Harry sulking around the castle, the despondent and annoyed look on his face painfully familiar. He'd invited him into his office for tea, because of course he had, and sitting across from him Remus couldn't ignore it any longer.

Harry Potter's eyes were killing curse green. Lily's eyes. His hair was all James, and Fleamont, and Henry before him; James had always suspected it to be a bloodline curse. The nose and ears were all Lily's, but he had James' build. And that discomfited look as he lied to a teacher about his worries? That was Lily's fault entirely.

Remus almost felt like he'd stepped out for a bit, like he was just an observer of his own body. He'd spoken with Harry before, of course—taking care of that dementor on the train, and teaching his classes—but always in a group setting, when there was something else that needed focusing on. Sitting and chatting one-on-one like this was almost too much. James and Lily's baby boy had grown up without them, and he was quickly becoming a fine wizard in his own right. Deepest sorrow and soaring pride filled Remus up in tandem, forcing him to focus to even know what it was that was being said.

It was the look on his face that drew Remus back in. Harry was nervous about something, and he was in a position to help. James would never forgive him if he failed him now (except he would, because forgiveness was what James did).

"I can't help you if you don't tell me about it," Remus said. "Is there anything worrying you, Harry?"

"No," he said, but Remus knew better. That was James' face that he was lying with. "Yes," he finally blurted out. "You know that day we fought the boggart?"

"Yes," Remus said slowly.

"Why didn't you let me fight it?"

Remus reeled back slightly. Of all the things he'd been expecting, that wasn't it. Was it wounded pride speaking? Insecurity? "I would have thought that was obvious, Harry."

That seemed to shock Harry just as much as the line of questioning had surprised Remus. "Why?"

Remus frowned some, not quite sure what the problem was. The choice was made on an instinctual whim, but he'd been trying to protect the boy. "Well, I assumed that if the boggart faced you, it would take the shape of Lord Voldemort." Harry looked stunned, so Remus pressed on. "Clearly I was wrong, but I didn't think it a good idea for Lord Voldemort to materialise in the staffroom. I imagined that people would panic."

"I didn't think of Voldemort," Harry confessed. "I… I thought of Hermione and Ron. Only, er, dead."

Remus gave the boy a soft smile, ignoring the pang of loss that echoed through him. If there was any doubt about Harry being James' son, then his greatest fear in the world being losing his friends would no doubt have dispelled it. Even without ever having known his father, he was so very like him it ached.

"Then perhaps it's for the best that I didn't put you in front of the class regardless. Most people find it very difficult to turn corpses into something to laugh at, and it could very well have set back some of the progress we made with everyone else."

"I suppose," Harry said. "Both of them would probably get weird about it too."

Remus snorted despite himself. "Yes, I imagine that might be slightly disconcerting. Though, if I may," Remus ventured, "at risk of overstepping… I think your father would be very proud of you, you know."

Harry looked up from the spot on the desk he'd been staring at, stunned. "Professor… Did you know my parents?"

He nodded, heart thundering away nervously in his chest. A large part of him was terrified at the thought that Harry might see how thoroughly he'd failed and judge him as he deserved. A smaller, much more insistent part simply echoed that this was James' son; he'd never even think of such a thing.

"I like to think that I knew Lily and James very well, actually, and I know for a fact that the idea that his son cared for his friends so much that his greatest fear might be the same as his own would make him endlessly proud."

The boy looked up at Remus with wide eyes. "My dad's boggart was the same as mine?"

Remus gave him a sad smile. "James loved his friends with all his heart, and I know for a fact that the thought of losing them scared him far more than facing down Lord Voldemort ever did. He was… always such a stalwart protector."

Harry swallowed at that, and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Remus called, and the door opened to reveal Severus bearing a smoking goblet and a grimace. That was a relationship beyond the point of salvation. Remus had apologised to him, of course, but Severus had never quite let go of their old schoolyard grudge. He hadn't the heart to blame him. Being the unwitting weapon in one's attempted murder wasn't the sort of thing one forgave easily. Besides that, he was right. Remus was dangerous, and even he agreed that Dumbledore had made a mistake in hiring him. All he could really do to make up for it was to stay out of his way wherever possible and thank him for the Wolfsbane.

When Severus finally left, he took the room's mood of vulnerable reminiscence with him, leaving behind an awkward tension Remus didn't know how to breach.

"Professor Snape's very interested in the Dark Arts," Harry finally said.

"Really?"

"Some people reckon he'd do anything to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job."

Remus took in the nervous expression on Harry's face and sighed. Perhaps he was a bit too much like James. He wasn't a pleasant man, but Dumbledore trusted Severus. That was more than good enough for Remus. "And I'm sure that he would do excellently in such a role," Remus said, hoping to shut down the suspicion in Harry's eyes. "I believe you were about to say something, before Severus walked in?"

Harry hesitated, and Remus saw the moment the walls went up. "It's nothing, sir. Thank you for telling me about my parents."

"It was my pleasure," Remus said with a sad smile. "Talking about them helps keep the memory alive." He checked the clock. "I believe your friends should be getting back from Hogsmeade soon, no doubt with all sorts of things to share with you. No need to deprive yourself on my account."

"Right, of course," Harry said as he stood. "Thanks again."

And Harry turned and left, taking James and Lily with him.

 

[eM15]

Sometimes the brain worms cooperate. When they do, there'll be a post—usually a Memory—on Friday as well as the normal story post on Monday.

I wonder what you'll make of the mystery these Memories set out?

 

[Kaernetron]

Tangentially, there are times when I don't understand the HP fandom.

Here's a man whose clothes are about two washes away from desintegrating, who lives in a hovel with even odds of collapsing in the next storm (if he doesn't drown from a leaking roof beforehand) and his self-professed best field of magic is transfiguration.
Pretty much every fic takes this dichotomy as is (or at least I can't think of one), whereas he could actually and easily (ok, after an afternoon of casting spells) be living in reasonable comfort.

A guy can wear decent clothes and still beat himself up about his curse, dead friends and betraying ex-friend.

Having typed this rant, I think I'll blame She-Who-Didn't-Stop-Writing for the "trope" and urge everyone to consider:
If you had magic and nothing was stopping you, would you rather live in a killer's shack, or in a house even more fantastic than the Burrow?

 

[App]

Tangentially, there are times when I don't understand the HP fandom.

Here's a man whose clothes are about two washes away from desintegrating, who lives in a hovel with even odds of collapsing in the next storm (if he doesn't drown from a leaking roof beforehand) and his self-professed best field of magic is transfiguration.
Pretty much every fic takes this dichotomy as is (or at least I can't think of one), whereas he could actually and easily (ok, after an afternoon of casting spells) be living in reasonable comfort.

A guy can wear decent clothes and still beat himself up about his curse, dead friends and betraying ex-friend.

Having typed this rant, I think I'll blame She-Who-Didn't-Stop-Writing for the "trope" and urge everyone to consider:
If you had magic and nothing was stopping you, would you rather live in a killer's shack, or in a house even more fantastic than the Burrow?

Click to shrink...

While I'd never be one to defend the unspoken one's choices regarding depictions, I always figured it as a situation of chronic depression messing with imagination needed for majestic transfigurations. If the world is less colorful in your eyes (literally, according to a few interesting studies), why wouldn't your magic accommodate that lacking in everything you do. Regarding skill and power, it doesn't matter if a musician went to Julliard, their happy songs won't hit right if they're depressed.

 

[eM15]

If you had magic and nothing was stopping you, would you rather live in a killer's shack, or in a house even more fantastic than the Burrow?

Click to shrink...

You make a very good point, and it was one that came to me while I was writing this. Why wouldn't you just magic away all your issues? When anything except food can be conjured in the blink of an eye, what the hell use is there for anything resembling an economy (which we know damn well the magical world has)? How the hell does scarcity come about? Genuinely, what's stopping everyone from being, say, Lucius Malfoy?

It's an important question, of course, and one that demands answering. It won't really come up in story, so here's the answer I decided on while writing Memory II. Half the point of this exercise is in getting this world to make sense, after all. You'll note that I did provide an answer in text, though I didn't elaborate on it:

Making his way outside, he headed over to the log pile leaning against the building. He'd got a good deal on the wood by way of a friend of the bookshop's owner. He'd have to make it last through the winter. That connection had dried up, and even magical fire had to feed on something to keep burning. Remus hadn't the nutrition to spare for that source to be him—not consistently. That sort of thing took a toll on the body. His body had paid toll enough, he thought.

Click to shrink...

We know that magic can't conjure certain things like food, that transfiguration isn't permanent (this may be fanon, but it's fanon I like and thus applies to this story), and since there's still scarcity we know there has to be some limit on all this. My answer is simple: the caster. Magic puts strain on the caster, depending. Setting up longer term enchantments takes some serious groundwork, theory, and power investment to not mess up (Hermione is Hermione and was tutored by literal Voldemort here, she is not a good benchmark for reasonable expertise), and shorter term charms are easier, but take their own toll. You can transfigure your home and clothes, charm your way to warmth and comfort, but it's gonna be taxing. Exhausting, even. Proper nutrition and the like help significantly as with any exercise, but Remus is kinda screwed here. Once a month, any and all progress towards health he might have made sorta suffers a furry setback.

And when you're poor enough that food sometimes becomes a question, you don't go home and do a bunch of manual labor (unless the mental illness is winning and that's how you cope as we saw here lmao), which is the equivalent of what putting up those constant charms and transfigurations would be. You save that energy for things like work. A book seller casting hover charms and sorting spells and who knows what else is a bit draining. It's school kid stuff, but when you're chronically poor, malnourished, and have your body rip itself to shreds every month, that sorta stuff adds up. It would, technically speaking, be possible with more long term transfigurations and enchantments. It would be an investment though, in time, effort, and magic. And what's a poor man supposed to do when his boots wear out? Or his axe? He makes a short term fix that takes a little from him (that axe'll be back to normal in a week, and that long only cause Remus really is great with transfiguration), cause he truly can't afford to spare the strength to cast something more permanent.

Plus, as App so kindly pointed out, man's been a wee bit severely chronically depressed with self-esteem in the negatives for twelve years. That ain't the sort of thing that stays inside; it tends to leak into one's living situation. Maybe I could have done a bit more to emphasize that fact. Something to note for the future.

Plus plus, making Remus Lupin the human equivalent of a wet dog pleases me immensely. I feel this point justifies itself.

 

[Kaernetron]

I always figured it as a situation of chronic depression messing with imagination needed for majestic transfigurations.

Click to shrink...

While I don't think there's much imagination needed to for instance turn 'roof cosplaying as swiss cheese' into actual roofing, I do include mental issues in 'something stopping you from fixing X'.

Snip

Click to shrink...

Thank you for explaining your decisions regarding Remus. Perfectly valid reasons for why his situation remains unchanged.

 

[eM15]

"I won't be afraid of my magic—of myself. I refuse." I deflated with a sigh before reluctantly conceding the point. "But I guess I could at least warn you about the risks beforehand."

"That's…" Harry trailed off. "I guess that works."

"I'll be careful, I promise."

"I know you will, just…" He stood up. "Good night, Hermione."

"Good night," I echoed, and watched him disappear up the stairs. The embers in the fireplace gave little light to the room, casting everything behind the chairs in shadow. Crookshanks rounded the corner suddenly, making a beeline to me and planting himself in my lap. I scratched him dutifully, but it did little for my mood.

Had the castle always felt this lonely?

Traditional Ritual​

Professor Babbling's office was sparser than I might have expected. It was almost entirely undecorated save for the bookshelf filled with tomes, many of which had titles in languages that I didn't even recognize. The desk was neat and tidy, the chair behind it of a make that I could have sworn I'd seen a thousand of in one of Hogwarts' many storerooms. The only real point of disorder was the coffee table off to the side, which was covered in nearly a dozen scrolls of parchment.

She had brought me back into the office when I came to turn in my notes on the less damning of the rituals I'd created or modified already. 'Notes' was a bit of a misnomer, though. My actual working notes were a chaotic mess written across whatever bit of paper or parchment happened to be nearest to me at the time I had an idea, and that would hardly do for my first assignment for a professor who actually seemed to care. So, I'd drawn out the rituals again on a bit of parchment and scrawled out a copy of the runes straightened out for legibility with translations underneath, the rationale behind my decisions with the rituals, and a description of what materials, incantations, or motions were necessary to accompany them. The shortest of them—a small modification that I'd made to the Incendio spell which made the resultant flame cast more light—was over a foot and a half long.

It had taken me some effort to decide which of the things I'd worked on to present to Professor Babbling. I wanted to show my level of expertise, yes, but I also refused to show my hand on some of the things that I knew would raise eyebrows. The ritual for my blood-mask, for example, was not something I could show. Despite that, it was something vastly different from the things I'd worked on before. I'd wondered for some time on how to show that skill without raising any eyebrows. The compromise turned out to be enchanting something entirely different using similar—if less bloody—methods: a hairpin in the shape of a quill which I'd enchanted to shed more light the darker the area got, and whose light could only be seen by the wearer. I'd hemmed and hawed about how to let other people see the light too, but wasn't able to come up with an answer. Frankly, that only proved how right I was to go through the effort of making the thing to show to Professor Babbling. Her expertise would no doubt be helpful.

For the past fifteen minutes, she had been looking at each ritual in turn and making notes in a book of her own, only speaking up with soft 'Oh's and the occasional 'I see what you did there'. She stopped about halfway through the stack of parchment before suddenly going to leaf through everything I'd given her, seemingly in search of something.

"Professor?" I asked.

"Babbling," she corrected absentmindedly.

"Er, right. Babbling. What are you looking for?"

She stopped, looked up to me, and blinked, as if she had forgotten I was even there. "Oh, yes. You've got a few warding rituals here. One you said you put around your bed, this one based off the muggle-repelling charm—brilliant work on that one, by the way, you said you made that one yourself?—but thing is, I'm not seeing their anchors. I'm not expecting you to put a full runestone array under your bed, that'd be paranoid. Not that anyone can blame you for that, mind. There's a murderer on the loose, after all. But I'm not seeing anything that resembles an anchor anywhere. What's keeping the magic from running out? Or changing?"

Anchors, of course, were something necessary for any spell that needed to stick around for a while. They were the difference between a long term enchantment and a short term paling. In order to keep a spell going, you needed to keep it fed with magic, which meant that you needed to designate a way for it to do so. Additionally, enchantments had a tendency to be shaped by their surroundings if not kept in check by something. Generally speaking, both of these functions were filled by one single part: the anchor. Magic had a tendency to misbehave without one.

A hover charm cast on a ball, for example, would fade over time. If the ball was kept in a lively area after the spell was cast, then it might start bobbing and weaving instead of floating in one place. A few runes carved into the ball before casting the charm could fix both problems easily. For wards, these anchors typically took the form of runic circles—which were very different from ritual circles both in design and intent—carved in stone or wooden totems. Magic was unreality, so the idea went, and benefited greatly from an anchor in the real.

But I knew that magic wasn't unreality. It informed reality. It was the ink with which our story was written. In many ways, the primal forces of magic itself were more real than anything mundane.

"The anchors are in the magic," I said.

Babbling frowned. "Well, yes, that's what runic anchors do—"

"No," I interrupted. "The ambient magic itself serves as an anchor."

"I'm… afraid that that's not how that works. Magic, see, it tends to change. If you want to keep it static, you need something rooting it." She smiled at me. "That's alright. Just means I get to teach you about it."

I sighed. "You're still not seeing it. Look here." I pointed to a part of the ritual breakdown she was holding. "Magic tends to change, yes, I know that, but only if a sufficient magical force comes by to change it. Arkshaw's law. If you take a sufficient amount of power and use part of the spell to hold it in shape though, then the ambient magic will follow the path you've set out even after the casting's done, see? You don't need an anchor, because magic itself becomes the anchor."

Babbling took another look at where I was pointing. I saw her read through once with furrowed brow, then another time with widened eyes. "That's, oh, I mean, if that's what… that's genius!" she finally said, visibly excited. "Did you come up with that?"

I winced, glad that she was focused on the parchment and not on my face. "No, I didn't," I said truthfully. "I… My old mentor taught me that. I was still using a wand then, but the principles are the same. It wasn't hard to translate it over to ritual." She didn't need to know that it was the Diary who had taught me that. Nobody did.

She was silent for a few moments, flipping over to the next sheet. "If someone put enough power into it, it wouldn't be hard to erase these wards. I can only imagine they'd be much harder to modify after the fact, too."

"They are susceptible to that sort of thing, yes, but see there how I call on Time and Legacy in that section?"

She glanced down to where I was pointing. "Yes, I see… Oh! Oh that's clever! These get stronger over time, don't they? They'd be weak at first, but if you put in enough power to start, it wouldn't matter, would it?" Babbling put down the parchment. "Though, in order to set the pattern, so to speak, it seems like you're relying on overpowering the local ambient magic with your own. Now there's an exercise for you. How would you go about using this method to cast a ward in a place layered in enough magic that you can't overwhelm it?"

She seemed honestly curious what my answer would be, and I didn't have to think long at all before I had my answer. It was one I had asked myself, after all. "I'd ask nicely," I said. "Any place with that much ambient magic is likely to have started to think, which means that you just have to convince it to go along. The specifics of how to convince it would depend on the place itself, I think."

"Oh!" Babbling said, clearly a bit taken aback. "You're a traditionalist! Truth told, I wasn't expecting that. You'll have to let me know if that approach works."

"Traditionalist, Pro—Babbling? I think I've seen the word used in magic theory books, but I don't think I've seen a definition. Not aside from the normal one, I mean."

"Really?" she asked, but didn't wait for a response. "Right, well, traditionalism in magic just means you take a bit of a more abstract stance about the question of what magic actually is. Traditionalists typically say that magic is alive, that it has emotions that can be felt, and that the Powers are divine figures that can be spoken and bargained with. They're called that because it's, well, traditional. For a long time, everyone thought of magic like that. Back in the… late 1800s, I think? People started to think of magic and its Powers as an unthinking force, like gravity. Rationalism, it's called. Think of it, like…" She trailed off, looking around the room briefly. "Mandy Enoch! You're reading Enoch, right? Right. Best primer around, but she's a traditionalist through and through. I hear she goes to academic events and talks down to anyone who doesn't think you should chat with your wand over tea. In contrast, Hogwarts teaches a rationalist approach to magic."

Babbling shrugged. "I'm a rationalist, myself. I've never heard magic speak to me, save for things enchanted to. I'm not going to take any sort of hardline stance, though. If the magic works, it works. Personally, I don't think that traditionalism is fully wrong, per se, and I'm not going to criticise your religious beliefs—"

"Religious what?" I protested, but she kept talking.

"—But I prefer to keep things rooted in logic, you know? It's easy to work with, and the magic stays lighter that way. Reading Faust's account was enough for me, thanks." She paused for a moment. "That's not to say that all traditionalists are dark mages, or even that dark magic's necessarily bad, but you really can't deny that things trend that direction. Gotta wonder where you picked it up, though. That philosophy's the sort of stuff you normally only find in the old families. Who'd you say your mentor was, again?"

"I didn't," I said, feeling thoroughly off balance. "You wouldn't know him. He's um, he's dead anyway."

"Condolences, then."

"No, um. It's fine. I didn't really like him all that much," I lied.

"Er, right." She looked almost as floored as I was. "Moving on, then. So, full disclosure. You taking a traditionalist approach is a slight snag. Combine that with me not actually being much of a ritualist at all… I can still give you the extra tutoring I promised, and we'll be speaking the same language, but we're always going to have a slightly different dialect. There's different to-dos and not to-dos for us both. Not insurmountable, but annoying. No chance I can convince you that magic doesn't think, is there?"

"I've felt it," I said. Hadn't she? The meditation exercises were annoying, but not so much as to be insurmountable. I may have been sceptical once, but the immensity of Hogwarts' pride and joy and Black Manor's anger was proof. Besides that, the Diary had never once lied to me about magic. Every other word was suspect, but I knew that inaccurate theories didn't work in practice, and every magical concept it had taught me about had proved to be true. "I didn't use to think of magic as having emotions, but I've felt how much Hogwarts loves its students. You just have to open yourself up and feel it."

She gave me a wry smile. "That's what I thought. No offence, but I'll keep away from the religion, thanks." I opened my mouth to protest once more, but she just kept going. "So, homework! Go ahead and draft up a simple enchantment meant to be cast on a part of Hogwarts using the principles we talked about today. We'll talk about it, maybe test it out when you turn it in, got it? Good. Run along, then. I think you're missing dinner by now."

I wanted to correct her, but I wasn't quite sure how to even begin to broach the topic of what she clearly thought would become a religious debate. My parents had never paid much mind to religion, so I hadn't either. It wasn't a conversation I even slightly know how to have. So I snapped my mouth shut, resolved to check the library for old magical religions, and left.

---

A few weeks passed, and so did my assignment with Babbling. It turned out that convincing Hogwarts that all the chairs in one of the abandoned classrooms should float an inch off the ground was not terribly hard. In fact, I was reasonably sure that the castle had found it funny. I supposed that I shouldn't have been shocked, given the continuing presence of Peeves. Regardless, the enchantment was holding even weeks later, and I had my proof of concept.

My fourteenth birthday came around too. I almost forgot it in the wake of everything, and was only reminded when Harry and Ron had cornered me in the common room with their presents. I got From the Mouth of Magic from Harry, which described the different sorts of incantations people used around the world, and a set of talking bookmarks from Ron. An unfamiliar owl delivered a present from my parents at breakfast: A care package of muggle textbooks. One on maths, another on physics, and two on history. I appreciated it immensely.

The thing that surprised me, though, was Luna approaching me as the boys and I were headed to lunch that day. "Happy birthday, Hermione!" she said as she held up a gift wrapped in what looked to be pages from the Daily Prophet.

It wasn't necessarily the fact that she was thoughtful enough to get a gift that surprised me, but… "I didn't think I ever told you my birthday," I said with a confused sort of delight.

"You didn't," she chirped. Ron and Harry snickered. Really, I should have learned by now to be more specific with her.

"Did the derk sprites tell you about this, too?" I asked with a smile.

She cocked her head to the side. "I don't think Professor McGonagall is a derk sprite. Maybe I should ask her."

"Maybe not," I said, though I couldn't help but smile at imagining the stern woman's reaction to the question. Suddenly, I remembered that Luna took Potions too, and the thought of Professor Snape attempting to deal with Luna forced me to stifle a laugh. "Well thank you for thinking to ask. Is that for me?"

Luna hefted up the present again. "If you like. I suppose it could also be for someone else, though I think I'd prefer if it were for you."

"Thank you." I took it from her and began to unwrap it. When the people in one of the pictures began to shake their fists angrily as their photo was torn, I winced and started unwrapping much more carefully. It took a few minutes—it seemed that Luna had folded the papers into stars and used sticking charms to hold them together—but finally I unveiled what seemed to be a primer on reading Cumbric. My mind went to the journal we'd found in Black Manor instantly. Of course she wouldn't want to translate for me, and of course she'd still want to help.

I gave Luna a genuine smile. "Thank you, really. This means a lot."

"It's part dictionary. Those always have a lot of meanings." She ignored Harry's snort. "I hope it helps."

"I'm sure it will." I put the book away in my bag and gave Harry and Ron a look. Both of them seemed fine with her, so… "Hey, Luna. Are you doing anything after dinner?"

She hummed. "I'll be doing something, I think, even if I don't know what yet."

"Once you're done eating, could you meet us outside the Great Hall? I wanted to show you something." I looked again at the boys. Harry seemed fine, and Ron looked resigned. I could talk to him later. "There's a spell I think I'm ready to cast, and I want all three of you to be a part of it."

Ron perked up. "So you're ready to put up the—"

"Yes," I interrupted, giving a significant look to the other people walking through the hall. "I'll be writing out instructions for your parts in it in our free period today, then I'll be ready."

"If it helps," Luna said, "I'm happy to do it. I'll see you after dinner!" With that, she skipped off down the hall.

"I told you she was nice," I said as we started walking again.

"She's always been nice," Ron said. "Bit mad though."

I huffed. "We're in a magic castle that thinks for itself. You two play sports on flying broomsticks and cast spells with your magic wands. I draw circles that turn pinecones into pincushions, and everyone's scared silly by a man who rearranged his name to call himself 'flight of death'. We're all a bit mad, I think. She's just a bit more honest about it."

Harry laughed. "Dumbledore's pretty honest about it too. What do you reckon it's like to look in his closet?"

"Don't know what you two are talking about. All that makes perfect sense," Ron said.

"Ron, your garden has a gnome infection." I shifted my bag with a grin. "And didn't your flying car go feral?"

He snorted. "You told me about how muggles put chairs on top of big metal cylinders full of explosives to try to go to space, and you're saying it's us who're crazy?"

We bickered and laughed all the way to lunch.

---

"Ah, so this is where you disappear to!" Luna called as Harry opened up the door to our ritual room.

Ron snorted. "Funny, that's what I said when I found out."

"Honestly." I rolled my eyes. "I said I was sorry."

Luna wandered around the room, setting her hand on things gently as she did. "I've been all over the castle hunting down plimpies, and I never found this place. How'd you come across it?"

I winced, knowing there would be pain for even discussing my taboo. "I—"

"She can't talk about it." I shot Harry a thankful look as he came to my rescue. "Hermione got spelled sometime last year, can't talk about certain things. We call it her taboo."

There was a brief quiver in my belly before it settled. "Promise you won't tell anyone?" I asked. "It's important."

"I won't," she said absentmindedly, still looking around the room. "Nobody believes me about things anyway, but I promise I won't tell."

Harry and Ron shuffled slightly. I shot her a relieved smile. "Thank you. Step one is drawing out the circle. Luna, mind helping out?"

"Of course!"

"Great. Harry, Ron… just make yourselves comfortable, okay? This will take a few hours." With that, I began taking out my notes and supplies. I offered two scraps of parchment out to the boys. "I wrote down your parts if you want to go ahead and study ahead of time." Both boys took the parchment. There weren't a lot of instructions on each. Their parts were really rather simple by design.

"So, what all is actually gonna happen?" Ron asked as I ushered both boys out of the ritual space in the centre of the room.

I took out a paperweight I'd bought in Diagon Alley and fastened a bit of twine around the top. "I'm going to try to convince the castle to ward this place for us. We can do all the spoken parts in English, thankfully. The magic doesn't care, and it would take forever to translate. Then all three of you are going to say a short line—wrote that down for you. Sticking charm, please, Luna?" I held out the weight, Luna obliged, and I pressed it down in the centre of the space. "Then there'll be a slight… call and response, I guess you'd say?"

I fastened a bit of chalk to the other end of the string, measured it out, and slouched my way around the ritual area. The paperweight and string made sure I drew a perfect circle all around. "I'll say something, then you'll all say something together in response, and we'll do that a few times." I took out some measuring tape, measured out the diameter of the big circle, and sat down with some parchment. I'd already prepared the formulas I needed, I just needed to run the result through them. "It's a bit 'double double toil and trouble' I'll admit. It would be easier if I could use blood as a focus, but since that's restricted—"

"—and dangerous," Ron added.

"—and dangerous," I allowed, "I don't want to use it where a professor could potentially stumble upon it. We'll be using me as the focus for the magic instead."

"Bet that would make Snape's day," Harry said. "Finding out we'd been using restricted magic on school grounds."

"My point exactly. Getting killed and getting expelled really are about the same thing for me, now." I gave a rueful little smile. "Though between the two, I think I'd like to go with a clean academic record."

Ron laughed. "Least you haven't changed too much." He stopped a moment as something occurred to him. "Er, Luna. You weren't there with us for that, were you?"

The question was obviously rhetorical, so obviously Luna answered it. "I don't think so, unless it happened today. It may have. Sometimes I get to thinking and lose whole conversations. I never know where they run off to."

I giggled some at Ron's confused look. He shook his head and schooled his expression. "Right. So, it started back in our first year, after Malfoy challenged Harry to a duel…"

Ron began to tell the story of how we saved the Philosopher's Stone with the occasional comment from Harry. It was a bit exaggerated, but Luna listened intently and asked odd little clarifying questions. I let it fade into the background.

First came the sigil lines. I cut a few bits of twine to the lengths I'd calculated out and used them as guides for my chalk. The paperweights and Luna's sticking charms proved their usefulness yet again. After a misstep where I used the wrong piece of twine at first, I erased my mistake and managed to circumscribe a triangle in the circle. A new piece of twine, and a square was circumscribed too, with one of its corners meeting one of the triangle's. That would be the origin; the runes on every shape would start there. A smaller circle (1/7th the size of the original; I'd read ahead in my arithmancy) was drawn around each point of the triangle, and finally the would-be wand movement was scrawled down. It was a sort of long zig-zag lightning bolt motion with a curve and a swirl at the end.

Scrawling that last shape brought on a bit of annoyance. It was a reminder that this ward could very easily be done if we all just cast a few spells in unison, but my wand was little more than a potion-stirrer as far as I was concerned. A small, prideful part of me noted that it would probably take Harry and Ron even longer to learn said spells than it had to draft and cast the ritual anyway, which relieved a bit of the edge.

That finished up the easy part. Getting that sigil blueprint down took me maybe twenty minutes, all told. All that remained was to mark down the runes. The many, many runes. I was already tired just looking at it. I eyed the boys. Ron was wrapping up his story, and Harry was listening in. Neither were doing anything important. I briefly entertained putting them to work, but quickly dismissed the notion. I'd looked over far too much of their homework not to know better.

I sighed. "Luna, could you…"

"Of course," she chirped.

Runes describing the ward's oneness with my own magic and the magic of Hogwarts were scrawled along the outside of the primary circle. That would fuel the thing and ensure I was built in as a fundamental part of the spell—as the focus all the magic coursed through. A description of what all the ward needed to affect was written along the inside of the square. The triangle and the smaller circles were erased bit by bit and replaced with runes entirely. The former told a short tale meant to convince the castle's magic to let the ritual work and force the magic to hold itself as an anchor, while the latter described a story about how the beings within them would come and go unhindered.

The wand motion—the description of the actual effect—was replaced with runes too. There, I told a rather flowery tale about what someone not keyed into the ward would experience. Sound from beyond the illusory wall would not project outward to them, and the illusory wall itself would become solid. The suits of armour downstairs had a similar sound dampening effect around them as well, and they (hopefully) wouldn't allow anyone but us entrance. The open window was to appear and act as a solid wall. I also managed to fit in a sort of attention diversion around the exits. Attention was a fairly minor issue for the two interior doors, but Harry was a bird in all but blood. There was no doubt in my mind that he'd be taking full advantage of the wide open window in the side of the castle. There was an alarm to notify us if anybody got in too, since the paling I'd set up last year had long since faded. Finally, I described how any of us could speak a password to allow others in for a time. Just in case.

The ritual as a whole was incredibly Light aligned. All three Dark Powers were invoked, but only very lightly. There was a small plea to Death and Chaos respectively in the attention diversion—Chaos to muddle things, Death to remove the memories—and a slightly more extensive request to Time where I told the story of how the ward would anchor itself in magic. In contrast, every single Light Power was invoked heavily all throughout the rest of the ritual. I told the tale of how this ward would be one with my Life and the Life of the castle's magic, and how it would anchor itself in Legacy among other scattered mentions. Order, of course, was woven into every part of the stories that the ritual told. It was a very rigid thing I was attempting to build. It had to cement itself in Hogwarts' magic and stay unchanged. On top of that, a lot of the actual effect was to make things more rigid and real. That was all Order.

The benefit of the spell being so very Light was the lack of cost. It did make the whole thing a bit more complicated, though. While a good Dark ritual would have no complaints with a rough outline of what you wanted to do, a few slurred incantations, and an appropriate sacrifice (which could really be anything), that wouldn't do here. This was the most Light aligned thing I'd ever done. Every line needed to be in precisely the right place, the runes could leave no room for ambiguity, and the execution itself would need to be nearly perfect. I didn't have a whole lot of margin for error.

It was around six-thirty when we'd left dinner. By the time I'd gotten everything chalked out, triple checked it, done a quick spell to check everyone's innate polarities, and put the candles in place, it was getting close to ten. When I finally stood up and stretched out after so long on my knees, Ron jumped to his feet.

"Finally!" he said. "Are we ready to start?" I shook my head and had to suppress a laugh at the crestfallen looks on the boys' faces.

"One more thing left to do, and then we can start. Due to the thaumic polarity of…" I gave Harry and Ron another look, and I could tell they were already not interested. And they wondered why I liked Luna? "If we don't do this exactly right, then it won't work. Or worse, it will work wrong. We need to practise."

"Curfew is in ten minutes," Luna chimed in. I scowled.

"So we can do it tomorrow," Ron said. "Circle will still be here then, won't it?"

"Probably," I allowed. "But someone like Peeves or Mrs. Norris might stumble in and mess it up."

"You need to talk to the statues to get in. Can Mrs. Norris talk?" Harry asked.

"No, but Peeves could still—"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Doubt they'd let him in. You need to ask nicely, remember?"

"He's a poltergeist, he can just go through the walls."

Ron sighed, sharing a look with Harry. "Got an idea for that. One mo'." He scrawled something on a piece of parchment, jabbed his wand, muttered an incantation, and stuck the parchment on the ground by the ritual circle. The note on it read: 'Mischief in progress. Please wait.'

"There," Ron said. "Sorted. Luna agrees, right Luna?"

"It might help keep the nargles away," she hummed.

"See? It'll be fine."

I scowled at him once more before a thought came to me. I wasn't quite sure if the wards as stated would keep out a poltergeist. Poltergeists came about as a facet of their home's native magic, after all, and… "I just want to check one more—"

Ron shared a look with Harry before they both grabbed one of my arms each and started dragging me backwards.

"Goodbye!" Luna waved.

"Put an Impervius charm on the chalk!" I called back, and resigned myself to my fate.

---

The next day rolled around and proved itself to pass by impossibly slowly. For the first time (outside of Lockhart's lessons), I found that I couldn't wait to be done with classes. It was a strange feeling, and not one I particularly liked. I'm sure that any other time I would have found Professor Lupin's lecture on remedies absolutely fascinating, and no doubt I would normally have adored Professor McGonagall's lesson on the complexities of animal transfiguration. Being impatient during History of Magic was less odd, though I'd never admit it to the boys. Sure, the content was fascinating, but the presentation really wasn't. The worst part was, we had a packed schedule for the day. There was no free period for me to sneak up to Hogswatch and check on the sigils.

Harry and Ron, of course, found my frustration absolutely hilarious, even as everyone else seemed to keep a wide berth. They took my annoyed jabs in stride, snickering when I snapped at them to make sure they had their parts memorised. Professor Lupin seemed to have noticed my mood, because he held me after class to awkwardly ask how I was doing. I told him that I was fine, of course, and he accepted it. I left that classroom to see that the boys were incredibly amused at my comments about 'nosy teachers'. They cracked jokes all the way to our next class. Even Malfoy—who had seemingly been keeping his distance from me since the start of term—stopped dead from making some smarmy comment or other when he saw my expression.

"Maybe we should get Hermione like this more often," Harry had commented. "Did you see the look on Malfoy's face?"

Ron laughed at that. "Git looked scared! Maybe I should break his nose too. Might actually leave us alone then."

"His father would make things difficult for yours," I grumbled. "My parents are muggles. He can't touch them."

An oddly sly smile spread across Ron's face, a nearly alien thing to see. "Harry, mate, I think you've got a golden opportunity here."

Harry snorted. "I figure he's wisened up more than anything. Being scared of Hermione's just smart."

"I'm not scary," I bit at him.

"Says the blood mage," he muttered under his breath with a glance at the empty hallway. "Besides, you know more hexes than anyone I know."

I sighed. "Can't exactly use them, though, can I?"

"Hasn't stopped you from teaching them to us, though," Ron said.

Eventually, finally, dinner arrived, and badly muted annoyance turned to nervous excitement. Such was my rush that a stray bit of ham almost cut my remaining year a whole lot shorter. Ron had to pound on my back until I coughed it up. It wasn't the first time I'd seen him do it, either, even if it was my first time being on the receiving end. Eating too fast was not a horribly uncommon problem in the Weasley household, I'd learned. I slowed down after that, diverting my attention as best as I could. There was no doubt in my mind that there was a spell to clear the airways; I just couldn't see someone like Professor Snape hitting someone's back until they coughed. Not that the spell would be any use to an obligate ritualist, mind. It was yet another door closed, and each one stung slightly less than the last.

When we finally finished eating, I dragged two thoroughly amused boys up out of the Great Hall and up five flights of stairs. "So we need to practise first," I said once the illusory wall was in sight. "Did you two actually read your parts like I asked?"

"Er, yeah," Ron said. "Mostly."

I shot a glare at him. "Mostly?"

"It's why we're practising, right?" He shrugged. I opened my mouth to say something, but stopped myself short.

"Right." I turned back ahead. "Sir Fabeon, it's nice to see you again."

The knight in the portrait bowed with a flourish. "And a pleasure to see you again, Lady Granger. Sirs Potter and Weasley. Good luck today!" His piece said, he swung open.

"So, Harry?" I asked as I stepped through.

"I read it, but, er…" He trailed off. "It's a bit much. I think it'll make more sense once we're doing it?"

"Right. Good. Like Ron said: It's why we're practising." The nerves almost clenched my fists tight, but I diverted to tapping fingers on my thigh.

The door to the ritual room itself was sitting open, and we stepped inside to see Luna sitting on the windowsill and rocking from side to side.

"You got up here quick," Harry noted.

She pointed to a picnic basket sitting on the coffee table in the corner. "I brought my food up with me."

"You're a genius, you are," Ron said.

She cocked her head to the side. "I am?"

He gave me a look, as if I could understand her strangeness any better than he could. "Er, yeah. Ruddy brilliant."

"Right then. Sit down somewhere." I waved vaguely at the couches, my attention already on the ritual circle. "I just need to double check some things."

"Watch," Ron muttered. "Gonna be an hour, and nothing will have changed." Harry laughed. I ignored them and set to work.

The checking only took half an hour, I noted smugly, and a few things had in fact needed changing. One of the runes, for example, had been slightly misshapen, and one of the candles had been almost half an inch off position. For some reason, Harry and Ron collapse into a fit of giggles when I pointed it out. Their relief when I declared the ritual circle to be in perfect order died a quick death when I started actually running them through what we'd be doing. Harry in particular seemed distinctly uncomfortable.

"I trust you and all," he said when I asked. "Only, it's a bit cult-y, isn't it?"

I rolled my eyes. "I told you it would be."

"I don't remember that, actually."

"Double double toil and trouble?" I asked. "Fillet of a fenny snake and all that? No man of woman born, you know, Macbeth?" The only person who didn't look confused was Luna, but she didn't count. I palmed my face. "Right. Of course the Dursleys wouldn't have you read Shakespeare. Point is, yes. It's a complicated magic ritual. This style of casting predates Rome. It's going to look a bit… cult-y, yes, but it's fine. I promise."

That settled his worries well enough, though he still seemed a bit sceptical all the way through. After a couple hours, I was finally convinced that all four of us knew our parts. At the very least, we knew them well enough. There was nothing saying we couldn't be holding our scripts while casting, after all. Thus decided, I got us all up from the couches, had Harry light the candles, and started herding the three of them like cats.

"Right, Ron. You're the Lightest one here—"

"What? Luna's way smaller!"

"I meant magically Light, now—"

"I have plenty of magic!"

"Yes, you do, but I meant your thaumic centre's native polarity. Don't argue. Just stand in the origin circle. Yes, that one. We need you as the first lens to set the tone. Luna, you're in the one to his right. The other right. There we go. Harry, you're the Darkest aligned, so—"

"I'm no dark wizard."

"For the last time, 'Dark' doesn't mean bad. It mostly just means you're moody."

"I'm not moody, either!"

"Kind of proving her point there, mate."

"Quiet, Ron. Harry, stand in the circle. Right. Good. Everyone face me—"

"Why don't you have a circle?"

"Because, Harry, I'm standing in the centre. I'm the focus. If the ritual is the spell, then I'm the wand, which means the big circle is my circle. Now, is everyone ready?"

"Er, right. Ready."

"Ready!"

"Good to go."

I gave the room one final once-over, making sure everything was perfect. None of the chalk was smudged, all the candles were lit in exactly the right spots, and everyone looked as ready as they said. Luna gave me an encouraging smile when I looked to her, and Harry gave me a focused nod. I closed my eyes, taking a long few moments to feel the magic around us. It got easier every time. It only took a few moments before I could quite literally feel the anticipation in the air. Turning back to Ron, I bent into a kneel. There was the shuffling of clothes, and I looked round to see that everyone else had followed suit. Good. I caught Ron's eye and nodded. It was time to begin.

Ron closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and I felt a trickle of power begin to thrum from his direction. After a short moment, I felt Luna follow suit. I had to look at Harry and nod—he couldn't feel it like Luna and I—but it took only a moment after that for me to feel him do his part too. The feeling of my friends' magic surrounded me on all sides. It was heady. It felt solid, like you could lean on the air, put your weight on it. It was pressure, and anticipation, and nervousness, and excitement, and awe. I could feel the emotions of each of them melding together, blending and rising as they met. For a few fleeting, eternal moments, we were one.

And then it was gone, replaced by a muted pulse from all around. I caught Ron's wide eyes once more—even he could feel something now—and urged him to continue with a pointed look. He stood up slowly just like I told him, and spoke up.

"Hogwarts, who gives us home," he read out in a weak voice which quickly grew strong. The sigils and runes around his feet suddenly began to glow brightly, and he looked down at them in shock. I wasn't too sure why. 'Light' magic wasn't just a fancy name. It was called that for good reason. Surely, he'd have figured that out.

"Hogwarts, who gives us knowledge," Luna said from off to my left, without a hint of uncertainty. I heard her move, and saw the light from the runes out of the corner of my eye.

"Hogwarts, who gives us family," Harry said. He said it softly, but it was better than how he had stuttered in our practise. The spell accepted his offering, and he stood amidst light.

"Hogwarts, who gives us home," I said, before standing and turning on my heel to face Luna. "And knowledge." The arc of the primary circle between Ron and Luna lit up. I turned to Harry. "And family." The arc between Luna and Harry lit too. I turned once more to Ron. "And life." The final arc lit, and I felt an otherworldly something plant a hook somewhere deep inside me.

"Hear us now," I said. The hairs on the back of my neck almost seemed to stand on end as I felt the line to the hook snap taut. Luna's words on her roof suddenly made sense.

"They're watching," she had said, and the words gained new life.

I became clearly and intimately aware of something else, something beyond, something other, and I could feel its attention settle around my shoulders like a cloak. Hogwarts could feel, and it had weight, but it wasn't anything like this. This was something beyond me, and I had managed to earn its gaze. My mind reeled at the revelation. There was no proof. No evidence. Nothing that I could see, or hear, or touch. And yet…

I could. I could feel it, evidenced as clearly as if reaching out with my hands. There was something massive that I couldn't explain, it was watching, and I could feel it. Not with my physical body, no, even for all that my hands were sweating, my mouth was dry, and my eyes were wide. It was a sense that only existed in magic. The one that the Diary had taught me to feel, like being born blind only to learn I had simply never opened my eyes. And wasn't it true that the more a thaumic centre inverted, the more sensitive it was to outside influence? I was a ball of yarn unravelled by a passing tomcat, catching on everything which passed me by. Wouldn't it be that I would see more clearly? As I closed my eyes—closed my life—sounds I might never have heard made themselves known.

What revelations awaited me, before the end?

The attention grew impatient as I grasped for reason, and I swallowed dryly. Whatever the thing was, I sensed that I wanted nothing less than to disappoint it after I'd worked so hard to capture its attention. There was no stopping now.

"We who wander your halls, soak your knowledge, and delve into your secrets ask a boon: A secret of our own," I said once I found my voice, a few eternities later.

"A secret of our own," Harry, Ron, and Luna echoed. By the tone of their voices, I knew they couldn't feel the magnitude of what I could. Not even Luna. They were awed, but it was awe like seeing a whale in person for the first time; I was looking into its wide mouth and stepping in. No ritual had struck me like this before. And the parts of me not suffused in screaming terror knew regret at what could only be a mistake.

"In times of strife, we would make a place of safety." The weight of its gaze gave me little choice but to continue. Had I subjected myself to this? This… monolithic attention?

"A place of safety," they echoed again. The square and its runes began to glow brightest white, too. The pressure from all around only seemed to grow.

"Amidst discord, we would bid you hold to Order." And was that a concept, or a name?

"Hold to Order." I closed my eyes as the final piece began to glow blindingly bright. The pressure grew almost solid, and I realised that it wasn't physical. It wasn't in the air, was it? It never had been. If I collapsed, my body would fall, but I wouldn't. For the very first time, I realised the difference.

"From within, we would tell a tale to those without. One of security, of silence—" The pressure grew unbearable for a moment before easing back. "—of forgetfulness, of awareness, and of trust."

"Security, silence, forgetfulness, awareness, and trust," they echoed once more.

After three seconds passed, each of us spoke in unison like we'd practised. "Grant us this peace amidst conflict."

The weight of attention grew once more, on and on and on until it ached somewhere I'd never felt before. It pushed me up and out and in and beyond myself as I left my body somewhere behind. Somewhere else. Somewhere both more and less, as I became both more and less. I was floating, and falling, and expanding out and out and out. For a lifetime I drifted, or perhaps a second, until finally finally finally—I felt it. I felt it with senses both new and old, but none of the flesh. I did not see nor hear nor touch nor taste it, but felt it like meaning is felt; like love and hate and joy and despair sat in the soul and writhed their way to focus.

It gave me a sad, proud smile with a mouth that couldn't be seen, and spoke in a voice that wasn't.

PEACE IS AN IDEAL; IT KILLS MORE SURELY THAN ANY WEAPON.
SAFETY IS AN ILLUSION; IT LIVES TO BE UNDONE.
A BASTION IS GRANTED; SHOULD IT HARBOUR DULLED SWORDS?

Then I was my body once more. The light blinked out, my knees buckled, and everything faded to black.

 

[eM15]

In which Hermione makes a mistake. For the curious, yes, I did in fact create the actual circle for this ritual in MS Paint. The brain worms demanded I get flat technical with this one, for some reason.

Spoiler: The Ritual Circle

 

[App]

This is probably my favorite chapter so far. Love the deep thinking on magic as a soft system. Always a good time.

Looking forward to the repercussions of her actions coming up.

 

[Evilness42]

Success! Probably… for a certain interpretation of success, which may or may not involve horrific side effects.

The ritual kind of reminds me of the Fidelus, actually, with Hermione becoming the Secret Keeper.

 

[edqu]

Would be nice to see Hermione prioritizing learning a ritual to combust her own blood, seems really important. Also what's the mistake, this seems like a success?

 

[Takareer]

But I knew that magic wasn't unreality. It informed reality. It was the ink with which our story was written. In many ways, the primal forces of magic itself were more real than anything mundane.

Click to shrink...

I'm really glad to see this story taking this view, especially when it makes perfect sense. Of course magic must be "the real"; if anything muggle things must be the special case rather than the underlying rule.

Luna hefted up the present again. "If you like. I suppose it could also be for someone else, though I think I'd prefer if it were for you."

Click to shrink...

You write Luna's speech very well.

 

[Axiomatic]

Would be nice to see Hermione prioritizing learning a ritual to combust her own blood, seems really important. Also what's the mistake, this seems like a success?

Click to shrink...

To me it almost sounds like the reply Hermione got was, "YOUR REQUEST HAS BEEN CONSIDERED AND REJECTED. NOW WE WILL APPROVE THE REQUEST YOU SHOULD HAVE MADE."

 

[YuffieK]

To me it almost sounds like the reply Hermione got was, "YOUR REQUEST HAS BEEN CONSIDERED AND REJECTED. NOW WE WILL APPROVE THE REQUEST YOU SHOULD HAVE MADE."

Click to shrink...

Pretty much. Hermione wanted a bolthole to hide away in and Practice Unspeakable Things. Hogwarts decided to give all of them a War Council Room capable of fixing her.

 

[eM15]

It gave me a sad, proud smile with a mouth that couldn't be seen, and spoke in a voice that wasn't.

PEACE IS AN IDEAL; IT KILLS MORE SURELY THAN ANY WEAPON.
SAFETY IS AN ILLUSION; IT LIVES TO BE UNDONE.
A BASTION IS GRANTED; SHOULD IT HARBOUR DULLED SWORDS?

Then I was my body once more. The light blinked out, my knees buckled, and everything faded to black.

Burning Regret​

"Hermione!"

"What do we do?"

"Help me get her onto the couch!"

"Should I go get Madam Pomfrey?"

"The candles! We need to put them out!"

"I'm going to get Madam Pomfrey."

"No!" I jolted up with a start, looking around wildly to see Harry hovering over me, Luna sitting nearby, and Ron almost out the door. "I'm fine. No need to bring Madam Pomfrey here."

"Hermione, you passed out!" Harry said. "You were just standing there fine until we did that last part, and then you collapsed! You're not fine."

Ron stalked over to me. "I told you this stuff was dangerous, and you didn't listen."

"No, you didn't," I said. "This was Light magic, and perfectly legal at that. It's—" I looked at the three of them once more and the fight went out of me. All of them looked terrified. Luna was pale as a sheet. I winced at the realisation of what I must have put them through. "I'm fine. Really. I promise. I just… miscalculated. It won't happen again."

"Better not," Ron grumbled. "About scared us half to death."

I grimaced. "Sorry."

A few beats passed while everyone caught their breath. Harry was the one to break the silence. "So, do you think it worked?"

"How would we tell?" Ron asked.

"Maybe we could get someone to test it for us?" Harry and Ron began to shoot ideas back and forth about who we could trust to test the spell, but my mind wandered.

Mandy Enoch had spoken about how ritual was like bargaining with a spirit. Her book was named High Ritualism and You: Bartering with the Gods, even. And after Babbling's comments about religion… Something had spoken with me. I knew that. Whether it was a god or not was up for some serious debate, but there was no doubt in my mind that it had in fact spoken. It might have been a spirit or creature of some kind, but I doubted that. It was too massive. With Enoch and Babbling's comments in mind though, I wondered if it might have been magic itself. The ritual had been addressing Hogwarts' magic, and I knew Hogwarts was old enough and magical enough to think on some level. I'd thought it to be merely emotional, but it had spoken to me in words. And the ideas it expressed were complex! It seemed that I'd need to reevaluate just how primitive the mind in the magic was, so to speak.

"It spoke to me," I muttered, lost in thought.

"What did you say, Hermione?" Luna's voice was quiet, but it shut the boys up.

"It spoke to me," I said again, louder this time.

I saw Harry and Ron give each other a look out of the corner of my eye. "Er, what did?" Harry asked.

"The magic. Hogwarts, I think." My voice was airy, distant. Almost like someone else was speaking. "It said—Let me write it down, actually, before I forget."

I heard Ron scoff at the idea of me forgetting something as I dragged a bit of parchment towards me. I wrote the words in bold as if I could capture the weight of it on something physical. It felt vaguely silly to do, but seeing the thick lines and large letters settled something in me.

Ron was the first to speak. "What's any of that supposed to mean? Don't think peace has killed anyone, unless old age counts."

"Ideals do," Luna said. Her voice was almost as flat as it had been when she'd told me about her mother. I clasped her hand in mine to try to reassure her and dimly noted it was covered in sweat.

"So what, don't get any funny ideas about life or people start dropping dead?" Ron asked. "Reckon if I wanted a go at somebody, I'd use a wand instead."

Harry pointed to the next line. "What about this one? Do you think it's about Voldemort?" Ron and Luna winced. I squeezed her hand again.

"Maybe," Ron said. "Black's out and about, and he followed You-Know-Who, right? Maybe he's trying to bring him back. But he can't come back for real, can he?"

I shook my head. "He's already tried twice. There's nothing stopping him from trying again. I'd bet my life he's already planning his next attempt."

"So you think this is, what, some kinda prophecy?" Ron's voice regained a touch of fear.

"No," I said. "Just a warning. It's not a prophecy if I look at the clouds and say it's going to rain. It just means I've seen it before. Hogwarts has been around since the tenth century. No doubt it's seen all kinds of things."

Ron gave me a disbelieving look. I made to defend my assertion that it was Hogwarts, but Harry interrupted. "What about this next bit, then? Why's it a question? Don't you think it knows?"

"Hogwarts is a school," Luna spoke up. "Teachers ask all sorts of questions they already know the answer to."

"So what's it actually mean?"

I drummed my fingers on the table. "It says that 'a bastion is granted'. That's a defence, or a safe place. I think it's saying that the wards will work, and telling us that we should keep ourselves sharp."

"But why make it a question, then? Why not just say that? And if that's it, then why are we the swords here?" Ron asked.

"Maybe it's meant to make us think," Harry said. "To tell us that we shouldn't just get to here and move on. The lines before, they're a warning right? Voldemort's coming back and all that. What if they mean something else too? Like, I dunno, consequences. Maybe we have to stay sharp, and if we don't then the safety is undone. Would safety be the wards, you think?"

I nodded. "That would make sense. The spell wasn't meant to be an instruction, it was a bargain." 'Bargaining with the Gods,' my mind supplied. "I'll bet this is our end of it. If we don't keep ourselves sharp, then the wards will stop working."

"But why're we swords?" Ron insisted, almost excited now that he'd found the rhythm of it. "It's a riddle, right?" I suppressed my wince. "You keep quills sharp too, but swords are weapons, and it mentions those up top. If this is a riddle, there's no shot that doesn't mean anything."

There was a lull, and my resolution back on the Astronomy Tower a few weeks ago came to mind. I snatched up the parchment and looked it up or down for an alternate answer, but nothing came to mind.

"Peace is an ideal, and ideals kill more than swords," I finally said, setting down the parchment. "There is no safety, it's an illusion. And if we're swords, then I think… I think it's telling us—" Telling me. "—that holding onto our ideals will get more people killed than keeping ourselves sharp, especially if we're right and Voldemort's coming back. We have to be ready."

"Course you'd say that," Ron said with a glare.

I pushed the parchment at him. "You tell me why we're swords, then."

There was a long moment of silence before Harry broke it once more. "Well," he said, "that's grim."

"Was that a pun?" Ron asked, earning groans from the both of us.

"Guess it's good you know so many jinxes," Harry said once our annoyance had faded. "We might be needing them."

"Yeah," Ron said. "So, er, what makes you think you were talking to Hogwarts?"

I made to start explaining, but Luna interrupted me. "Because she was." She handed me a page from my ritual notes, pointing at a line of runes and their translation. It was the script for the primary circle, only lightly modified from the one I'd tested with Babbling. Luna was pointing to the section where I'd declared the ritual's magic as one with Hogwarts, and melded my magic with the ritual's. It only took a moment of review before my eyes shot wide.

I'd declared the ritual's magic as one with Hogwarts, and my magic as one with the ritual's.

Written right there in plain black was a description of how I merged my own magic with Hogwarts'. I stood slowly, walking over to the ritual circle. The chalk had burned black and ashen—fully expended—but it was still legible. A quick check showed that it matched perfectly. So I had merged my magic with Hogwarts'. Given how keenly I felt the difference between my self and my body, and how the unwinding tangle of magic that was my thaumic centre made me up…

"Oh."

I had made a mistake. I'd merged myself with Hogwarts. Hogwarts, which was far, far more massive than my rapidly decaying self. If Hogwarts was any less developed, any less kind, then I would have died. Sticking a fork into a power socket would have been less certain. Routing the full output of a nuclear reactor straight through my head made for a better analogy.

"I think that I'm angry with you," Luna said over the sound of my heart in my ears. I winced as my mind cast back to the image Luna and I had seen in On the Powers of Magic back in Black Manor. Knowing what my corpse would look like brought me very little comfort.

"I… I think that you're right to be." I kept staring at the very clear path of the bullet I'd dodged. If I hadn't been so well protected, I would've just… popped.

"I thought you said that you weren't going anywhere."

"I'm sorry. It… I'm smarter now. It won't happen again."

"Good."

"What won't happen again?" Harry spoke up. Right, I… No secrets. Very slowly I stood up and walked back to the couch, setting myself down without looking at anyone.

"I got very lucky today," I started. "I know how to avoid the problem now, so I won't be doing it again, but I got really, really lucky today."

"That doesn't exactly answer the question."

"I plugged my magic into Hogwarts' magic. If Hogwarts weren't as old and nice as it is, then we wouldn't have a puzzle to work through. We wouldn't even be having this conversation. That's… I already know how I would fix it. How I will fix it. I could have used the signature of my magic rather than my magic itself, and it would have worked fine. I wouldn't have… It's fine. I'm fine."

"You might have died," Luna said.

"I… yes. I might have. But I didn't. And I know how to avoid it in the future, so…" I looked to the boys, who were staring with wide eyes. "I know you're angry, but I could have died a lot of times before and didn't. We all have. Let's just… The wards are up, and I think I want to go to bed." It was amazing how much different near-death experiences were without the adrenaline.

Ron opened his mouth to say something before visibly calming himself. "Yeah. Right. Let's go."

Harry, Ron, and I gathered our things and departed, but not before Luna wrapped me up in a long, long hug. The halls were nearly empty, for which I was thankful. We were nearly to Gryffindor tower when Professor McGonagall rounded the bend in front of us.

"Miss Granger, there you are. Your Healer flooed in to the hospital wing and is demanding to see you. Please come with me." Right. My monitoring bracelets. The ones meant to detect any changes in my magic. He would know something had happened, wouldn't he?

"We're coming with," Harry said. Ron echoed him.

"There's no need for that. I'm sure Miss Granger will be able to rejoin you soon."

I found my voice. "Please, Professor?"

She raised an eyebrow, looking at each of us for a moment before relenting. "Very well. Follow along, then."

Professor McGonagall led us back down the stairs to the place that was quickly becoming my least favourite in the whole castle. She directed us inside and to Madam Pomfrey's office before rapping on the door twice. "I trust you three can find your way back to the common room on your own, with a minimum of diversions?" There was a chorus of affirmatives. "Good. If you're kept beyond curfew, have Madam Pomfrey write you a note. Have a good night," she said, and left the hospital wing without another word.

Almost as soon as the large door to the wing thudded shut, the one to Madam Pomfrey's office flew open to expose a dishevelled looking Healer Jameson, Madam Pomfrey herself standing behind him. Healer Jameson looked rather like he'd just crawled out of bed, with messy hair and his Healer's robe hastily thrown on. It was by far the most out of sorts that I'd seen the ever-professional man.

"Miss Granger!" he greeted me with clear relief. "There you are. Poppy, is there a space that I could use?" His tone towards her, though, was terse.

"Bed one is empty, on the left," she said. I wasn't sure, but she sounded annoyed too.

Healer Jameson ignored her mood. "Good. Miss Granger, follow me." He closed the office door shut behind him and started making his way to what I presumed was bed one. "I have to apologise for both the delay and for not retrieving you myself. Madam Pomfrey insisted that I send word to your Head of House and have them find you instead. Nothing I said would convince her otherwise. Here you are, then. Up on the bed and lie down."

I followed his instructions, and the boys sat themselves in the nearby chairs. Healer Jameson looked at them for a moment before turning to me and raising an eyebrow.

"I want them in here for this," I said. "They're my friends."

"Of course," he said, and drew the curtains around us closed. He flicked his wand in a circle, nodded, turned back to me, and started waving his wand around me. "If you gave them anywhere near as big a scare as you gave me, I imagine they're quite worried. Arms up. Now, do you have any idea what happened?"

"We were—" Harry started, but Healer Jameson wasn't having it.

"While I'm sure you have a unique perspective on the situation, I did not ask you." Harry flushed. "Miss Granger, if you please."

I grimaced. "We were performing a ritual I designed, and I connected myself to it too closely. It won't be happening again."

"I certainly hope not. Sit up," he ordered. I did so, and he began poking me at odd spots on my back, each time accompanied by a strange buzzing sensation. "You do understand how precarious your position is, yes? Don't answer. I know that you do. While I will not pretend to be any sort of expert on rituals beyond simply executing those necessary for my job, I am an expert on your assorted conditions. Thalergenic Shock in particular reacts badly to sudden, targeted influxes of magic." He let his wand hang over the crown of my head as it began to hum. It felt for a moment like there was water rushing down my spine.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You owe me no apology. It is you that decides how to spend your life. My job is simply to give you all the tools that you need to do so." He pulled his wand from its spot above me, performed a quick spiral over each of my joints, and finally shoved it into his pocket. "We must count our blessings where they lie. Your continuing attendance at Hogwarts is an excellent balm for you. The depth of the magic here served to stabilise your centre well enough that the shock to your system did remarkably little damage. You should consider yourself lucky. A sudden influx like that could have been far, far worse. You'll have an additional potion to take tomorrow morning. It will serve to mitigate what damage did occur. Make sure to drink that one first. Understood?"

I nodded mutely.

He softened slightly. "Good. On a more personal note, you've no doubt gathered that I receive notification about any significant change those bracelets detect no matter where I am. When I saw your vitals spike like that, I almost had a heart attack. You're an incredibly clever kid. Don't make stupid mistakes like this again, or you and I will be seeing each other a lot more often."

Healer Jameson turned to the boys then. "I also have a few requests for you two. First, I'd like to make sure you know that medical information of this sort is incredibly private. What you heard here is between you and Miss Granger, understood?" Harry and Ron both agreed. "Good. As for the second matter, it seems that Miss Granger trusts you two quite a bit. I'm asking both of you to keep an eye on her. You were there for her ritual today? Make sure that this is the last time she makes this mistake. If she does something similar, then you will run—don't walk, run—to the nearest teacher or floo to let me know. If you see her faint, become completely unresponsive, or notice any part of her become inexplicably transparent, then you will run to the nearest teacher or floo to let me know. Understood?"

They shook their heads vigorously.

"Good. Your professors have also been notified of what to look for. Now, is there anything else that I should know? No? Very well. In that case, I will take my leave." He grabbed the privacy curtain to pull it back, but hesitated. "And Miss Granger? I truly am sorry about all this. Rest assured: this is me, doing all that I can. I do not make house calls often. Please do not make my job any harder. Neither of us will be pleased with the results. Good night."

That said, he whisked the curtain open and stalked off to Madam Pomfrey's office.

---

It was over a month before I cast another spell.

My first order of business, of course, was moving my Black Manor books into Hogswatch. They were shelved in a spot we could only reach with a ladder and labelled with a sign Luna made that read 'CURSED AND MALEVOLENT - DO NOT TOUCH' in ink that shifted through all the colours of the rainbow. It was only a week before she was talking to me again. Luna wasn't the best at holding grudges it seemed, and she was satisfied when she learned that I wasn't doing any magic. Lesson learned, I suppose.

Harry and Ron managed not to be angry with me somehow, though they did start acting a little strange. Ron in particular was more than a little subdued. Both of them seemed to have taken Healer Jameson's words to heart, because they doubled down on their self-appointed duty of care. Whenever I was outside of the dorms, they made sure I was accompanied. I was pretty sure that they'd enlisted my roommate Fay to keep an eye on me in the girl's dorms, and I knew for a fact that I'd overheard them coming up with a duty schedule for escorting me to the bathroom.

It was mortifying. I wasn't an invalid! Or, strictly speaking, I literally was, but my condition was stable. The only way I'd suddenly fall over is if I did something stupid again, which I was most certainly not planning on.

Their fussing did come in handy, though. Since Professor Snape still insisted on making me cast at every opportunity, both of the boys had gotten quite good at doing it subtly. All my other Professors accepted the excuse that my Healer had advised me to take a break from practical spellwork on the condition that I turn in a ritual breakdown of the spells in question. Flitwick was the only one who didn't let pity show on his face when I told him (and also the only one who wasn't handing my rituals to Babbling to grade in his stead).

There was some give and take to the boys' diligence, though. After a few discussions that left us all slightly exasperated and annoyed, I ended up having to attend more than a few quidditch practice sessions. And when Crookshanks pounced at Scabbers in the common room, my guilt made me fold a bit during the ensuing argument. While Crooks was a free spirit and did need room to roam, I insisted, Scabbers would be perfectly happy without. I spent the next afternoon finding Ron some palings he could cast around the boys' dorm which would keep rats in and cats out, and everyone's ruffled feathers smoothed.

The time I had that wasn't spent on homework, revising, or keeping Harry and Ron happy was dedicated to learning Cumbric and translating Corvus Blaec's research journal. It soured my mood more often than not. On the Powers of Magic wasn't a pleasant read, precisely, but it was a sadly necessary one. The further I got into it, the more sure I became that it had the answers I wanted, and the more I realised that I wouldn't like them.

The ritual breakdown for the killing curse was as horrifying a read as it was fascinating. It was soul magic—like all the Unforgivables, it seemed—whose original purpose was to serve as a way to transfer the victims strength into the caster in certain ritualistic contexts. Its utility as a weapon was secondary. The Cruciatus seemed to be similar, but for Dark rituals that called for pain. There was actually a note on both advising the reader not to cast it without ritual as a buffer. Apparently the change it forced on the thaumic centre was more severe than Blaec had thought acceptable, and changes to the centre informed changes on the self.

I hated it. I hated it. I hated that this was the person I'd become, that my life was one that led me to study magic meant for murder and torture. I'd taken to keeping a bin nearby me when I worked and thanking Luna for being quick with a vanishing charm when I inevitably lost my lunch.

There were times that I stumbled onto repetitions of things that the Diary had already taught me, and I found myself fascinated as I noted the ways that differing cultures and languages expressed the same concept before I remembered that the thing I was translating was a curse meant to boil blood or break bone.

I imagined that this was how doctors felt when they studied the ways that horrific Nazi experiments advanced our understanding of the human body.

And I'd irreversibly signed on to be wizarding Hitler's apprentice when he resurrected, hadn't I?

Ideals kill, ideals kill, ideals kill, I repeated to myself endlessly, clinging to Hogwarts' message like a lifeline. It rang hollow after the lesson I'd inadvertently given myself on why magic without caution was something worthy of fear, but it was the best thing I had.

Halloween eventually came, and the first Hogsmeade weekend with it. Harry's permission form was unsigned, which I thought was probably for the best. Between his stress over that, me, the mad killer on the loose, and the significance of the day, I managed to keep most of my comments on the wisdom of his staying in the castle to myself. His mood was bad enough. Ron and I reassured him with promises that we'd bring him back plenty of souvenirs, but there was no getting to him when he was like that.

Once Filch signed us off, we were out through the castle doors and down the road. Ron's excitement was infectious, and I quickly found myself grinning alongside him.

"I was thinking we'd go to Zonko's—that's the joke shop—then stop by Honeydukes," Ron rushed out. "Maybe the Shrieking Shack after that, then the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer. You've never had butterbeer, have you? It's great, you'll love it. Oh! We have to try to bring some back for Harry! He'll appreciate that, I bet."

"I've never seen you so excited that you started planning," I laughed.

"It's our first Hogsmeade weekend! I've been hearing about this place for years from my brothers. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! Just cause I'm not the sort to get possessed by a talking planner—" He snapped his mouth shut and the cheer fell from his face as he realised what he'd said. "Er, sorry. That wasn't… Sorry."

I forced a smile. "It's fine. Promise. And…" My smile became real, but much smaller. "I suppose he did help me plan things sometimes. I still use the study schedule he helped me come up with, you know? He was… I thought he was my friend. You don't have to dance around it. I'm not a little kid, and I'm not made of glass. I can take it." There was an awkward beat. "So, you were saying about Hogsmeade?"

Ron gave me a tight grin and filled the space with nothings until we approached the gate and the temperature began to drop. "Oh, right. Ruddy dementors." He turned to me with a concerned look. "We can go back, if you want. Bet Harry'd like the company."

"No, it's fine." I eyed the gate warily. "Have you learned the cheering charm yet? I think we'll be doing it in class near the end of the year."

His eyes lit up as he realised where I was going. "Oh, that's clever. I don't know it, but I bet…" He craned his neck to look around before seemingly finding something.. "Oi, Lee!"

The fifth year in question jogged up to us. "What's up?"

"You got cheering charms?" Ron inclined his head towards the gate. "Dementors and all."

Lee Jordan winced. "Probably a good idea, that. Wouldn't want to leave Gryffindor's very own Heir of Slytherin hanging, would we?" He gave me a conspiratorial grin, and I managed to give him one back. Lee was a friend of the twins. He probably didn't mean anything by it, even if it did sound a bit mean-spirited.

He waved his wand over the three of us with a proudly declared "Gaudius!" each time. My mood improved instantly and substantially. "Woo! Love this one," he said. "Let's see how it stands up to the soulsuckers!"

The three of us strode through the gates without a care in the world. When we came in view of the dementors, the joy faded to mirth as they skimmed off the top of us. I could've sworn that one of them was staring at me despite its lack of eyes. Its attention was palpable much in the same way Hogwarts' was, though less significant by a matter of magnitude. It didn't seem to me like it much cared for anyone else, either. It only had eyes for me. The horrid thing moved to approach as we passed by before it stopped suddenly. I found myself wondering what it was that was running through its horrid, rotted head that made me so interesting.

My mood stabilised to something resembling normal by the time we left the dementors' area of influence, but the one kept staring, its blind head tracking me with intent.

"Well, that worked!" Lee said. "I'll make sure to spread the word. You lot have a good one, I'm gonna go meet the twins." He jogged off, leaving Ron and I alone.

"One of the dementors is staring at me," I hissed once Lee was out of earshot. "It's keeping track."

Ron gave me a sceptical look. "Reckon they're looking at everyone, aren't they? It's why they're here. Check for Sirius Black."

"The other one is, but one of them is just looking at me. I can feel it."

He stopped, turned around, and looked right back at the gate. I stayed staring forward. I wasn't sure how, but I knew for a fact that making eye contact was a horrible idea. "Which one?"

"It was on our left when we went through."

"Huh," he said. Then after a moment, "I think you're right. It's weird. The other one just seems to be floating around, but your one is staying still. It's also got, I dunno how dementors work, but they've got robes, right? Well your one's robes look less ripped. Like they're newer or something."

"It's not my one," I grumbled. "And stop looking at it. It almost followed us when we were walking through, but changed its mind. I don't want it to decide it was right the first time. Now come on." I tugged his arm, and we kept walking.

"Weird. We've got cheering charms, at least." He shrugged.

I scowled at him. "Fat lot of good those'll do when it decides it wants my soul. You heard what Dumbledore said. They've got no mercy, they see through invisibility cloaks, and they don't listen when you beg." Half-formed memories of wet stone and a cruel laugh came to mind. "I do not want that thing's attention."

"Fair enough." There was a moment of silence. "Hard to tell, but I think that one might have been the same one as on the train."

A sort of high keening noise escaped me unbidden.

Hogsmeade was bustling when we arrived, and I found myself dragged along to shop after shop. Everything I saw was deeply fascinating and Ron agreed, though I doubt it was for the same reasons. I found myself attempting to mentally deconstruct the different things Ron bought in Zonko's to see how they ticked, wondering at the myriad types of people in the town, and making notes to look into how wizarding candy was made. The Shrieking Shack gave few signs of haunting beyond its decrepit state, but the butterbeer was good enough to make up for it.

My mood soured near instantly when Draco Malfoy and his lackeys Crabbe and Goyle stepped into the Three Broomsticks, spotted Ron and I's table, and sauntered over. At least, Malfoy sauntered. The other two never managed much beyond a plodding lumber.

"Weasley," he called out as he approached. "Fancy seeing you here. I'm shocked your parents could afford the ink to sign your permission slip. You do realise that you have to pay your tab eventually, right? I know it's a difficult concept, but butterbeer costs money."

"Go soak your head, Malfoy," Ron said. "Don't you have puppies to kick somewhere else?"

Malfoy ignored him. "I suppose you could always just borrow the money. I'd bet even a mudblood like Granger's better off. Just remember: Galleons are the golden ones. I'd donate to the cause, but I hear your disease is catching."

It was bait, I knew that, but I was not in the mood for it. "I liked it better when you were avoiding me. Finally managed to stop being scared?"

"Like I'd be scared of you. Besides, I hear that you've decided that you're too good to cast spells like the rest of us again. Or have you finally gone full squib?"

"She's just good enough that the professors already know she'll succeed," Ron bit out.

"Or maybe she's just too scared." He smirked, and I saw red.

"Noticed you've been vanishing all your blood nowadays. Smart. Wouldn't want to let the big, scary ritualist get her hands on it, would you? Who knows what she could do? Oh, wait. She already has, hasn't she? That's why you're only bothering me now. You think I can't hurt you anymore. That just because I'm sick, I can't do anything. But you're a pureblood—a Malfoy, even. I bet you know better than anyone just how untrue that is. The things I could do with a broken nose would make your hair curl." I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself. "Go away Malfoy. I don't want this fight, and you definitely don't."

"You don't even know what you're talking about," he said, but his tone was shaken.

I looked him in the eyes, unwilling to back down. "Gonna bet on it?"

He blinked first. "Come on, I don't want their smell getting on us," he said, and the three of them left.

There was a long moment where Ron and I watched them go before he looked at me with wide eyes. I flinched at the fear I saw in them. "Blimey Hermione, what was that?"

I sighed, anger draining from me in an instant. "A mistake."

"No, really?" I shrunk down and Ron gave a wary look around. "I hate him as much as you do, but threatening him with blood magic?" he whispered furiously.

"I know," I muttered into my drink.

"I thought you said you weren't going to hurt anyone!"

"I'm not!" I insisted. "Really, I'm not. It's an empty threat, I promise. I just… I just feel so skinless ever since the Diary, and every little thing is salt in the wound. I don't mean any of it, it's just… I don't know what to do, and then Malfoy comes along, and I just…"

"Blow up?" he offered.

"Yeah."

"Well stop it," he said as if it were simple.

"You think I'm not trying?" I hissed. "You're not the one who has to live with this!"

"Well don't blow up at me, too! I'm trying to help you, remember?"

I deflated with a sigh, sinking down into my chair. "You're right. Of course you're right. I've never been like this before, I just… I just don't know what to do."

There were a few long moments filled by the sound of the busy pub. I drained my drink just to do something with my hands. Finally, Ron spoke up.

"I have an idea, but you're gonna hate it."

I took a deep breath. "I hate a lot of the things I do nowadays. What is it?"

"You're really gonna hate it," he insisted.

"Ron."

"Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you. We paid up?" He lifted his mug.

"Yes. I took care of it."

"Cheers. Come on," he said, and got up to leave. I grabbed my bag and followed.

"So you remember when we argued about Luna? Well, after that she told me about your whole… deal—"

"My deal?"

"You know, your eversion!"

"Inversion, Ron," I chided, the heat gone from my voice. A bone-deep exhaustion had replaced it. "Progressive Thaumeal Inversion."

"Right. Luna told Harry and I that it comes with some temper stuff. Mood swings or whatever. She said it might be a good idea to find a way to help with that. Or, well, she said something about wiggleplorts or summat, but I think that's what she meant."

"Wrackspurts."

He shrugged. "Probably. And you know Harry's useless about this stuff, so I figured it was on me. So, I talked to Percy."

"Percy? I get on with him fine, but that doesn't mean I want him to know all about my condition!" My tone was harsher than I'd have liked.

"No, it's… I didn't tell him anything he doesn't already know. I just asked him how he dealt with it."

We weaved around a group of seventh years dancing in the street. "Is he sick too?"

"Nothing like that, he just… Mum says he's always felt too much, you know? Wicked temper on him. He's really a lot better than he used to be. So I asked him what happened, why he's not such a nightmare anymore." He sounded uncomfortable, but my interest was piqued. "It's weird. Actually learned a lot about him that I didn't know before."

"And… what did he say?"

"You're gonna hate it," he said in lieu of an answer.

"I've gathered."

"Well," he stopped walking suddenly, "here we are." I looked up to see we'd arrived at a squat little building bearing the sign 'Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop'. An ugly suspicion rose in my chest.

"No," I said simply.

Ron shuffled from side to side. "Percy said that when it gets to be too much, he writes about his feelings in his diary."

"No," I insisted.

"Knew you'd be like that. It's why I didn't say anything before, but come on Hermione." Ron gave me a pleading look. "You can't just keep threatening blood curses and raving about the dark arts when people make you mad. You'd get locked up, or worse."

"Worse?"

"You'd actually follow through and get expelled," he joked weakly.

My scowl lessened a bit at that. "Right. Walked into that one."

"Just try it?" he asked. "It's not like it'll hurt anything."

I crossed my arms. "My last diary managed to hurt me plenty."

"Well, we'll find you one that isn't secretly a Dark Lord," he said, then changed tacks. "Please? For Harry and me?"

I had to look away from his face. The desperate expression hurt too much. I'd done that. Clinical descent into madness or not, I had been the one to scare him. It was an ugly feeling.

"I hate this," I finally said.

"But you'll do it?"

"I'll try it. I'm not making any promises." I'd learned my lesson about promises, after all.

"Great," he said with a relieved smile. "Come on."

The bell above the door rang as we entered, and I took a look around Scrivenshaft's. It was surprisingly mundane. I'd come to expect a certain level of divergence from normality in the magical world, but I supposed there was only so much you could do with a store that sold what were essentially office supplies. It was void of people, of course. I doubted that anyone aside from us had a desperate need for quills or parchment this early in the year.

A man behind the counter perked up as we entered. "Ah, hello there! Welcome to Scrivenshaft's! Can I help you find anything?"

Ron looked at me and I jerked my head at the shopkeeper, happy to let Ron take the lead for his idea. He seemed to get the hint. "Yeah, we're looking for a dia-a journal. You know, a nice journal for notes and the like." I rolled my eyes.

"On the back wall there, on the left," the shopkeeper said. "Might I suggest the Clean-Quills? They erase everything you write and redo it with cleaner handwriting."

"Er, no," Ron said near instantly. "No thanks. Nothing that writes back. Just a plain journal."

The man quickly lost interest. "Right. Back wall, on the left."

Ron and I followed his directions to find a wall full of options. I looked over them for a moment before I had an idea. "I'm getting a couple," I said.

"Sure, yeah, great!" Ron perked up. "Whatever works."

I grabbed two pocket-sized white ones enchanted to have more pages than they should, and a larger black one. It was leather and had gold coloured corner protectors. Not quite right, but it would do.

Ron gave it a sceptical look. "Doesn't that look a bit like…"

"Yes," I said simply. "This was your idea, wasn't it?"

"Right, it's just—"

"Yes, it is."

The look on my face shut him up. "Right."

I brought my choices up to the front, paid, and we left the shop. "I saw a hill just outside of town. Come on." I marched off down the road. Ron caught up a moment later.

"So, why a hill?" he asked.

"Because physics say so."

"Physics?"

"Heat rises, Ron."

"Hermione?"

"You'll see. Promise."

We quickly came to the end of the road, but I kept going. After a few minutes walk, we were at the top of a hill. Hogsmeade's buildings blocked our view of the rest of the students perfectly.

"Settle down," I said. "We'll be here for a minute."

I sat against a tree, dimly aware of Ron finding a spot. Ink and quill were quickly retrieved from my bag before I drew the black leather diary and set it against my knees. I took a deep breath to try to settle myself, and opened it up.

It was blank, of course. There was no name scrawled inside the front cover. It managed to be even more different inside than it had outside, but I ignored the dissonance. I dipped my quill in the ink and wondered where to start.

A great big black slash across the first page came first. I stared at it, waiting. I felt my nerves settle when it didn't soak away into nothing. Calmed somewhat, I turned to the next page and began to write in earnest.

Hello, Tom.

It's been a while. You really messed me up, you know? I was a star student before you. Top of my class. I had teachers and classes that I loved, and for the first time ever I had friends who loved me. I used to be the one with the answers. That's who I was. I was happy. Thriving, even. I had a wand, a world of magic, and people who wanted me to discover it for myself. It wasn't perfect, but I had everything I wanted.

Then you ended up in my school supplies. It was Mr. Malfoy, I think. It must have been. He must have used that fight with Mr. Weasley as a distraction. He's the only person I can think of that I met before school that has any connection to you.

You pulled back the veil. You showed me that my teachers are just flawed people. That I can't trust them to be anything else. You made me think that you were all I ever needed, and made me abandon the first friends I had ever made. You showed me what magic can be, both good and bad. The good was worth the bad. Still is, I think. I'm not sure anymore.

But you lied to me, Tom. You used me. I was just a tool to you. I was a bloody battery for your resurrection if you succeeded, and a potential student if you failed. Well guess what? You failed! I lived! And your plan B might not even work! I'm dying, Tom! I'm using every single thing you ever taught me to try to survive, and it'll be horrible, and it might not work, but I'm still going to do my best! I don't have a choice. I want to survive. I have to.

Maybe you were right. Maybe this was a lesson too, because I think I'm learning it. I get it now. When you're just trying to survive, there's no real good or bad, is there? It's just power. Magic. I can either be strong enough, or I'll die.

I'm scared, Tom. I'm scared of myself. I'm scared of you. I'm scared of dying. I'm scared of surviving. I'm scared of what it will cost. More than anything, I'm scared of the person I'm going to be when this is over. I don't want to be scared anymore.

You must have been scared of something to say all that about power. You must have fought for survival at some point. You never told me, but you know perfectly well that I'm no idiot. Nobody that wasn't scared would think like you. Like me.

I hate you for what you did to me. To Harry. To the Weasleys. I hate you more than anyone or anything I've ever met, and I bet I hate you more than anyone or anything I ever will meet. You're a monster who turns people into monsters. I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you!

I hope that Hogwarts is wrong and you never manage to bring yourself back. I hope I survive this. I hope you don't. I hope I get to be the one to kill you. I hope I never have to kill anyone. I hope that you're in pain, wherever you are. I hope I stop being so angry someday. I'm scaring people, you know? I bet you'd have some awful horrible helpful advice about how anyone who's scared of me deserves to be or something.

I miss you.

Never Yours,

The Girl-Who-Will-Survive-You,

Hermione Granger

I stared numbly at the spots where tears and shaky hands had blotted the ink. It didn't matter. Nobody was reading it anyway. Looking up, I saw the light had shifted. I checked my watch and realised that I'd been sitting here for almost an hour. It was almost time for dinner. Ron was lying on his back and entertaining himself with some sort of magical boomerang. I snapped the diary shut, causing him to jolt up.

"All done?" he asked, clearly glad for the distraction from boredom. I felt a sudden rush of appreciation towards him.

I stood and wiped the grass off of my robes. "Almost. Do you still remember the water-making charm?"

He cocked his head. "Yeah. Aguamenti, right?"

"Good." I reached into my bag, pulled out my binder of prepared spells, and pulled out an Incendio. It would be my first spell since the warding ritual. I thought that oddly appropriate. Burn away the old to bring in the new. Finding a flat spot I set it down, placing the diary on top.

"Hermione?" Ron asked with concern evident in his voice. "You don't have to, I mean if you're not ready… I can probably cast whatever it is."

I shook my head as I kneeled down. "No. I'm ready. We need to be swords, right? I'm the one always talking about how I won't be scared of my magic anyway. It's time I listened to myself. Just make sure the fire doesn't go anywhere it shouldn't, okay?"

"Right," he said. "Got it."

I took a deep breath. "Incendio." The diary burst into flame instantly. I rolled backwards on my heels and onto my rear to watch. The sacrifice for this spell was appreciation of the results. Somehow, I doubted that would be too hard on this occasion.

The diary burned itself out quickly, leaving a lump of charred leather behind. Ron cooled it with a jet of water and I gathered it up begrudgingly. The flame being therapeutic gave me no excuse to litter.

"So, did that help at all?" Ron asked as we made our way down the hill.

"Maybe. I don't know. At the very least, you were right. It didn't hurt. Or it did, but… I think it was a good hurt." I stuck my hands in my pockets. "I'll keep trying with the other ones. Honestly trying. No more fire."

"And no more raving about dark arts?"

I gave him a wan smile. "I'll do my best."

---

Ron and I were the last ones back to the castle, and lost five points each for our tardiness. I knew I'd be annoyed any other time, but I mostly just felt… floaty. I wasn't sure how else to describe it. It was like my mind was so exhausted that everything just bounced off. Dinner had already started by the time we arrived, so we brought our overloaded bags straight to the Great Hall. Harry was easy to find, sitting near alone with a space saved on either side of him. He was wearing an expression I couldn't read, but that hardly shocked me. It was Halloween, after all. It had never exactly been a happy day for him.

I slid into the space on Harry's left as Ron took his right.

"Where were you guys?" he asked, checking us over. For injuries, presumably. Had Harry always done that everytime we were late somewhere? I'd never noticed. The 'Hex the Dursleys' entry in my mental to-do list gained another underline.

"Hogsmeade," I said, still feeling disconnected. "I was busy being slightly mad. Sorry. It will probably happen again." I slid some ham onto my plate. "Malfoy won't bother us anytime soon, though."

Harry gave Ron a look of some sort. I didn't catch it.

"I'll explain later," Ron said. "We brought you souvenirs. Hogswatch after dinner?"

"Sure, yeah," Harry agreed. "I've got things to tell you both too."

Throughout the dinner, Harry kept glancing about everywhere. He looked up at the staff table rather a lot, and seemed to have developed some sort of fascination for checking me over.

"I'm fine," I said after the third time I noticed it. Three was magically significant. It was stable, but not as table as seven. It lent itself to power more easily, though.

"You're acting weird," he said.

"I'm feeling weird. Floaty. Sorta detached. Like after you got me out of the Chamber. I'll be fine later." I paused for a moment. "Well, not fine, but normal. Not normal either, I guess, but—"

"Yeah, alright," Harry stopped me. "I'm just worried."

"Sorry."

"What for?"

"Worrying you." I took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed before speaking. Take that, Ron. "It will probably happen again. Sorry about that too."

The rest of the Halloween feast passed without incident, and the three of us quickly found our way back up to Hogswatch to talk. Ron went first, telling Harry all about Hogsmeade, giving him our presents, and telling him what had happened with me.

"And she's been like this ever since?" Harry asked.

"Pretty much. I don't know what's going on there."

"I was feeling too much, and I think I stepped out," I said. "Processing, I think. I'll be back soon." A thought came to me. "You didn't tell him about the dementor."

"The dementor?" Harry's pitch rose up. I wondered if there was something I could say to get him to falsetto.

"Hermione reckoned one of the dementors was staring at her when we were heading to Hogsmeade."

"And was she…"

"She was fine then. I looked at it, and I think it might have actually been. Staring at her, I mean."

"Any idea why?"

"Nah. Hermione?" Ron asked.

I shook my head. "Maybe it knew me?"

Harry reeled. "Why would a dementor know you?"

"I don't know."

"Right." Harry gave me another long look. "You're acting like Luna."

"That explains a startling amount," I said.

"So," Ron said, "what was it you wanted to tell us?"

Harry shuffled in the way he always does when he cares about something and doesn't want to admit it because feelings are difficult. I could relate. "I talked to Professor Lupin while you were gone." He took a bracing breath. "He told me he knew my parents."

"Really?" Ron asked. "What'd he say?"

"He told me that I was a lot like my dad and that… He said that my Dad would be proud of me."

"Of course he would be," I said simply, like explaining a simple fact. Because it was one. "An idiot wouldn't have been able to make you, and only an idiot wouldn't be proud of you."

Silence filled the room at that.

"There's something else, too," Harry finally said. "Right before I left, Snape came in with some sort of smoking potion for Professor Lupin."

"You think he's trying to go for his job?" Ron asked.

"I don't know. I tried to warn him, but he just said that Snape would be a good Defence teacher."

"I doubt it was poison," I chimed in. "Professor Snape's too smart to poison someone in front of a witness."

"Yeah, but if Professor Lupin starts not showing up to class, bet we know why," Ron said.

I wasn't too much longer before we'd said everything there was to say and we all packed up to head to the common room. We were intercepted on the way by a panicked looking Babbling.

"Ah, there you three are! You weren't coming up in the headcount. Come on, come on. Back to the Great Hall with all of you!"

"What? What's happened?" Harry asked.

"You haven't heard?" she said, sounding shocked. "McGonagall thought for sure that you'd gone looking… Your common room isn't safe."

"What do you mean, it's not safe?"

"I mean it's not safe! They found the Fat Lady's portrait slashed wide open, and Peeves was saying it was Sirius Black!" I bet she wasn't supposed to say that. Babbling was almost as bad as Hagrid that way.

Harry and Ron looked stunned, but the emotion didn't quite manage to reach me. It wasn't like it was surprising. Halloween for Harry Potter. A raving lunatic breaking into the castle and wreaking havoc? Yeah, I figured, that might as well happen.

 

[eM15]

And with this, we are officially past 100k words! That's about 200 pages, 400 if you double space. That's about the length of a lot of standard novels, and we are just getting started!

Damn, I'm a wordy bitch. I apologize for nothing.

Hope y'all enjoyed the chapter, and here's to 100k more!

 

[edqu]

You certainly are wordy!

But if you want a slow pace that's alright.

 

[Takareer]

It was only a week before she was talking to me again. Luna wasn't the best at holding grudges it seemed, and she was satisfied when she learned that I wasn't doing any magic. Lesson learned, I suppose.

Click to shrink...

I'm really surprised by this. Hermione is doing her best fighting for her life, may have only a year left, and Luna wastes a week of it on silence?

 

[eM15]

You know the pain of learning, yes, but you discovered that early. It's an afterthought now. A worthy price for a worthy reward. The satisfaction of curiosity—how very human.

But knowing? It's a burden all its own. One that you've barely scratched the surface of. Sometimes the weight is simple, making reminders hurt. Sometimes it's a force of change, splitting a life into befores and afters.

But the most terrible sort of knowledge is that which can be used. For the rest of your life, you will ask yourself not a question of 'can', but of 'should'. It eats away at the soul of even the strongest, and you're starting to learn that too.

Ignorance truly is bliss.​

Memory III - Knowing Pains​

The first thing Ronald Weasley ever remembered was watching his brothers play quidditch. He didn't know what they were doing at the time. He just knew that they were zipping around the air and laughing, and he wasn't allowed to join them. Gin wasn't either, but she didn't count. She wasn't allowed to do anything. Ron had gotten so mad then, throwing a tantrum so spectacular it ended with him being sent floating high up into the air. His mood improved immensely once he discovered that he was on level with the broomsticks. He laughed, and his brothers laughed, and his Daddy laughed, and his Mummy was yelling. But that didn't count. Mummy was always yelling.

For so very long, that was Ron's life. His brothers grew up to do amazing things, and he was made to sit back and watch. Mummy and Daddy would wave their wands and the world would change. His brothers spent most of their time away at some school. Hogwarts, it was called. They were there to learn magic, Daddy said, and someday he would be going too. They never used any magic when they came back, though. They said they weren't allowed. Ron didn't understand why—they were always doing all sorts of things they weren't allowed to. Daddy told him that it was a big rule set by something called the Ministry, which was much more important than the rules Mummy set. She hadn't been very happy to hear that.

Big Bill broke it once, though. He gathered Fred and George and Ron and Gin out in the forest by the river and told them that he would show them something amazing if only they could keep it a secret. The twins loved that idea. Secrets were their favourite thing in the world! Gin wanted to see it too, so she buttoned her lips tight to show she was serious. Ron was wary, though. What if that Ministry found out? Big Bill just grinned and said that they wouldn't have to if he only just kept his mouth shut. Their rules were just rules, after all, and the Weasley family loved nothing more than to bend the rules.

He pulled the old family rat out of his pocket and waved his wand over it with a whispered nonsense word like Ron heard their parents use sometimes. Scabbers began to swell up in size for a moment before waking up and shrinking back down. Big Bill tried again and again before giving up and saying that Scabbers must be pretty magical after all.

The letter took only a few seconds to arrive but sent Mummy into a fit for a month.

Time passed, and things changed. Percy started leaving for school, then Bill stopped (he stopped calling him Big Bill because Ron wasn't a baby anymore, no matter what the twins said). Bill got what he called an apprenticeship with the bank. He said that in only a few years, he'd be travelling the world to break curses and have adventures. Ron spent a lot of time that year dreaming about what sorts of adventures he'd have once he was a grown-up. Sometime later, the twins got their own Hogwarts letters. They were so excited all through the year that they almost ruined Charlie's graduation ceremony with pops of accidental magic.

Ron didn't know it, but the summer before the twins left for Hogwarts would be the last time he saw his family all in one place for a very long while. It would have hurt him quite a bit to learn. Family was his whole life after all, even if he didn't always like all of them all that much.

That last August, a week before Fred and George were due at Platform 9 ¾ for the first time, there was a night when Mum and Dad went out leaving Bill in charge. Charlie said they were going out to be all gross, which Ron didn't quite get. Then again, Ginny thought he was gross all the time, so maybe they were just being normal. Regardless, the seven of them spent the evening on brooms out on their quidditch pitch, alternating between chaotic games with ill-defined rules and simply basking in the comfortable summer night.

Bill spent a lot of time that night with a weird expression on his face. Ron wasn't quite sure if a smile could be sad, but if it could then Bill was doing it. His favourite phrase that night seemed to be 'remember when'.

"Remember when the twins blew up the cake at Uncle Bilius' birthday party?"

"Remember when Percy was playing seeker and started complaining about how he couldn't find the snitch?"

"Remember when Dad brought home that car? Mum was livid!"

"Remember when Uncles Gideon and Fabian spent the whole day tossing Fred and George up in the air? I couldn't figure out who was having more fun, the twins or them!"

"Who are they?" Ron asked, scrunching up his face. "I didn't know we had any other uncles."

Bill and Charlie both winced. "Oh," Charlie said. "You wouldn't know them. They're gone now."

"What do you mean, 'gone'?" Ginny asked. "Like, they went away?"

"Like they're dead," Bill said after a moment. "You're both old enough to know that, at least. Ron, I think you had almost turned one. Bit too early for you to remember them."

Ginny wondered at that. "Why?"

"What d'ya mean, why?" Fred asked.

"I mean why're they dead?"

Bill frowned. "Because back then, there was a very bad man who wanted to hurt people. He's gone now, but so're a lot of other folks. More than that's… Dad says not to talk about all that with anyone who's not Hogwarts aged, and I agree. Speaking of." He glanced up at the stars. "Ginny, Ron, isn't it your bedtime?"

The complaints were instant. "Oh, come on." "But I'm not tired!"

"Sorry," he said. "But you know how Mum gets. Brooms up and off to bed. Everything'll still be here in the morning."

It took a few minutes more insistence and at least one "Yes, I will tell Mum," before the two of them finally agreed that they were in fact tired. Ron and Ginny slowly put their things away and went back inside. Ron started up the stairs, but Ginny headed straight for the back door.

"What are you doing?" Ron asked.

Ginny gave him a look. "Bill sent us to bed 'cause he wants to talk about the stuff he couldn't with us there. Duh. Don't you want to know about our other uncles?"

Ron paused to think for a moment. "Fine, but you can't go out yet. You have to wait."

"What? Why?"

"Because Bill and Charlie aren't stupid. They'll be waiting for us to sneak out to listen, so we have to wait until they're not looking for us anymore."

"That's dumb," Ginny said, but waited anyway. A couple minutes passed before her patience ran out. "Right. I'm bored. Now come on!"

The two of them opened the back door gently and slid outside, keeping an eye out every which way. Ginny started to giggle when they heard their brothers' voices and Ron shushed her. This only made her giggle harder, but she covered up her mouth with her hands. They crept closer and closer to the pitch, keeping low and dashing between bits of cover. Eventually, the voices became loud enough to hear, and the two siblings ducked down underneath a bush.

"Reckon they've actually gone to bed," Charlie's voice drifted down. "Ginny can't sneak for the life of her, gets all giggly. We'd have heard her by now."

"Told you!" Ron whispered.

"Shh!"

"So now are you gonna tell us about our uncles?" one of the twins asked. Ron couldn't tell which without seeing their faces.

"Oh come on. They died in the war, George!" Percy said. "I bet it was awful. I barely even remember them."

Ginny and Ron looked at each other with wide eyes. They knew there was a war, but everybody always shushed up about it when they were in earshot. This was the most they'd ever heard.

"It was. Awful, I mean," Charlie said. "I remember Mum and Dad always coming home injured and dirty, and Mum was always crying all the time."

"Was it him who got them?" one of the twins asked. "Lord Voldem—"

"Don't!" Bill yelled suddenly before quieting down so much that the two eavesdroppers had to edge closer. "Don't say the name. Don't ever. Not here, not at school, never. Just don't say it."

"But why not? Everyone always says not to say it," one of the twins started.

"But nobody ever tells us why," the other finished.

"The name was cursed. Still might be. We don't know. All I know is, everyone who said the name died. It's You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Got it?"

"It's all in your books if you'd bothered to read them," Percy said.

"Shut up, Pukey," one of the twins retorted.

"At least I bother to know things instead of causing trouble! I bet you'll be expelled in the first week!"

"Percy, come on," Charlie said. "They're just trying to get a rise out of you." A long pause followed.

"Dumbledore says the name," Percy grumbled.

"Because Dumbledore was the only person that You-Know-Who was scared of," Charlie explained. "At least, that's what everyone says."

"But he's gone now," Bill said. "Tangled with the wrong kid. Tried to use the killing curse on Harry Potter, and it bounced right back at him. Every single one of us—no—every single person any of us have ever even met owes their entire lives to the Boy-Who-Lived. Just wish he could've done it sooner."

There was a sombre silence before one of the twins broke it. "Bet he says the name."

Charlie laughed. "Yeah, well, he killed the tosser. I figure that gets you name-saying privileges."

Ron looked over and saw Ginny mouthing the Boy-Who-Lived's name, but shrugged it off. He just wondered if a guy like that could use a friend.

"So he's the one that got our uncles?" Percy asked.

"No," Bill said, "he had an army of followers. Called themselves the 'Death Eaters'."

"Stupid name," a twin said.

"Stupid name that chopped off half of everyone's family tree," Charlie retorted.

Bill filled the space that statement left behind. "Right. So, Mum and Dad and our uncles Gideon and Fabian, they all fought. They fought You-Know-Who, and his Death Eaters at every single turn. Every muggle-hunt, every book burning, every blown-up shop, and every raid."

"Really?" a twin asked incredulously.

The other chimed in. "Mum and Dad? You're kidding!"

"Dead serious," Bill confirmed. "I know Mum's all mumsy and fusses too much and Dad likes his weird muggle things and a good prank, but I'm gonna be gone soon; Gringotts is sending me off to Egypt. So I need every single one of you to know something. No matter how mad at them you might be or how silly you think something is, Mum and Dad are old warriors. So when they say something's important. Not important like homework is, but important like they get that focused look in their eye… Remember when Ginny fell in the river and Mum bloody lifted the entire thing to get her out? Did any of you see Mum's face? That's the look. Dad has the same one. When they get that look and say that something's important? You listen. You listen like it's the most important thing in the world. You listen like it's life or death because it probably is. Got it?"

He didn't continue until everyone agreed. All of them did, but one of the twins asked, "But I thought he was gone? Potter got him, right?"

"You-Know-Who and his people weren't the only bad folks in the world," Charlie said. "Bill's being a bit dramatic—"

"Hey!"

"—But he's right."

Bill continued on. "And you lot make sure to tell Ron and Ginny that when it's time for them to go to Hogwarts, okay?" There was another round of agreement. "Good. So I was saying about Uncles Gideon and Fabian. They fought right alongside Mum and Dad. I hear they were brilliant too, until they went out on some mission or other and got cornered. It took five Death Eaters to take 'em down. Five. And they took some of the bastards with them. Hell of a way to go."

"How do you know all that? Were you there?" Percy asked.

"No, but…" Bill hesitated. "Right. So what I'm about to tell you, you don't tell anyone, okay? So it was right after I turned eleven. I remember 'cause I'd stayed up to read one of the books I got. Standard Book of Spells, I think. I was practising the wand motions. Anyway, I went downstairs to get some water, but stopped when I heard Mum crying. Dad was whispering something to her, and she was just bawling. I didn't know what to do and I was still thirsty, so I decided to listen in and wait. I heard Dad telling her about how the Death Eaters had popped up outta nowhere, how they'd been duelling back and forth. He said that when they all realised they were getting overwhelmed, Fabian told Dad to get his arse out of there. Dad refused, of course, but it kept getting worse. Apparently Fabian called him an idiot, and told him, what was it…"

He put on a voice. "'Molly needs a husband more than she needs her little brothers! Now go!' I think that's what it was. Been a few years. Shoved a portkey in Dad's hand and told him not to come back until they had a niece. But right before it activated…" Bill trailed off. "Look, I'm only telling you all this because it's important, right? You need to understand how bad it was. But not a word of this to anyone, I'm serious."

Another round of agreements.

"So magic. It's great, yeah? Lets us do all sorts of things. But a lot of it's awful. Real nightmare fuel. They call that stuff the dark arts. You-Know-Who and his lot loved the dark arts. It's part of why everyone hated them so much. The Unforgivables, blood magic, sacrifices, they were all about that stuff. So before Dad's portkey activated, he said that one of the Death Eaters managed to hit Gideon with some sort of supercharged cutting curse. Went right through his shield. The Death Eater got some of his blood on his hands and started casting something at it, and… Gideon and Fabian, they were twins, yeah? Same blood. So when the bastard cast his spell…"

Bill paused for a moment before continuing more quietly. "Dad didn't want to say it, but Mum made him. He said it was like if you held a potato sack up by the top and cut a slice in the bottom. The potatoes would sorta just… spill out."

Ron and Ginny gave each-other a horrified look, faces pale in the moonlight. Ginny grabbed at his hand, and for once he didn't push it away. Only a baby would need the comfort, but Ron reasoned that Ginny was baby enough right then.

"But that's… yeah. That's what happened to our uncles," Bill finished. "Like I said. The Boy-Who-Lived saved us all."

His words hung in the air for a while. "Sorry about that. Probably shouldn't have, er, sorry. So, Fred, George, you looking forward to Hogwarts?" Bill asked lamely.

"Come on," Ginny said, tugging at their joined hands. "I think they're done."

"Yeah. Reckon you're right."

The two crept back inside and up to their rooms in silence. Ron didn't manage to fall asleep until his brothers had all gone to bed and his parents had come home. When sleep finally came, his dreams were painted crimson.

---

Fear was something that Ron had gotten used to. At least, he thought he had. He was the best friend of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, after all, and the two of them had a habit of getting into situations that would scare any lesser boy away. Not Ron, though. Ron was a Gryffindor through and through. The Sorting Hat had wanted to put him in Hufflepuff when he'd first walked into Hogwarts, but he knew he was right where he belonged. Between the Philosopher's Stone, Quirrel, the petrifications, sneaking into the Slytherin common room, and walking into an acromantula colony by choice, Ron Weasley thought that he was getting pretty good at fear.

Near the end of his second year though, he saw a message written on the walls in blood.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

And later,

HER SKELETON WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER.

Those had scared Ron more than a little. He wasn't too proud to admit it. A moment later, though, Ron gained a newfound understanding. He discovered why Bill had always been so protective, why his Mum fussed so much. He figured out in earnest why it was that his Dad had always held such a grudge towards the Malfoys so many years after the war ended. Because that message wasn't the worst part. That came next.

"Ron," Harry asked him, "where's Hermione?"

And Ron Weasley learned for the first time about true, honest terror. He didn't care for it.

He barely remembered the next few hours. His heart sat in his throat and his stomach seemed to have betrayed him. It only got worse when Hermione's letter was found and Snape dragged Harry off to find the Chamber itself. Professor McGonagall forced him back to the common room and told him to calm down, but Ron felt distinctly like there was no calm left in the world. He paced, bounced, chewed his nails, and tried to stack cards only to fail miserably. Ron was distantly aware of the common room emptying, but didn't much care that he was worrying so thoroughly that it scared even his fellow Gryffindors off.

The world stopped buzzing quite so loudly when the portrait-hole opened to reveal a dirty and dishevelled but alive Harry.

"She's safe," Harry said. "She's alive."

Ron sat him down and begged the story off of him, learned that Hermione had been possessed by her diary. He learned that her diary had held the spirit of Tom Riddle, whose name rearranged horribly.

"The letters moved around, then it said 'I am Lord Vol—'"

"Don't say the name!" Ron insisted.

Harry told Ron that the Diary had been the reason that Hermione had been avoiding them so much. He said that Hermione had agreed to keep them in the loop from then on, and it settled him enough to finally get to sleep. The next morning, Ron woke up at the crack of dawn on purpose for the first time in his life. He dragged Harry to the hospital wing first thing, and they sat outside its doors until Madam Pomfrey finally let them in.

Ron had never before felt relief like he did upon seeing Hermione alive.

Hugging her had quieted the last of his buzzing nerves, even if he'd never admit it. Learning about her taboo brought it back. He swallowed it though, and extracted a promise of honesty for everything else before doing his best to lighten the mood. His relief at getting Hermione to stay over at the Burrow for the summer was palpable. All the better to keep an eye on her.

Then Hermine pulled him aside in the tomb of some pharaoh and taught Ron the difference between could, could have, and would.

Hermione could die stumbling into some trap left behind in one of the tombs Bill showed them.

She could have died to Fluffy or in the Chamber of Secrets.

She would be dying sometime soon.

It amazed him how much his priorities shifted after that. He stuck by her side every second he could to help her however he could. She stopped smiling so much, started getting meaner, but he stuck by regardless. What kind of friend would he be if he left her alone now? Bill's advice was both a surprise and a gift. He would have normally grumbled and denied the help before (and his life had firmly split into a Before and After when Hermione told him her fate), but Bill's words were a light in the dark. So he swallowed his pride and accepted the help. He didn't even complain when Hermione wanted to leave off without him to go search some old library with Loony. Not much, anyway. He figured if that's what she needed, then he'd do his best to accommodate.

Only, Hermione came back from Black Manor distant. She'd gotten close with Lovegood, apparently. He didn't much like it. Weren't he and Harry enough? She'd gotten a taste for all sorts of dark arts too at some point. Ron's heart had almost stopped beating entirely when he heard that she'd used a blood magic ritual to get into that evil house. The fact that Luna had been there too only made it worse. Didn't Hermione see that Luna was mad, that she couldn't be trusted to know what's safe and what would get Hermione killed even faster?

He resented Luna even more when she thought that she could tell him how to be a good friend. Hermione had been on a hair trigger ever since the tomb, sure, but she'd bounce back. She'd see that Harry and Ron were all she needed. And he was right. By the next day, Hermione was fine again.

Ron knew better than to try to convince Hermione that she was wrong about Luna, though. He wasn't an idiot. So they'd invited Luna into Hogswatch, and started setting up for the ritual, and Ron kept his mouth shut about it. He figured that if Hermione saw that he and Harry were willing to go along with all her dodgy rituals like Luna was, she'd come to her senses.

He almost panicked when he felt the thrumming under his skin. He did panic when Hermione collapsed. For a few terrifying minutes, Ron was sure that she'd gone and gotten herself killed, that he could have stopped it if he just said something. Then she woke up and the world settled into something like sense again.

It didn't go unnoticed that Hermione hadn't dragged Luna along to meet her stern Healer. Ron decided he liked the man. He told her almost everything that Ron was too scared to, just in more professional words. Then he looked at Ron and told him that it was his job to make sure she was taken care of. It was a charge both him and Harry accepted readily.

A few nights later, Harry and Ron stayed up in the common room after everyone else had gone to bed to talk.

"Did you see her face?" Harry asked. "When Snape tried to make her light the fire in Potions again?"

Ron shook his head. "No, I was partnered with Neville. Was pretty busy trying not to explode."

"She looked, I dunno, she looked scared of something."

"Not too weird. You saw Neville's boggart, right?" Ron shrugged.

"No, it was like…" Harry thought for a moment. "It looked like she was scared to use magic."

"Can't be right. Isn't she the one always on about that rot?"

"Yeah, but after Monday? Come on. You heard her. She almost died," Harry insisted. "She's supposed to have another ten months left before that."

Ron reeled. "Wait, hold on. She told you how long she's got?"

"Er, yeah, right before school. Didn't she tell you?"

"No, she didn't," he grumbled. "She told me she was… that she was dying back before she knew how long. Overheard Mum and Dad talking about it and found the letter."

"Oh," Harry said simply. "Yeah. She told me it was a year back in August, and it's almost October, so about ten months."

"Blimey," Ron said. Somehow, giving it a number made it hang over his head even more than before.

Harry nodded in agreement. "Can't believe she came back to school. Gotta be other magical places to hang out."

"Reckon you'd have to actually kill her to stop her coming back," Ron joked weakly. Harry managed a small smile. "Dunno what I'd do in her shoes. Stay home, I guess."

"I don't know either," Harry said.

The fireplace crackled as both boys thought for a moment.

"I hate this," Ron finally admitted.

"Bet she hates it more," Harry said.

"Yeah." Ron heaved a sigh. "What are we gonna do, mate?"

"Help her."

"Yeah, but how?"

"Well," Harry started, "she's been teaching us all those hexes so we can protect her, right?" Ron nodded. "So if she's not doing other spells anymore, we'll just have to do those too."

"Sure, but how do we stop Snape from biting our heads off? You saw what he did to Dunbar when she tried to light their fire, right?"

"He won't say anything if he doesn't know about it," Harry said. "We'll just have to be sneaky so he can't tell. The professors don't even say the words, right? Maybe if we practise enough, we can do it like them."

Ron barely had to consider it. "Right. Good idea. Bet we can pinch some extra candles from one of the storerooms."

They spent the next several nights practising in secret, not quite knowing what Hermione would say if she found out. Harry was quicker to pick it up than Ron was. Half the time, Ron still needed to practically shout the incantation. So when their next Potions class came up, Harry was the one who partnered with Hermione. Ron ignored his own partner to watch Harry whisper their plan to Hermione. There was a tense moment when the time came to light their flames, but the plan went off without a hitch. Harry and Ron shared victorious smiles every time Snape's back was turned for the rest of the class.

Even so, it left Ron feeling overshadowed. Hermione was smarter than him, no question. If anyone could find the answer to her problem, it would be her. He figured it was only a matter of time given how much time she spent in the musty books she'd pulled from Black Manor. Harry was doing his part to support her, too. He had always been quicker with a wand than Ron was, and most of the helpful ideas they whispered about when Hermione wasn't listening were his, too. Normally, Ron made up for it with jokes. The mood was getting darker and darker every day, and it desperately needed lifting. The problem was, the jokes Hermione was starting to favour weren't the sort of thing he was comfortable with. Luna was, to his great surprise, and even Harry managed a sad barb every now and then, but Ron never found it easy to joke about a death measured in terms of 'would'.

Knowing that even Luna was being more helpful than he was put an ugly feeling in Ron's chest. It took longer than he cared to admit to give in to it and swallow his pride. Thing was, Ron didn't want to need his family. All of them were always so much bigger and better than him, and he was tired of it. He wanted to manage on his own, to solve his own problems and make his own name.

But some things were more important than pride.

Ron found Percy alone in the Library, studying for his NEWTs. It was with great hesitance that he slid into the chair opposite him.

"Hey Percy," he said. "Can I ask you something?"

Percy barely looked up. "Not now, Ron. I'm busy."

Ron grimaced and reminded himself of the need for his errand. "It's important."

He glared at Ron. "Not as important as making sure I get a good grade in Transfiguration. Just because you don't value your education, it doesn't mean that I don't need to work to get a good job in the Ministry."

Ron bit back the acidic comment that came to mind. "Do you remember when you were little and set Charlie on fire?"

"That was accidental magic, even Mum said so." Percy put down the quill and looked up at Ron properly. "Is this actually important, or are you just here to be nostalgic?"

"You used to be a right nightmare, honestly."

"And you have better things to be doing with your time than pulling me away from my revising just to make fun of me," Percy said, reaching for his quill.

"No I'm not…" Ron grimaced. "I just want to know what happened."

Percy froze, his face turning wary. "What do you mean, 'what happened'?"

"It's just, you're a lot less angry now," Ron tried to explain. "I wanna know what happened."

Percy gave Ron a long look before softening. "Is this about Hermione?"

"You don't know that." Even Ron knew that the defence was weak.

"No, but I noticed what she got like back in Egypt," Percy said. "I thought about talking to her myself, honestly."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well what happened?" Ron asked.

Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're not going to go away without an answer, are you?"

"No."

"Fine," Percy sighed, closing his books. "But this better stay between you and Hermione. Not one word to anything else. I can't even imagine what the twins would do if they found out…" He shuddered.

"Won't say a thing, honest," Ron promised.

Percy searched his face for any sign of dishonesty. After a few moments, he seemed satisfied. "Well," he said simply. "I got a diary."

Ron blinked. "Right. Mind saying something else? Anything else would work, really. Calming potions, maybe?"

"I'm not lying to you."

"Yeah, I get that, but could you?"

"No," Percy insisted. "Back in second year, Snape gave me a bad grade for a perfectly acceptable Floating Solution, and I told him exactly what I thought about his class."

"You didn't!"

"I did." Percy grimaced. "Got detention for it too. Again, the twins can never know. I'd never live it down. Anyway, Snape was too busy to oversee it, so I had detention with Professor McGonagall. I expected to be cleaning up trophies or helping Hagrid in his gardens or something, but she just sat me down and asked me what was going on. I snapped at her too, but the look she gave me was so disappointed I had to tell her." He laughed a bit. "She listened, too. I told her… a lot. More than I meant to. It felt better than I thought it would. Talking helped a lot, and it's not like I could have done it with anybody else. Dad's too busy, Bill and Charlie would probably have made fun of me, and you know what Mum's like.

"When I finished, she just reached into her desk, pulled out a diary, and told me to spend the rest of the detention writing down everything I'd told her. I did, too. It wasn't as good as just talking to someone, but it's way better than nothing. I've kept up a diary ever since."

"I never knew any of that," Ron said after a moment.

"You weren't meant to." Percy gave Ron a strained smile. "And not a word to anybody else, alright? Not even Potter."

"Yeah," Ron said. "Sure. Can do."

"I mean it, Ron. I'm trusting you."

Ron nodded vigorously. "Not a word. Promise."

"Good." Percy relaxed slightly. "I hope it helps. Now, I really should get back to revising, so if you would kindly leave?"

"Oh, right. Yeah. Thanks, Percy." Ron stood and left, already lost in thought. He'd need to be careful when he pitched the idea, he knew. Find the right time. If he did it wrong, Hermione wouldn't even try. Worse, she might pull back entirely.

Even for all that he'd found a way to help, idle thoughts of what might go wrong plagued him all the way back to Hogswatch.

 

[2ndsly]

This story is brilliant. It's all so plausible. Which makes watching the dominoes fall so interesting.
Every update I just can't help but race through the text to see what happens next.

This interlude added real good context to what's going on. Extremely interesting to see Ron getting serious and leaning on his brother for help.

 

[eM15]

"Ah, there you three are! You weren't coming up in the headcount. Come on, come on. Back to the Great Hall with all of you!"

"What? What's happened?" Harry asked.

"You haven't heard?" she said, sounding shocked. "McGonagall thought for sure that you'd gone looking… Your common room isn't safe."

"What do you mean, it's not safe?"

"I mean it's not safe! They found the Fat Lady's portrait slashed wide open, and Peeves was saying it was Sirius Black!" I bet she wasn't supposed to say that. Babbling was almost as bad as Hagrid that way.

Harry and Ron looked stunned, but the emotion didn't quite manage to reach me. It wasn't like it was surprising. Halloween for Harry Potter. A raving lunatic breaking into the castle and wreaking havoc? Yeah, I figured, that might as well happen.

Bones to Bookworms​

I was still floating in my mind when I woke up in the Great Hall. The whole student body had been made to stay the night there, arranged in sleeping bags all over. Harry and Ron insisted that they plant theirs right next to mine, insisting that we all sit right on the line between girls and boys. I dimly registered that they were worried, and didn't complain. I wanted to stay close to them anyway and was just glad my body followed.

It all passed me by so easily.

Luna found me the next morning. Harry explained something. Luna accepted the explanation easily before grabbing one of my hands and putting it into Harry's. She said something to them. Everyone started walking and Harry dragged me along. Ron walked right next to me and breathed with me while counting. He snapped his fingers when I stopped paying attention.

I came back to myself in the Gryffindor common room. Harry was still holding my hand and squeezing in time with Ron counting.

"Weren't we just in the Great Hall?" I asked.

Ron and Harry gave each other a look. "Walked seven flights since then," Ron said. "You remember that?"

"I remember being in the Great Hall. Then we started walking, and you were…" I looked down. "Harry, why are you holding my hand? You hate touching people."

The boys exchanged a much happier look this time and Harry let me go. "Luna said to. Something about a dabberblimp? She said we had to pull you back."

"What all do you remember?" Ron asked.

I thought back. "I remember burning the diary, and we talked about it, and then back at Hogwarts we…" My eyes shot wide and my heart started racing. "I don't remember the walk back to Hogwarts."

"And then?" Ron prompted.

"Then I told Harry that I was being mad? Then Hogswatch." Panic started to set in. "You told Harry about Hogsmeade, I think. Harry, you visited Lupin and were telling us about it? Then we went outside and were grabbed by Babbling. She said that…" No. No no no no no no. That couldn't happen. Not anymore. Right? "She said that Sirius Black got in the castle," I said with barely muted horror.

"Nobody got hurt," Harry said. "They just found the Fat Lady all cut up. The professors went looking, but they couldn't find him."

No no no no no no no no no! This wasn't supposed to happen anymore! He died!

"Hermione?" someone asked. "What's wrong?"

"I don't remember it! There are gaps!"

"Luna said that—"

"I wrote in a diary, then there are gaps in my memory, and Sirius Black got into the castle!"

"Hermione, it wasn't—"

"He's a servant of him! Something happened and I don't remember it, and one of his servants got in! He's coming back and it's my fault and I'm gonna have to—" A sudden stab in my stomach shut me up with a pained cry.

"Hermione?"

I looked up at the voice. Ron. "Where was I? The way back to the castle, and up to Hogswatch, and up here. Where did I go?"

"I was with you the whole time, honest. You didn't go anywhere," he said.

Harry chimed in too. "Nobody's hurt, and nobody got petrified, and you didn't go anywhere. It's fine. Just breathe, please?"

I managed to relax a bit despite the lingering pain in my middle. Nobody was hurt. It wasn't like that. It wasn't him. Deep breaths in and out. In. Hold. Out. Hold.

"Luna said you might not remember some things," Ron said. "She said it's normal. Apparently, she gets like that too."

"Normal," I repeated.

"That's what she said."

I took another few deep breaths and put a hand to my chest to feel my racing heart. This was normal. It was just me being broken like always, not something possessing me. I could deal with that. That was… That was fine. I'd be okay.

"You okay?" Harry asked.

"I'm fine. Better." I slumped down on the couch. "I'll live through this. Promise."

Harry and Ron gave each other a worried look but didn't comment.

---

After Halloween, I couldn't bear to even open something as charged as Blaec's Journal. So I diverted. There was still the book I'd found in one of Black Manor's bedrooms which refused to open. That was much easier to think about. Just a problem with a solution. A puzzle, even.

My early attempts in Black Manor hadn't borne fruit, so I started by working around the problem. First was a duplication charm which steadfastly refused to work. Fair enough. Most books were charmed with anti-duplication anyway, but I'd have felt stupid if I didn't try it. Next, I tried to work in Hogwarts' magical immensity to try to overpower the enchantments, but had to abort the spell when the book started to burn at the edges. Someone clearly valued keeping their knowledge secret immensely. I wasn't too shocked. Knowledge was power, and the entire pureblood ethos was built out of greed and ambition.

Spending twenty minutes scowling at the worn (and now slightly singed) leather book perhaps wasn't the most sophisticated of troubleshooting steps, but it felt vital to the process somehow.

It took longer than I cared to admit to remember Babbling. I couldn't tell her exactly what I was doing—that opened the door to far too many questions I didn't care to answer—but I could always ask around the problem. Enchantments were something of a speciality of hers after all, and she'd been nothing but excited to help me.

When I brought a sanitised version of my problems with the locked book to her, she just taught me a diagnostic charm she'd invented meant to give the caster a full breakdown of any and all enchantments on a thing. Its only real drawback was its main advantage: its thoroughness. On using the charm, a complete account of the target's enchantments was pushed directly into the caster's head. Whether using it was a wise decision or not seemed to be something of a question.

"Great when you want to know how a bludger works," Babbling had said, "terrible when you want to know how Hogwarts' moving staircases work. It's a bit all or nothing. If the staircase works because it feeds off the castle's wards, then you'll get those too, and everything else that the wards are connected to."

"Is that something you actually tried?" I asked. I wouldn't put it past her.

"Put me in a coma for a week! Worst part is, I don't remember a word of it."

I was beginning to suspect that Babbling wasn't the best measuring stick for my own slipping sanity.

Point was, the spell was perfect for my needs. It only took a few hours to break the spell down into a ritual, a few more to adjust it to my developing style, and I was set. My mind began to wander as I set the spell up to cast.

Ever since I started actually using magic again, I'd been hyper-aware of its presence. I wasn't sure if it was aftershocks from the warding ritual, a nervous placebo effect, or me having somehow attuned myself to Hogwarts, but every time I cast a spell I could feel a fraction of that attention on me. I was even starting to be able to actually feel the rough polarity of a spell as I was casting it. Light spells like the unlocking charm or pretty much anything in transfiguration somehow felt like a stern teacher—Professor McGonagall was who I imagined—putting a hand on my shoulder and smiling, whereas the attention Dark spells like the fire-making spell or cheering charms brought was a lot more manic, more excitable. Professor Flitwick came to mind.

So, I'd started writing my runes as if I was talking to a person. I wasn't telling a story to thin air, I was telling it to a proud listener. My pleas to the Dark shifted from impersonal requests shouted to the void into asking a favour from a friend. I'd talked to Harry, Ron, and Luna about it, but got mixed reactions.

"Never heard anything about any of that," Ron had said. "Though with Harry last year and you now, feels like everyone I know's hearing voices. Reckon I'll have to start talking to myself to fit in."

Harry laughed. "Don't think the basilisk counts as hearing voices."

"Or maybe we're just taking turns," Ron joked. "My go next year. You think mine'll help me out with exams?"

Suffice to say that they'd not taken it too seriously, though they did help my mood immensely. Luna though, she'd understood immediately.

"It's like having a friend alongside every time you raise your wand, isn't it?" she said. "You're the first person I've met that's felt it too."

Her response made me think back to Babbling's words and some of the research I'd done. There were no records in the library about traditionalist magical religion beyond scattered mentions, mostly in old copies of the Daily Prophet when they talked about how barbaric the Death Eaters were for espousing it. Not that the Death Eaters didn't deserve to be demonised, but it still felt wrong for something so important as an entire religion to be reduced to something that only the monsters of the last war believed.

I was starting to see why Babbling was so surprised at me.

There was no doubt in my mind that this was one of the ways Voldemort had recruited. That was how he worked. Go to someone and play up their fears. Of course you're in a shrinking minority. Of course they're coming to get you. Ignore your privileges, of course you need to take steps to keep yourself safe. I was self-aware enough to admit how depressingly textbook the approach was.

But if this was what people were missing out on, then I could almost understand why the old purebloods were so full of themselves. Here I was with a unique connection to magic that nobody else I knew had. If it weren't for the knowledge that rationalist mages (and I was coming to loathe that name; I was perfectly rational, thank you very much) never accidentally killed themselves with a poorly thought-out rune, then I'd be full of myself too.

Of course, all of that affected how I approached magic as a whole. The diagnostic charm was categorisation and explanation: Order to a tee. As such, I'd changed the text of the runes to match. I wrote it like I might write a report to Professor McGonagall. It made it more personable to me, but I kept it clinical. Order was logic after all, and emotion was Chaos.

After double-checking that I had everything prepared properly and explaining what I was doing and why to an onlooking Harry and Ron, I took a deep breath and cast the spell.

Blue light flowed out from the sigils as I felt the now-familiar weight of attention fall on me. My nerves settled as I felt its approval laid over me. The book floated up into the air and began to glow white in a lattice all across its surface. I suppressed my faint amusement at the fact that the spell invented by the dyscalculic woman projected a cartesian grid; it needed me to stay as emotionless as possible. The lattice grew more and more intricate for several seconds before the light went out and the book drifted back to the floor.

Knowledge filled my mind suddenly, pressed against my brain like flash cards bidding me memorise. It had protections against several different kinds of duplication and had been made impervious to fire, water, mildew, kinetic force, and time. That last protection was hideously complex and took several seconds to flit its way through my mind. It seemed that protecting something almost entirely from one of the Powers was not lightly done. There were all sorts of self-destruction clauses like I'd discovered previously, of course. The sheer number of them felt a bit beyond the pale. It managed to worry and excite me in equal measure at the thought of what might be protected within. Finally, the knowledge of how it was stuck closed pushed itself into my head.

I groaned immediately.

"Did it work?" Harry asked.

"It worked just fine," I said.

"So you know how to open it?"

I closed my eyes and sighed. "Yes. Yes I do."

"So what's wrong?"

"What's wrong," I grumbled, "is that I'm an idiot."

To his credit, Ron did his best not to look like Christmas had come early. He did end up looking a bit constipated, though. I took solace in that.

"It was something obvious, wasn't it?"

I pulled my bag toward me and started to rummage through it in search of my wand. There was a dedicated pocket sewn into my robes for it, yes, but I'd taken to filling it with chalk instead. I managed to find the thing at the bottom underneath a stack of textbooks. It was good that Ollivander charmed the thing to be tough because I had been a bit rough with it of late. Sure, it used to be a physical representation of my status as a witch, but nowadays it was just an occasionally useful stick. My treatment of it had degraded accordingly.

"So what's the solution?" Ron asked.

With wand in hand, I scooped up the book and plopped down next to Harry on the couch.

"I thought that it would be keyed to only open for a specific person or to some custom spell. That's what I've been trying to break. But no! Nope." I tapped my wand against the book with as much annoyance as I could fit into the act. "Open sesame."

The cover of the book flopped open to a blank page.

"No!" Harry said, clearly delighted.

"Unfortunately, yes," I said ruefully.

"I don't get it," Ron chimed in.

I sighed. "It's from a muggle story. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Literally, 'open says me'."

"I didn't even know it was from a story. I thought it was just something people said," Harry admitted. "Not very secure, is it?"

"Not if you're trying to protect from muggleborns, no. But I found this in Black Manor, and if you're only trying to protect from purebloods…" I waved a hand at Ron.

"Yeah, never heard that one before," he said.

"My point exactly. Guess the woman who had this book before me knew a thing or two about muggles."

"How you reckon they were a woman?" Ron asked.

"Luna and I found this in a bedroom, and the closet was full of dresses and corsets."

He snorted. "Right. Fair enough. So, we gonna crack open the book you've spent the last week working on, or what?"

I considered it for a moment, worrying my bottom lip. Luna was a large part of the reason that I even had this book, but I didn't want another incident like what had happened with On the Powers of Magic again. I figured it wouldn't hurt to check out beforehand with Harry and Ron. They were tough. I'd show her if it wasn't too awful.

"Sure," I finally said. "Fair warning though, I did find this in Black Manor, and the owner of the bedroom was completely round the twist. Could be baking recipes inside, could be a guide on torturing people. No way of knowing."

Ron scoffed. "Oh come on Hermione, we're all in this together. Right, Harry?"

"We got through that potions book last year alright," Harry agreed. I conceded the point. Moste Potente Potions hadn't exactly been a pleasant read with all its illustrations.

"Alright. If you're sure."

The three of us leaned in and I carefully flipped the page. The next one was blank too, save for what I could only assume to be the title.

Folk Fair and Foul, it read.

Ron let out a relieved laugh. "Think you grabbed a fairy tale!"

"I mean, magic's real," Harry said. "Maybe the fae are too?"

"I'm just glad it's in English," I muttered, and turned the page once more.

Much is said about magical creatures, but little discussion is had about which of them are simply mundane creatures that happen to possess magic. Consider the flobberworm and then consider the phoenix. The niffler and the unicorn. There is a clear difference between these sets; a certain majesty that some of these creatures have that others simply don't. It is known that some creatures are more magical than others, but what of the creatures that are comprised entirely of magic?

These creatures have often been revered and feared in equal measure by those lacking in comprehension. They have been known as demons, angels, spirits, and even fae. Through understanding these purely magical creatures, I believe that we can come to a more complete understanding of magic as a whole. To this end I have dedicated my life.

The first problem I faced was identifying these so-called fae. It was a hurdle easily overcome. Logically, a creature whose existence is fuelled only by magic would, when made mundane, simply cease to exist. The means by which this might be accomplished is simple: Thaumic Firming. In pursuing this, another problem arose. Many beasts produce effects that become harmful to them as their magic is weakened. These creatures die before they reach the point that they might fade from existence. This proved to be of some concern, but I discovered that a sufficient number of beings inverted at once grants the firming speed enough to prove or disprove their status before the residual effects of their magic introduce complications.

From highest peak to deepest cave, I tested every form of beast that I could. Contained herein are descriptions of those that proved to be fae. I have included as complete a classification and understanding of their respective magics as could be determined with the resources available to me. It is my hope that this research is used by future generations to come to a more complete understanding of magic in all its forms.

May this knowledge serve you well.

-Astilla Rosier

"Merlin," I gasped. "That's awful."

"So this bloke went and killed a bunch of animals to see which ones were the most magical?" Ron asked.

I shook my head, eyes wide. "Worse. Thaumic Firming is the opposite of what's happening to me. It's the result of what's happening to me, actually. By making me invert, the Diary was trying to firm itself back to life. They said that they firmed at least one of every kind of magical creature they ever found! And see how it says that they inverted multiple beings for a lot of them? Beings. That's the word they use for creatures that think."

Harry sucked air through his teeth. "That's a thick book."

"How many people do you think bit it for this?" Ron asked.

I reread the book's introduction quickly. "I'm not… Actually, wait. I think I recognise that name. Astilla Rosier." In a moment I had my history texts out on the table. It was in modern English, which narrowed it down, and weren't the Rosiers one of the big pureblood families?

I searched around for any mentions of Rosier first. I was right, they were one of the Sacred 28. Thing was, there wasn't any mention of a Rosier going around committing atrocities on that scale anywhere, but I knew for a fact that name rang a bell. I sat on it for a second, casting my mind back to figure it out before…

It was the Diary that had mentioned that name, wasn't it?

On a hunch, I checked through the indices of each book I had out for mentions of Dark Lords. I found what I was looking for on the fourth try.

"There," I said, jabbing a finger at the page. "The Dark Lord Astilla, birth date and name unknown, but active from 1701-1782. She was known for travelling the world and keeping an ever-shifting menagerie of magical creatures. Wherever she went, muggle villages would disappear. Hundreds of them, looks like. It was just after the Statute, so a lot of people were mad at muggles for all sorts of reasons. Looks like that's how she got her following."

"Hundreds?" Ron asked.

"Think we know where they went." Harry gestured to Folk Fair and Foul.

I grimaced. "Looks that way."

We all stared at it for a while before Ron broke the silence. "Hermione, quick question."

"Shoot."

"Why can't you read nicer books?"

I let out a dry laugh. "Because my luck's almost as rotten as Harry's. Sorry, Harry." Harry shrugged.

"Sure," Ron allowed, "but do you think next time you could pull out some sort of super important, I don't know, flower dance ritual?"

"Flower dance ritual?" Harry laughed. "I think that's more Luna's thing."

"Beltane's in May," I mused. "Pretty sure that's a flowery sort of holiday. I bet the Lovegoods have some old traditions Luna could rope us into. She'd love that."

Harry grinned at me. "There you go, Ron. One flower dance ritual."

"Just saying, you need better hobbies," Ron grumbled with a blush.

I rolled my eyes and pulled Folk Fair and Foul onto my lap. "The word hobby implies I'm enjoying myself. This is homework."

"You like homework," Ron said.

"Yeah," Harry said, "but the due date's a killer."

I snorted despite myself and began flipping through the pages. By a look at the table of contents, it seemed like the book was in no particular order that I could discern. It was probably just done in whatever order Astilla happened to catalogue them in. If that was the case though, then it might've been grouped loosely by region…

Another look showed me I was right, though the word 'loosely' deserved emphasis. Of all things, I bemoaned the Dark Lord Astilla's lack of alphabetisation. Such was my life now.

Some of the things she determined to be 'fae' shocked me. Sure, things like unicorns and phoenixes made sense as being made purely of magic, but bowtruckles? Sea serpents? What was so magical about sea serpents? Not that I was arguing; every word in the book had been proven with blood. Among others, there were ghosts and banshees, dementors and lethifolds, nundu and genies. Dragons didn't shock me at all, though I shuddered to think of how many muggles it would take to firm one into nonexistence.

I flipped to the page where the entry for phoenixes began. First came the name, as well as every single other name assigned to them by every culture Astilla found. There were more than a few. Then came a thorough description of their habits, their diet, the properties of their flames, their feathers, their beaks, their meat, and their immortality. Anything you might care to know, really. Every single tiny segment and piece of their bodies had a sketch and complete thaumic breakdown in a handy little circular graph with six axes. I'd have to adopt that myself going forward.

The thought that I was once again picking up habits and knowledge from a Dark Lord passed by unremarked and steadfastly ignored. I was getting better at that.

The thaumic centre for the feather was described, and so was the wing, and so was the talon, and so was the fire, and so was the bird with fire excluded, and so on and so forth. It was incredibly thorough. I could see what Astilla meant when she said it was her life's work. The section on phoenixes alone was almost forty pages of neat, cramped writing.

I flipped through some more. It seemed like every single entry was just as detailed as the one for the phoenixes, if not more so. I was so engrossed by it all that I didn't notice Luna come in until her shoulder was pressed against mine.

"I knew you'd get it open," she hummed. "Your wrackspurts are better now."

"Better?" I looked up at her. "Not gone?"

She shook her head. "They're all still there, just better. I think they like you."

I huffed out a smile. "You know, I never asked how you can see all these things."

"I know what to look for, like you do with the magic."

We sat like that for a moment.

"I thought you were crazy when we met," I finally said. "When you said I should believe the Hallows were real."

"You should." She sat up properly to look at me, and I missed the contact immediately.

"Maybe," I conceded. "A year ago I would have thought the idea of talking to magic at all was crazy."

"We talk to magic all the time when we cast spells. You just didn't think it would talk back," she said simply.

I conceded the point. "Honestly, I still thought you were crazy up until then. Still might."

"You just don't like believing in things until they've bitten you in the nose."

"It's not wrong of me to like having proof for things," I said.

"It's not right either," she responded. "You have to believe something."

"How about believing in the things I can prove?"

She rolled her head back and forth for a moment. "Will you be coming back to Hogwarts next year?"

"Of course," I replied instantly.

"There you go," she said as if it explained everything. After a moment to think, I found that it did.

The sound of cheering from outside the ritual room caught my attention. It sounded like Harry and Ron, which made me realise that they must have left me alone to read at some point. I hadn't even noticed.

"They're practising jinxes on the target dummies out in the hall," Luna said.

"Oh." I blinked. "Sounds like they're doing alright, then." I took a moment to preen at having thought to include sound dampening in the wards. Their yells would no doubt have given our hiding spot away otherwise.

"So what answers did you find?" Luna gestured to the book.

I turned my attention back to her. "Nothing. Not for my questions, at least. You might like it, though. It's all about the different creatures that are made entirely out of magic. Incredibly detailed." I grimaced. "Only, you might not like how it got written."

She cocked her head to the side. "Is it in a language I don't know? Or invisible ink? Those are always the hardest to read."

"No," I said. "The ink's visible and it's all in English, but it was written by an old Dark Lord." I hesitated for a moment. "A lot of things died to make this book happen."

Luna gently took the book from my hands and began to look through it. "There are bones underneath the castle," she said after a minute or so.

"I've not heard anything about that, and I've read Hogwarts: A History cover to cover."

"I've seen them," she said.

I was still a little suspect about the things Luna had or hadn't seen, but bones weren't anything like the normal things she conjured forth. "Who do you think they belonged to?"

"Lots of people." Luna turned the page. "Hogwarts wasn't always a school, but it is now."

I opened my mouth to tell her that I knew that already before snapping it shut as her point clicked. "So you're saying that just because people died here before, it doesn't mean we shouldn't learn from it?"

The corner of her lips quirked up. "That sounds like it might be a clever thing to say."

I conceded the point again. Unlike with everyone else, it didn't feel like giving ground with her for some reason. Maybe it was the way Luna phrased things or the fact that she approached problems so differently than I did, but it felt almost comfortable. Sure, I enjoyed some of my arguments with Ron—not that I'd admit it—but he had a habit of being a right prat about it sometimes. The boys hollering something broke me from my thoughts again.

"Would you like to see them?" Luna asked.

"See what?"

"The bones."

I considered it. "They're not in the forest, are they? Because self-defence isn't exactly my speciality." Not anymore, at least.

"The ones I found were at the bottom of the lake," she said.

"The bottom of the lake?" I mused. "I'm sure I could come up with something so we could breathe, but—" I stopped for a second as my brain caught up with my mouth. "You said you've already been down there?"

"I didn't think it was fair that only the Slytherins got to meet the merpeople," she explained.

"How'd you breathe?"

She turned the page again. "I brought some gillyweed to school. If you eat it, you get to have gills."

"Have you shown the bones to anyone else?" The question was idle. I was more reeling from the thought of learning what it might be like to have gills than anything.

She hummed a bit. "I thought about showing Ginny, but she's scared of the water."

That stopped my train of thought in its tracks. "Ginny's scared of water?"

"Only when there's lots of it," Luna said.

I tucked that bit of information away for later. I'd ask Ron about it. More chance of a straight answer that way. Speaking of… "Do you have enough for Harry and Ron? I bet they'd love to see the lake!"

Luna leaned in to get a closer look at a diagram of the wing structure of a thunderbird. "If you want," she said, "but I thought you might want to go with just me."

I wasn't quite sure what she meant by that. Luna was nice and I liked her plenty, but Harry and Ron were my oldest friends. My first friends, even. Sure, I wasn't about to go inviting either of them to a deep dive through a library for fear of them being a nuisance, but a literal deep dive to meet merpeople and see the bottom of the lake sounded like it would be exactly up their alley. I'd thought that Luna and the boys were getting along fine now, weren't they?

"It wouldn't be a problem to bring them too," she said, shrinking slightly. I got the distinct sense that I'd done something wrong. Looking her over as I tried to figure out what, I saw that her cheeks had taken on a bit of pink.

Oh.

Oh!

"Oh!" I said. "I'm sure they'd love to come, but maybe we can show it to them next time?" I got less confident with every word. "Does, er, does next Saturday work? This Saturday's quidditch. After lunch? And what do I need to bring? I didn't bring a bathing suit to school, exactly. I could always just transfigure something I suppose, but they're usually synthetic fibre, aren't they? That wouldn't work, and—"

Luna put a hand on my arm, stopping my rambling in its tracks. She was absolutely beaming when I managed to recover enough to look properly. I swore the whole room lit up some at her smile. "A gift for the merpeople would be nice. They love jewellery if you've got any."

I smiled back at her, still feeling horribly off balance. "I don't, but I might be able to make some?" Maybe I could enchant it too? That was an idea. Sure, I'd made the light-up hairpin, but enchanted jewellery had to be a whole world I'd never even touched on.

Somehow, her smile got even wider. She plopped down Folk Fair and Foul on the table and wrapped me up in a hug. I hugged her back of course, because she was my friend, and had she always been this warm?

"The merpeople would love that!" she said as she pulled back. "They're a very thoughtful culture."

"Then I guess I'll work my hardest on it," I said.

"I'll lend you a book on mermish society. They're very misunderstood. Did you know that some people don't even consider them to be beings? It's awful. I'm glad Dumbledore treats them better." Something seemed to occur to her as she stood up suddenly. "I think I need to go talk to Ginny. She'll be horribly cross with me if I don't. I'll see you soon!"

I swallowed nervously as an idea of why it was Luna needed to talk to Ginny began to form. "See you soon," I said.

With that, Luna gathered her things and skipped out the door.

I sat there reeling for a moment before absentmindedly standing and slowly following suit. The sight of Harry and Ron looking confusedly at the back of Sir Fabeon's portrait greeted me as I entered the hall. I found myself looking that way too.

"Hermione?" Ron asked eventually. "Something up?"

"Huh?" I turned to face them properly.

"Luna just skipped out with the biggest grin I've ever seen, and you're blushing like mad," Ron said. "Did something happen?"

Now he mentioned it, I became keenly aware of just how warm my face was. "Oh, that. Right. Yeah."

Both boys gave me a bewildered look. "Harry, don't panic," Ron said, "but I think Luna broke her."

The urge to scowl at Ron fought the smile rising on my face. I was pretty sure the end result left me looking queasy. "I um. I think Luna just asked me out on a date?" I said, less confidently than I'd hoped for.

"Like, a date date?" Ron asked.

I nodded mutely.

He blinked. "Huh."

Harry shuffled on his feet, clearly feeling just as awkward about all of it as I was. "Do you er, like Luna like that? Like-like, I mean."

"I don't know? I mean I like her, she's great, but I don't know if I like-like her. She's pretty, and nice, and she's been really helpful, and I like spending time with her, but I don't know!" I became very grateful for wizarding fashion suddenly. It was much easier to hide oneself in a cloak than anything muggle. "It's just not something that's done though, is it? Two girls dating, I mean. It's weird."

"It's sort of weird, sure." Harry stuck his hands in his pockets. "But it's not like it's, I dunno, freakish or anything. Ron and I are still your friends, right Ron?"

Ron looked back and forth between the both of us like we'd started growing a second head each. "What are you two talking about?"

I shrunk down a bit further at his tone. "Only, it's not exactly normal."

"Seriously, what are you two talking about? I feel like I'm missing something."

"Ron, mate, come on," Harry tried. "It's still just Hermione."

"Don't 'come on' me, come on you!" Ron said. "Don't go calling Hermione weird. Pretty sure this is the most normal thing she's ever done, honestly. Girls date girls and guys date guys all the time!"

Now it was Harry and I's turn to be confused.

"No they don't?" I said, but Ron continued on undaunted.

"Sure you need to marry someone proper after school, but that's what school's for, right? 'S what my dad says."

"Ron, what are you talking about?" I asked.

The confusion on his face seemed to magnify another notch before something like comprehension dawned. "Is this some kind of muggleborn thing? Are muggles not allowed to like their own lot?"

"It's not like it's a rule," I said, "but nobody actually does it, even if everybody's thinking about it."

"Dunno about you Harry, but I've never thought about another bloke like that in my life," Ron said. "Don't think everybody's thinking about it at all."

I… But if… But there was no way that… I guessed that Lavender and Parvati were always talking about boys. I'd never much understood why when they had school to focus on and each other right there, but if not everybody thought like that…

"Oh," I said after a long moment.

"Hold on," Harry blurted out. I dimly noted that he looked almost as floored as I'm sure I did. "Did your dad go out with guys in school?"

Ron shrugged. "Sure. I mean, it's weird to think about, but only 'cause it's my dad, y'know? Normal as anything."

"What about your mum?" Harry asked. "How'd they get married?"

"It's not like you have to pick a side," Ron explained. "Besides, it's like I said. You need to marry someone proper eventually. Dad said that him and Mum started dating later, got married after school, all that."

"Huh," Harry said. It summed up my thoughts pretty well.

The whole thing was bizarre, and Ron's comments about marrying someone proper were more than a little Victorian. Though, that would make sense, wouldn't it? Stepping into the wizarding world really was like stepping into the past in a lot of ways. I wouldn't be surprised if the old pureblood families still did arranged marriages. And if muggleborns were coming to school and trying to dictate who was allowed to date who and what sorts of beliefs were acceptable or not?

The closer I looked, the less surprised I became that the wizarding world had gone to war. Even if it weren't Voldemort, it would no doubt have been someone.

"So yeah," Ron said a bit awkwardly. "There's nothing wrong with you Hermione. You're perfectly normal."

Harry seemed to recover a bit. "Pretty sure my aunt and uncle would hate it. That's about all I need to know to get that you're fine."

I found myself floored at the support that I hadn't realised I was looking for. A mess of conflicting emotions bubbled up, and I resolved them by pulling Harry and Ron into a tight hug and not letting go until the feelings died down. It took a few minutes. They were awkward about it because they were boys, but neither of them managed to work up the nerve to protest. There were some perks to being terminally ill, I thought. When I finally pulled back and wiped away the tears that I was pretty sure were happy, I decided I'd give them a reprieve.

"So, how about you show me those jinxes you were working on?"

The boys smiled at each other, clearly grateful for the change of subject, and started walking me through what they'd been practising. They'd improved far more quickly than I'd expected. I ended up teaching them a few new minor jinxes as a result, brimming with pride the whole while.

I was in such a good mood that I didn't even manage to get nervous about my upcoming date, instead tentatively excited for what was to come.

 

[eM15]

This chapter brought to you by this fandom's underutilization of 18th/19th century's era romantic friendships given how far back the wizarding world is culturally and the realization that genocidal fascist despots don't come out of nowhere but are instead a direct result of pre-existing socioeconomic conditions. If there's a better summation of the emotional and tonal whiplash this fic (and the harrowing ordeal that is being a teenager) brings to the table, I don't know about it.

Also, this fic has been tagged as Luna/Hermione on AO3 since like 6 - The Curse Breaker, when I was writing the letter from Luna and Hermione quietly, firmly, and metaphorically informed me that she was going to catch feelings about it later. I do have this fic planned out, but sometimes I get in Hermione's head and she tells me I'm wrong about certain details. This was one of them. So, these bitches gay. Good for them.

 

[eM15]

You're a chaotic being by nature. Foolish belief defines you. It's only by defying your nature and binding yourself with rules and codes and Order that you determine some mythical 'right'. But what do you do when these codes fail, when the Chaos that makes you rejects the Order you've so foolishly imposed?

When your rules call for inaction and your nature calls for the opposite, you suffer for thinking you can deny the animal that you are.

It's a strange game you humans play.​

Memory IV - Better Good Than Right​

"Tonks, come on in. Got something for you," Scrimgeour's voice echoed out from his office as Tonks was passing it by. They stopped on a dime, almost overbalanced, and managed to catch themselves. It was the feet's fault this time. They'd found some shoes the other day that were perfect for all the skulking about the aurors were doing, but they were smaller than Tonks' typical body plan allowed for. Not that that was a problem for a metamorphmagus, but it did mean that their body was a bit too big for their feet. Or their feet were too small for their body. One of the two.

They resolved that they'd just have to get used to it as they rounded the doorway. Shoes were way more of a pain to transfigure than their body. Rufus Scrimgeour was there, obviously. Imagine if he wasn't. He looked just as stern as always with his done-up robes and tidy desk. Tonks didn't know how he did it. Their desk always looked like something between a catastrophe and an apocalypse as their Mum had said, and hadn't that been an embarrassing visit? As for the clothes, well, they were pretty sure that most people just had less fun with clothes than Tonks did. A sad, pitiable existence.

"Wotcha bossman, what can I do ya for?" They walked to his desk and slipped down into the chair perfectly gracefully, thank you very much.

Tonks gave a quick side-eye to the man sitting beside her. Henry Proudfoot, if they recalled correctly, which they most certainly did. An ear for names and an eye for people, as Moody'd said. Based on their memories of the time they'd worked together to check the Rowles' place for dark artefacts, Proudfoot was another one of those career-minded no-nonsense on the job blokes. Bit keen. One of those people that always pushed harder than they should to get results. Tonks'd never much understood that sort of ambition.

"I'm pulling you off the search for Black," Scrimgeour said. He was always so snappish with Tonks, right mystery as to why. It wasn't their fault he put so much stock into being boring all the time.

"Right, fair cop. Just one question." They raised up a finger. "Why?"

They knew why, of course. It was the same reason that they'd been pulled away from the Black manhunt twice before, and the Malfoy raid with Weasley before that. It was discrimination plain and simple. Sure, they were technically family, but that was a bit hypocritical. Tonks' Mum had made them learn all the family trees when they were little, and they knew for a fact that they were related somehow to almost everyone they'd ever met.

The argument their parents had some years back about whether marrying your second cousin was weird or not had been hilarious enough to serve as Tonks' patronus memory even still.

It wasn't even like Tonks knew their extended family that well at all. They'd met their aunt all of one time in Diagon Alley while shopping. She'd just sneered at them, looked them over, and said something about how Tonks being a metamorphmagus meant they came by their luck honestly. Which was, really, who the hell was she to say that? They'd told their Mum of course, but she just got a wistful look on her face and asked about how the Malfoy woman seemed like she was doing. Bloody mental, honestly.

Every new auror did their time guarding Azkaban of course, and so they'd met their other aunt before too. Though 'met' seemed like a pretty strong word for looking at a decaying near-corpse staring listlessly at a wall. Tonks had met their cousin Sirius the same way, but that was a considerably more lively chat. He'd recognised them somehow, asked if they were 'Andy's little girl'. They still weren't quite sure how they'd been made given that they were a black man at the time. He'd taken their shocked silence in stride and commented on how their Mum had always been his favourite cousin. It was more than a little surreal, but that was the only time they'd spoken before he escaped.

Point was, blood didn't matter anywhere near as much as people seemed to think it did. They'd thought that the metamorphmagus—a walking talking result of old messed up bloodline magics—pointing that detail out would have been a wake-up call, but nope. Tonks had entertained calling Scrimgeour out on being weird about blood and all that rot more than once. They never had, 'course not. Even they knew it'd be a bad idea.

None of those thoughts showed on their face while Scrimgeour considered how to cover his ass thanks to the fact that metamorphmagic was bloody cheating. Instead, they put up a facade of honest curiosity. People always played nicer if they thought you were being open with them.

"Black's important, but that doesn't mean we can ignore our other duties," Scrimgeour said diplomatically. "Especially when those other duties protect our own." He waited a moment to make sure that he had their and Proudfoot's attention. "There are rumours that Opin Magnolf at Good Work's Brewing Supplies in Knockturn has been smuggling in potions ingredients illegally."

"Any idea what we're looking for?" Tonks leaned forward. Just because they were being asked to do it because of some weird reverse pseudo-racism, it didn't mean they wouldn't do the job right.

"We're not sure, but we suspect that—"

"Oh come on!" Proudfoot interrupted, earning an annoyed look from Scrimgeour and a raised eyebrow from Tonks. "You can't be putting us on Skeeter duty!"

Scrimgeour fixed him with a glare. "If you didn't want on Skeeter duty, then you shouldn't have escalated a simple inquiry into an all-out bar brawl last week."

Tonks stifled a sigh. Rita Skeeter was a nasty rumour-monger just as likely to print a pack of lies about someone she didn't like as she was to write anything approaching truth. Unfortunately, when she did bother to pen something resembling reality, it usually had a terrifying amount of investigative legwork and criminal allegations behind it. So it had become something of a tradition for the DMLE to assign somebody to look into her more scandalous articles to see which way it went. Usually, it was somebody Scrimgeour happened to be annoyed with that day. Hence, Skeeter duty.

It wasn't the first time Tonks had been put on Skeeter duty (and certainly wouldn't be the last), but it was the first time it was for something that wasn't actually their fault.

"So you were saying about what we're looking for?" Their Dad had talked too much about how the only way to rise past the pseudo-racism and above the actual-bigots was to be more professional, so there they were.

Scrimgeour shot a parting 'behave' look at Proudfoot. It was a look Tonks knew well. The appreciative one he gave to Tonks before continuing was a bit more alien, but welcome all the same. "I was saying that we don't know precisely what we're looking for, but we do have some suspicions. Aconite, qilin horn, toadstool, horned toad's stool—"

"It's Wolfsbane potion," Proudfoot interrupted. "Skeeter thinks that he's been smuggling in wolfsbane ingredients."

Tonks commended him for his bravery and wondered at his stupidity. "You read the rot she writes?"

"Half the job's keeping informed," Proudfoot said.

"It's Skeeter, though. Not exactly hard-hitting journalism, is it?"

"If you are done being children," Scrimgeour said. Tonks proudly marked the throbbing vein in his temple as a job well done. "I believe that you have a job to do. Get to it."

Tonks considered pushing a bit more, but by the look on his face Proudfoot did too, which put them off the idea entirely. Instead, they stood, gave a sloppy salute, and marched out with a "Sir, yes sir!" Proudfoot followed right after, though he was notably less sarcastic about it. Shame.

"He gave me a manifest from International on the stuff Magnolf's imported legally. Looks like the qilin horn and the horned toad's stool are the big ones to watch out for," Proudfoot said once he caught up. Tonks acknowledged it but didn't slow on their way to the floo. "So, how'd you land Skeeter duty?"

Tonks shrugged. "Black's my cousin or summat. Don't know how we're related really, but I'll bet that's why." They did know, of course. Sirius was their first cousin by Walburga, third by Orion, and once removed both ways. The Black family tree was weird. No wonder they all went mad.

"Well that's a load of shite," Proudfoot said, earning a bit of their respect.

"No two ways around it though. Might as well just do our job, yeah?" Tonks stepped into the blazing green fireplace of the auror's dedicated floo connection. "Knockturn Alley!"

The world flew by in a haze of emerald, snippets of conversations held by people who hadn't had Constant Vigilance! drilled into their head floating past them as they were presented with a rapid-fire look at near every fireplace with an active floo connection in the UK. Tonks used the time to mess with their appearance a bit. Toned down the fire-engine red hair to make it a boring brown, shrunk their body a bit to fall in proportion with their feet, filled out their form, and changed the bones of their face to something a bit more delicate.

Finished, Tonks casually put out a leg to catch the entrance to the alley, stumbled her way out of the fireplace, and gave a quick glance around to check if people had seen. (They had.) She shot an easy smile around while she transfigured her clothes to fit. Maybe a skirt? Nah, too much. With a flourish, she pulled out the most useful tool in her secret auror's bag of tricks: the pocket mirror. Distinguishing features were a must for a good disguise. A mole here, some laugh lines, a scar? Tonks played around with the idea, tried to figure out who she was trying to be. Yeah, scar'd be great. A little thing just across the cheek.

If Tonks said so herself—and she did—her disguise was a masterpiece by the time Proudfoot stepped out of the fireplace. He even had to look around a bit before he spotted her.

"Tonks?" he asked.

"That's my name, don't—ah, bugger." The bloody voice, she always forgot to change the voice. It was barely a thought to do, it just slipped the mind. "Bah, bah, bah, bah… Do re mi fa so la ti do, there we go!" She smiled triumphantly as the voice came out distinctly more feminine. "All woman now."

Proudfoot gave her the sort of confused look she was incredibly accustomed to getting. "Weren't you always?"

"Sure, why not?" Tonks flipped. Said flippantly? Flipped out? Something like that. "Come on. We got work to do."

She marched down the road with Proudfoot in tow once more. Further they got, the more people gave his shiny auror badge wary looks and wide berths. He glared back. Sorta defeated the point, she thought. They were there to defend people, not offend them. Was kinda depressing how many aurors thought like Proudfoot. She reckoned Moody was one of them. When everyone was either an enemy or a potential enemy, it didn't leave a lot of room for actually helping people.

Did start plenty of duels though, and that was always a good time. Bit of a mixed bag, all in all.

"So, how you wanna do this?" she asked as they rounded the corner to see their target. Good Work's Brewing Supplies was a teeny little joint shoved between two other teeny little joints. The sort of shop that was all over Knockturn; too poor to get a better spot, and bad location made sure they don't get any richer. The sign was painted in bright colours that had started to fade. An anti-robbery measure, that. Too nice a sign and people figured you for money or an easy mark.

To his credit, Proudfoot mulled it over for a second. Moody'd always said to never trust a bloke who comes up with a plan too quick. He'd said a lot of things about who not to trust (which amounted to most of the planet), but Tonks figured that bit was probably actually good advice.

"We've got the list of the stuff that's been properly imported. Figure we can sneak into the storerooms and take a look." He gave her a wary once-over. "You'll have to be careful, mind."

Tonks considered it. "Reckon breaking in like that's a bit much this soon. How about this: You look for a way into the back, I'll go in and talk to the bloke. Magnolf, right? If I don't get anything, we can sneak in and give her a look-see."

"Fair enough. Sure you don't want me to come with you?"

"Mate, come on. You look like an auror."

Proudfoot scowled. "Probably because I am an auror. You could stand to take a bit more pride in that."

"Yeah, but people 'round here don't much talk to aurors, do they? Me though," she waved a hand up and down herself, "I just look like some bird. No reason he can't chat me up." Tonks used her hands to outline her new curves with an eyebrow waggle for effect.

He rolled his eyes but conceded the point. "Fair enough. Meet me back round the bend there when you finish. Wand?"

Proudfoot raised his wand for her. Standard protocol when splitting up. Stick your wands together, cast the spell, and you could make each other's wand vibrate when you needed to. Tonks found it incredibly funny how many aurors didn't know that morse code was a muggle invention given how much they used it. She raised her wand to meet his. Not the bond-knife sheathed across the small of her back, even though it had always worked loads better than her wand. Folks who didn't know what it was got nervous when she pulled a dagger for a basic charm, and folks who did got scared. No reason for all that.

After a silent count to three lifting their wands for each beat, they cast in unison with a muttered, "Iungus Vibrato". They checked it quickly before making their way to their chosen tasks.

More than just physical, a persona was mental. If you walked in like you owned the place, that said something. If you slunk around like you were waiting for the next shoe to drop, that said something entirely different. So, Tonks lowered her shoulders a bit as she approached the door, gave a few wary looks 'round, grasped the handle tentatively and opened the door slowly. Natalie Wormwood was a woman beleaguered, Tonks decided, and so she became the part.

Tonks gave a worried glance up to the bell ringing out warmly as she entered and closed the door gingerly behind her. A quick look showed that the shop was cramped but meticulously organised. Shelves upon shelves of more potions ingredients than she cared to count. She began to wander around slowly, looking carefully at each to see that every single ingredient had a little handwritten placard with its name, its common uses, and how best to preserve it. The love on display in that tiny little shop honestly impressed her.

Most of the stuff in wolfsbane was local as anything if she recalled right. Not much use importing it. Like Proudfoot said, horned toad's stool and qilin horns would be the biggie. After a few minutes of looking, she found the qilin horns bundled up in a big box on the floor. Checking the placard… twenty-three galleons for a horn? And the horned toad's stool in a thankfully sealed box, that was eighteen an ounce. Seemed about right. They weren't exactly an expert, but qilins and horned toads were rare. Their bits and bobs couldn't be cheap to begin with, and the Ministry tax on importing certain ingredients could be get up there. Didn't mean anything though, just that Magnolf wasn't an idiot. Nothing stopping him from just marking things up to what they should cost.

Deciding it was time to get a bit more personable with her investigation, Tonks shuffled up to the front counter and tentatively rang the bell. A few moments later, an ageing man with fascinatingly thick glasses emerged from the back room. She shrunk slightly under his scrutiny and he put on a gentle smile in response

It was easy enough that Tonks almost felt bad for the manipulation.

"Opin Magnolf, owner of the Good Work, at your service Madam." He put his hands up on the counter. "How can I help you?"

Tonks opened her mouth to respond, hesitated, gave him a wary smile, and shrank back a bit. "Ah, hello Mr Magnolf. I've been wondering, well, I suppose I've been having a bit of a problem."

"Well, I'd be happy to help you solve it if I can." His voice dropped to something far less booming.

"Of course, of course. It's… My son has…" She started looking around, looking anywhere but his eyes. "He's pushing for a mastery in Potions, you see." Tonks started fidgeting with the hem of her cloak a bit. "He's wanting to learn the, well, the Wolfsbane potion. He thinks it would be tremendously helpful to be able to make. I thought that I might do some shopping for him to save him the effort. He works ever so hard. I just wanted to ask if it's no bother, is the qilin horn always so expensive? I know that some things are seasonal. Are we perhaps in the off months right now?"

The lie's transparent as anything. With the deficit of potion masters in the country, anyone pursuing a mastery is no doubt going to have any supplies their teacher deems necessary funded by the Ministry. Magnolf's no doubt well aware of that fact. She just hoped he'd read between the lines, bite the lie in the lie. When Tonks finally looked back at his face, she saw him searching her for something.

"I don't believe I ever caught your name, Miss…?"

Tonks showed some surprise, looked as if she was considering something, then let out a sigh. "Natalie Wormwood, it's… Jason sort of… stumbled upon the idea of pursuing his mastery abroad. Now we've come back, it's harder than I might have thought to keep him, to keep him properly supported."

Volunteering extra information, stumbling awkwardly across the inconsistencies, Tonks all but begs Magnolf to catch her in her lie. She smiled, let it waver a bit, and his face softened. Jackpot.

"Natalie, why are you here?" he asked gently after a long moment.

"I told you, my—"

"No," he interrupted, "why are you here? There are plenty of other shops for this sort of thing. I doubt a tiny shop in Knockturn was your first choice for supplies."

Tonks let more hesitation show for a moment before crumpling. "There was an article about your shop. In the Daily Prophet."

"If you've been out of the country like you say, then let me be the first to warn you to look for the byline when you go reading the news. You can't trust the things Rita Skeeter writes." He shut down visibly, leaving Tonks to scramble for a new approach.

"My son, I…" she trailed off. "I lied. I don't have a son. But I still, well, I still need the ingredients."

"You're not pursuing a mastery either, are you?" It wasn't a question, though it was gentler than she'd expected to hear. Good sign, that.

"No, I'm not." Tonks took a deep breath as if to gather her confidence, using the break to change some things around. She looked him in the eye as she pulled down her lip with one finger to show a row of sharpened teeth. "I didn't ask to be this way, I just… I want it to stop hurting." Bit of a gamble. She'd heard that the transformation hurt, but she wasn't actually sure. Werewolves didn't much talk to aurors either.

Magnolf pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Almost a minute passed in silence as Tonks made sure to grow progressively more twitchy.

"My sisters," he finally said. "They were bit back in the first war. Greyback's a bloody monster, wolf or not. You know that most kids that get bit don't live through their first full moon?"

"That's awful," Tonks said honestly.

He nodded grimly. "It is. We got lucky. Both of them are still around, despite the Ministry's best efforts. Did you know they spiked up the tax on qilin horns and horned toad's stool after Belby invented Wolfsbane? Same thing happened with sparkleech pus after Wallhawk invented the Sunsealing elixir for vampires. Malicious, isn't it?"

"Maybe it's not. They might just not know how important it is to people." She took a moment to reel herself back in. That had been a bit too much Tonks and a bit too little Natalie.

"After a certain point, ignorance becomes malicious," he said with conviction. "Especially when you're in the Wizengamot. But you're not here for politics, are you? You need your ingredients. Well, you'll be happy to know that I offer alternate prices for people with your particular affliction. No reason to leave people out in the cold. Eleven sickles per ounce of the stool, two galleons a horn. One horn should be enough for two months if you use it right."

Tonks boggled at that, almost forgetting to keep in character. "Isn't that a big drop? Feels like I'm stealing from you now."

"It's what they would cost without the Ministry tax," he said with a sad smile. "How much do you need? And do you need anything else?"

"No, I…" She stopped to consider. "Honestly, I was just price-checking. Didn't even bring my money, Knockturn and all. Moon's not for another three weeks yet anyway. But I'll be back, yeah? And I'll… I'll think about what you said."

Magnolf nodded a few times as if to assure himself of something. "That might be wise, Miss Wormwood. I find it's best to keep one's eyes open, even if we don't like what we see. If I may, do you have a safe place to ride out the moon when it comes?"

"Yeah, all set there. Thanks, seriously. This all means a lot." And it did, but not in the ways Magnolf believed. He'd given her a lot to process. To look into. Maybe she could find a werewolf to talk to, see what's what.

"It's the least I can do. If we don't take care of each other, then what's the bloody point?" He heaved a weary sigh. "I'll see you in a few weeks, Miss Wormwood."

"'Course. See you then," she said, and absentmindedly left the shop. The door closing behind her brought her back to focus. It wouldn't do to lose track of her vigilance just because of a crisis of faith in the government, would it? A quick glance around showed nothing amiss, so she made her way back round the bend to see Proudfoot already waiting for her.

"Find anything?" he asked.

Tonks stopped to consider it. Honestly, she had more than enough to go on with. Anti-Ministry sentiment on its own was worth a search according to the books, and there was no way a shop like that could afford to just hand stuff out. It was suspicious as anything. She was quite sure that Magnolf was smuggling things in, but wasn't it for a good cause? Was it even her place to cast judgement? Sure casting judgement was literally her job, but it felt like the situation was at an uncomfortable point where 'right' and 'good' didn't quite line up.

"Nah," she said. "Hey, you actually read that Skeeter article we're looking into, yeah?"

Proudfoot shrugged. "Yeah. Pays to keep informed, like I said."

"Right. So Scrimgeour said we were protecting one of our own. Any idea who?"

"Dawlish," Proudfoot said. "Skeeter said that he was buying Wolfsbane stuff for his nephew. Anyway, I found his backdoor, scoped out the wards. We give it a bit so he's busy with something else, won't be too hard to sneak in and take a look, see if we can't find something."

"That's why they pay you the big bucks," Tonks said. "Lead the way."

Proudfoot nodded, turned, and started off without a glance back. Tonks considered him carefully. It really came down to one question. Did she think that he'd be willing to condemn someone bending the law to help people for the sake of his own career? His ambition? If Magnolf was smuggling for something actually harmful then they could look into that, but selling cheap ingredients to people who needed it was a good thing no matter how you looked at it. Magnolf could always be arrested later if he did something wrong, but they couldn't unarrest him for making the world a better place.

The glare Proudfoot gave a woman that looked warily at his shiny auror badge settled her mind depressingly quickly.

Proudfoot led the way into a dark alley, and Tonks thanked the Black family's paranoia for the first time in her life as her bond-knife came free of its sheathe without a sound. She weighed it in her wand hand with a heavy heart for a moment before biting the bullet. 'Sorry,' she mouthed. "Obliviate!"

---

"Shame we didn't find anything," Proudfoot said as the two of them stepped back out of Scrimgeour's office. "An arrest off Skeeter duty would've been a nice feather."

"Yeah. Can't arrest someone who didn't do anything wrong, though." Tonks gave him a shrug and their best 'what-can-you-do' face. "Tell you what. It's time we got off anyway, I'll make it up to you. When's the last time you stopped by Hogsmeade for a pint? My treat."

Proudfoot snorted. "What's the occasion?"

"Maybe I think we make a good team," they said with an easy smile. "Or maybe I just feel like trying my luck with Rosmerta." And maybe they felt bad for obliviating him. It was one of those for sure.

"You and everyone else who goes through that bar," he deadpanned.

"Not everyone," Tonks admitted. "Just the people with eyes."

"You do realise that Hogsmeade's filled with dementors. Bit of a mood-killer for most people."

Tonks' grin just grew wider. "I like to think I'm not most people. Besides, you saying you can't pull out a patronus? Come on. Gotta check my desk, then I'll meet you at the floo."

Five minutes later they emerged from emerald flames in The Three Broomsticks, a broad smile on Tonks' face and a pinched sort of exasperation on Proudfoot's. The place was nearly empty, being a Wednesday night and all. The only other occupants were a group of dwarves in one of the corner tables and an ogre bloke sitting at the bar. The fire was going strong, but a pervasive chill filled the air anyway. Tonks figured that was the other reason it was so empty.

"Expecto Patronum," they called, and warmth filled the room as a brilliant white jackrabbit began hopping its way around. Proudfoot followed suit, conjuring a big cat of some sort. A cheetah, they thought. Where Tonks' patronus was giddily making a nuisance of itself amongst the dwarves, Proudfoot's cheetah just wove around and between his legs. Made sense. A big cat's still just a cat, after all. The mood significantly brightened, Tonks slid into the seat right next to the ogre with Proudfoot reluctantly in tow.

"Wotcha. Name's Tonks," they said to the confused-looking bloke.

He gave them a long, wary look before shrugging. "Tanner."

"Nice to meetcha, Tanner. This is Henry." They jabbed a head at the already annoyed auror standing behind them.

"Tonks…" he groaned. "Let's not bother the ogre."

Tanner shrugged carefully, clearly wary of his large frame with the comparatively fragile human next to him. "If I did not want to talk, I would drink at home."

"See? This guy gets it." They jabbed a thumb at Tanner while looking at Proudfoot with a smile. "Come on, take a load off. What's wrong with having a chat?" Tonks kept the smile up, but inside they were absolutely daring him to say the quiet part out loud, to justify the obliviation so they didn't have to feel bad. Half the reason they'd dragged him to the Broomsticks. Hogsmeade was a wizarding village, meant they got all types.

"I should've known better than to… Fine," Proudfoot said with a bit more spite than Tonks thought was strictly necessary as he finally took a seat. "It's nice to meet you, Tanner."

Tanner grumbled something unintelligible in response, which Tonks figured was pretty fair. They opened their mouth again to say something presumably brilliant when they were interrupted by Madam Rosmerta's approach.

"Tonks, good to see you again," she greeted warmly. They pointedly didn't smile smugly in Proudfoot's direction. Not to say they didn't think about it. "What can I get you two?"

"Need some advice," Tonks said before Proudfoot could ruin it. "Been playing around with my face again. Wondering what colour eyes you think'd fit."

Rosmerta considered it for a moment. "Well, if you're going with pink hair like you are now, maybe a dark blue?" Tonks changed their eye colour in a blink almost as soon as she'd said it. They pulled out their trusty mirror again and gave themselves a quick look. She was right. It did look good, but that really wasn't the point.

"Good pick." They looked back up to Rosmerta with a smile. "But it's funny. Whenever I think about what eyes would look best, all I can think of is green."

"Ha!" She rolled her bottle-green eyes. "Gotta admit, I haven't heard that one before."

"'Cause I'm one of a kind," Tonks said.

Rosmerta snorted, which they counted as a win. "Alright, Mr One-Of-A-Kind. What can I get for you and your friend here?"

"Glass of Ogden's," Proudfoot said. He gave a glance to Tonks. "Make that a double." It only took a few flicks of her wrist before Rosmerta had his drink ready and in front of him. She looked to Tonks expectantly.

"Not sure what I want," they said. "Tanner, what're you having?"

He gave Tonks an indecipherable look. "Rockgut Rum. Goes through humans like rocks."

"Rocks," Tonks echoed.

"Yes."

"In the gut?"

"Tha's right."

"Huh," Tonks said. "Good thing I'm not all human then. One of those, please."

In a few seconds, a highly amused Rosmerta put a glass of angry-looking red liquid in front of them. After a few seconds more, Tonks had rearranged their insides to be a bit less picky. They took a sip and yep! Tasted like sandpaper. Tonks swallowed their first swig anyway, to the awe and presumed delight of their onlookers.

Luckily, turning off their tastebuds was something they'd learned when they were four. The next try was far more pleasant.

"Well, then," Rosmerta said. "You two looking for something to eat too?"

Tonks shook their suddenly much lighter head. "Nah. Mum's let me know she's making a big dinner tonight, and that I am," they cleared their throat and adjusted some things to replicate her voice perfectly, "'not to come home filled up on greasy bollocks.'"

"This is the Mum that's four years younger than me?" Rosmerta asked with a smile.

They shrugged. "I figure shame's for people who don't actually enjoy their lives."

"Wise words," Tanner said.

The bell over the door jingled as a couple walked in. "That's me," Rosmerta said. "Let me know if you need anything. Food, drinks," she looked to Tonks' drink, "medical attention, just holler."

Once she left, Tonks looked over to see Proudfoot giving them an incredulous look.

"What?" she asked.

"You still live with your parents?"

Tonks laughed. "Mate if I moved out, by the end of the week my Mum'd be outside my window with a boombox and a roast asking me to come back. I told her I might be thinking about leaving a bit ago, and she started planning extension charms to give me my own sodding wing the next day."

"Seems a bit mental if you ask me," he said.

"Yeah, she gets intense," they shrugged. "Probably break her heart if I left, though. Could never do that. She's my Mum, y'know?"

"It is good. Clans should stick together," Tanner added.

Proudfoot scoffed and took a drink. "Ogre clans, maybe."

"Some human clans too," Tonks rebuffed. "Just another way of living."

Tanner nodded sagely while Proudfoot both amused and disappointed them by pointedly not saying anything. He did take a long drink, though. His silence felt like vindication for the alley. Tonks took another drink themselves—and damn if that wasn't strong stuff—before deciding to open their mouth again.

"So Tanner, what do you do for work?"

He quirked his lip to bare a chipped fang. Tonks was pretty sure that wasn't a threat display, right? Yeah! It was trolls that threatened with teeth. Ogres were all in the ears. And Tanner's ears were… happy? Sure, they'd go with that.

"I tan," Tanner deadpanned.

Tonks blinked. Of course they'd been taught what threat displays looked like, but not how to offend. Auror training, ladies gentlemen and others!

Not quite sure how to respond, they improvised. They were good at that. "You must think human names are pretty bloody stupid then, huh."

"You focus on what you are and not what you do. It is childish, I think." Tanner kept a careful eye on Tonks to gauge for reactions. They kept an interested look going. Not that it was hard, mind. Culture stuff was interesting. Proudfoot was probably making faces behind them, but he'd been browbeaten into compliance enough that it was probably fine. "Some of your insults were most confusing, though."

"Any standouts?" Tonks asked, leaning in.

Tanner considered it over his drink. "'Tosser', I think. I thought that someone tossing might imply their magic was weak. Now I am not so sure. 'Blighter' made sense enough. One who blights is not wanted. The one that took the longest to understand for me was 'fucker'. Are we not all fuckers, in the end?"

Proudfoot choked like prudes always did, and Tonks laughed while giving him a sympathetic pat on the back. "Not all of us," Tonks said. "I introduced you to Henry here, right?"

"Oh sod off," Proudfoot managed between coughs. There was another show of fang and a deep rumble from Tanner's belly. Tonks took it for laughter, which was a definite win.

Tanner finished his drink and stood. "It was good to meet you, Auror."

"Nice to meet you too!" Tonks said. "Gonna be stationed in Hogsmeade next couple of weeks. We might even see more of each other. Maybe next time, I can buy you a drink and you can tell me more about how stupid humans are."

"One of my favourite subjects." Tanner really had a great deadpan. They could take lessons. "Until then."

The two aurors watched him go, one with a smile and one with a face Tonks didn't care to know.

"Please tell me you're not trying to shag the ogre," Proudfoot groaned after a moment. The impending roll of the eyes was carefully suppressed. They weren't, but…

"I like to keep my options open." Tonks looked back over to see him looking vaguely disgusted. "Besides. His name is 'Tanner', not 'the ogre'. No need to be rude. He seems like good people." They pat Proudfoot on the back once more and stood. "Should probably head out too. See you at work."

Tonks wasn't too sorry to leave him behind, though they were a bit sad to see Tanner go. He really did seem like a nice guy. And if there was one thing Tonks knew, it was that they had always had a good sense for people.