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| Harry Potter and the Year of Decision by -> Stoneheart Reviews (65) | Updated : 20/07/07 | Published : 20/06/07 | Romance/Drama | Rating: PG13 This chapter was posted on: 19/07/07 |
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The deadline is closing in. Where’s a Time-Turner when you really need one? I apologize if this chapter (and the one that follows) isn’t quite up to scratch. I’m sure I could make them better, but I trust that the essence will come through all the same. Herein Hermione will begin her quest for the truth, and we all know Hermione always does what she sets out to do. Well, except when she botched things at the end of HBP. But that itself is one of the clues that will lead Hermione to the truth. That’s the signpost up ahead. You are about to enter...The Flashback Zone. Harry awoke early on Wednesday morning with a smile on his face. His thoughts were filled with memories of yesterday’s Quidditch practice. But it was not his successful catches of the Snitch that buoyed his spirits; nor was it the Snitch itself, which was now officially the best present Hermione had ever given him, easily surpassing the Broomstick Servicing Kit he’d received for his thirteenth birthday. He would have named it his best present ever if not for Sirius’ gift of his Firebolt (even then, it was a close contest, as both had been gifts of love). It was Hermione herself who inspired Harry’s smile. The kiss they’d shared yesterday had flung open another window to the past, a past not so far removed that its images were not as fresh as if they had happened an hour ago. Following that first real kiss in the Gryffindor common room (the one in the deserted classroom didn’t quite count in Harry’s eyes), Harry and Hermione had done as they’d planned and taken a walk on the Hogwarts grounds, along the edge of the Forbidden Forest beyond Hagrid’s cabin. They had walked and talked for over an hour, trying to make sense of the sudden change in their lives. Or perhaps it was not so sudden as they’d thought at first. Looking back, they reflected on countless times when one of them seemed to be struggling with feelings that went beyond the friendship that had bonded them together for so long. But for one reason or another, those hidden feelings remained dormant – or at least, in Hermione’s case, simply unrevealed. “It’s very odd,” Hermione ruminated as she and Harry walked unhurriedly along the edge of the Forbidden Forest. “There were times when I knew you were the one – the only one. And then, I don’t why – those feelings kind of got turned around.” “As far as our dreams will carry us,” Harry repeated, smiling at the warm feeling spreading through him. Turning onto his side, Harry saw that Ron’s bed was empty. He wondered why Ron hadn’t shaken Harry awake to join him in whatever endeavor was on his day’s agenda. Maybe it’s something he wants to do alone, Harry thought. But what? Had it something to do with Luna? But that was probably no more than wishful thinking. Still, where had Ron gone? Harry dressed quickly, which task was made easier by his adoption of wizarding attire here at the Burrow. He was becoming more and more at ease dressing in non-Muggle fashion. Not that he’d had much opportunity to develop anything resembling a sense of style while living with the Dursleys. Wearing Dudley’s hand-me-downs made him look like a homeless person who’d robbed the first clothesline he’d found to avoid running around starkers. Hermione, on the other hand, always dressed elegantly, though without ostentation. Her conversion to wizards’ robes was a step backward in Harry’s judgment. It was next to impossible to accentuate either feminine or masculine attributes in loose, flowing robes. That, Harry realized, was one reason that the wizarding world was not confined by gender boundaries as the Muggle world was. Everyone dressed more or less equally, granting variations in grandeur by the selection of a more expensive fabric or a bit of decorative trim here and there. Harry smiled as he remembered the frayed lace cuffs on Ron’s first set of dress robes. But that was not to say that robes could not reflect the deeper aspects of the one wearing them. Hermione’s floaty blue dress robes which she’d worn to the Yule Ball had clung to her every curve in tantalizing fashion. Even swept up as he had been by his role as a Triwizard Champion (and his slightly sour mood over losing Cho to Cedric), Harry had been stunned at the beauteous aspect Hermione presented that night. Indeed, he’d not even recognized Krum’s date as Hermione until the four champions came together for the first dance of the Ball. How lovely she’d looked that night. Looking back now, he wondered how he could ever have thought of Hermione as anything but beautiful. But that was only his natural bias talking. To someone in love, the object of that love must ever be the most beautiful girl in the world. Hermione did not need elegant dress robes, nor Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion, to make her more beautiful in Harry’s eyes. Hermione’s beauty came from within. If Hermione walked in right now dressed in a dustbin bag, with stinksap dripping from her face and her hair looking like a broom tail after a disastrous Wronski Feint, she would still be the most beautiful witch in the world to Harry. Harry was of a mind to go downstairs for breakfast, but he remembered that he had another, more important, chore to attend to first. Walking down one floor, he entered the twins’ room and negated the protective barrier surrounding his cauldron with a wave of his wand. His Advanced Potion-Brewing book lay open as he’d left it yesterday, and he read down the list of steps until he reached the one he’d marked in pencil. He checked the specifics of that step, then turned and peered into his cauldron. The potion was bubbling softly, the blue flames crackling underneath with a soft, steady hiss. He nodded. The potion was exactly as it should be. He moved to the next line and noted the next ingredient. This he selected from his potions stores and measured carefully on his brass scales. He added the fine powder (ground unicorn horn) to the potion and stirred it slowly in the prescribed manner. The potion turned from deep blue to a pale green, exactly as the book said it should. Potion-brewing wasn’t so difficult without Snape’s constant badgering, Harry reflected. Even Neville Longbottom had achieved a passing mark in his O.W.L. examination, an accomplishment so remarkable that even Ludo Bagman wouldn’t have taken a bet on it at any odds. Suddenly Harry’s head jerked up. Neville! He’d been so immersed in his thoughts about his own birthday tomorrow, he’d forgot that today was Neville's birthday! Harry knew that Neville had never found a really close friend at Hogwarts. Dean and Seamus had become mates, as had Harry and Ron. That was not to say that someone couldn’t find a friend outside his own dormitory. Ginny had found a friend in Luna, who was in a different House, though Harry reflected that, as they were already neighbors, that might not be a good example. Ginny had likewise found a non-Gryffindor boyfriend before turning to Dean Thomas. Even then, Ginny and Dean were in different years, proving that Neville could have found a companion outside the simple boundaries of his dorm. But Harry had never heard Neville mention such a friend. That meant that, in all likelihood, Neville had never received a birthday card from any of his schoolmates. He would likely have got some from his aunts and uncles, but that wasn’t the same as being remembered by his peers. Assured that his potion was coming along as it should (the next step wasn’t due until this evening), Harry restored the protective spell and ran upstairs. He opened his trunk and dug through his odds and ends until he found what he was looking for. It was a birthday card Harry had bought in Diagon Alley. It featured a picture of a lion that roared when its head was touched by one’s finger (contact with the envelope did not trigger the effect). The card further delivered a spoken birthday greeting when it was opened. These were limited-duration spells, like the rosette Ron had bought at the Quidditch World Cup that shouted out the names of the Irish National Team. By the end of the day, the spell was wearing off and the players' names were barely audible. The card Harry had purchased for Neville had been opened only once, a demonstration by the clerk to show Harry the nature of the spell. Now safely in its envelope, the card was good for many more roars and birthday greetings. He would have to open it once more, of course. A card was worthless unless it was signed. Harry intended that everyone sign it, himself, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. Though Ginny was not a friend in the same sense as the rest of them, they had both gone with Harry to the Ministry a year ago on their ill-fated rescue mission. And even before that, Ginny had been Neville’s date at the Yule Ball (he’d asked her after Hermione turned him down). All things considered, Harry thought it only proper that she add her name to theirs before he sent it off. But there was a problem. Hedwig had not yet returned. This gave Harry cause for worry. He knew that Hedwig had often been gone for days at a time. Still, these were dangerous days, and who was to say that Voldemort might not harm Hedwig to get back at Harry? It would not be the first time. As Hermione had recalled in the paddock yesterday, Hedwig had been attacked at Hogwarts in Harry’s fifth year. Luckily, Professor Grubbly-Plank had fixed Hedwig's injured wing, leaving her as good as new. But what happened once could happen again, and Harry would not rest easily until he saw Hedwig back on her perch where she belonged. In the meantime, there was always Pigwidgeon. The little owl would be keen for such an important mission, Harry mused with an inner smile. Harry tucked the card into his robes, ready to be pulled out and signed when the opportunity arose. Upon reflection, he decided that he should have everyone sign the card together. The spell infusing the card would be maximized if it were opened only one more time before being sent off. Harry walked downstairs and into the kitchen, where he found Mrs. Weasley cleaning the kitchen with her wand. The table was empty, as was the top of the stove. Spotting Harry enter, Mrs. Weasley saw the disappointment on his face, and she smiled. “Not to worry, dear,” she said. “There’s a warm plate in the oven, waiting for you. Third setting.” Smiling his thanks, Harry walked over to the stove and turned the oven dial to the third position. He opened the oven, where he found a plate of sausage and eggs waiting. As Mrs. Weasley had promised, the plate was warm, but not too hot to touch. Harry carried it to the table and sat down. Already Mrs. Weasley was pouring him a glass of orange juice. “You’re spoiling me, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry grinned as he raised a sausage to his mouth. “That’s a mother’s job, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said pleasantly. “If you want anything else, just ask.” “Thanks,” Harry said. As he ate, Harry mused on Mrs. Weasley’s words. A mother’s job. This was not the first time Harry’d got the notion that Mrs. Weasley regarded him as another son to add to the six she already had. She’d said as much when Harry had attended his first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix at Sirius’ house. During the discussion about how much information Harry would be allowed, Sirius had remonstrated, “He’s not your son, Molly,” whereupon she’d retorted, “He’s as good as.” Harry ate quickly, though not without savoring every bite, and went outside, thanking Mrs. Weasley on his way out. She merely smiled in a motherly fashion, leaving Harry all the more certain that he’d become a member of the family as surely as if he’d been adopted. Too bad they couldn’t have adopted me for real years ago, Harry thought. I wouldn’t have had to live with the Dursleys. It would have been fantastic to belong to a real family, he mused; to have proper brothers who treated him as one of them, rather than a cousin who regarded him as nothing more than a punching bag with glasses. And he’d have grown up with a sister, too, which concept was totally alien to him. It was as complete a picture as he could have imagined. But he knew even as he thought this that, even if the Weasleys had known the Potters (which they had not), Dumbledore never would have permitted such an arrangement. The spell that had protected Harry from Voldemort’s wrath all these years was energized only by his proximity to his Aunt Petunia, Harry’s only living blood relative. He needed to spend at least a fortnight every year at Privet Drive to keep the spell in force. But that’s all done now, Harry thought. The moment he turned seventeen – at midnight tonight, in fact – that spell would lose its power and fade into nothingness. All that would stand between Harry and the Dark Lord’s revenge would be Harry himself. And there was no doubt in his mind that, sooner or later, Voldemort would attack again. I’ve got to be ready when that happens, Harry thought with grim determination. No more people are going to die because of me. Harry walked out into the back garden, casting about for a sign of his missing friends. He was hoping to find everyone together so they could all sign Neville’s card at once, but it was only Ginny and Hermione whom he found. They were sitting under a tree, talking in quiet, urgent tones. Harry wondered if he should interrupt, but the decision was taken from him when Hermione spotted him and waved her hand in invitation. Harry walked over, but did not sit down straightaway. “Are you sure I’m not intruding?” he asked. “If I didn’t want you to join us,” Hermione pointed out, “would I have invited you over?” “Bit thick sometimes, isn’t he?” Ginny said in a very audible whisper, her eyes twinkling under her fiery brows. “It’s the Y chromosome," Hermione said with an exaggerated shrug. “Nothing to be done.” Harry sat next to Hermione and asked, “So, what have you two been talking about? And if you say ‘girl stuff’ again, I’m using the Tickling Charm on both of you, and damn the Ministry owls.” “Well, it is, sort of,” Hermione said. “But it’s nothing we can’t repeat.” “Hermione’s helping me sort out things with Dean,” Ginny said. “It’s not working out between us, and I need a way to let him down easy.” “Good luck with that,” Harry said. “Nothing hits a bloke harder than a girl breaking up with him.” “Do you have any suggestions?” Hermione asked. “Well,” Harry said thoughtfully, “don’t do it in a letter. That’s the worst. And if no one else knows what you’re planning, don’t say anything to anyone until you tell him. Hearing something like that second-hand will make him think he’s not important enough that his feelings matter to you.” “Should I tell Luna?” Ginny asked. “We usually talk about stuff like this, so it might be rude of me not to discuss it with her.” “Is she trustworthy?” Harry inquired. “Sort of,” Ginny said. “I mean, she wouldn’t say anything intentionally, but she has a habit of talking without thinking – you know, like a certain brother I could name.” “Then I’d keep it between us,” Harry said. “As far as Dean goes, it might be better to tell him after the Welcoming Feast. I don’t think he’d want to hear it on the Hogwarts Express. Depending on how hard he takes it, he might want to be alone, you know, go straight up to his dorm to sort things out in his head. Can you manage to avoid him until we get to Hogwarts?” “I think so,” Ginny said, not sounding entirely certain. “He usually hangs out with Seamus, but I don’t know if Seamus is coming back this year.” After another thoughtful pause, Harry asked, “Do you have anything personal that Dean gave you last year? Something of his he wanted you to wear? I remember Dean went to Muggle school, and that’s the way blokes do things there.” “He gave me a ring,” Ginny said, looking puzzled by Harry’s question. “He said he won it playing football for his Muggle school just before he got his Hogwarts letter. When he gave it to me, he said it was the most special thing he owned. That’s why he wanted me to have it, to show I was more important to him than any object. It was so big, it kept falling off my finger, so he put it on a chain and hung it around my neck. I wore it all last year, even when things became strained between us. I didn’t feel I could just stop wearing it without explanation. I took it off as soon as I got home and put it in my dresser. I got it out today, to remind me to have this talk with Hermione.” Ginny reached into her pocket and pulled out a fine chain of time-dulled brass with a sterling silver ring hanging from it. “It’s going to be hard on him when I give it back, but it has to be done.” “Hermione,” Harry said, “do you remember a Charm Professor Flitwick showed us last year – you know, the one that Ron tried to do, but when he made to shut it off, he did the wand movement wrong, and the row ended up shattering the chandelier so it rained bits of glass on everyone?” “Brilliant, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. Turning to Ginny, she explained, “The spell turns a personal object into an early warning device. The closer the owner approaches to the object in question, the more pronounced the alarm becomes. Even though Dean gave you that ring months ago, it will still be infused with his personal aura. When the spell is activated, it will respond to his presence, letting you know when he’s drawing near. When we’re aboard the train, you can keep the ring in your pocket, and when Dean comes toward your compartment, the ring will warn you so you can hide under Harry’s Invisibility Cloak or something until he's gone.” “Can you cast the spell?” Ginny asked excitedly. “Do you need to ask?” Harry laughed. Drawing her wand, Hermione asked, “What kind of alarm should I specify? It can be sound, light or heat. A flashing light won’t do if you’re keeping the ring in your pocket. Would you prefer it sound an alarm, or just grow warmer the closer Dean gets?” “That’s the way our fake Galleons worked when we were called to D.A. meetings,” Ginny remembered. “It worked well then, and I’d rather not alert anyone else in the compartment to what’s going on.” “Heat it is,” Hermione said. Ginny held out her hand, and Hermione pointed her wand and directed a beam of amber light at the ring lying on her open palm. The ring glowed for a few moments before returning to normal. “There you are,” Hermione said as she put her wand away. “Just don’t forget to carry it with you on the train. It won’t do you much good if it’s locked away in your trunk in the storage compartment.” “Thanks,” Ginny said. “And thank you for suggesting it, Harry. I owe you.” “You can pay me back by never telling anyone what Ron did in Flitwick’s class,” Harry said. Ginny’s eyes began to glow maliciously, but Hermione said, “I can cancel the spell as easily as I cast it.” Ginny looked disappointed, but she nodded. “And don’t tell Dean I helped,” Harry said. “It could make things uncomfortable between us. I know we’re not exactly mates, and I don’t expect I’ll be sleeping in the seventh-year dorms this year, but I’ll still be seeing him often enough in the common room, even if we don’t have any classes together this year.” Ginny’s expression flickered at Harry’s mention of classes. Spotting this, Harry flashed Ginny a silent question with his eyes: Can I tell Hermione? Ginny read Harry’s question as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud and gave her head a small shake. Harry’s spirits deflated slightly. If Ginny would not give him permission to tell Hermione about his and Ginny’s probably shared classes, Harry was honor-bound to keep the secret. He wished he hadn’t made that promise, but he had, and that was that. Still, keeping any secret from Hermione was painful. It seemed a betrayal of the mutual love they had declared, the unspoken promise that they would be one in all things. “If that’s all settled,” Harry said now, “what are you planning for the rest of the day?” The question seemed to have been addressed to both of them, so neither knew who should speak first. At last Hermione said, “I’m going to tend to my potions for a bit. How is yours coming along, Harry?” “The latest step came off okay,” Harry said. “I’ll be watching it off and on, but I won’t have to do anything else until this evening. How are yours coming?” Harry knew that Hermione, in typical fashion, had begun two potions this time, borrowing Ginny’s cauldron for the second. “I’ve nearly finished the Energizing Draught,” Hermione said. “It works like the energizing spell, but it’s much easier on the system. It helps a wound to heal more quickly, as well as strengthening the system to help fight off an illness. I imagine you’ve had more than your share from Madam Pomfrey over the last few years, even if you never knew what you were drinking.” Harry grinned. “The other is a Cleansing Draught," Hermione went on. “It purifies wounds from the inside by helping the body to carry away infections and neutralize them. When the patient uses the loo directly after, the poisons go straight out harmlessly.” “TMI,” Ginny said with a curl of her upper lip. “What?” Harry said. “Too much information,” Ginny clarified. Harry and Hermione both laughed. “Well,” Harry said as he rose and offered Hermione and Ginny each a hand up, “I know what Hermione and I will be doing. What about you?” “I thought I’d go help Ron practice some more,” Ginny said. “When I told him I couldn’t come straightaway,” she smiled meaningfully at Hermione, “he said he’d go ahead and practice on his own until I could catch him up.” “What’s he practicing by himself?” Harry asked, knowing that Ron could hardly practice goalkeeping without someone to throw objects for him to deflect. “The Wronski Feint,” Ginny said, standing up and smoothing out her robes. “Dunno why he wants to learn it. It’s a Seeker’s maneuver, not a Keeper’s, isn’t it? He’ll probably muck it up. I have this picture of him ploughing into the ground, coming up with his face all covered in dirt and grass. Like as not it’ll be an improvement.” Harry smiled weakly, but before he could turn toward the Burrow, Ginny said, “Can I use your Firebolt, Harry? Only I think I should give Ron the best practice I can if he’s to be the best Keeper he can be this year. I mean, unless you’re planning on using it?” “No,” Harry said. “It’s in my trunk. It’s not locked.” “I remember,” Ginny said as she ran off toward the house. “Thanks!” Ginny was through the back door before Harry and Hermione had passed the frog pond. The door slammed loudly, and Mrs. Weasley shouted, “GINNY!” Harry and Hermione laughed out loud. They had just reached the back door when Ginny burst out, Harry’s broom in her hand. With a hurried, “Thanks again, Harry!” she was off in a streak of wind-tossed robes and dancing red hair, leaping the back hedge and vanishing over the hill. “With that kind of enthusiasm,” Harry smiled, “we’re going to win it all this year.” “Just so you remember,” Hermione admonished again, “it’s only a game.” Harry nodded as they entered the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley smiled approvingly when he closed the door carefully and soundlessly. He could almost hear her unspoken praise: You’re a good son, Harry. With his own potion bubbling merrily away, Harry followed Hermione into Ginny’s room. He saw the two cauldrons sitting a few feet apart, each suspended over a flickering blue flame. Hermione checked the first cauldron, nodded, then turned to the second. She nodded once, turning to her night table. Harry saw that it was brimming with bottles of every size, shape and color. He was forcibly reminded of Snape’s potion room under Hogwarts that had been part of the safeguards protecting the Sorcerer’s Stone. Hermione selected a bottle, poured a small portion into a phial marked with tiny measuring lines, and replaced the stopper. Returning the bottle whence it had come, she turned to pour the phial’s contents into the cauldron. Looking over her shoulder, Harry saw the potion change color subtly, from mustard to a deep saffron. “Which one is that?” Harry asked. “The Cleansing Draught,” Hermione said. “I was afraid of that,” Harry made a face. “It looks vile.” “It is,” Hermione confirmed. “From the description in the book, I imagine it tastes as bad as the Wolfsbane Potion Lupin takes every month. Not that I’ve ever tasted that, of course.” “I hope not,” Harry said. “I don’t fancy kissing a werewolf. A cat, now...” Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “You aren’t serious!” Harry gave a very Ron-like shrug. “I never thought about it at the time,” Harry said, "but looking back, that cat-face you had in our second year was very snoggable." “You’re horrible,” Hermione said, trying not to laugh. “I bet those whiskers would’ve tickled,” Harry went on. “And what you could have done with those fangs – ” “Stop it!” Hermione said, her eyes beginning to moisten with tears of mirth. “I’m just pulling your tail,” Harry grinned, pantomiming a gesture in the vicinity of Hermione’s backside. “I think you’re just right exactly as you are.” Harry swept in and kissed Hermione. Though startled, she returned the kiss without a thought. They parted with a mutual sigh, Hermione’s eyes closed, her lips drawn back in a contented smile. “I could do that all day,” Harry said. “So could I,” Hermione said. “But we wouldn’t get much work done, would we?” “Work is overrated,” Harry said. “Another Ron-ism?” Hermione smirked. “Actually, I think it was from Mundungus Fletcher,” Harry said. “Though I reckon Ron might have appropriated it somewhere along the way.” “Would you hand me the green bottle from the table, Harry?” Hermione asked as she bent her head over her cauldron. “The square one with the round stopper?” Harry’s eyes roamed over the dozens of oddly-shaped bottles crowded onto the small table until he found one that answered Hermione’s description. He extracted it from the glass jungle and held it out. Hermione took it blindly, pulling out the stopper as she continued to scrutinize the bubbling surface of her potion. Suddenly, her whole body went rigid. She turned and looked at the bottle in her hand, and her face went pale as that of a Hogwarts ghost. “What is it?” Harry said in a worried voice. “Wrong bottle,” Hermione murmured disjointedly. She replaced the bottle Harry had given her and quickly selected the right one. It was very like the first, its stopper being a bit larger, and its color a darker shade of green. When Hermione returned to her cauldron, Harry retrieved the first bottle and looked at it curiously. Though it bore no identifying marks, there was something familiar about it. Very slowly, his eyes opened wide and his mouth went slack. “Hermione?” Harry said. “Is this – ” Harry turned to find Hermione still bent over her potion, in an attitude as if she did not want to look at him. Harry’s face suddenly felt very cold in spite of the heat permeating the room from the two simmering cauldrons. “I thought you must have binned this,” Harry said. “Why did you keep it?” Turning deliberately, Hermione said in a stiff voice, “To remind myself. Every time I look at it, I remember all the things that happened over the last year and a half. And I think of all the terrible things that could have happened. Bill nearly died because of that bottle. And Dumbledore...” “I keep telling you, that wasn’t your fault,” Harry said. “Wasn’t it? You know what happened that night. I might have done something to stop it, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.” “You can’t know that for sure,” Harry said. “There were many factors involved.” “But this factor shouldn’t have been part of the equation,” Hermione said unrelentingly. “I should have known. I should have suspected. But if I can’t change what happened, I can make sure it never happens again. There’s a saying that those who don’t remember the past are condemned to repeat it. That’s why I kept it, to remind myself that I can’t ever let that past be repeated. Not ever.” Harry placed a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder. She remained silent for what seemed a full minute. But for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, she would have done to resemble her petrified state in Second Year when she’d seen the basilisk’s reflected stare in Penelope Clearwater’s pocket mirror. Slowly her face softened and she turned to Harry with a kind of resolute calm shimmering in her chocolate eyes. “Would you get my scales from my trunk, please, Harry?” Nodding, Harry opened Hermione’s trunk (like his, it was unlocked in these friendly environs) and quickly found Hermione’s brass scales. She took them with a murmured, “Thank you,” and opened a tin full of a coarse, dark powder. She dipped her finger and thumb inside and sprinkled a small measure onto the scales, her brow wrinkling as she watched the arrow move slowly toward the desired position. Turning his back on Hermione, Harry deftly plucked the square green bottle from the table and held it before him. In her way, Hermione was right. So many things had happened that night two months ago. If even one of them could have been erased by the removal of this seemingly benign object... He didn’t believe that Dumbledore’s life could have been spared. Malfoy had been determined all year to carry out Voldemort’s edict. And failing that, Snape was ever on hand to see that the Dark Lord’s orders were carried out, bound by the mark burned onto his arm. But as for the other... Harry remembered Bill’s visit to the Burrow days ago, how Hermione had kissed him, carefully avoiding the scars on his face – as if she were responsible for them. Hermione was right about one thing. None of them must ever let the happenings of that night be repeated. Harry stared at the bottle in his hand, and dark shapes began to gather in his memory, growing, engulfing his mind... The morning following Dumbledore’s death, Harry’s first thought when he climbed out of bed was to find Hermione. If ever he needed to look into her eyes, to hold her, to take comfort from her presence, it was now. But Hermione was not in the common room when Harry came down. When Harry questioned a couple of fifth-year girls sitting morosely by the hearth, one of them said she’d seen Hermione come down the girls’ staircase an hour ago and go out through the portrait hole. 
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