Chapter Twenty-Two

 

Without Restraint

 

~*~

 

A/N:  Thanks to Mosey Posey, for having such good ideas in the car.  Thanks to the beta readers, for being eagle-eyed.  Thanks to everyone who's reading this and giving feedback, for all of your constructive criticism.  Thanks to Melissa A, for the chapter title.  Thanks to Circe, whose description of Neville's parents in "With Quill in Trembling Hand" (an awesome story) solidified our image of them.  And special thanks to all those literary professionals who are involved in the eventual release of Book Five.  We want you to know we're really impressed with your swiftness, your sympathy towards the vast and desperate mob of expectant HP fans, and your always-lucid and informational press releases.

 

You bunch of total @!?*&#$^&#$!!!

 

 

~*~

 

"Go ahead and mount him."

 

Harry heard Burke's voice, but he wasn't about to heed it.  He couldn't breathe.  He gripped his Firebolt until his knuckles went white and stared through his fireproof goggles at Norbert's enormous tail.

 

"Like we talked about," Burke continued calmly.  "Just stay out of his peripheral vision - fly up slowly, approach from behind, and drop down into the harness.  Then strap your broom down, and lock in.  Harry.  Harry, are you all right?"

 

"I'm fine," Harry said mechanically. "I'm fine."

 

"Bit slow on the uptake, Potter?"  Draco Malfoy was fully strapped into his harness and he held Mordor's reins with perfect authority.  He didn't even seem to need his trainer, who sat behind him in full gear, looking very pleased with his progress.

 

"You've ridden before," she complimented.

 

"No," Draco said, still smirking at Harry.  "But I'm not afraid of an animal with a brain that's smaller than mine."

 

"Most animals must terrify you, then," Harry muttered.

 

"What's that, Potter?  Can't hear you from all the way up here."  Malfoy lifted Mordor's reins a bit higher and his gaudy ring glinted, infuriating Harry.  "Up," he said with command.

 

"Just excellent," said Draco's trainer, as Mordor lifted smoothly into the air.  "This is really something - I've never seen this breed behave so beautifully."

 

"Animals take after their masters," was the last thing Harry heard from Malfoy as his dragon moved out over the sea.

 

"Right, that's it," Harry muttered, and before he could think about it too much, he

took off into the air and aimed his Firebolt at Norbert's harness attachment, which was specially built to fit over the dragon's sharply ridged back.  Harry dismounted, dropped into the seat, awkwardly found the stirrups with his booted feet, fastened his Firebolt to the front of the saddle, and reached down by his hips to grab the straps.  The straps were heavy loops of flat, fireproof material, not unlike Muggle seatbelts.  Harry pulled the right one over his head so that it rested on his left shoulder, and did the opposite with the one on the left so that they crossed him in an X and held him firmly to the seat.  He reached behind him and adjusted the height of the seatback until it supported him fully, then leaned back to find the angle that was most comfortable.  He locked the seatback into place and pulled another belt out of either side of it - this one he locked around his waist.  When he was finished, he pulled on his gloves and snapped the wrists of his Ministry-issue dragon riding jacket around them.  He adjusted his headgear - a heavy sort of hat with no visor, which came down over his ears and snapped across and beneath his chin. No part of him was vulnerable.  He felt for his wand, which he'd slid into a specially protected, narrow pocket on the side of trousers, and pulled it out. 

 

"Ready," he said, feeling much more confident.  That hadn't been so bad.  No wonder Malfoy had managed it.

 

"Very good," Burke said, strapping himself into place behind him.  "You forgot this, however."  He reached around Harry, holding a satchel.  "You'll want it, believe me."

 

"Right - thanks," said Harry, strapping it into place beside his broom.  It was his food, water, and emergency supply of chocolate.

 

"And you practiced the Hygienic Dehydration Charm," Burke said.  "Right?"

 

Harry nodded, not really wanting to discuss the charms that made toilets unnecessary.

 

"Then let's go."

 

Harry grabbed Norbert's reins.  "Up!" he commanded. 

 

It was neither as thrilling as his first time on a broomstick, nor as unnerving as riding Buckbeak.  It was... calm.  Norbert rose into the air, breathing fire before him, and Harry raised his wand quickly, casting a Wind Charm to deflect the flames - more for his broomstick's sake than for his own.  He hated that the Firebolt had to be strapped to the front of the saddle, and he'd cast the strongest Inflammable Charm on it that he could find.  Still, he wanted to be careful.

 

"You don't even need me," Burke laughed, as the flames arched away from them.  "Should've known.  Harry Potter, and all that."

 

Harry pretended he hadn't heard that remark, and leaned back against his seat, steering towards Azkaban.  The massive, steely-gray fortress came into view below him and Harry circled it, his heart pounding as he looked down at the prison's rotting turrets and rusting bars.  Sirius had been in there for twelve years.  Twelve years.  There was no comprehending it.

 

A jet of fire shot up from behind one of the prison's walls, and Harry saw Viktor's dragon rise up from behind it.  Viktor looked unafraid - he even seemed to be enjoying himself in conversation with Andras.  Harry raised his wand in lieu of a wave, and Viktor waved in return, but stayed far back.  They were to keep equidistant, each rider holding responsibility for a third of the island's circumference.  Harry reflected that he'd have to look up a charm that allowed him to talk to Viktor from far off, or this would get boring pretty fast - there had to be a spell similar to a walkie-talkie. He'd write and ask Hermione. 

 

"And there's our problem," Burke muttered.  "See it, Harry?"

 

A Dementor was working its way across the water, gliding toward the shore as quickly as it could. 

 

Harry pulled back on Norbert's reins and gave the short series of harmless jerks that let the dragon know it was time to descend.  Norbert snuffled and dropped low, coming within feet of the Atlantic's surface.  Harry raised the reins again and Norbert shot towards the advancing creature.  At fifty yards' distance, the Dementor was supposed to be repelled by the dragon's enormous aura, and Harry was relieved to see that it really worked.  Norbert's approach drove the Dementor back to the island at top speed. It slithered between the walls and disappeared. 

 

"Success," Burke said, clapping Harry on the shoulder.  "Nicely done.  I don't think I'll need a week out here with you - just tell Charlie when you feel comfortable doing this on your own, all right?"

 

"Sure."  Harry directed Norbert back into the air.  He didn't tell Burke that his skin was crawling beneath the protective gear, or that he felt cold to the bone.  He didn't mention that he'd just heard his mother's death.  It's not that bad, he told himself.  It's only an echo.  It's not like they're right up close.

 

But the second Dementor made the echo a little louder.  And the third one brought back a strong memory of seventh year that made Harry dizzily depressed.  "We believe that Mr. Weasley has been abducted," Professor McGonagall had said, looking white as a sheet.  Harry felt, again, the plummeting, ice-cold horror - he shifted in his harness and tried to shake that day out of his brain, but the fourth Dementor brought it flooding right back in. 

 

Professor McGonagall had broken the news to him in the hospital wing.  He had stumbled back to Gryffindor and broken it to Hermione, and he hadn't known which was worse - fearing the loss of Ron, or watching Hermione fear it.  She hadn't cried, or even trembled - she'd listened with an ashen face, walked up to her dormitory without a word, and come back wearing jeans and boots and a heavy coat, her wand clenched in her hand.  "Give me your Invisibility Cloak," she'd said in a wooden voice.  "Now."

 

"I'm going with you.  But we don't know where -" Harry had doubled over in agony before finishing his sentence, his scar exploding with white-hot pain.  The explosion had been followed by the sound of cold laughter - Ron's strangled yelling - the vision of a large, ornate room with a reflecting marble floor and massive wizard portraits moving on the walls - and then blackness.  Harry had passed out. 

 

"Harry - get up - please, please get up -"

 

Not sure how long he had been unconscious, Harry had pushed himself onto his elbows and Hermione had pulled him the rest of the way to his feet, already holding his Invisibility Cloak. 

 

"I know where Ron is," he'd told her. "I saw the room - my scar -"

 

"Where.  Tell me where."  Hermione had brooked no extra words, no waste of time.  She had been pulling her hair back into a tight knot and pushing up her sleeves.

 

"I don't know, but I know what it looks like - it's a mansion.  Huge room, marble floors, wizarding portraits.  I've never seen... it could be... where Voldemort killed that man - Frank Bryce.  But not the same room."

 

"I don't know, but there are books of interiors - famous wizarding houses - Bryce didn't work in a wizarding house, did he, that was Riddle's house, that's not it.  What color were the walls?"

 

"I... it's fading."  Harry remembered his extreme panic as the wispy fragments of his vision had slipped irretrievably away from him... a little at a time...

 

"NO.  DON'T YOU FORGET."  Hermione's eyes had frightened him.  "Hurry."  She had rushed through the portrait hole and had fled toward the library, still calling out instructions.  "Hurry, Harry - you have to show me which picture it is -" She had disappeared under a swirl of silvery cloak, and Harry had bolted after her.

 

It wasn't the most horrifying part of the memory, but it was bad enough, and it intensified with every Dementor's appearance.  Harry cast a Patronus at one point, just to drive the demons out - he thought of last night, holding onto Ginny, and the silvery stag leapt full-force from the tip of his wand, clearing his mind for a long moment.  Burke questioned him at once.

 

"You're not supposed to be feeling the Dementors' effects, through the dragon's energy," Burke said, concern evident in his tone.  "Are they getting to you, Harry?"

 

"No," Harry lied.  "I was just practicing."

 

The end of his shift was a welcome relief; Harry landed Norbert in the midst of the dragon handlers, dismounted, and listened dully as Mick and Charlie discussed something about scheduling.

 

"D'you mind if I switch to the day shift?" Mick was saying.

 

"What for?" Charlie seemed surprised; he paused with one sleeve of his jacket still dangling to his side and looked curiously at Mick.

 

"Oh... no reason," Mick said, turning away and quickly pulling on his headgear.  "Just - you know, I was thinking it might make more sense to have one of us on that shift, rather than three new riders together."

 

"I guess that's true..." Charlie trailed off and looked to his right.  Cho was standing a few yards away from them, pinning her fringe out of her face.

 

"Great."  Mick grinned.  "I'll talk to the day shift and ask who's willing to switch, shall I?"

 

"Sure," Charlie said absently.  "But you can't switch till next week.  This week we've got to ride the relief shifts."

 

"Right."

 

Harry stopped listening; he walked towards Cho, who was working her headgear over her hair.

 

"You're riding your own shifts and theirs?" Harry asked, jabbing his thumb at Burke. 

 

"Just while you train," Cho answered.  "And don't worry, Harry, fourteen hours is nothing for us.  We got used to a lot worse, during the war."  She snapped the chin guard into place.  "I can sleep with my eyes open," she said with a smile.  "Can't I, Charlie?"

 

Charlie handed her a fireproof jacket.  "You can, at that," he said admiringly.

 

Cho stretched her arms into the jacket; as she did so, her shirt came up a little, revealing a tattoo that circled her navel.  Harry's eyes fixed on it for a second before it disappeared, and thought he'd seen a dragon, breathing blue fire. 

 

"Swedish Short-Snout," Cho confirmed, following Harry's gaze and tapping her belly.  "Enchanted.  And don't let Charlie pretend that he started the trend.  I had mine first."

 

She got easily onto her dragon and took off for Azkaban, flanked by Charlie and Mick.  On Harry's right, Viktor was dismounting.  On his left, Malfoy was complaining to the keepers about the condition of Mordor's trough.  Harry didn't care what was happening.  He let the keepers lead Norbert away, concentrated hard through his exhaustion, and Disapparated.

 

His bedroom appeared around him.  It was dark.  Ron wasn't there.  Harry got out of his heavy gear and into comfortable clothes, and just as he finished dressing again there was a knock on the door.

 

"Harry, it's me." 

 

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, his mind so muddled that he hardly felt relief at the sound of Ginny's voice.  He could still see Hermione's ashen face, and in the back of his mind, like a reel had been looped there, he heard the dim echo of his mother's final screams.

 

"Harry?" Ginny called softly.  "Are you asleep?"

 

"No, come in," he said quickly.  He didn't want her to leave.  He wanted yesterday to happen all over again - if he could just get the voices out of his head, and the weight off of his heart - he wanted that closeness.

 

The door opened and Ginny slipped in; her face was shadowed, but the hall light shone behind her, making the edge of her hair glow.  She shut the door, came to sit beside him, and took his hands.  At once, he felt a weight drop from his mind.  This was better.  It would be all right.  "Did you fly today?" she asked.

 

Harry nodded, and let his forehead fall against hers, too drained to remember his shyness.  Their noses brushed.  "But I'm all right," he told her, shifting to lay his head down on her shoulder.  "I'm all right."  For once, it was true.  He was feeling much better now that he had her close.  Better wasn't the word, though... Harry couldn't place the feeling.

 

Ginny took one of her hands out of his, and used it to touch his neck, rubbing her fingertips into the hairline at his nape.  He leaned more heavily against her, forgetting to keep a bit of himself in check.  Against her body, Harry relaxed entirely.

 

"Good," Ginny whispered, and played her hand over his collar, down his spine.  He made a noise to let her know he liked it, and pressed to get as close to her as he could.  He found that the closer he was, the better he felt.  He dropped her other hand and slipped both arms around her waist, then turned his face to her neck and drew a deep breath.  Her hair smelled good.  Like... pine, or something.  Something steady and clean.

 

"You're cold," Ginny mumbled suddenly, feeling his neck with the back of her hand.  "How close did you get to the Dementors?"  But it seemed she already knew the answer.  Her body trembled, and Harry held her tighter.

 

"Close enough," he muttered, realizing that he really was freezing - it was especially apparent in contrast to her body's heat.  He tightened his arms around her, and she hugged him close, making him... Safe.  That was the feeling he hadn't been able to name.  Nothing could touch him here, except her.

 

"Charlie told me that they'd be knocked back from a distance," she said angrily.  "You shouldn't have to feel them at all."

 

"It wasn't too bad," Harry said, but Ginny made a noise of disbelief.

 

"You heard voices," she said.  "I know just how that feels.  Don't try telling me it wasn't too bad."

 

Harry pulled away and gazed at her.  He'd forgotten that Ginny had experienced Dementors, just as he had.  He knew she had horrors in her past, just as he did.  Some of them were the same horrors, and some were her own.  Tom Riddle still got into her dreams, and Harry wondered just how deeply that diary was rooted in her mind.

 

"Lie down," she whispered suddenly, and pushed him towards the pillows.  Harry glanced worriedly at the door, but didn't fight - Ron and Hermione had subjected him to their affection once or twice, and if Ron walked in, he could damn well walk right back out, because this was too good to stop.  He stretched out on his bed and looked up into Ginny's face. 

 

"Ron's at the pub," she said, as if reading his thoughts.  She gave him a smile that crinkled the corners of her brown eyes, and Harry had to smile back.  She had such pretty eyes, and they always seemed to be saying something that only belonged to him.  Even in her childhood, her eyes had been that way.  Something bittersweet pricked at Harry's heart; he reached up a hand and gently touched her face to be sure she was there. 

 

Ginny's face lit up and she caressed his fingers, then took his hand and put it back down on the bed.  "You have to lie still." 

 

"All right.  But what are you -"

 

"Shhh."  She knelt up beside him and reached her hands over him, resting one palm on each of his shoulders.  Harry looked up at her, dazed; when she leaned forward like that, her shirt gaped slightly from her body, and he was surprised to see that her freckles continued their light pattern down beyond the V of her neckline.  He realized he was staring, and tried to look at her hair, instead - the way it fell along the sides of her face.  Her forehead wrinkled in concentration.  "Shut your eyes, Harry."

 

Harry did so, glad of the reprieve.  His breath was quick and shallow.  It was hard to believe that they'd waited so long to touch each other; he couldn't remember why it had seemed so hard.  It was easy.  Her hands were on him... moving...  he shuddered when she stroked the sides of his neck in a deliberate, almost studied manner, and drew her fingers across the expanse of his shoulders, to the tops of his arms. She hesitated, then brought her fingertips lightly across the top of his chest until they rested just under his collarbone.

 

Harry realized his hands were in fists.  He uncurled them on the mattress, feeling compelled to open up.  "Ginny," he whispered, and forgot to shut his mouth.  It stayed parted in shock and pleasure as she continued to touch him, moving her hands along his torso.  His day at Azkaban was slipping away - this was driving it out - there was nothing in his head now but sensation... and a feverish desire to reciprocate.  He had to touch her like this.  One of Ginny's hands paused just over his heart; she pressed down, took a ragged breath, and Harry felt the sudden pressure of her face against his neck, her mouth pressed on his skin.  She murmured his name and her voice broke.

 

Sheer, unbearable heat shot through Harry.  This was entirely different to what he had felt last night - this was not gentle - he had to get her as close as possible.   He tunneled his fingers into Ginny's hair, curled his hands around the back of her head, and brought her mouth to his.  Her lips parted uncertainly, but last night's hesitant kiss was not what Harry had in mind.  His tongue tangled needfully with hers.  She moaned and dropped her weight onto his chest, and he rolled her onto her back with athletic speed, pinning her beneath him.  This was instinct.  This was flying.  All the darkness of the day was long gone; Harry couldn't remember ever having felt so light.  He made a low noise straight into Ginny, pressed harder against her mouth, and began to move his hands on her in the way she'd moved hers on him.

 

Ginny cried out against him and turned her face away with sudden violence. Harry opened his eyes, stricken. 

 

"What is it?" he demanded, terrified that he'd pushed too far.  He rolled instantly off of her, giving her space, feeling like a total ass.

 

Her face was white and she held herself around the middle with both arms.  "I don't know," she answered, wincing.  "I think - I'm sick -" She rolled onto her side and contracted into a tight ball, and Harry scrambled to his feet in alarm.

 

"What do you need?  I'll get someone -"

 

"No - no."  Ginny managed to straighten out, though it looked like painful work.  "Don't go, I'm fine - I'm fine."  Her eyes were shut tight, and it seemed she was forcing herself to take long, slow breaths.  "I'm fine."

 

But Harry was an expert in being fine, and he knew that Ginny wasn't.  He also knew that whatever was wrong with her, he'd somehow brought it on.  "I'm sorry if - if I - hurt you -" he stumbled, embarrassment flooding him.  He pushed up his glasses.  "I shouldn't have - I didn't mean -"

 

"It wasn't you," Ginny said vehemently, opening her eyes.  "I'm sick, that's all.  I'm...dizzy."  She tried to get up, and Harry went to her at once, putting an arm under her shoulders and guiding her to her own room.  He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd done this to her - she'd been perfectly healthy until he'd jumped on her so uncontrollably.  "It's not you," she repeated, before dropping down to sit on her own bed, still holding her stomach.  "Really, Harry, you didn't hurt me..." she faltered, looking very much as if she wanted to explain something.  "That is, I started it - I shouldn't've thought - but I was only trying to... and then it just... oh, never mind."  She gave up explaining and blushed deeply.  "It was nice."

 

Harry went red at the implication, but was otherwise extremely relieved.  "I'll get you some water and bring your dinner up here, all right?" he said, needing to do something for her.

 

"All right," she agreed, still looking very pale, but also rather pleased at his offer. Harry fumbled around in her dresser before leaving, trying to find her pajamas for her.  He wanted to take care of her properly - but slammed the first drawer shut as soon as he opened it.  Those hadn't been pajamas.

 

"Bottom drawer," Ginny said, her eyes bright.  She sounded like she was trying not to laugh, and Harry envied her for being so unembarrassed.

 

He found a nightdress and put it in her lap.  "Be right back," he said, feeling half-stupid and half-wonderful.  More than half-wonderful.  It was amazing how an hour with Ginny cleared his mind of everything else.  He kissed the top of her head on impulse, and though she didn't let go of her stomach, she gave a little satisfied hum. "Be right back." 

 

~*~

 

Hermione sat with her legs crossed and her eyes shut, hands resting palms-up on her knees. A soft, warm breeze played in her hair and she worked to clear her mind of every thought - every impulse.  I miss Ron.  I wonder if Harry's all right.  I wish I had my books at night; I've hardly been able to sleep.  I haven't seen my parents in almost a month... I wonder if they even miss me...

 

"My mind keeps wandering," she said, opening her eyes in frustration.  Delia sat across from her in trance-like silence, hardly even breathing.  Her yoga pose reminded Hermione of a mid-morning New Age exercise program she'd often seen while flicking through the telly channels over the summers, and she'd always found New Age to be more irritating than fascinating.  Delia was much more normal than, say, Professor Trelawney, but Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that Thinking was really just an offshoot of Divination, in disguise.  "Honestly, how am I supposed to think of just nothing?  It's all we've done for three weeks, and you still haven't told me the point."

 

Delia didn't answer right away - she rarely allowed interruptions to faze her - and Hermione shut her eyes again with a little growl.  She was sick of sitting still.  It was one thing to sit in a chair with a stack of books to thumb through or a diary to write in - that she could do nonstop.  But this endless quiet, devoid of concrete information, was driving her out of her mind.  It had taken her a week just to learn to sit properly, and her hips were still sore from the effort. 

 

"Your mind will fix on thoughts," Delia finally said, and Hermione opened her eyes to find her mentor smiling serenely at her.  "With practice, you will learn to acknowledge thoughts, and let them pass.  Teach your mind to stay free - not to linger."

 

"I'm trying," Hermione muttered, shutting her eyes again and seeing Ron, as usual, followed by the prone bodies of her parents.  "But I can't."

 

"Can't means won't," Delia answered.

 

"No," Hermione snapped, "it means can't."  She uncrossed her legs and stretched them out in front of her on the great, tiled patio that served as a meditation space.  It was a perfect day; a lovely wind whispered between the pillars, and beyond the covered patio and the sunlit garden, Hermione watched the sea roll in and out.

 

"Perhaps a break," Delia said, after a tense pause.  She reached for her wand and Summoned a platter heaped with fruit and goblets of sparkling water.  Hermione eyed it dubiously.  She rather missed plain old boring English tea.  Delia smiled a little, raised her wand once more, and a second tray landed between them; this one bore a teapot, cup and saucer.

 

"Thank you," Hermione said, feeling a little guilty.  She reached for the cup, wishing she had kept her temper.  "I keep waiting for you to send me back," she said, glancing up at Delia.

 

"Why would I do that?"

 

"Because I've got a mundane aura," Hermione muttered unthinkingly, and was startled when Delia let out a clear, free laugh.

 

"A what?"

 

"Oh nothing."  Hermione blushed.  "A teacher once told me that.  I just haven't got this kind of..." She gestured around at the beauty of the day and the emptiness of the space, painfully aware of the lack of library.  "I don't know.  I guess I'm just book-smart."  She fidgeted.  "I think I might be wasting your time."

 

"How?"  Delia picked up an orange and began to peel it, looking unconcerned by Hermione's self-doubt.

 

"Well... I'm sure there must be someone who has a natural aptitude for this.  You could have a much better-suited apprentice."

 

"Perhaps," Delia agreed, offering Hermione an orange segment.  "But you are here.  There's very little I can do with a talented student who chooses to pursue life elsewhere."

 

Hermione shook her head at the offered fruit, and turned the teacup around in her hands, swirling the tea, and watching the little leaves drift into shapeless, meaningless patterns.  "I may be here for the wrong reasons," she said softly.  "I have to admit, I don't really understand what it is we're doing, and the longer we do it, the more I want to give it up."

 

Delia nodded.  She put down the orange and folded her hands.  "Are you ready to tell me why you've come?"

 

Hermione looked away.  Delia hadn't asked that before, and the truth was, she didn't want to answer.  But she had never had such a difficult time learning anything - not since Divination had she felt so powerless - and it was much harder on her spirit than she was admitting.  What did it matter if she'd always made top marks, when she was failing at the one thing she needed to learn?  Even in her letters to Ron, she didn't confess the truth: since arriving in Cortona, she'd become convinced that she had made the wrong decision.  The fact that the island was paradise only made her more depressed.  Everything worthwhile was a thousand miles away.  Perhaps... if she told Delia everything... then Delia could tell her whether or not it was right to continue on as her apprentice.

 

"I had loads of job offers," Hermione said, not sure where to begin.  "I wouldn't have had to apprentice, and there were a couple of positions I would have been very right for - I could have worked almost anywhere in England's Ministry."  She cleared her throat, embarrassed.  "I don't say that to be conceited.  It's partly because my boyfriend's father is the Minister."  She laughed a little.

 

"I've had a letter about your abilities, Hermione.  I'm aware of your intellectual achievements, and I know what avenues were open to you."

 

"Who wrote to you?" Hermione asked curiously, flushing with pleasure at the words.  She needed to hear that she was smart, just now.  She certainly didn't feel it.

 

"Your Headmistress.  She thinks very highly of you - I've rarely read such praise."

 

Hermione swelled with pride.  Praise from Professor McGonagall was a rare and treasured thing.  "Did she by any chance mention my parents?" she asked quickly, hoping that the answer would be yes, sparing her a painful explanation.

 

"Yes."  Delia drank from her goblet and breathed out; her dark eyes were gently fixed on Hermione's face. "But I need for you to tell me."

 

Hermione's heart sank.  She pulled her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, noting absently how tan her skin was, against the loose white robes.  Ron would like that. Ron was much too far away.

 

"Hermione?"

 

"Christmas of my sixth year," she said abruptly, deciding to get it over with.  "I stayed at school to watch over Harry, and while I was having a snowball fight, Death Eaters were torturing my parents."  Hermione's nose stung and her eyes watered.  "I went home and there were these horrible scorch marks on the walls. The Christmas tree was burnt to ashes, my mother's china cabinet had been smashed through, and in the library... there were fingernail marks... in the arms of the chair where Mum used to sit and read.  Deep fingernail marks."  The ocean rolled in and out.  Hermione followed it with her eyes, trying not to remember too clearly.  "My room was obliterated, of course.  Someone had burnt 'Mudblood' across my Hogwarts letter, not that I cared about it at that point."  Hermione rocked back and forth in rhythm with the sea, pretending Ron was holding onto her.  She wanted Ron.  "My parents had already been taken to Muggle hospital, but I sneaked them out and raised hell until St. Mungo's let them in.  They're still there.  Their eyes are wide open and they don't respond to anything.  I used to visit all the time, but this summer I could hardly make myself go once."

 

Delia sat perfectly still, listening, and Hermione was grateful.  Questions would have made it impossible.

 

"I have a friend - Neville Longbottom - his parents were destroyed by Cruciatus long ago, but they were wizards and they were able to fight.  Their makeup is different, somehow.  They're quite mad, but they walk about and talk to Neville when he visits - they don't recognize him, but they... oh, I don't know what's worse.  My parents just lie there with their eyes open."  Hermione stopped fighting and let the tears fall. "They're still so frightened, I can see how terrified they were when the Death Eaters hurt them, it's in their eyes, and their eyes don't close, and no one can help them - but I thought if I could be a Thinker, then I could build a cure -"   Hermione wiped her eyes and let out a self-deprecating laugh that quickly became a sob.  "I can't even clear my mind for ten seconds -"

 

But she was finished talking.  She gave up and sobbed into her knees, hugging her legs for comfort; Delia moved closer and placed a cool hand on the back of her neck until she had cried herself out. It took a long time.

 

"Better?" Delia asked softly.

 

Oddly, it was.  Hermione felt wrecked, but free of some dark, awful pressure.  "I haven't cried in a long time," she sniffled.  "Not like that."

 

"Tears are a gift."  Delia lifted her hand from Hermione's neck and offered her water.  "Tears unblock, they cleanse and create space.  Dry your eyes, child, and sit up again when you are ready."

 

Hermione did so, setting down the goblet and resuming her meditative position.  She shut her eyes.  And this time there was no Ron, there were no bodies.  There was only open space.

 

"Let go, Hermione.  Don't concentrate.  Just let go."

 

 

 

Two hours later, after her first successful meditation, Hermione ate a quiet dinner with Delia.  Her heart was lighter and she felt hopeful, not to mention properly hungry for the first time in three weeks.

 

"Sleep well," Delia told her, touching Hermione's bare shoulder before going to the opposite end of the enormous house.  "And happy birthday."

 

Hermione blinked.   She had completely forgotten.  "I'm eighteen," she whispered to herself, watching Delia disappear around a column and down another corridor.  Stunned that she could have forgotten her own birthday, she went into her bedroom and gasped in delight at the sight that greeted her.

 

By her bed there was a fantastic explosion of tropical flowers - Delia must have done that.  There were also four owls - Hedwig, Pig, a Hogwarts one and one from the Ministry of Magic - all ruffling their feathers and fighting for her attention.

 

"Oh, Ron," Hermione breathed, cupping Pig in her hands and kissing his ruffled head.  He cooed. She detached Ron's gift first, but decided to save it - there were others to open.

 

Molly Weasley had sent mince pies, photographs of Leo, and a sun hat with a wide, straw brim: "Don't burn yourself to a crisp, dear.  We miss you.  Happy birthday."  Professor McGonagall surprised her with a short card and a scroll from the International Cooperation of Magical Education, who had named Hermione their International Valedictorian of 1998.  She squealed, jumped up and down, and wished that Ron were there to torment her about it. Sirius and Remus had sent cards with Hedwig, and Harry had sent a small tub of Fortescue's Ever Frozen Strawberry and Peanut Butter Ice Cream with the note: "Happy Birthday.  I have no idea what you're doing out there, but if you're homesick, this might remind you of Diagon Alley.  Miss you."  Hermione took an enormous bite and reveled in the sugar-rush before opening a lovely, newsy letter from Ginny, which made her forget the ice cream altogether.

 

"It's finally happening with Harry and me," Ginny had written simply, "and you know how that feels.  I haven't got the words."

 

Hermione's eyes filled with tears for Ginny, and she felt oddly proud of Harry.  It was about time.  She wished she could be home to see what it was like, with them together.

 

"In other news: Ron and Harry moved down the street to the Notch and now they fancy themselves stylish bachelors or something.  No furniture and no dishes - it's not exactly style, is it?  I stopped by last weekend, but there were clothes on the floor in every room, so I'm not going back until it's livable.  Ron says they haven't had time to unpack properly.  I say they're pigs."

 

Hermione rolled her eyes.  She could only imagine what havoc those two were wreaking on their own space.    

 

So we're all doing well.  I'm rather tired, but I can't complain when I see what Harry does every day.  Ron's been hobnobbing about London with Sirius, and every time he catches me doing my schoolwork he says he's reminded of you, and then he prattles on about you for two to six hours.  Remus still trusts me with the Wolfsbane Potion, which I have been brewing all week.  The full moon is tomorrow and he's not even nervous - I love having him for my teacher.  Sirius is all right, I suppose - he skulks about the house, muttering on about Death Eaters and Dementors and dragons and Dark Lords and Draco and other things beginning with D."

 

Hermione laughed.  "Dursleys," she added aloud.  When she had finished Ginny's letter, she laid it aside and her heart gave an excited little leap. 

 

Ron had sent something small and square... No, Hermione realized as she tore off the brown paper; Ron had sent three small, flat, square things, which were tied together.  Picture frames.  She picked up the first one and went into a laughing fit; Ron had got someone - Harry, most likely - to take a picture of him with Crookshanks in one arm, and Hogwarts, A History in the other.   "See how good I'm being?" his note read.  "All I do is pet the cat and broaden my mind.  I love you."  The photo-Ron waggled his eyebrows at her, making her giggle again.  "I love you," she said back, as if he could hear her, and picked up the second photo. 

 

Her heart melted.  It was another one of Ron, but this time he was holding baby Leo, and his smile was tender and proud.  The baby was sucking on the tip of his index finger, and Ron's ears were pink with happiness.  "I really love you," Hermione whispered, kissing the picture.  She couldn't help imagining Ron as a father, looking at him with his nephew.  But that was a long way off, she supposed, because it was a bit more difficult to imagine herself as a mother. 

 

When she picked up the third photograph, tears came into her eyes.  It was a picture from summertime - Colin must have taken it.  It was a black and white of her and Ron from the shoulders up, grinning. She was tan, and he was freckled, and they looked blissfully happy, with her head leaned against him, and his arm snug around her.  When their picture-selves turned to each other and kissed, Hermione blushed to see how unreserved she was.  She hoped her image hadn't done that in front of Colin. 

 

She set the pictures up on her bedside table, gazed at them for a happy moment, then moved on and read Ron's card. 

 

"Happy Birthday to my Head Girl."

 

Hermione giggled.

 

"If I told you how much I miss you, I'd sound like a sap.  Of course, since it's your birthday, I guess that's in order."

 

Ron elaborated further, in a paragraph that made Hermione sigh, and blush, and sigh again.  She read it a dozen times, and then continued on to more prosaic topics, her heart still fluttering.

 

"I've been giving Sirius a little help with his trials during the daytime, when I'm not at the pub.  I don't help much, because I don't know enough, but I try to take the details off his hands.  He's looking a little more rested, and I can tell Remus is glad I'm doing it, even if Sirius hardly seems to notice.  He's insane.  He might not be a madman, but he's still a mental case, I'm telling you.  And speaking of mental cases, one Draco Malfoy can kiss my royal arse if he thinks he's got a thing to go on, in court.  Sirius and I have been digging through our stuff for the trial, and it turns out that I could probably press charges in return, if I really wanted to, for a little thing called Defamation of Character.  Ha!  How do you like that!  He's been defaming my character for about seven years, so if this law's retroactive, then I think I'd like to put him away for the next century.  Or just until he's too old to breathe.  Dirty wanker."

 

Hermione grinned in spite of herself, and was extremely relieved to hear that the trial preparations were going so well.  It was hard not to be at home helping, but she was doing her best not to panic.  And it was rather... interesting... to imagine Ron helping Sirius at court.  She toyed with that image for a little while, lying down on her bed and curling on her side before continuing to read.

 

"So I'm doing fine, I suppose.  But you sound sad, in your letters.  You think you've got me fooled with your 'I'm learning SO much and it's SO lovely and I could just write TEN papers about it', but I'm not as stupid as I look, Miss Granger.  Your assignment: one letter, on my pillow, tomorrow morning.  Three feet of parchment, and ten points off for every inch it's missing.   And no fair writing really big - that's my trick and you can't have it.  Keep Pig till it's done."

 

He really knew her.  Hermione shut her eyes and sighed, vainly hoping that Ron would Apparate into her room and hold her, just for a minute.  When he didn't, she read the last of his letter.

 

"Send all future correspondence to The Notch, though, because as of last weekend, Harry and I are officially bachelors.  Well.  We live alone, anyway. 

 

I love you more than is strictly decent.

 

-Ron"

 

There was a postscript, so tender in nature that it made Hermione want to Apparate home - she felt a full sort of warmth as she changed into a light nightdress and sat down at her desk with Ron's letter.  She would write everyone else back tomorrow - but tonight, as a birthday gift to herself, she would only write to Ron.

 

She read the loving parts of his letter again several times, glancing over at the pictures on her bedside table to watch as Ron's image nuzzled hers - Hermione closed her eyes, craving the actual sensation.  Three more months without him seemed impossible.  Not for the first time, she let her mind travel back over the details of their last night together and, when she could no longer stand it, she picked up her quill and began to write.

 

She lay down the quill an hour later, hot in the face and breathing rather heavily.  She couldn't reread what she'd written, or she'd never send it.  It was totally honest and so full of adoring, intimate remarks that Hermione was seized by a fit of nerves after tying it to Pig's ankle - she snatched it back and very nearly tore it to pieces.  But in the end, she let Pig have it, and when the little owl was irretrievably gone, Hermione climbed into bed feeling scarlet all over - even though it was Ron, it felt weird to put such personal things on paper. 

 

But it was also strangely exciting.  Hermione hugged her pillow, her pulse racing as she imagined him reading what she'd written.  Would he be shocked?  Would he write back? 

 

Oh, he'll write back, said a knowing voice in the back of her head.  Hermione fell asleep, grinning a bit wickedly.

 

~*~

 

Ron sighed and stretched and wrapped his arms and legs around Hermione, who was doing something terrific to the spot just under his ear.  He muttered something fairly indecent to her and she laughed and pressed against him.  He could feel the whole shape of her through her clothes, but it wasn't enough - the clothes were unacceptable - he trailed his hands down her sides and over her hips -

 

"Hey, get up."

 

Ron groaned, and swatted at the hand that was shaking his shoulder.  "Geroff," he mumbled to the unwelcome intruder, trying to get back to Hermione - but she was quickly slipping away.

 

The intruder shook him again.  "Come on, last week you said you wanted to go to London early for this.  You told me to wake you up on my way out."  The voice paused, and then its owner gave Ron's arm a swift thump. 

 

"Ow - damn!"

 

"Get up.  I've got to go and I want to be sure you're awake."

 

Ron gave up on finding Hermione again; she had disappeared into a lost dream.  He opened his eyes and glared blearily up at Harry, then glanced at his clock.  "It's five bollocking thirty..." he moaned, unable to believe there was such an hour. "Go away.  Go back to bed."

 

"Can't.  I have to go to Azkaban now and put in half a shift so I can get out early and give you moral support at the trial."

 

Trial.  Ron sat bolt upright.  "It's today," he muttered.  Between his night shifts at the pub, his daily work with Sirius - and the incredibly distracting letter that had come from Cortona yesterday afternoon - Ron had rather lost track of time.  He swung his legs out of bed and waited for some pre-trial nerves to hit, but perhaps it was just too early for nerves.  All he could think about was what Hermione must look like - all tan in that white thing she'd described.  He wondered if he was allowed to show up at the Thinker's house and find out.  He had to reply to Hermione’s letter and ask.  He really had to write back...

 

"See you at the Ministry."  Harry's voice interrupted his thoughts. 

 

"Oh - right.  Hey, thanks for coming."

 

Harry snorted softly.  "Like I wouldn't," he said, and Disapparated. 

 

Ron had half a mind to go right back to sleep and try to find that dream again.  But even though he didn't have to be in Diagon Alley until the afternoon, he knew there was a good chance he'd sleep right through his trial if he went back to bed.  He glanced around his new room and considered that he could spend a few hours making it look respectable - there was a mess of books at one end and a mess of clothes at the other, and a few simple spells would organize all of it.  There were also about a thousand Chudley Cannons posters to hang... not that it would be much fun to stare at those, this season.  Frowning, Ron decided to ignore the disarray of the Notch, for the time being.  It was his.  He was paying for half of it.  And he'd make an enormous mess if he felt like it.

 

Cheered by the thought of never having to clean anything again for the rest of his life, Ron got dressed and made himself breakfast, rehearsing in his head the many questions and answers that he and Sirius had planned for his defense.  Sirius had also played devil's advocate during their preparation by antagonizing Ron with pointed personal remarks, as Malfoy's representative probably would.  Oddly, Ron had rather enjoyed all the practicing, and he was going to miss hanging out with Sirius during the day.  There was something satisfying about helping with the really big trials, even when Sirius asked him do really mundane searches of huge piles of parchment.

 

At eight-thirty, when he was dressed and nearly ready to leave, Ginny showed up with rings under her eyes, and hugged him.  "It's going to be fine," she said fiercely.  "I'll be up there.  I think the twins are coming, too."

 

Ron hugged her back, and tugged her ponytail.  "Thanks," he said, noting how pale she was.  She'd been looking tired a lot, lately.  "You look like someone hexed you right in the face."

 

"Oh, thanks.  I need more sleep, that's all."

 

"Harry been keeping you awake?" Ron taunted.  Lately, Harry had made very little effort to hide his regard for Ginny, and he'd spent more of his evenings at Lupin Lodge than at the Notch.  Ron hadn't felt quite comfortable taunting him about this, but Ginny was another matter.

 

Ginny went red, and smacked his arm.  "No.  It was a full moon last night, if you didn't notice, and I had to take care of Sirius."

 

"Don't you mean Remus?"

 

"No, Remus was fine.  When are you leaving for London?"

 

"In a minute.  Bill wants to give me an early pep talk, or something."

 

"Oh, I wish I could go."

 

"Too bad you have school."  Ron grinned.  "Though I can't imagine Remus is up to teaching today."

 

"He's not, but I promised to study independently," Ginny groaned.  "I'll see you up there," she said, and when she had left the Notch, Ron Disapparated, still feeling perfectly at ease. 

 

It wasn't until Diagon Alley appeared around him in a rush, full of loud noises and colorfully dressed wizards and witches, that he felt the first onrush of fear.  Ron peered in the direction of the Ministry, his heart pounding a bit harder than usual.  The trial would really happen today.  And Malfoy was really out to get him.  Ron dropped down to sit on the Gringotts steps, and dangled his arms over his knees, waiting for Bill and trying not to panic.

 

“Got a Knut?”

 

Ron’s head swiveled toward the voice, which sounded very odd.  It was young and clear as a bell, yet twisted somehow.  Hardened.  But he didn’t see anyone. 

 

“Who said that?” he asked, and peered left towards the disembodied voice.  Behind a massive white column on the side of the steps, Ron could barely see a small figure with sandy hair.  It half-emerged to glare at him.

 

Ron gaped.  The voice belonged to a boy.  But the boy was dirty and disheveled and the gleam in his eyes was unnatural for a child of his age.  He gripped the side of the column with one grimy hand and jerked his head at Ron.

 

“Spare a Knut, I said.”

 

“I...” Ron reached for his moneybag.  But something stopped him from offering change; he felt a compulsion to do something else.   “Where’re your parents?” he asked, looking around.

 

“Dead.”

 

Ron felt pity pierce him like an arrow.  “Voldemort?” he asked softly.

 

The boy tossed his head and his blue eyes flashed.  "I wasn’t there, was I?  I wouldn’t know.  I was at school, and then people tried to stick me in that dirty Children’s Home, so I ran for it.  Damned if I’ll let those bastards tell me-”

 

“Hey, there,” Ron heard himself saying gently, getting to his feet, “watch the swearing.”  He smiled inwardly; Hermione would faint if she could hear him say that. 

 

The boy, however, did not smile.   He was backing away from Ron.  “Don’t you tell me what to do - and sit down, don’t come near me.”

 

“How can I give you the Knut, if I stay over here?” Ron asked casually, holding one out between his thumb and forefinger.

 

The boy stopped, obviously thinking hard about this.  “You’re going to give it to me?”

 

“On my honor. If -” Ron paused.  “If you sit here a minute first and answer some questions.”  He held the boy’s gaze, not knowing why he didn't just give the kid some money.  He only knew, looking at the orphan before him, that his own troubles suddenly seemed very far away.  As a child, he’d always felt conspicuously poor - but to live on the street, to be covered with filth, to have to ask strangers for money enough to eat... it was unthinkable. 

 

The boy was considering him, calculating.  “On your honor?”

 

Ron crossed his heart. 

 

The boy smirked.  “Like that means anything anymore,” he muttered.

 

“It does with me,” Ron said seriously. He waited, watching the boy’s expression change from bitterness, to disbelief, to defensive curiosity.  He took one, then two steps closer.

 

“How many questions do I have to answer?”

 

“Well, let’s say three.  Here’s one - how old are you?”

 

“Twelve.”

 

Ron’s heart ached.  This boy should be starting his second year in school, yet here he was.  Ron remembered the summer after he had turned twelve.  He had returned to the Burrow and complained about how hot it was, and how boring.  He had spent most of the time telling Ginny about Harry, and then telling her to shut up about Harry, making fun of Percy, and fishing tadpoles out of his soup, courtesy of Fred and George.  He’d busted Harry out of the Dursleys’ in a flying car, and he’d written Hermione taunting letters.  They'd gone back to school in that car - crashed into the Whomping Willow - got in horrible trouble.  It had been wonderful.   This boy, on the other hand, looked as far from wonderful as it was possible to be.

 

“All right,” he said, forcing his voice to stay even.  “Where have you been sleeping?”

 

The boy blinked, and his face closed off again.  “I can’t tell you that.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“You’ll turn us in.”

 

Us.  Then there were more of them.  Ron shook his head.  “I never would.” 

 

Something about him must have been convincing.  The boy crossed his arms.  “You do and I’ll get you.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

“Cellar down Knockturn Alley.  That’s all I’m saying.  And you’ve only got one more question.”  The boy leapt down three steps at once, swaggered insolently up to Ron and held his hand out, palm-up.  “Ask it,” he said.

 

Ron was reminded fiercely of two people.  The first was Draco Malfoy; this boy’s attitude could have doubled for his and Ron was tempted to ask if the Malfoys were any relation.  But the second was Harry.  The boy’s demeanor was as self-sufficient as Harry’s - he was twelve, frightened, and parentless because of Voldemort.  Ron thought hard about his third question, wondering how much he could make of it.

 

“I trust you,” he said, crouching down to look the boy dead in the eyes, “so I’m giving you this now.  But I know you’ll stay for the third question, and I know you’ll answer it honestly.”  He put the Knut in the boy’s hand, where small, dirty fingers gripped greedily around it. 

 

The boy gave a narrow laugh. “Slow, aren’t you?” he spat, and before Ron could say anything, the boy raced nimbly down the steps and sprinted toward Knockturn Alley. 

 

"I've seen him before."  Bill had appeared on the stairs; he pointed at the boy's disappearing back.  "Poor kid."

 

"Yeah," said Ron, feeling rather stupid.  He should have asked the boy's name first, not his age.  And he shouldn't have trusted him when he'd looked that desperate.  "Damn."

 

"I know, but he won't be helped.  He's run away from St. Mungo's - there are a bunch of them that won't stay in the home.  It's awful to see."  He looked Ron up and down.  "Did you bring a change of clothes for your trial?" he asked bluntly.

 

"What's wrong with these?"  Ron gestured defensively to the brown robes he was wearing - they were good enough for work, they were long enough, and they bore no visible stains or patches.  At least he wasn't Harry, going about in Gryffindor robes. 

 

"Well, they're not very formal, are they?"

 

"Malfoy's not my date to the ball," Ron muttered.  "I'm not dressing up for him."

 

"No, but you'd better dress up for the Council," Bill advised in a knowing-elder-brother voice that made Ron want to hit him. 

 

"Fine.  I'll go home and get my dress robes."

 

"Not dress robes, Ron. Formal robes.  For professional occasions."

 

Ron snorted.  "For your information, I wear these to work - sorry if they're not professional enough for your tastes.  And you're one to talk, going to work in dragon hide and vests - and keeping a ponytail," he added for good measure.

 

Bill raised his eyebrows, but didn't retort.  "Look, I'm just trying to help," he said, less demandingly.  "Want to stop by my flat and grab robes of mine?"

 

"I'm too tall for yours," Ron said, mildly pleased that this was true.  He would always be the youngest brother, but he had grown up the tallest.

 

"So we'll go to Madam Malkin's," Bill said easily.  "I'll get you some."

 

"I can get my own."  Ron fingered the money pouch in his pocket.  His bank vault was much emptier since he'd paid his first month's rent, but he wasn't letting his brothers buy him robes forever.  He followed Bill to Madam Malkin's, where he was surprised to see an unfamiliar shopkeeper bustling about between the mannequins.

 

"I'm Madame Mbaye," the woman said pleasantly, coming towards them.  "Don't be shocked, boys, my sister's on holiday and I'm helping her out.  Now... what color to put with that nice red hair..." She looked them both over as if contemplating eating them, and Ron blushed.  "I've got just the thing," she purred, and disappeared into the back of the shop.

 

Ron nudged Bill.  "She fancies us," he muttered, but Bill wasn't paying attention.  His eyes were fixed on something across the shop, and Ron followed his brother's gaze to where it rested on a brilliant, pale sort of light.  But it wasn't light at all - it was a sheet of hair.  A very beautiful, very familiar sheet of hair. 

 

"Holy crap," Ron mumbled.  "Fleur Delacour."

 

Bill turned on him.  "You know her?" he demanded.

 

"You want an introduction?" Ron asked slyly, and went into a fit of immature laughter.  Fleur had that effect on him, he supposed.  "Hey," he called out, when he'd got control of himself.  "Fleur - hi!"

 

"Don't!" Bill hissed. 

 

But it was too late; she had turned around, and Ron grinned at Bill's positively purple complexion as Fleur's eyes flitted disdainfully over him, then focused on Ron.

 

"Ron!" she called in return.  "But 'ow nice!"  She picked up her purse and shopping bag, and unnecessarily ran a hand over her hair before coming toward him and kissing him on both cheeks.  Ron knew he was glowing red, but he didn't care. 

 

"Nice to see you too," he said, as evenly as he could.  "This is my brother, Bill - Bill, this is Fleur Delacour.  She was the Beauxbatons champion at the Triwizard Tournament."

 

Fleur acknowledged Bill with a curt nod and returned her full attention to Ron, who felt highly gratified.  It was usually the other way around. 

 

"What're you doing in London?" he asked.

 

"I 'elped your brother Sharlie wiz his dragons, and now I am 'elping wiz enchantments at Gringotts."

 

"Ah," Ron said, smiling widely.  So Bill had seen her before, and hadn't worked up the nerve to talk to her.  "Well, you're working with my brother, then.  He's a Curse Breaker for the bank.  You should show her around, Bill."  Ron elbowed his brother in the ribs.  "Make a few introductions, give her a tour of Diagon Alley, that sort of thing."

 

"Oh, I know my way around," Fleur said airily, giving Bill a wide, white, catlike smile.  "I do not need 'elp.  But," she said, turning back to Ron, "you are terribly sweet."  She leaned forward and kissed both Ron's cheeks once more.  "I must go.  I 'ope we will see each other again - you work in Diagon Alley?"

 

"He's on trial at the Ministry courthouse," Bill answered, and Ron tensed with embarrassment.  He made a note to stop by Fred and George's shop soon, and find something horrible to send to Bill's flat.

 

But Fleur's Cheshire smile faded; she looked instantly concerned.  "You are all right?" she asked Ron, putting a hand on his arm.  "Were you accused in ze war?"

 

Ron stopped glaring at Bill and soaked up Fleur's sympathetic look.  "No, it's nothing that serious, but thanks.  I'll be fine."

 

"What is zat?" she asked, frowning at his temple.  "Were you 'urt?"

 

Ron looked blankly at her, then remembered that his temple had been torn open when Malfoy had hit him with the ring.  Even though Hermione had treated it properly, it had never really healed.  He reached up and felt the scab to make sure it wasn't bleeding,.  "Nah," he answered.  "That's nothing."

 

Fleur looked relieved. She gave him another winning smile.  "Well, ze next time you come by Gringotts, ask for me and we will 'ave lunch."

 

"Yeah, all right," Ron said, and though he knew he was grinning stupidly, he couldn't stop himself.  "I'll bring Harry, if you like."

 

"Oh!  Yes, bring 'Arry.  You both..." Fleur trailed off, looking suddenly distant and sad.  She shook her lovely head.  "You were both very kind to me, at 'Ogwarts," she said quietly.  "I 'ave not forgotten it."  She went absently towards the door and pushed through it.

 

"Say hi to Gabrielle for me," Ron called after her, but he wasn't sure if she'd heard.  The door swung shut.  The next thing he felt was a very un-brotherly punch in the shoulder; Ron hollered in pain, and turned on Bill.  "What the hell is wrong with you?" he yelled.

 

"Her little sister disappeared months ago -" Bill said hotly, baring his teeth like a guard dog.  "Gabrielle was abducted from Mont. Ste. Mireille - way to bring it up, you halfwit."  He glowered at Ron. 

 

"How was I supposed to know that?" Ron asked angrily, and then stopped.  "Wait a minute.  How do you know?"

 

Bill went back to looking purple, and said nothing.

 

"Ohhh..." Ron rubbed the sore spot on his shoulder, suddenly understanding.  "Got a thing for her, have you?  Done your research on her?"

 

Bill looked daggers at Ron, but shut his mouth on whatever curse was about to come out of it when Madame Mbaye bustled back into the room with her arms full of fabric. 

 

"Did I hear fighting?" she asked, giving a low, silky laugh.  "Now boys, play nice.  Here's what I think you ought to be wearing - stunning pattern.  Just the thing.  Very animal, you know, very primal."  She held a huge swatch of cloth up to Ron, toga-style.  The cloth was orange and blue and brown, decorated with black African-styled patterns, and the whole thing shimmered with gold flecks.  "Oh, now that is nice," she mused.  "Gold brings out that hair of yours very nicely."

 

Ron stepped away from the toga and shook his head.  "I just need a set of professional robes," he said quickly.  "Blue or black.  Or really dark green.  Something solid."

 

"Give him maroon," came a voice from the door.  It was Harry, dressed in full dragon riding attire, and looking much older for it.  "Hey, Ron.  I just saw Fleur and she told me you were here.  What did I miss?"  Harry looked very tired, and he was rubbing his temples, but he managed to smirk.  "Did you ask her out again, or anything?"

 

"You... asked her out?" Bill said, looking at Ron in disbelief.

 

"Sure," Ron said, trying to sound like he had once made a practice of dating veela.  "Before Hermione and me, of course."

 

Harry sniggered, but didn't elaborate, and Ron shot him a thankful look.

 

"Maroon?" Madame Mbaye looked a bit crestfallen.  "Well, I suppose I can find something plain..."

 

"Not maroon," Ron corrected in a panic.  "Anything else."

 

The shopkeeper's sister disappeared into the back again with a sigh.  She returned with something she called "military blue" and held it up to Ron. "Well, you do make the dull colors look nice," she finally said, making him blush again.  "Anything for your brother, while I'm at it?"  Or your friend?"  She pointed to Harry.  "That's a dashing ensemble, dear," she said appreciatively.  "Very daring.  Something else like that, perhaps?"

 

"Er - plain black robes," Harry answered.  "Two sets."

 

Madame Mbaye was finished with the tailoring in a very short time, and Ron changed into his new robes in the dressing area.  He checked himself from every angle and puffed up proudly - Bill might have been right about the professional thing.   He looked damn good.  And it might have been his imagination, but when he, Harry and Bill stepped back out into Diagon Alley, he thought a couple of girls turned to look at him.  He wondered what Hermione would think of him, dressed up like this.  She'd always glowed whenever he'd worn dress robes for anything, and these were even better somehow.  More adult.  Ron set his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height.

 

At the bottom of the Gringotts steps, however, he checked his watch and slumped nervously.  Noon.  Trial in an hour.  His insides fluttered unpleasantly. 

 

"What are you doing all the way over here?" someone cried from halfway down the street.  Ron shielded his eyes from a sudden glare of sunlight and saw Ginny hurrying toward them.  "I thought you'd be down by the Ministry, by now - I was worried."

 

Bill grabbed Ginny and hugged her, lifting her feet off the ground.  "Hi, Ginner Pinner," he said fondly.  Ginny shared a private look of disgust with Ron; he raised his eyebrows in sympathy.  "Did you get those potions ingredients all right?"

 

"Yes, it all worked out.  Thanks for the help."  When Bill let her go, she stepped close to Harry, who put his arm around her and rested his hand on her waist.

 

Ron stared.  That was new.  He'd seen them touch now and again at home, but never in public - not that it bothered him so much.  Ginny fingered the thick goggles that hung around Harry's neck, and tugged at the cords that hung out of his vest, all the while asking him questions about his day.  Harry answered easily, handing her a pair of Omnioculars so that she could play back a few moments of dragon riding for herself, if she wanted to.  He looked amazingly levelheaded for having spent so many days around Dementors, and if Ginny was the person keeping his spirits up, then Ron supposed it was all right.  She looked more worn out than Harry did, really.

 

Bill didn't seem to notice that his little sister's love life was developing right in front of his face.  He kept looking up the stairs towards the bank as if expecting to see someone.  Ron wondered if he was trying to catch another glimpse of Fleur, and realized that he hadn't really heard what Bill had said earlier.  Fleur's sister... Mont.  Ste. Mireille... it was awful.  Fleur had been mad about her sister.  Ron's thoughts turned automatically to Percy and he sighed quietly to himself.

 

"Aw, don't cry, ickle Ronniekins - we're here!"

 

"And we've got ammunition." 

 

Fred and George grinned around at their startled faces.  Both their pairs of eyebrows shot up at the sight of Harry's proximity to Ginny.

 

"Ammunition?" Ron demanded, hoping to distract them from saying something that would embarrass them all. 

 

The twins turned back to him.  "That's right," Fred cackled, "our latest -"

 

"- and greatest brainchild," finished George, fingering his goatee with the air of a mad scientist.

 

"Don't you dare try anything in the courtroom," Ron began, but Harry looked delighted.

 

"What is it?"

 

"A Glumbumble," George replied, pulling a small, glass jar out of the pocket of his robes and holding it up.  Inside it buzzed a flying insect, furry-bodied and gray.

 

Ron rolled his eyes impatiently.  "You hardly invented that," he said.  There was a nest of the things inside one of the hollow trees, near the Burrow.

 

"Ugh, I used to get stung by those," Ginny said.  "They make you feel sad for days."

 

"Ah yes," Fred said.  "They induce melancholy.  Make a person slow-witted, depressed, and distracted."

 

"Well get it out of here," Bill said, suddenly coming back to the conversation.  "We all need our wits this afternoon."

 

"I've also brought a few of these," Fred said cheerfully, pulling a small, clear bag of nettles out of his pocket.  "They eat them."

 

"So we Banish a few nettles into old Malfoy's helmet-hair -"

 

"Release the Glumbumble -"

 

"And watch him get stung and fail miserably on the stand," George finished triumphantly. 

 

Fred put a hand over his heart.  "It's a disgrace, how these creatures manage to get into highly-classified Ministry areas.  We'll have to have a word with Dad about security."

 

"You can't do that," Bill protested.

 

"It's interfering with the testimony of a witness," Ron added, but he had to admit it was a pretty good idea. 

 

"I'll Banish the nettles," said Harry, taking them from Fred.

 

"Don't worry," Fred said, smiling at Bill's look of disapproval.  "We'll only do this as a last resort."

 

"You're jeopardizing Dad's position -"

 

"Oh, let Mum give us the speech, Bill, honestly.  She misses it so."

 

"We've got to go meet Mum, actually," Ginny said, checking her watch.  "She wants us all near her in the courtroom."

 

The Weasley children gave a collective groan.

 

"I think Penny might be bringing Leo, too," Ginny added, and everyone perked up at that and started walking toward the courthouse.  Ron wished he could hold the baby on the stand - maybe he'd get sympathy points.  It was bizarre, to think that they were all walking to a trial in which he was the accused.  He couldn't get used to the idea that there might be consequences for an action that had never been his fault.  How helpless Sirius must have felt, when they'd convicted him.  Ron shuddered.

 

"You all right?" Ginny asked quietly, edging close to him.  She kept one arm tucked into Harry's, and gave Ron her other one.  He took it. 

 

"Fine," he said stiffly, looking around absently, expecting something to appear.  He wasn't sure what he was looking for. 

 

"You must miss Hermione," Ginny said, and leaned her head on his shoulder.  "I'm sure she's thinking of you."

 

He'd been looking for Hermione.  Ron glanced at Fortescue's as they passed it, and at Ollivander's - he remembered when she'd come with him to get another wand.  Everything here was loaded with memories of her.  Especially Flourish and Blotts, where the windows were now decorated for autumn, piled high with spell books and fiction.  Hermione loved that place.  Maybe after the trial, he'd stop in and get her a book to send back with his letter.  She hadn't taken any books with her to Cortona - she must be starving for a good read by now - no matter what he sent, she'd probably read it out of desperation.  Ron cheered himself up thinking about the different Quidditch periodicals that he could send her.  She'd finally know what he was talking about half the time.

 

They'd reached the bottom of the courthouse steps.  Everyone cleared a sort of half circle around Ron, and looked at him with grave, supportive faces. 

 

"Charlie would be here if he could," Bill said.  "But he's got to ride Draco's shift.  He says you'll be brilliant, all right?"

 

Ron nodded.

 

"Good luck," Fred said soberly.

 

"Clobber him," added George.

 

"I love you," Ginny said, sounding a little choked up.  She hugged him, and Ron reddened.  It wasn't often that the Weasley siblings got serious like that. "He hasn't got a chance."

 

"Malfoy won't win," Harry said flatly, reaching out and clapping Ron's shoulder when Ginny let go.  "And if he does, I've brought the Invisibility Cloak."  He patted his satchel.  "I'll smuggle you out."

 

Ron tried to smile.  Everyone was being really great.  But there was only so much they could do to help - this was his problem - and he had a sudden idea of what Harry must have felt like, all through school.  Everyone all around, ready to assist with something they couldn't touch.  It was a lonely feeling.

 

"Ron!"

 

Ron swiveled and looked up the steps; Sirius was bounding down them at top speed, looking haggard but jubilant.  His black hair swung in his eyes and he victoriously brandished a scroll of parchment in the air. 

 

"You won't believe what's happened - I almost didn't believe it myself -"

 

Ron's heart sped up.  "What is it?"

 

"Malfoy's fallen off his dragon and drowned?" Fred asked hopefully.

 

Ginny glared at him.  "That's not funny," she hissed, touching Harry's arm.

 

"Malfoy," Sirius said, coming to the bottom of the steps and grinning, "has decided to take his representative's advice."

 

Ron wasn't sure he was hearing things right.  "What advice was that?" he asked shakily.

 

"To drop the charges."  Sirius handed Ron the scroll he was holding; Ron unrolled it and scanned it, holding his breath.  It wasn't possible that Malfoy was passing up an opportunity to make him suffer - but here it was, in print, with Malfoy's signature at the bottom.  He barely had time to finish reading before Bill grabbed the scroll and read aloud, confirming what Sirius had said.

 

George and Fred gave a unanimous, earsplitting whoop. Ginny and Harry each grabbed one of Ron's arms and started congratulating him, relief heavy in their voices.  Ron barely heard any of it.  There was a buzzing disbelief in his brain.  Something didn't feel right.

 

"Really?" he asked Sirius. It wasn't real.  It couldn't just be over.  Malfoy was not the type. "But why?"

 

"No details, they said, and he won't speak with us - but I reckon he's scared.  I had told his representative to make him aware of all our evidence, and to tell him that a further investigation into his personal affairs would follow our countercharges."

 

"Someone should investigate him," Harry said darkly.

 

Ron fidgeted uneasily.  It wasn't a good enough explanation.  "So that's... it?" he asked slowly.  "I can just - what - go home?"

 

"Go home!?" George demanded indignantly.

 

"You're going out with us and celebrating!" Fred declared.

 

"I'd say that's in order," Bill agreed, rolling up the parchment and handing it back to Sirius.  "This is fantastic news.  Good on you, Ron.  I'll go up and tell Mum -"

 

"No need," said Sirius.  "I got in touch with your mother before she arrived and she was so relieved that she burst into tears."  He laughed.  "Your dad looked tempted to do the same thing.  Oh and Ron - another bit of good news."

 

The first announcement hadn't sunk in yet, but Ron nodded dazedly at Sirius.  "Yeah?"

 

"The Courtenay trial is over.  She was proved innocent this morning - your theory worked out.  The same officer assigned every Death Eater she defended - he's the one we want. Not Darla.  She went home today for the first time in four months." 

 

"One innocent prisoner released," Ron said, vaguely realizing what that must mean to Sirius.  "I'm glad to hear it."

 

"Two in one day, if we count you," Sirius replied, looking younger and more energetic than he had in weeks, which was especially amazing considering that the full moon had been just last night, and he probably hadn't been able to sleep.

 

"Come on," said Fred.  "Leaky Cauldron.  Let us memorialize this moment with a few fine butterbeers."

 

"Well spoken," said George, a smile brightening his face. 

 

"Not the Leaky Cauldron," Ron said, snapping out of his daze.  He wasn't going to jail - he didn't even have a monetary fine.  Hermione was going to be ecstatic.  He was ecstatic.  His unease evaporated and left him feeling giddy.  "London's overpriced, we're going to the Snout's Fair and drinking free."  His heart was growing lighter by the second.  "Goldie wanted to know the verdict first thing, so he'd know whether to hire another bartender or not."  He smiled.  "Guess he doesn't have to, poor old man.  He's stuck with me.  Let's go tell him, Harry."

 

"Wish I could," Harry said, giving Ron an apologetic look.  "But as there's no trial, I should go put in the other half of my shift."

 

"Oh, can't you stay?" Ginny pled softly.  "You should come with us."

 

"I would, but I don't think Malfoy's going back and it's not fair to..." He looked torn for a moment, but came swiftly to a decision.  "I'm sorry, Ron.  We'll celebrate later, all right?"

 

"'All right," Ron said, clipping Harry on the arm.  "I'll have one for you, in the meantime."

 

"Thanks."  Harry pulled his wand out of a funny pocket on the side of his trouser leg, and glanced at Ginny.  She still looked disappointed but, as Ron watched, Harry leaned over and gave her a very quick - but very definite - kiss on the cheek.  "See you soon," he said, and hardly had a chance to turn red before Disapparating.

 

Sirius and Bill both stared at Ginny, their eyes wide.  Neither seemed to believe what he had just seen.

 

"Whoa-ho-ho!" Fred crowed, pointing at her.  "Well, it looks like somebody's investment is finally paying off!"

 

"I remember all the words to their first valentine," George chimed in, giving a fake sniffle and wiping at his eyes.  "Touching stuff, that.  Ahem.  His eyeees are as greeeen -"

 

"I'll meet you in Stagsden," Ginny muttered to Ron, red to the roots of her hair.  "I have to go by Floo powder - I'll use Dad's office."  She turned and raced to the Ministry's steps without looking back.

 

"Well."  Sirius still looked a bit shocked; his eyes followed Ginny until she disappeared.  "It's good that this is all cleared up - if you'll all excuse me, I need to start working on -"

 

But Ron didn't let him finish.  "No you don't," he said.  "You're coming with us."

 

Sirius smiled patiently.  "I can't, I have -"

 

"Sirius, come on.  You need a break, and  - here, I'll make you a deal.  I'll help you make up for lost time, I'll keep on coming up here with you until you're caught up."  Ron said all of this very fast, and hoped very much that Sirius would agree.  Partly because he really did think that the man needed a break - but mostly because he didn't want to be finished with trial work.  He'd looked forward to it every day for weeks, and considering that it meant getting up before sunrise, he supposed it had to mean something that he actually liked it. 

 

Sirius looked like he was about to protest, but gave into the four Weasleys around him, who looked like they might use force if he tried to disagree.  "Fine," he said, "but I'm warning you, if you're not careful, you won't have any time left to work at that pub.  I'll wear you out."

 

"Fine with me," Ron said.  The busier he was, the less time there would be for missing Hermione.  "Let's go, Ginny's going to beat us, and I want to be the one to tell Goldie the good news."

 

Fred and George moved on either side of Sirius to assure that he Disapparated, and when he did, they followed suit.  Bill went next, leaving Ron alone at the bottom of the courthouse steps.  He looked up at the massive building, amazed at his luck.  It was going to be great, writing to Hermione that the case had been thrown out.  It was going to be great writing back to that letter of hers, full stop.  She wasn't the only one who could write like that - he took a moment to imagine a possible response, and her possible reaction.

 

When Ron Apparated into the Snout's Fair, his ears were still pink.

 

 

 

***

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