Master Of Dying

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/41362152.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Category: F/M, M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Character: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy, Neville
Longbottom, All the Weasleys, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Albus
Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Original Male
Character(s), Nymphadora Tonks, Theodore Nott, Death Eater
Characters, Luna Lovegood, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Alastor
"Mad-Eye" Moody, Augusta Longbottom, Amelia Bones, Rita Skeeter,
Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Dolores Umbridge
Additional Tags: Reptilia28's Don't Fear the Reaper Challenge, Time Travel Fix-It,
Soulmates, Soul Bond, POV First Person, POV Alternating, BAMF
Harry Potter, BAMF Hermione Granger, ron is a good friend, No
Bashing, Heavy Angst, Eventual Smut, Loss of Virginity, Light BDSM,
Hogwarts Fifth Year, Underage Sex, But not really because they were
of age when they time traveled, Good Draco Malfoy, Harry Has An
Attitude Problem, Good and Bad is Open to Interpretation, Hermione
Has A Harry Problem, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Hermione is
Collecting Slytherins, Shades of Grey, Smut, Shameless Smut, There
will be smut people!, one more time for the people in the back, 69 (Sex
Position), No bashing!!!, Harry Potter is Lord Potter, Harry Potter is Lord
Black, Hermione is Lord Potter, Ron Weasley is Our King, BAMF Neville
Longbottom, The Golden Trio is Codependent, Kink Exploration,
Magical Weapons
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of Master Of Dying
Collections: Harry/Hermione Time/Dimension Travel, Magical Methods, my heart is
here
Stats: Published: 2022-08-29 Updated: 2023-07-02 Words: 310,409 Chapters:
52/?

Master Of Dying
by Motherof4dragons

Summary

Harry

One minute I'm in Malfoy Manor, the next I'm being yelled at for dying.

Again

Apparently I'm rather good at it. Honestly, it's not that shocking. How am I supposed to
stay alive when it's three against an army and we're working off of faulty information?
 When Mortimer said he was sending me back again, my first response was anger. Yet
another Old Man making decisions for my life.

Until I saw the headful of riotous curls on the other side of Death's hallway.

I don't care what they do to me, but they fucked up when the killed Hermione. The next
time I die, I'm taking Riddle and all his minions with me.

AKA-My take on the Reptile28 Challenge

Notes

Let's try this again!

I want to say a HUGE thank you to the hundreds of people who have reached out to me. I
had no idea this story meant so much to people. I'm unashamed to say tears were shed.

Then it got annoying (laughs with manic hysteria). I had no choice but to upload, if only to
stop the begging LOL.

That being said, I think we all can admit the story got a little bit away from me last time. 50
chapters were about twice as many as I expected, and I'm not even done yet. There will be a
few tweaks along the way, but nothing to the main storyline, and I promise it will make
everything better.

Again, thank you so much. I can't say what all of you have done for me.

And Thanks to Scott and Keri for helping me get as far as I did.

**********************

Quick recap of the challenge.

Harry is killed sometime before the final chapter of book 7. His person grim reaper gives
him hell for dying again. He is sent back in time with his previous memories in an attempt
to finally get it right.

See the end of the work for more notes

 Chapter 1
Chapter Summary

I jerk awake from the dream with arms outstretched, desperately trying to close the
distance between Hermione and me. Ron’s screams still echo violently in my ears,
warring, and mingling with Bellatrix’s cackles.
Harry
“STOP OR SHE DIES!”

Panting, Harry peered around the edge of the sofa. Bellatrix was supporting Hermione, who
seemed to be unconscious, and was holding her short silver knife to Hermione’s throat. “Drop
your wands,” she whispered. “Drop them, or we’ll see exactly how filthy her blood is!”

Ron stood rigid, clutching Wormtail’s wand. Harry straightened up, still holding Bellatrix’s.

"I said, drop them!” she screeched, pressing the blade into Hermione’s throat: Harry saw beads of
blood appear there.

“All right!” he shouted, and he dropped Bellatrix’s wand onto the floor at his feet. Ron did the
same with Wormtail’s. Both raised their hands to shoulder height.

“Good!” she leered. “Draco, pick them up! The Dark Lord is coming, Harry Potter! Your death
approaches!"

Harry knew it; his scar was bursting with the pain of it, and he could feel Voldemort flying through
the sky from far away, over a dark and stormy sea, and soon he would be close enough to Apparate
to them, and Harry could see no way out.

Harry could not contain his scream of terror and rage as Voldemort neared closer.

The pop of Apparition was near silent in the cacophony of chaos exploding around the room.
Dobby appeared a second later, trembling out of sight of the snake-like creatures billowing
charcoal robes.

Bellatrix, safe in her master’s shadow, glides the blade across Hermione’s throat, blood welling
from the growing wound.

“Hermione!”

Hermione’s name was still on his lips, his arms reaching out to save her, when Harry saw the flash
of brilliant green light, and then felt no more. “Avada Kedavra!”

I jerk awake from the dream with arms outstretched, desperately trying to close the distance
between Hermione and me. Ron’s screams still echo violently in my ears, warring, and mingling
with Bellatrix’s cackles.

My heart is thundering so fiercely it hurts, and bile rises in the back of my throat as I fight to keep it
down.

It was a dream. It was only a dream.

I fall to my knees as my stomach heaves the remains of last night’s dinner. When I finally open my
eyes, it’s not to the vision of sick covering the rugs on a dingy tent floor. Instead, it’s to see smooth
marble tiles boxed in black and white.

“What the...?”

I scramble to my feet, reaching into my pocket for my wand.

It’s not there.

I turn in a circle like a top, finally taking in my surroundings for the first time. It’s a waiting room
of some sort. Chairs are lined up in neat little rows, though all are empty. There’s a partitioned-off
reception area at the front, with frosted glass and an unmarked door in either corner. Above the
glass is a sign with black lettering reading, ‘Death Inc. Your Time Is Up.’

I twist on my feet again, taking in the other side of the room. A door lies in either corner here as
well, with neon signs signaling Entrance and Exit only. I vault over a chair and bolt for the exit.

“Potter, Harry James,” a bored voice calls, and I freeze in my tracks before whipping towards the
sound of my name. The woman, dressed in blue doctor’s scrubs, looks between me and the file in
her hands before bursting into laughter.

“You again! I thought your name sounded familiar. Well, come with me. Mortimer will want to
talk with you.”

Mortimer?

I glance back and forth between apparent freedom and the back of the disappearing woman and
quickly make up my mind. I need to find Hermione and Ron. If I’m here, then they probably are
too. Forgetting my intention of escape, at least for the moment, I follow the woman instead.

“What is this? Where am I?” I demand, jogging to catch back up with her. When she yanks the
closing door open, I get the first look at myself. My hands are covered in dirt and blood, and I’m
wearing the same clothes as my dream.

Dream?

As soon as I notice the grime, it disappears from my skin.

Bloody hell.

“What’s going on?” I demand again, glancing left and right as I follow the stranger down the
hallway. There are people everywhere, but I can’t decide if I’m somewhere magic or muggle.
People are dressed in everything from robes to jeans to a man wearing a suit of armor. There’s no
blatant use of magic, but I can feel it in the air. For all that, it looks like an old office building from
one of Aunt Petunia’s eighties movies. The aura gives off an otherworldly feel I associate with
Hogwarts or the Ministry of Magic.

It’s the closest feeling I’ve had to this is running through the Department of Mysteries. Hallways
are lined with offices; then the walls fall away into an open floor space with cubbies. After a few
more feet, they close into hallways again. I glance at the desks, and the technology ranges from
typewriters to computers so high-tech I’ve never seen the likes of them before. One door, separated
from the others, has a dozen stickers across the front.

All with the same warning.

Keep Out.

The woman, who still won’t answer my questions, leads me into an office at the end of the
hallway, popping her gum between her teeth.

“Somebody’s in trouble,” she coos.

I run my hands over my already messy hair, trying to smooth it into some semblance of order. I
haven’t shaved in days, and a coating of scruff covers my face. She’s not looking at me, though.
She’s glancing between the angry bloke behind the desk and me with a smirk on her face.

He explodes in indignant anger as soon as we cross his threshold.

“Shut your face, Sam. This isn’t my fault! I’m not the moron who keeps getting killed!”

Killed?

I need to find Hermione and Ron and get the hell out of here.

"No,” the girl snarks, grinning ear to ear. She reminds me of Crookshanks when he’s done
something he’s particularly pleased with. It usually has to do with eating a rodent. “You’re just the
idiot who keeps letting him get killed over and over and over again. I think I’ll apply for your
position when they post it on the internal intranet.”

The bloke behind the desk rises from his seat, straightening his robe as he does so. They’re black
and remind me of a judge’s robes I’ve seen on the telly, except they have a hood. Almost like the
Grim Reaper in the Hallows Tale.

“Shove off,” the bloke snaps, then literally pushes the woman from the little office. He slams the
door behind her, and I can hear her laughter as she presumably moves back down the hallway.
“Sit,” he orders me, pointing to the chair in front of the desk. They’re nothing like the chintz
wingback chairs in Dumbledore’s office.

No.

Wooden and hard as a rock and three sizes too small, I squish myself into the seat, the edge
immediately digging into my thighs.

“What am I doing here?” I demand again, my temper beginning to rise.

“Dying. As usual. Master of Death, my ass. Whoever gave you that title in the Legacies department
needs to be fired. Sure, you’re a master of it. A master at dying. I mean, you’ve done it often
enough.”

My mind whirrs, trying to understand what he's talking about.

Master of Death?

The Hallows.

I sputter in my seat, wishing Hermione were here to explain whatever the fuck was going on. I’m
sure I look like Ron whenever someone asks him about the Goblin Wars.

“Is this about The Hallows? What the hell is going on?”

“Oh, excuse me,” the stranger remarks, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “Let me introduce
myself.” He puts a hand to his chest. “My name is Mortimer. I’m your personal Undertaker. Or I
was.” Mortimer points his finger in my face. “You’re about to get me fired. Because you’re ‘Harry
bleeding Potter.’”

Personal Undertaker?

This guy has lost the plot. I scan the room, looking for alternate escape routes.
Mortimer drops a file as thick as his fist onto the desk. He flips it open with so much force papers
fly about his office. “Harry James Potter, Master of Death.” If you could see sarcasm, it would drip
from the blokes’ lips.

“Date of Birth, July 31st, 1980. Celebrated as The Boy Who Lived, The Man Who Conquered, and
the First Gentleman of the Minister of Magic. Works as an Auror for several years before giving up
the public sector and going private. You open a non-profit with your wife and build an education
program to ease the transition from Muggle to Magic. Estimated date of death March 13th, 2158.”

“E—estimated?”

Does that mean we win? We find the final Horcruxes and finally defeat Voldemort?

My fingers start to burn, and I realize I’m gripping onto the arms of the chair so tightly my fingers
have lost circulation.

“Yes. Estimated,” the Undertaker growls. He smacks the opened folder on his desk with his fist.
“That’s when you’re supposed to die. After living to the ripe old age of one hundred and whatever
and dying in your sleep with your soul mate.” He checks the file in front of him, flipping through a
few pages. “Some doll named Granger.”

Granger—

“Hermione?” I almost squeak.

I look around the office again, taking in details this time. There’s a tall filing cabinet and a generic
‘Hang In There’ cat poster. Mental. It's all positively mental

Or maybe I am.

Maybe I’ve been hurt, and this is all some sort of hallucination. Hermione is my best friend, not my
soul mate. Yeah, I love her. She’s the most important person in my life. Since the day I saved her
life in that bathroom, she’s been the one constant I can count on.

Plus, okay, she’s beautiful.

Anyone who doesn’t see that is blinder than I am. It may have taken the Yule Ball to point it out,
but I’ve been painfully aware of that fact every day afterward. Maybe I’ve felt a twinge or two.
Especially when it was just her and me in that tent. How many nights did we lay together, holding
the other for warmth and companionship? It would have been so easy to flip her underneath me and
hold her with fervor rather than friendship.

We can go days in near silence, lost to our own thoughts, but that’s because we often already know
what the other is thinking.

We’ve never even kissed.

Never even thought about it. Or not that Id ever acknowledge, even in the recesses of my deepest
consciousness.

She’s Ron’s girl.

Not mine.

Or she would be, if she ever got his head out of his arse.
Mortimer starts talking again before I can gather my thoughts to respond.

“Actual dates of death are as follows; 1993. Falls off a broomstick. How dumb do you have to be to
fall off a broomstick?”

He must mean the dementor attack. That wasn’t my fault! Dementors are...I wasn't prepared at
thirteen for that kind of attack. Let’s see what happens when he faces a soul-sucking demon when
he’s fifty feet in the air! When I open my mouth to refute him, Mortimer powers on without
waiting for my response.

“Next date of death; October of 1994. Maybe you thought it would be cute to see what the inside of
a Dragon looks like. Guess what? It’s hot in there. Death number three...” I tune him out, thinking
about everything Mortimer has said.

If this isn’t some elaborate hallucination, then I’m dead. That doesn’t come as much of a surprise. I
always knew it was going to happen sooner rather than later. The likelihood of my defeating
Voldemort and living to tell the tale was slim.

I’d always hoped, at least, that if he killed me during a duel, I’d at least take him with me.

Which means what happened at Malfoy Manor wasn’t a dream. It happened. We— “What about
Ron? Hermione?!” I demand, throwing myself from my chair.

“Cool your horses,” Mortimer grouses, gesturing for me to sit back down. “I don’t know who they
are. They aren’t my problem. Right now, all I care about is you and getting you out of my office.
Permanently. Preferably before my bosses find out you’re here, with enough time to lose your
intake form. Hopefully, by the next time you die, you’ll be someone else’s problem.”

I don’t bother sitting down. My always simmering anger is finally working its way to the surface.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” and I can’t help if it sounds like I’m talking through ground glass. “I’m not sure I
understand.”

Mortimer growls in frustration, pushing away from his desk.

“Phenomenal cosmic powers—brains the size of a flobberworm. You know, I wasn’t around
during Merlin’s time, but I’ve heard the stories about how often he died. I’ll have to do some
research to see if there’s a correlation between unlimited power and diminishing brain cells.”

“Hey!” I exclaim, shoving my fingers through my hair. “Maybe if you explained what in the
bloody hell was going on in English, instead of talking around in circles, I wouldn’t be so clueless.
Dying wasn’t exactly on my agenda for the day. I didn’t realize this was a task I had to study for!”

“Which is why you’re back at my desk—Again! Because you rush into situations without thinking
them through first!” Mortimer quips back just as fast.

I scowl at him, jamming my fists into my pockets to keep from picking up the file and hitting him
with it. The cat in the poster winks at me, and it reminds me so violently of Umbridge that I recoil
in disgust. I almost trip over the chair behind me in my hurry to put space between me and the
opposite wall.

“Okay,” Mortimer says, clapping his hands in front of himself before pushing with his feet. His
chair rolls into the cabinet behind him. “This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to try this one
more time. Only this time, you’re keeping your memories. You’re probably one of those people
that learn by doing. You’ve died often enough. Maybe remembering the unpleasant experience will
teach you how to avoid it in the future.

“Oh!”

He drops the papers he’d pulled from the cabinet onto his desk before shoving the drawer closed
and yanking open another. The entire thing shutters with the impact.

“I need a form 24B too. I’m going to yank that Horcrux from your scar. That’ll help you out.”

At his words, I collapse heavily into the seat again, my knees going boneless.

This is too much information, too fast. My hands are shaking. They're breaking out in a sweat.
Nausea roils in my stomach, and I breathe in through my nose to keep the sick from climbing up
my throat.

I’m a Horcrux.

Of course, I am.

My hands drift to my face, fingers outlining the permeant haunting of my parent's death. It makes
so much sense. The connection between Voldemort and me is a curse of his own doing. The
bastard doomed us both. He marked me as his equal. He created his own worst enemy.

The Parseltongue. The fact that I can feel his emotions. A piece of Voldemort’s soul, the vilest
wizard to have ever walked the earth, resides inside me.

My eyes water with the need to be sick.

Can a dead man puke twice in one day?

Mortimer claps his hands in front of my face, and I jerk my head back to glare at him.

“Sign here.”

The wanker places a form on the edge of the desk and then hands me a pen.

“This is a retainment form, permitting me to send you back to the living with your memories intact.
I could put your soul into your infant body, and you’d remember this conversation.”

“Please don’t,” I reply automatically, and Mortimer chuckles under his breath. The sound reminds
me of a Weasley prepping a prank, and it gives me an uneasy feeling.

I swipe the pen across the page, unused to writing with ballpoint instead of ink and quill. I’ve
almost forgotten the convenience of it. I make a mental note to buy a pack and a pad of paper if I
ever get out of here.

Which sounds like it will be sooner rather than later. I rub my eyes with my finger and thumb,
pressing into the sockets and trying to skiff off the headache blooming there.

“You said you could put my soul...” I start, trying to gather my thoughts. “My consciousness? I still
don’t get it.” Mortimer scoffs at my right side. I don’t rise to the bait. “You could put it anywhere
in the timeline?”

“Yup,” Mortimer smirks, popping the ending p sound with his lips.

“When will you send me back then? Malfoy Manor?”

The Undertaker’s seer is a thing to behold. Malfoy himself would be proud.

“So that you can die again in five minutes' time? I don’t think so. Don’t worry about where you’re
going. Just concentrate on staying alive. I’ve got a sweet location in mind for you. Young enough
for you to learn from your mistakes, but still old enough for you to have a good wank and not feel
grossed out about it. I have a feeling you're going to need the stress relief.”

I pretend a blush isn’t rushing up my throat. I’m dead, for Merlin’s sake. I shouldn’t be able to
blush.

Mortimer shakes a new paper under my nose.

“Next form is the removal of private property documents. It just says that I can yank that Horcrux
from your head, and you won’t hold Death Inc. responsible for any damages.”

I pause with the pen hovering above the form.

“Damages? Is there liable to be damage?”

I think back to the fight the other Horcruxes put up as we attempted to remove them from their
confines. Now I’m the container.

“Nah. It’s simply legal covering their asses. Once we get that snake out of your head, you might
notice your Occlumency works better. I recommend you lock your thoughts away in vaults instead
of using walls as barriers, but that’s just me. Your file says you should be a natural Occlumens.
Course, the last eighteen years have taught me that the file is full of shit.

“While I’m thinking about it, better not let Old Voldy hit you with the killing curse. You had a
freebie, from him at least, with his soul clanking around in that scar. Any time he tried to off you,
he’d take out that piece of himself. But with it gone, I don’t know whether your mother’s
protection will still work. Better not take that risk.”

I hesitate again, this time with the pen already touching the signature line. “Why would I want to
get rid of it if it protects him from killing me?”

“You want Voldemort to kill you once, then to get back on your feet so he can go at it again?
Cause if we don’t do it now, that’s the only way you’re losing it. Or, you know, maybe your
soulmate can run you through with that sword you’ve been lugging around.”

Good point.I drag my name across the paper without hesitation this time.

Lightning shoots through my forehead, my scar burning with the fire of a thousand flames. The pen
drops from my fingers, my knees exploding with the agony of collapsing to the floor. I open my
mouth to cry out, hands already cradling my skull. But just like that, the pain is gone, leavening me
panting in a pile on the carpet, but with my head somewhat lighter than before.

I run my fingers over the lightning bolt, now nothing more than a scar, and attempt to breathe
without screaming at Mortimer. "If I had a freebie from him, who killed me this time?" I ask
through gritted teeth, pulling myself back to my feet.

He glances at his papers again.

"Looks like he hit you first, then she hit you about a second later."

Bellatrix.
The reaper scoops up the forms from the desk before depositing them into the over bursting file.
He starts to pace along the tiny area behind his office furniture, one arm wrapped around his
middle while the other taps on his chin.

“What else? What else?”

It hits me again that this is real.

In the grand scheme of things, sitting in a tacky office and conversing with one of Death’s
representatives shouldn’t be such a surprise. I’ve traveled through time once already, after all.

But it’s a surreal experience all the same.

One, I’m almost bursting to tell Ron and Hermione.

I peek at the holder sitting on the desk, twisting to get a better view. I move the newly signed pages
to the side to better see the meat of the file. Date of birth. Date of Death. Profession. It even has a
list of allergies.

Note to self. You apparently have a Gluten intolerance, whatever that means.

Soul Mate, Hermione Jean Potter-Black (née Granger. aka Mi, ‘Mione, Minister of Magic, One-
Third of the Golden Trio, Golden Girl, Gryffindors Princess, Bond-Mate.)

Potter-Black?

It lists details no one should have about their life in advance. I shove the folder away. I don’t care
what Hermione thinks. Too much information is a bad thing.

“Where are the other Horcruxes located?” I ask, finally using my brain.

“Don’t have a clue,” Mortimer replies without breaking his stride.

“What are the Deathly Hallows?” I try again, and all Mortimer does is shrug.

“What good are you then?” I demand, anger making me surge forward. I stop an inch away from
Mortimer’s face.

“You tell me to stay alive when I’m the most hunted person in all of Britain, and the only thing you
give me to help with that are three measly years of memories and Occlumency! Thanks, for that,
by the way. I’m sure Snape will be thrilled! I’m starting to think the problem here isn’t that I’m an
idiot. Maybe the issue is that you’re incompetent!”

I snap, putting my hands on Mortimer’s desk, and scream in his direction. I heave that blasted
folder from the desk and relish how the papers explode and rain down in every nook and cranny of
this damn room.

“I’m tired of half-truths and incomplete stories! Maybe if someone gave me enough information, I
wouldn’t have to run into situations without thinking it through first! If people wanted me to stay
alive, then maybe they should bloody tell me what I’m up against! You claim I’m as strong as
Merlin, but no one will fucking teach me how to use it!”

I’m panting when I’m done, sweat beading on my brow. Mortimer shoots me a contemptuous glare
but doesn’t refute my accusations.

“Give me a minute, okay? I’m thinking! There’s only so much I can do from this end. All I know is
what’s in the file. I’m a paper pusher, not a tactician. Ooh! Get yourself one of those.” Mortimer
points in my direction. “Bond with a house elf, too. You need all the help you can get. Make
friends with the Goblins. A little inter-magical species cooperation never did anyone harm.”

Mortimer stops his pacing and grabs the lone intake form, tipping precariously on the corner of the
desk. He rips it into a pile of infinitesimal pieces and, with a snap of his fingers, lights it on fire. At
my bemused expression, Mortimer shrugs self-consciously. “It’s why I don’t snap very often,” he
says. He wiggles his fingers in the air. “I light shit up.”

Okay then.

With a heavy sigh and a dirty look, the papers collect themself and suck back into the blue folder.
He tucks the file under his arm, then opens the office door.

“After you,” he says, waving his arm in an old-fashioned manner.

I jerk my head at the abrupt dismissal.

“That’s it? We’re done? Just like that. There’s no other help you can give me?”

I don’t want to be dead, but with the burdens waiting heavy for my return, I’m not jumping to be
thrown back to the wolves either. Mortimer closes the door again, still on the inside.

“Look, Potter. I’m sorry I called you a moron. I’m stressed, alright. I was passed over for
promotion last month, and as you can see, Sam is chomping at the bit for my job. You’re very
smart. You’d have died ten times over if you hadn't. Super powerful too.”

He sounds like a car salesman.

“There’s a reason Voldemort marked you. He could probably smell it on you or something. Didn’t
you hear all those titles I rambled off? Hold on.” Mortimer flips the file again, flicking through
pages until he finds what he’s looking for. “See?” He turns the paper so I can see it but then back
again before I get a good look.

He marked me because Trelawney can't give a real prediction if her life depended on it except for
in the worse situations possible.

With the infection of a parent dealing with an incorporative toddler, reads the page out loud.

“Harry James Potter, Bond-Mate, The Boy Who Lived, The Man Who Conquered, Master of
Death, one third of The Golden Trio, The Hero of Hogwarts, The Deliverer of Damnation, and The
Death Eaters Bogeyman. Though, your guess is as good as mine on that last one. I asked around,
but no one could explain it to me. Point is, Potter, Legacies wouldn’t have given you all those titles
if you weren’t strong enough to earn them.”

Strong enough. What a punch in the face.

The Undertaker pats me on the back, the action making us both cringe. He stops after two smacks.

“So, go out there and break a leg! Only, don’t actually break a leg. Cause, you know, a broken leg
will slow you down, and if you can’t run away from danger, then—” and Mortimer makes a
slashing motion across his throat. “You good?”

All I can do is stare. It’s like having a conversation with Grawp.

“Good,” Mortimer says. He opens the door and grabs me by the front of the shirt, hauling me
bodily from the office. “Out the way you came, Potter. I’ll show you to the exit. Try not to look
suspicious.”

I slow my step for half a heartbeat, letting the other man take the lead. We pass through the first
hallway, and I glance at the open space and attempt to look as nondescript as possible. A headful of
riotous curls catches my attention. I'd know those curls anywhere. They've spent the last few
months trying to strangle me in my sleep.

Hermione.

“Hermione!!” I yell, and the body to whom the curls belong freezes in her tracks, face whipping in
my direction.

Abandoning my march to wherever Mortimer was leading me, I take off at a run towards the
opposite hallway.

“Harry!” Hermione shouts, tripping over her own feet in her rush to get to me. She launches herself
into my arms, airborne for a solid three seconds before she crashes into my chest. Her arms go
around my shoulders, and she scratches at my back as she digs her fingers into my shirt, holding
onto me as if our lives depend on it.

They do.

“You— "she stutters. “You—”

Words seem to fail her as she pulls away to look at my face, only to bury her head in my chest once
more. She tucks in perfectly under my chin, and fits snugly against my body.

“They told me I’d died,” she sobs, her tears already dampening my shirt. “And you’re here too. I’m
so sorry, Harry. I failed you. I’m so sorry!”

I try to comfort her, to run my hands over her shoulders and back. I whisper into her hair that she
was perfect, brave, and brilliant and all the things I’m not. I failed her, not the other way around.
She would never have died if it wasn’t for my fuck up.

Mortimer’s hiss into my ear is a harsh fall back into our current reality.

Dead.

Hermione and I are dead.

“Dude!” Mortimer blasts. “I told you to act cool. So, what do you do? Bring down the eyes of the
entire department. Thanks a lot, moron. Now I’m totally going to get fired.”

I ignore the bewildered expression on Hermione’s face, turning with her still in my arms to look
into Mortimer’s face.

If I’m that important to this bloke, then it’s time I start using whatever leverage that gives me.

“This is her! This is Granger. She died with me this time. If you want me to succeed, I need her. I
need her like I need oxygen. She’s got to come back with me. It’s the only way I know how to
ensure I live.”

To ensure we both live.

“Granger, huh?” he drawls, looking at Hermione still ensconced in my arms.

“What? What do you mean go back, Harry?” Hermione questions, her tears forgotten as she
attempts to follow the conversation.

A woman in a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops walks up, looking amused at the display in front of her.

“This one yours, Valdis?” Mortimer asks, gesturing to Hermione.

“Sure is. Just ran her through processing. She was all set to go on.”

Go on?

No.

Absolutely not.

"Try it and I'll rip your fucking heart out," I growl.

The dick just sighs again.

“I’ll take it from here, thanks. Can I have her folder?”

Valdis looks between Mortimer and me, quickly assessing the situation.

“He looks familiar,” she says, her tan giving her an ethereal glow.

Mortimer rips the folder from her hand and grips the back of my shirt, hauling me away from the
hubbub of the open desks. I choke as my collar digs into my throat, then I smack the Undertaker's
hand away and start to follow on my own. Hermione laces her fingers with mine, firing off a
thousand questions that Harry can’t answer.

“What’s going on? How did you get here? Who is this guy? Where are we going? Are you okay?
I’m so sorry, Harry. What's the plan?”

We dip into a darkened room, and Mortimer pulls up a drawer on a cabinet identical to the one in
his office.

“Sign here, Ms. Granger. It’s a retention form for your memories.”

“Uhhhh.”

I squeeze Hermione’s hand, and she grabs the pen from Mortimer’s grasp and signs the form
without further complaint. She’s barely risen from leaning over the table before Mortimer is on the
move again. He’s almost running this time, and Hermione is jogging at my side to keep up.

“I’m sure management has been alerted to your presence, Mr. Potter,” he huffs. “Thanks for that,
by the way. You better be right about this.”

“I am. I—"

I don’t get the chance to finish my thought. Mortimer pulls open the door with the 'Keep Out' signs
plastered across the wood, and without warning, we’re roughly shoved through.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Summary

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I look up and down the table, taking in the scene around me. I glance at my chest and
examine each of my hands. I'm already in my outfit for the task. I step away from the
table, turning in a circle, and confirm I am, in fact, in the Great Hall.

The third task.

Chapter Notes

Thank you so much to SapphicScribbler for the amazing art she made for this fic!
Harry
"Ladies and gentlemen, in five minutes' time, I will be asking you to make your way down to the
Quidditch field for the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Will the champions please
follow Mr. Bagman down to the stadium now."

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I look up and down the table, taking in the scene around me. I glance at my chest and examine each
of my hands. I'm already in my outfit for the task. I step away from the table, turning in a circle,
and confirm I am, in fact, in the Great Hall.

The third task.

The night Riddle regains his body and his power.

Mortimer must have a sick sense of humour to send us back to a near-death experience. Maybe he
wants to get fired after all.

Cheering erupts from the Gryffindor table, but the sound of Hermione's voice calling my name
grabs my attention. Her eyes are wide and panicked as she takes in the scene before her.

Without hesitating, I step onto the bench, then onto the tabletop.

I leap onto Hermione's side, landing on my feet next to her. I pull her hard into my arms, breathing
in her familiar scent. My hands roam over her body, checking her for wounds. It registers in my
mind as her hands cup my face and then trails over my chest that she must be doing the same thing.

We died, and now we're back, and I'm about to watch Voldemort regain his body.

Fuck.

"This is—this is—"

Her voice is high and panicky, and it's classic Hermione before a big test.

"I know," I say, still grappling with the fact that I watched Hermione have her throat slit what felt
like less than an hour ago. Now we're back in Fourth Year.

"I'll take care of it," I promise her.

Hermione just nods her head like a toy stuck in a wind-up position.

Think! What do you need to survive this?

"Give me your wand!" I tell her, already pulling the wand holder from my right wrist and latching
it to my left. She stares at me like I've spoken Parseltongue.

"Give me your wand. Trust me!"

She hands it over without a second thought, and I shove it onto my wrist, pocketing my own wand.

"It's too late to stop it now," I explain. "But this time I'm prepared for it."
Hermione grabs me by the front of my shirt.

Time is ticking down.

I glance around the Great Hall and see the other contestants walking toward the double doors.

Like she flipped a switch, Hermione is back in control of the situation, barking out orders.

"Don't let Cedric touch the cup," Hermione whispers harshly against my face. "Try to bring
Wormtail back. Take as many of them out as you can. Don't risk yourself any more than you must
and get back as quickly as possible. Kill him if you get the chance. We'll take care of everything
else after."

My heart is thudding in my chest so hard it's making me nauseous. Adrenaline courses through my
bloodstream, anticipating what I know is to come.

I nod in quick agreement, then, without thinking, pull her back into my arms and kiss her. The roar
around the table, already loud enough to rival a small army, rises to near-apocalyptic levels as
Hermione holds me to her and digs her fingers into my hair.

Oh, Merlin.

If I'm going to die again, this is the way to do it.

Her tongue thrusts into my mouth, and I swear my knees buckle. One of us moans, and I can't tell
who.

A surge of magic fires through my limbs, blazing in my core. My fingers tingle and my lips burn.
Even though my eyes are closed, I swear I see a blinding white light flaming beyond my sealed
lids.

If this is what kissing Hermione feels like, I will never be the same again.

If I live through tonight.

I gasp for air and place my lips against hers again, once, twice.

Then as quick as that, it's over. I run towards the exit, putting Hermione and Mortimer and
everything else but the upcoming confrontation out of my mind. I hit the stone steps and jump the
last three, skidding in the grass to catch up to the others.

"All right there, Potter?" Cedric asks, a knowing smile on his face. "Yeah," I pant, grinning ear to
ear, trying to slow my breathing down.

Already something is going to change because I have no intention of letting Cedric or any of the
others get near that cup tonight. Which means I'll win outright, even if winning means I lose in the
long term.

Voldemort regaining his form is incomprehensible. There may be no way around it, though.

Krum scowls at me, throwing off stay away from my girl vibes. Thank goodness they'd left before
I lost my mind and kissed her. Otherwise, I'd probably have to duel Krum before Voldemort could
have his way with me.

What in Merlin's name was I thinking?

I wasn't. That's the problem.

Fucking Mortimer got into my head.

Bagman pulls me from my spiralling thoughts.

"Feeling alright, Harry?" Bagman asks as we head towards the pitch. "Confident?"

"Yup," I say, giving Bagman only the slightest attention.

Another change. Bagman won't have to go on the run, as he'll win his bet with the Goblins— if he
bothers to pay it.

I add it to my list.

Get on with the Goblins. Paying Bagman's debt would be a step in the right direction.

I feel dizzy when we get to the Quidditch pitch and see the maze built for the task. Of all the
situations to drop us in, Mortimer couldn't have picked a worse one.

The Undertaker thinks I'm the moron?

He could at least have put us a few weeks earlier so Hermione and I could work out a plan for
tonight. Hell, even yesterday would have been better than five minutes before the task.

Hagrid, Professor Moody, Professor McGonagall, and Professor Flitwick walk into the stadium,
and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from hexing Moody on the spot. It wouldn't do me any
good. Then I'd have to explain how I knew that Moody was an imposter, and I don't know how to
handle that yet.

What good is knowing what will happen if you can't do anything about it?

Being old enough to wank is a bullshite excuse for dropping us into this mess.

"We are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze," Professor McGonagall announces. "If you
get into difficulty and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air and one of us will come and
get you. Do you understand?"

The champions nod.

"Off you go, then!" says Bagman brightly to the four patrollers.

"Good Luck, Harry," Hagrid says, then the four teachers head off in different directions. I ignore
the thundering sound of footsteps as the stands fill and students call out, instead concentrating on
what I have to do tonight. There's a giant spider, the blast-ended skrewt, the sphinx. Fleur gets hurt,
but there's nothing I can do about that. Krum is out of my control too.

I have to get to the cup before Cedric.

Cedric stretches, bending over to touch his toes, and I grin.

That won't be a problem. I could take Cedric with one of my hands tied behind my back.

Bagman's magically snags my attention when I hear my name boomed loud enough for the crowds
to hear.
"So...on my whistle, Harry and Cedric!" says Bagman. "Three—two—one—"

At the sound of the whistle, I take off.

"Good luck," I throw over my shoulder, already putting distance between me and the other
Hogwarts champion. I wink at him, and Cedric stumbles in surprise. Cedric doesn't realise how
lucky he is that I'm about to leave him in the dust. Lighting my wand with a silent Lumos, I sprint
to the left when the path splits.

Bugger.

My legs give out when I collide roughly with the packed soil of the graveyard. If I had to guess, I
got through the maze at half the rate I did last time. I jerk my head around, looking for trouble.

Maybe Wormtail isn't ready for me yet. I shake my head to clear it of cobwebs.

I don't remember the portkey being so rough before. Or, maybe now that I'm used to portkey travel,
I can tell what a shitty job Crouch did. It must take some skill to make the landing smooth.

I climb to my feet and fix a sticking charm to my glasses.

Here we go again.

Where's some Felix Felicis when you need it?

The smell of the graveyard hits me viscerally, the damp dirt tickling my nose. The air vibrates as if
aware of what's to come and braces for the impact.

I could run and end this now.

Activate the Portkey and pray that Dumbledore and Fudge take me seriously. Well, that Fudge
does. I already know that Dumbledore will listen. Hell, Dumbledore is probably waiting for this
very moment—using me as the sacrificial lamb led to the slaughter. Rage burns inside my gut, but
that's neither here nor there.

I push the thought to the back of my mind to worry about after I survive.

I could flee and hope somebody gets Aurors here quick enough to capture Riddle and Wormtail
before they disappear into thin air.

Or I could destroy the form Riddle has now. It would take little effort to overwhelm Wormtail.
Even at seventeen, I'm twice the wizard he is. Restrain the rat, then shatter the hull of Voldemort.

As soon as I think of it, I discard it as a bad job. That won't work because Riddle still has the
Horcruxes to tether his soul to the here and now. Without a body, Riddle’s wraith will vanish until
he's ready to show himself again, and I'm not waiting another eleven years with the threat of him
hanging over my head.

There's no hope for it. I've gotta let it play out and aim for the best.

At least I know what to expect this time.

Once Riddle is back in his body, we’ll have a good idea of what he will do and where he’ll go for
the next few years. Who knows the changes it'll make to the timeline if I don't participate in his
resurrection tonight? Hermione and I could have returned, and all our memories would be
worthless an hour after arriving. Hermione would kill me for giving up an advantage like that. This
way, we'll keep the upper hand in the fight that’s still to come.

I whip my head in the direction Wormtail will shortly appear as the slithering sounds penetrate my
hearing.

Nagini—

My mind rushes forward, like when I see the snitch fluttering a hundred metres away. If I play this
right, I might be able to get rid of Riddle's snake and his lackey without letting on that the Horcrux
hunt has begun. Not wasting any more time, I levitate the Portkey into a better position to grab
when I'm ready to leave and situate myself on the ground. I loosen my limbs and brace myself for
the pain that's sure to come.

Only, it doesn't.

I feel their presence, but it doesn't steal my breath away and turn me blind as it has in the past.

I hear the shuffling, dragging sound of Wormtail carrying his burden, but the agony of Riddle's
proximity never happens.

Relief and panic flood my bloodstream simultaneously.

The Horcrux.

Mortimer took it out.

Another hundred questions without easy answers fly through my mind, but again, I lock them away
to worry about another time.

There'll be enough time afterward (with Hermione and maybe a sandwich) to puzzle out the
complications that will arise from my not being a Horcrux anymore.

Only putting up enough of a fight to make it look convincing, I allow Wormtail to yank me to my
feet and rip my wand violently from my hand.

I swallow back my grin.

Who's the moron now?

Hermione's wand wedged tight onto my non-dominant arm is a warm and familiar comfort in a
graveyard cold with death.

As the conjured rope snakes around my body, I decide to get a few pokes in before Wormtail gags
me.

"Stop this foolishness now, Wormtail. You'll only come to regret it. Run, and I won't tell anyone I
saw you tonight. You know what kind of master Riddle is. You know he'll only kill you in the
end."

Wormtail freezes momentarily, and a shiver of terror runs down his spine. Then the roughened
black material is shoved into my mouth, wedged tight between my teeth. The snake coils in the
grass, keeping her master's slave in line.

My eyes flicker over the graveyard, cataloguing what's the same and what has already changed
from Cedric not being here this time. That's the only advantage I've got this go-round. I've played
with time travel before. Minor details can make the most significant differences.

Standing here is dull when you already know what's coming. I wonder if it's that I'm three years
older than the last time? It didn't seem like that big of a difference thirty minutes ago. Or maybe
I've dealt with more life and death experiences in those three years than most wizards deal with in a
lifetime.

In several lifetimes.

Merlin, if everything that's happened today isn't just some weird concussion dream, I've already
died several times in my life.

Whatever the reason, instead of being scared out of my mind, I'm bored.

There's no shock and awe factor when you know what's coming. Even the maze was rather lame.
Hermione would say it sets a bad precedent that I'm craving more action. Maybe it's the stress of
the day. I have a little extra energy to burn off or something. If I could take on some of the Death
Eaters without dealing with Riddle, it could be a fun way to burn off the excess adrenaline zinging
through my veins.

Or maybe I've lost the plot.

Either way, I have stuff to do, and this is eating up time. If Riddle is going to inconvenience me by
returning to his body, at least he could have the decency to hurry the fuck up and get it over with.

I have a war to plan and all that.

The bundle that contains Riddle's feeble form is stirring restlessly. Good to know I'm not the only
one impatient to get this show on the road. Wormtail just pisses everyone off, I guess.

The Worm appears again, pushing the massive cauldron, splashes of pre-made potion littering the
ground in his wake. The turncoat is lucky Riddle can't see how sloppy he's being with the
regeneration syrup. I'm sure he would lose another hand because of it.

Riddle's voice grates over my ears like nails on a chalkboard as he urges his charge to hurry up.

Wormtail's look of revulsion as he handles the creature Riddle is more severe than the last time.
Hopefully, I got into Wormtail's head, and he imagines his death at the hands of his master. I know
it won't stop him, but at least it can make him suffer.

The cauldron starts to heat, sending off sparks in every direction.

"Hurry!"

Merlin.

I don't understand why Wormtail doesn't simply drown Riddle and be done with it.

"It is ready, Master."

I barely contain my eye roll as Riddle hisses at his slave. He's as feeble as a baby—why is
Wormtail so afraid of him?

He pulls his master from the bundle of cloth, and I turn my face away at first sight of Riddle's
deformed appearance. It was easy to forget how decrepit snake baby Riddle was after he climbs re-
born from the cauldron, but he truly is disgusting in this form.
Wormtail starts the ritual, and I flick my wrist to let Hermione's wand fill my left palm. " Bone of
the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son! "

The grave's surface at my feet cracks, and I watch dispassionately as a thin trickle of bone dust
rises into the air at Wormtail's command and falls softly into the cauldron. Embers shoot in every
direction as the potion changes colour to a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.

Here comes the gross part.

The knife appears in his hand, pulled from the inside pocket of his robes. He's shaking and
whimpering, and his voice breaks into a sob when he speaks.

I turn my face away; I don't need to watch this.

" Flesh— of the servant— w-willingly given—you will—revive—your master ."

Wormtail's screams rend the air as the thud of his hand hitting the packed dirt is followed by the
severed limb flashing into the potion. Even with my eyes closed and my head averted, I can see the
potion burn red.

It's almost time.

I open my eyes and stare at Wormtail, refusing to look away. The rat is shaking from pain and
blood loss. Undeniable fear. He flinches away from my glare, unable to meet my eye. " B-blood of
the enemy...forcibly taken...you will...resurrect your foe. "

The bite of the dagger pierces my flesh, and I cringe. Not at the pain but at the realisation that it's
the same blade Wormtail used to cut off his arm. I'll ask for a blood-cleansing potion when Madam
Pomfrey finally gets her hands on me.

Pettigrew fumbles the vial as he holds it up to the seeping wound in my arm, barely able to collect
enough blood for the potion.

My pulse skyrockets.

This is it.

As soon as Wormtail's back is turned, I drop the wand into my fingers and cast a silent Finite
Incantatem. The ropes fall away from the headstone as the traitor pours my blood into the
cauldron. The liquid within instantly bursts into flames.

"Stupify!" I shout, hitting Wormtail in the back as he collapses to the ground to tend his wound. He
lands in a heap on his side. I'm already running by the time the bootlicker hits the ground. I throw
my hand out to the side, and my wand flies from Wormtail's prone body into my open palm.

Please, please let this work!

"I need the sword!" I scream, and Fawkes appears above me in a flash of fire, dropping the hilt into
my waiting grasp. Nagini rears back to strike as I do the same. We meet in the middle, sword
versus snake, and Nagini's head tumbles through the air as the Sword of Gryffindor slices through
scale, muscle, and bone.

A wail of fury like an echo from hell rips the air in two, and I can't tell if it's the Horcrux or its
master, screaming their anger to the heavens. I don't slow my pace as I pivot with the speed of a
seeker to run towards the cup.

"Accio Wormtail," I shout as the form of Riddle rises from the cauldron. I can feel his power
building as Wormtail's stupefied bulk rushes toward me. Riddle roars in rage as his plans for my
impending humiliation and death disintegrate around him.

The unconscious murderer collides with me, the weight of it knocking me from my feet.

It's probably what saves my life.

With an arm around Wormtail and a flick of my wrist, the cup hurdles in our direction.

Holding my wand and the sword in one hand, I catch the portkey with the other. Riddle’s cold,
cruel voice screams his Avada, and the green light soars over our heads, bursting a headstone to
pieces. My back slams into the ground, my 'oomph' of pain lost to the night air.

With a yank behind my navel, I speed away from the graveyard. A bleeding Wormtail, a dead
Nagini, and an infuriated Voldemort as my prize.
 Chapter 3
Chapter Summary

The impact of my landing rattles my bones, and my breath is shoved painfully from
my lungs. The force of the rat's weight plus the hard earth beneath feels like being
crushed from the inside out.

Chapter Notes

Hi! Thank you again for coming back to this story, and if this is your first time,
welcome!! Your love and support have been unfathomable, and I feel so blessed for all
of the amazing friends I've met through this experience.

Thank you again to SapphicScribbler for the amazing art she made for this fic!!

I just want to take this opportunity, early in the story, to reiterate that there will be
smut in this book. It's rated E, it's in the tags, but still, I got comments about the
underage intimacy thing and well, anything else due to Harry and Hermione having
sex.

It's gonna happen. I despise those fics where the author says, if you don't like it, don't
read it but...
 Harry

The impact of my landing back on the Hogwarts grounds rattles my bones, and my breath is shoved
painfully from my lungs. The force of the rat's weight plus the hard earth beneath feels like being
crushed from the inside out.

I'm still gasping for air when the sounds of screams penetrate the fog in my brain. Wormtail's
whimpers indicate my unexpected guest is rousing.

With a pulse of adrenaline, I roll my captive to the side and jump to my feet, sword and wand
raised to a position of defence.

"Easy, Harry," Dumbledore tries to soothe me, arms out and hands open and empty in front of him.
McGonagall and Snape hurry behind the Headmaster. Snape freezes in his tracks at the sight of a
bleeding, whimpering Wormtail. His eyes widen in astonishment before he quickens his pace with
his wand raised.

I watch in a detached manner as Pettigrew slumps, and the blood from his stump slows to a trickle
when Snape drops to the ground beside him. Snape's lips move in near silence as he treats the
results of their joined master's resurrection.

I don't lower my weapons.

Either of them.

"He's back," I pant, eyes skidding over the crowd gathering around me.

A perfect circle forms and the Professors attempt to keep the students away as I stand in the eye of
the storm. Wand pointing with one hand, the Sword of Gryffindor glittering in the other.

"Voldemort is back. His father's grave site, Professor. They tied me to the headstone. Go now, and
you may be able to catch some of them."

Fudge stumbles into the circle, falling back as I turn my gaze on him. Whatever he sees, fear flies
into his face, his eyes going wide and his hand rising to cover his mouth.

"W-what?" he gasps, glancing between me, bloody and wild, and Wormtail on the ground, once
again unconscious. But whether Wormtail's been stunned or simply succumbed to blood loss, I
couldn't say. "Good heavens! Is that Peter Pettigrew?" Fudge asks, blinking as if the mirage in
front of him will simply disappear if he wills it hard enough.

"Always three steps behind, Fudge," I snap. My patience has officially reached its end. It's been a
long day. "I tried to warm you once before, Minister. You had the wrong man. Now your ineptitude
and delusions helped Voldemort regain his body. Enjoy your job while you still have it, Sir. It
won't be for much longer."

I realise I sound savage but can't contain my simmering anger. I use the sword to point at
Wormtail, swinging it in an arc. Fudge trips over his feet in angst to escape my fury, landing in a
lump on the ground.

"THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS," I scream, "WHEN ALL YOU CARE ABOUT IS YOUR OWN
SUPERIORITY, YOU POWER HUNGRY CRETIN!" Blood rushes into Fudge's face; his bowler
hat trampled on the ground. "You're no better than Voldemort. At least he's honest about his grab
for power. You try to defend yours behind the veil of the greater good!"

The entire world seems to freeze. Fudge gasps at my outburst, his anger and embarrassment
quickly overtaking his fear. He scrambles to his feet and shoves through the crowd. His short
stature rapidly lost in the sea of bodies. The next time we see him, he'll have his Dementors at his
back, the powerful demons giving Fudge a false sense of security. It'll be my pleasure to rip that
feeling from him.

"Amos!" Dumbledore yells, his height allowing him to glance over the heads of the crowd as
Cedric's father pushes his way to the front. "Contact Madam Bones. The graveyard at Little
Hangleton. Get the Aurors there as quickly as possible. Severus," Dumbledore turns away from
Amos, who is already shoving back the way he came. "Get Peter to the Hospital Wing and stabilise
him, then fetch us Veritaserum to question him."

Snape rises from his crouch, already conjuring a stretcher to carry the unconscious Wormtail on.
Snape grips his forearm before nodding to the Headmaster and storming out of the circle.
Dumbledore's eyes flash, and I realise that Snape just felt his mark burn. The crowd parts for him
and his burden, Snape's robes billowing behind him.

The beginning of the end just started.

What story will Riddle tell his followers now that I'm not there as his prize?

Moody appears behind Dumbledore, and I can't tell if the fright in his eyes is my imagination or
not.

Using the break in the crowd, Hermione and the Weasleys elbow their way through. I drop the
sword as soon as Hermione breaks the line of onlookers, already fortifying myself for impact.

She's tiny, but she's solid.

She doesn't disappoint, colliding with me so hard it makes me take a step back to brace us. Her
fingers dig into my back as she clutches me in her arms.

I must have bruises I wasn't aware of, and I swallow back a moan as the strength of her embrace
forces air from my lungs.

Hermione's relief is palpable, almost making my knees buckle with its weight. I can taste it in the
back of my throat.

Without looking, I slip her wand from my pocket and into hers.

I allow myself a second to relish in the feel of her arms around me and the safety I've associated
with Hermione's hugs since the first one she gave me all those years ago. Then my eyes snap open
again, unwilling to let Moody out of my sight for long.

Imposter Moody looks manic, eyes wide and jumpy.

Almost coming out of his skin.

He's practically hopping in place, waiting for his moment to pull me away. Dumbledore's voice
explodes over the stadium.

"All students return to their common rooms immediately. Prefects and Heads, please escort the
students to their dorms."

When the mass of bodies doesn't move fast enough for McGonagall's liking, she too puts her wand
to her throat.

"Now," she snaps, the word sharp and fast.

Their pace quickens immediately, some of the younger years flat out running towards the castle.
Cedric catches my eye and holds it. Is Cedric realising what I saved him from?

The first goal is done. Cedric is alive.

I zero in on the Weasleys closing around me and give my head a shallow shake.

It's not over, I try to tell them.

The boys stop immediately, Bill grasping his mother's arm and pulling her behind him. I do the
same to Hermione, ignoring her annoyed protests.

She submits to my wishes though she refuses to let me go.

Instead, she places her left hand on my shoulder, freeing her wand hand to grasp the handle from
her pocket. Ron slides up to my left side with his wand already bared, and I bend at the knees,
grabbing the forgotten sword before I stand up straight.

I lift my weapons, one in each hand. Pointing them wide and shielding those I love behind them.

"Mr Potter!" McGonagall admonishes, inspecting the stance of defence we've taken against the
others.

Quietly, the twins and Bill fall into place behind me, each guarding my back and keeping
Hermione hidden between us. I can almost hear her anger at being shielded. But this isn't over yet,
and I won't risk her again.

Mrs Weasly is shoved beside her, spluttering at her son’s rough treatment.

"The cup was a Portkey," I say, words calm and firm.

I look Dumbledore in the eye before my gaze wanders over the remaining spectators.

"Who touched it last?"

I’m impressed with how calm my voice sounds, despite the anger bare on my face. As one,
Professors and Ministry officials alike turn on each other, wands raised and accusations flying.

My eyes stop on Moody, and Dumbledore follows my gaze, his hawk-like perception lighting upon
the twitching Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. When Dumbledore raises his wand, the
others pivot on their heels, following the Headmaster's lead.

"Alastor?" Dumbledore says in a questioning tone.

I watch with an aura of disassociation as Imposter Moody takes in the dozen-plus wands pointed in
his direction. I don't know how much longer until the Polyjuice Potion wears off.

I got through the task and skipped the duel with Voldemort to land back on the pitch in about half
the time as last time. Maybe faster. That being said, we've spent much longer out on the lawn than
in the previous instance of this occasion.

Imposter Moody starts to laugh, and the haunting sound of it sends chills down my spine.
Hermione whispers something behind my back, and her nails dig into my shoulder, but I can't make
out what she says.

Crouch throws his head back and howls, and it's perhaps the most disturbing thing I've seen to date,
including reptile Riddle in his baby form.
"It's too late," he cackles, happiness leaking from his every pore.

I shudder.

"My Master has returned. The Dark Lord has risen victorious once again. I'll be rewarded above all
others, honoured as a son. In this life, or the next."

Moody lifts his wand, and a dozen different spells race towards their destination, each fighting to
arrive first. A few bounce off his hastily conjured shield, but the combined force of the others blast
the protection to pieces, colliding with their target. The imposter is thrown from his feet, landing
unconscious and bound on the grass.

The Professors converge on him.

Hermione shoves her way between Ron and me.

Automatically, I move the sword to my wand hand, holding them together with the blade pointed
down. Hermione slides her hand in mine without a word.

Gasps of shock and snarls of outrage tell me the conversion has begun, and the traitor in our midst
is being revealed.

Professor McGonagall pivots from the sight of Barty Crouch Jr, a visible shake to her hands. She
takes a moment to gather herself, then marches to her lion cubs, still on guard around me.

"Up to the castle, the lot of you," McGonagall says in a no-nonsense tone. "Potter, how much of
that blood is yours, and how much of it is from your friend?" she asks, looking at me in a clinical
fashion. Half a dozen sets of Weasley eyes flick in my direction. Mrs Weasley makes a sound of
distress but doesn't come any closer.

I'm positive Bill is holding her back. I'll have to remember to thank him later.

Molly in smothering mode is not what I need right now.

"I'd say a quarter of it is mine, and the rest was Wormtail's. He sliced me open, but didn't take my
entire arm, thank goodness. He cut off his own hand to donate it to Voldemort's resurrection."

McGonagall sways on her feet.

"He—he cut off—his own hand?"

Her words get stuck halfway through, her voice hitting a pitch only dogs would be able to hear.
She flattens her hand on her chest, gathering her wits. Once she's under control, she makes a
shooing motion with her hands. "Well, up to the hospital wing with you. The rest of you, to your
dorms. Potter needs attention, then rest."

No one moves.

McGonagall looks disconcerted that all eyes turn to me, waiting for my response before moving
from their positions.

"No, Professor," I say, keeping my tone firm but respectful. "No offense, but I'm not going
anywhere. You can't shelter me from what's going on, I'm already in the middle of it. I'm not
leaving until I know what happened tonight."

"Quite right," Dumbledore says, coming up behind McGonagall. "He needs to understand Minerva.
Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery. He
needs to know who has put him through the ordeal he has suffered tonight and why. I believe the
best course of action would be to remove ourselves from the pitch and reconvene in the Hospital
Wing."

Dumbledore gives me a knowing look, and I can't help the relieved smile that graces my face, even
if it's gone just as fast.

"Fine!" McGonagall huffs, looking significantly put out. "But the rest of you, up to bed. Now!"

I grasp onto Hermione's hand, fingers going white at my grip.

"Hermione and Ron need to stay," I demand.

Professor McGonagall looks ready to explode until Dumbledore nods his head in acquiescence
before turning to the crowd around Crouch Jr.

Dumbledore starts to deliver orders.

"I need to let your father know what's going on," Mrs Weasley says, and it's the first time in many
long minutes that I remember she's even here. "Come, boys. I'll see you to your dorm."

"You can use the floo in my office, Molly," Professor McGonagall says, and Mrs Weasley begins
to lead her reluctant crew from the field.

"Ronald," Hermione says, pulling Ron's attention away from the squabbling adults. His eyes latch
onto where our hands are linked before looking at our faces. "Would you run ahead and get Harry a
new set of clothes? I doubt he wants to spend the rest of the evening wearing Wormtail's blood."

I almost gag at the thought.

"Oh! Oh, yeah," Ron says, his face lighting up at the thought of being able to do something to
help, even if it's just getting a pair of clean jeans. "Yeah, I'll meet you in there," he replies before
taking off at a run towards the castle.

"Trainers, too," I yell at his retreating form, feeling my toes squish in my shoes. Ron lifts a hand to
show he heard me.

"Thank you," I sigh, grateful Hermione thought of something as simple as clean clothes. I would
have sat around in my tacky and stiff Triwizard uniform until someone cleared me to take a
shower, probably hours from now.

"Thank Merlin, you're okay. I've never been so scared in my life," Hermione sighs when it's just
the two of us.

"Really?" I ask, a smile tugging at the sides of my lips. "I was having fun there for a while.
Honestly, when I already knew what was coming, it lost some of its wow factors."

Hermione huffs at me, laying her forehead onto my chest, then quickly removing it when she feels
the dried mess coating me from head to foot.

"Ugh," she groans, and I scoff in commiseration.

"You're telling me. At least you aren't wearing it."

She looks down at her front, covered in a slim layer of grime from our earlier hug. She casts a
quick scourggify on herself, the crusted copper disappearing from her shirt.

"How'd you get the sword?" she asks, looking where it still sits loosely in my hand. My fingers are
starting to cramp, but they'll have to pry this sword from my cold dead fingers before I give it up
again.

"Asked for it," I reply with a shrug, and Hermione rolls her eyes at me.

"Only you," she sighs, then quiets for a moment.

"I hadn't realised how tall you'd gotten," she says, looking up at me from an inch or two below.

Before I could rest my chin on her head, or is it in the future I could? "Ditto," I say with irritation.
"Or how short I really was."

Hermione laughs under her breath.

"You're bleeding, by the way."

"Tell me something I don't know," I mumble to her.

"Not just where Wormtail cut you."

She takes her thumb and rubs it across my cheek, showing me the blood that stains the digit.

"What hit you in the face?"

She's so soft I barely hear her.

"Headstone exploded," I whisper. "Avada went over my head."

All the blood drains from her cheeks, and a whole body shudder rips down her spine. She closes
her eyes and exhales loudly.

"Come, children," McGonagall instructs, and we turn to see that they have a restrained Crouch
floating in the air with half a dozen wands pointed at him.

"Headmaster," I say, holding back after everyone starts the trek towards the castle. Hermione is
still gripping my hand in hers and gives it another squeeze of reassurance. Dumbledore pauses,
then gestures at McGonagall to keep going as he falls back to speak with us. "Go along, Minerva.
Harry and I just need a quick chat."

With a sharp nod, she pushes to the front of the pack, leading the way up the hospital wing where
Snape awaits with the Veritaserum and a hopefully healed Wormtail. Since Moody has a peg leg, I
don't think they'll be able to replace his hand as Riddle did, but at least they can get him to a point
where he can talk.

"Are you quite alright, Harry? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey before we proceed?"

I allow myself to feel the weight of the day heavy on my shoulders. I've no idea how long we've
been awake. How does one judge time when you die and are brought back to life again? If nothing
else, my sigh of exhaustion is telling.

"I'm fine, Professor. Just tired. It's been a long day. Is Sirius here?"

The Headmaster watches me, a thousand thoughts flying past his startling blue eyes. "Yes, he is. I
sent him up to my office to wait."

"Before we question Wormtail," I clear my throat in embarrassment before I continue. "I mean,
before we question Pettigrew, we need the Aurors here. And a lawyer, or something. I know I still
have to go back to my aunt initially. But if nothing else, we can get Sirius out of that cave. Fudge
has already proven he doesn't care about the truth, only his interpretation. We need credible people,
other than fourteen-year-old wizards, to get Sirius free. After all, there's nothing like a good
witness."

Hermione snorts so harshly that I glance to ensure she didn't hurt herself.

A blush blooms up her throat, and she tilts her head away, but I can see her smile. I'm sure she's
thinking the same thing I am. Fifth Year, when a witness both saved and sabotaged me at different
times.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles, his hand rising to rub gently along his
silver beard. "How very right you are, Harry. Nothing at all like a good reliable witness."

I sigh in relief as Dumbledore flicks his wand, and several Phoenix Patronuses fly off in different
directions. I sway on my feet, the adrenaline that had kept me going finally free of my system.
With reflexes that belie his old age, Dumbledore's hands shoot out to offer me additional support
while Hermione wraps a hand around my waist and throws my arm across her shoulders.

"Perhaps a stop at Poppy's office is advisable after all," Dumbledore says with a concerned tone
and scrunched-up face. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind tending to you before we begin what is sure to
be a very long inquisition. She may insist on it."

"No," I say, waving off Dumbledore's worry. "I'm fine." I right myself on my feet, pulling my
shoulders back and standing at full height. Hermione tightens her arm around my waist. It would
have been more convincing this morning when I was several inches taller and broader, but no
matter. Dumbledore simply gives me a penetrating stare before nodding his agreement and leading
the way into the castle.

"We have work to do, then," Dumbledore says. We fall into step behind him.

Yes. We do.

Despite trying to avoid the Hospital Matron, Madam Pomfrey has already healed my arm and face.
Then she shoved me into the Hospital shower, advising the waiting attendees to this impromptu
confessional court that I would not be allowed to participate until I had her say.

I'm still watching the pink-tinged water slide down the drain when the door to the loo opens. "Got
your clothes, Harry," Ron says, his voice distorted.

"Thanks, Ron"

He leaves without another word, shutting the door behind him.

I should hurry, but exhaustion pulls at my shoulders. I lean my forehead against the wall, letting
the cool tile soothe my skin.

Okay, Harry.

Time to move.
I use magic to dry my body, my hair still dripping when I put on the clothes Ron left for me. After
a grimace at my reflection in the mirror, I shrink the clothes to fit properly.

The first thing I will do when I'm free from this place is going shopping for jeans that fit.

There's a scabbard sitting under the clothing, and after a moment to figure it out, I slip the leather
up my arms, then slide the ruby-encrusted sword over my shoulder and into the sling strapped
across my back. I practice unsheathing it a time or two, ensuring I can pull the blade clear with
little difficulty. I have to jerk the leather a bit higher, but within a minute, I can quickly draw the
sword.

I wonder if there's someone who could teach me sword fighting?

I'll have to ask Sirius. And find out who provided the sheath for my newly acquired weapon. Cause
I meant it when I said I wasn't giving it back.

Ron and Hermione are in the corner whispering in sharp tones when I re-emerge.

"Here," Madam Pomfrey demands, shoving a gag-inducing blood-replenishing potion into my

hands. The pepper-up that goes next gives my legs a little more strength, and I join the others to
start the interrogations.

Mr Weasley appears, bringing with him a contingent of Aurors. I recognise Shacklebolt and
Dawlish and a woman with a monocle that I think might be Madam Bones. The three others are
new to me.

One of the strangers carries a briefcase, and after a moment's exchange with Dumbledore, a house
elf leads him from the Hospital Wing. I hope that's the lawyer for Sirius.

I catch Madam Bones out of the corner of my eye and sigh, adding another item to my 'attempt to
change' list. I'm unsure how to prevent Madam Bone's death, but I know I've got to try.

"Let's do this," I whisper as Ron and Hermione come to my side.

I'm not paying attention as the potioned Crouch Jr. tells his tale. After all, I've heard it once before.
He's almost at the end of the story when a commotion sounds at the end of the hallway. I tense,
already prepared for what's to come. As soon as I hear Fudge's voice, I call my Patronus.

"Expecto Patronum," I shout, rising from my seat and pointing my wand at the open doorway.
Heads and wands whip in my direction, but I only listen for Fudge's cry of outrage as my stag
mows down the Dementor that he had with him.

"How dare you!" Fudge growls, storming into the room. "That Dementor is here for my
protection! Attacking him is as good as attacking me!" Nobody pays Fudge's blustering any heed.

"How could you have possibly known he had a Dementor inside the castle?" Madam Bones asks, a
question echoed by Mrs Weasley and Professor McGonagall.

Dumbledore looks thunderous and turns to explode on Fudge.

I can feel Snape's eyes boring into me from the back of my head and slam my memories of the last
three years into a vault in my mind and throw away the key. There's a pressure in my head, like a
fist knocking on the door. But Snape doesn't get through.
Hermione's eyes flicker away, amusement shining bright.

"Felt it," I shrug, avoiding meeting anyone's stare. Ron picks his chin up from his chest as Prongs
comes prancing happily back into the Hospital wing. He takes a lap, running his antlers up against
Hermione, before flittering away. "I'm highly susceptible to Dementors," I add to hopefully close
the subject.

“You can produce a corporeal Patronus?” Madam Bones asks, not trying to hide her shock.

"Since last year," I confirm, attempting not to squirm under her gaze. "When they're close, I hear
my parents being murdered. I was highly motivated to learn the charm."

Silence fills the air, and Hermione grabs my hand again.

Fudge opens his mouth to complain, but one look from Dumbledore has him quaking away in fear.

Madam Pomfrey bustles into the room, commandeering a third bed and laying a thin and weak
Mad Eye Moody onto the mattress before pulling the curtains around them.

"I think we have everything we need with this one," Madam Bones sneers, her lips tilted up in
disgust. Crouch falls silent with a flick of the Headmaster's wand, and his head droops to the side.

The lawyer, standing at the back of the Hospital wing, joins the group of people as they walk a few
feet to gather around Wormtail's bed. Dumbledore winks in my direction, and I feel a surge of
anticipation thrum through my veins.

This is it.

At last, we'll be able to free Sirius.

The man pushes in front of Madam Bones, holding his hand before him.

"Before you start the interrogation of Peter Pettigrew, my name is Charles Wilkinson. I'm here to
represent the interest of Sirius Black in these matters. By the time the interrogation is done, we'll
be proving that Sirius is innocent of all the charges against him, barring the charge of escaping
Azkaban. Which, those charges will be dropped, when it's proven that Mr Black was sentenced and
committed to life in prison without so much as a by your leave."

Madam Bones is shaking his hand more by rote than with any conscious decision.

"Sirius Black is innocent?" Madam Bones questions, her eyes so wide the monocle slips from her
face to dangle from the cord around her neck.

"Yes, Ma'am," Hermione says, as I open my mouth to reply as well. Hermione doesn't stop there,
though. "We captured Mr Pettigrew last year, and informed Minister Fudge that Sirius was
innocent, and we could prove it, but he refused to believe us, and then Mr Pettigrew escaped."

"Sirius is my Godfather," I speak up, placing my hand on Hermione's shoulder. "And my legal
guardian. Or would be, if he were free to walk the streets and raise me as his own. Unfortunately,
due entirely to Fudge's greed and incompetence, Sirius has spent the last thirteen years either
tortured at the hands of the Dementors or on the run."

Madam Bones looks between us, Fudge, and the lawyer, who's rocking back and forth on his feet
with a smug look on his face. Dumbledore twinkles in her direction. The Weasleys all look
distinctly uncomfortable, and I remember that they aren't yet living under the Black roof with
Sirius.

"Do you know where Sirius Black is, right now?" Madam Bones asks, ignoring the stuttering of
forewarning that Fudge is likely to erupt at any moment. Several times, I've seen the scraggly head
of my Godfather's Animagus form pop into the open doorway.

From the corner of my eye, a beetle lands on the open windowsill.

Skeeter!

Dammit, I forgot all about that hag.

I nudge Hermione, and her eyes light up when she follows my line of sight. She starts to ease
herself in that direction. Looks like Mi needs a distraction so she can catch our wayward reporter.

"I do," Sirius' lawyer says, smoothing a hand down the front of his pristine robes. "I'll be happy to
produce him for you, after Mr Pettigrew's confession is written down for the record."

"Which means," I interrupt, walking towards the front as all eyes turn towards me.

I need to have a wand holder added to the scabbard. I sheath my wand on my wrist instead,
crossing my arms over my chest. Hermione slips to the windowsill, conjuring a glass jar.

"Everything that's happened the last year can be laid squarely at Fudge's feet. None of this would
have happened if he hadn't let Pettigrew escape."

Fudge finally explodes.

"And what exactly has happened tonight, according to you, boy?" Fudge pivots to face
Dumbledore. "A Parselmouth, Albus? What other secrets have you been hiding from us about the
supposed Boy Who Lived?"

I can't contain my eye roll.

"Everyone knows I speak Parseltongue. I used it to enter the Chamber of Secrets my second year,
killed the Basilisk, rescued Ginny Weasley, and battled Voldemort. Again. It was in the Prophet,
seeing as how I saved a Ministry employee's daughter. I also proved that Rubeus Hagrid had been
innocent of the crime he was accused of and sentenced for without a fair trial. Seems to be a theme
of the Ministry. Maybe I should be a lawyer after I take care of your Dark Wizard problem for
you."

Fudge growls, and Shacklebolt bursts into laughter before hastily disguising it as a cough.
Dumbledore likewise looks near to bursting, and McGonagall has closed her eyes and turned away.
Probably praying to Merlin for patience.

"It doesn't matter what we tell you, Minister. You simply ignore it unless it suits your narrative.
Especially when that narrative is provided to you by Rita Skeeter. Everyone knows she's full of
shite. I hear she'll be retiring soon. I wouldn't take her word on the weather. But as for tonight," I
take a deep breath, feeling every eye in the room. "The cup was a Portkey. When I touched it, it
took me to a Graveyard. I only knew where I was because I saw some of the headstones. When I
found out Voldemort's true identity my second year, one of my advisors suggested I look into his
history, so we did. When I saw the gravestone of Tom Riddle Senior, I knew I had been Portkeyed
to Little Hangleton. I don't know what you found when you went there tonight, but I'm sure you
saw signs of the fight."
Quills are flashing in the air, taking notes for their owners.

"Advisers?" Fudge scoffs.

"Well, Minister. Voldemort has tried, and failed, to kill me four times now, five if you count
Wormtail as his agent last year. The Purity War was never over, simply on hiatus. I've been
preparing for what's to come for years, and you're still living with your head in the sand. I'd be
asking not why I have advisors, but why you don't?"

I turn my attention back to Madam Bones.

"Pettigrew used magic to tie me to Voldemort's father's gravestone, Tom Riddle Senior, then
gagged me when I started running my mouth."

"He has a habit of that," Snape scoffs just loud enough for everyone to hear him.

"Pettigrew dragged in a giant cauldron, then some tiny reptilian form of Riddle. He dropped him in
it, and I had a moment to hope that it had drowned. I'd be happy to show my memory of the spell
that was used. But the words were something along the lines of Bones of the father, renew your
son. Flesh of the servant, renew your master, blood of the enemy, renew your foe. He pulled
crumbled earth and what I assume were bones from the grave at my feet. Pettigrew cut off his own
hand and tossed that in too."

As one, all eyes flick to the prone form of Wormtail, his bandaged arm ending in a stump.

"Then Wormtail took the knife to my arm and slit me open. I guess I supplied the enemy portion."

Most of the women in the audience gasp, all eyes now looking at the pink scar that lines my
forearm.

"When my blood hit the potion, flames exploded everywhere, and it started to hiss. I took my
chance and made a break for it. I've been working on defensive magic on my own all year. I was
already at a severe disadvantage in the tournament. Not to mention, I've battled Voldemort in some
shape or form at least once a year since I re-entered the Magical world. I used wandless magic to
cancel the ropes binding me to the headstone and called my wand to me.

“When Riddle's snake showed up, I took a chance and yelled for the Sword of Gryffindor. It's come
to me in the past," I explain, "when I was in need of a weapon. It's how I killed the Basilisk."

My hands flex as my eyes flick to the blade over my shoulder.

"Fawkes appeared and dropped the sword into my hand, and I beheaded Riddle's snake. She's been
his familiar since before the first war if I understand my research correctly. Interestingly, she's the
second snake I've killed with the sword. I accio'd Wormtail, accio'd the cup, ducked under Riddle's
Avada, and landed back in the quidditch pitch."

I run my hand through my hair when I'm done, forgetting how long it was at this age. I need a
haircut. Or to let it get long enough to put into a tail like Bill's. Though, I'd bet my Firebolt that Mrs
Weasley will chop it off herself before she lets that happen.

"That's it," I finish when nobody says anything.

"Ridiculous," Fudge asserts, twisting his bent bowler hat in his hands. "The boy has obviously lost
the plot. Look at him!" He throws his arms out, the Bowler hat flying. "Still carrying around that
sword. Someone take it from him before he hurts a student. Or himself. He should be in St.
Mungos, not at school, telling tall tales. No fourteen-year-old Wizard can use wandless magic.
Even Merlin couldn't do that."

I have a moment, a heartbeat, to think about the wisdom of displaying a skill that I should keep
hidden. It's giving away a huge advantage I may need in the future. But I'm past the point of
caring.

Without opening my mouth or touching my wand, I open my hand and call Fudge's bowler hat to
me. I catch it out of the air, before repairing its damage and sending it back. Fudge stutters in a
stream of anger while most of the others watch in awe.

Then I pull my wand.

Ron and Hermione both rise from their seats, their wands bare in their hands.

At my wit's end and forgetting, I'm fourteen again; I pull the sword free from its scabbard across
my back. It makes a ringing noise I hadn't noticed when I practised in the bathroom.

"I'd be happy to take you down to the chamber, Minister. You can hear the Parseltongue firsthand
and meet my first kill with the blade. I'm sure its carcass is just sitting down there. Rotting. I can
show you where I ran it through with my sword. Then I can demonstrate some of the other tricks
I've been forced to learn to protect myself from murderers and morons alike."

"Remarkable," someone says in a loud whisper, but I don't catch who.

Madam Bones steps in before things fall any further downhill.

"Mr Potter's story is easily enough proven, Minister. Madam Pomfrey, can we question Mr
Pettigrew?"

I hadn't noticed Madam Pomfrey standing on the outskirts, listening to the interviews and minding
her patients all at once.

"Certainly," she says, eyeing Wormtail as if she's looking forward to seeing him squirm. It's a good
reminder of how formidable Madam Pomfrey can be.

The sword returns to the scarbbard, having proved its point.

I fade to the back as they wake the rat and drip the Veritaserum down his throat.

Hermione and Ron join me, leaning up against the wall, out of the way of the interrogators.

"You okay, Mate?" Ron asks, looking at me from the corner of his eye before turning his attention
front again. I doubt Ron's listening to Wormtail. More likely, he's watching Fudge for his next
outburst.

"Tired," I say, trusting my best friends to alert me to any danger.

My eyes drift closed as my head rests against the wall. The sword presses into my spine, but with a
twitch of my shoulders, it settles enough that I can lean back without the hilt poking into my neck.

"Nice sword," Ron jokes, and I can feel him looking at me fully now. I peek at him with squinted
eyes. "Thanks. It makes a good accessory, don't you think? We could try to find you one too."

Ron smothers a laugh as his mother shoots him a dirty look. My eyes fall closed again, and I lift
my arm when I feel the weight of Hermione leaning against me. She settles into the crook of my
shoulder, her head resting on my chest.

Merlin knows she's had a day too.

I can feel her brain whirring.

"Where did the scabbard come from?" I ask, without opening my eyes.

"Bill," Ron answers, then lets the silence fall.

Why the hell did Bill have a scabbard?

I perk back up when Sirius' name is mentioned in the conversation.

The party appears to be breaking up, and Pettigrew is already unconscious again.

"Have your client meet me tomorrow at ten a.m. at my office, Mr Wilkinson. I'll have his file
pulled and gone over by then. If all goes well, he'll be a free man by lunch, with my apologies."

"It's going to take a lot more than an apology, Madam Bones," Mr Wilkinson says, dollar signs
flashing in his eyes.

"I'm aware," Madam Bones sighs, her own exhaustion evident on her face. With a nod and a
handshake, Mr Wilkinson turns to see himself out of the castle.

I rise from the spot on the wall, walking over to join the conversation, leaving Ron and Hermione
behind me.

"We need to have a talk, Mr Potter," Madam Bones says, examining me with a considering gaze.

"We do, I agree— "

"But not tonight!" Mrs Weasley interrupts, almost vibrating with the need to mother. "He's dead on
his feet, can't you see that? He needs sleep!"

Both annoyed and thankful for Mrs Weasley's smothering, all I can do is nod.

"As I told you, Sirius Black is my Godfather. Arrange it with him." I accept Madam Bones' hand
when she offers it, giving it a firm shake. "What's going to happen to Fudge?" I ask, noticing that
the Minister seems to be under guard rather than being guarded.

"Depends. Loss of office, for sure. We'll have to throw what we can at him and see what sticks."
She turns to face Dumbledore. "You know they'll be after you now that Who-Know-Who is back.
They'll offer you the top spot before the day is out."

Dumbledore scrunches his face, an expression of revulsion making his beard twitch.

"Heavens me, no. If they want a wryly old nag running the show, may I suggest Augusta
Longbottom. She's had a spot on the Wizengamot for most of my life and is the Head of House for
a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, for those that care about such things. She's a staunch opponent of
Voldemort and is positively terrifying if you make her mad. I still have the welts to prove it."

Dumbledore shudders at some memory better left untold, and I think about the fear that always
lights Neville's face when he talks about his Gran.

Augusta Longbottom.
That's one way to take care of our Ministry issues.

Shacklebolt laughs again, but Madam Bones seems contemplative as she gathers her teams and
prisoners. I have no idea which category Fudge falls into. I'm too tired to think about it anymore.

Madam Bones does a double take as a mangy black dog trots into the hospital wing while the
Ministry crew leaves. Absently, I stroke my fingers through his fur. He sits at my feet until we're
sure the coast is clear.

The usual exclamations erupt when he takes his human form.

"It's alright, Mum," Ron admonishes her. Mrs Weasley looks like she's taken all she can handle for
one night and drops roughly in the chair closest to her. Arthur puts a comforting hand on her
shoulder.

I droop into Sirius's hug, soaking in the warmth of affection when my Godfather pulls me tight.

"Outsmarted him again, huh, pup?" He asks, cupping my cheek and moving the fringe from my
eyes.

"Won't be the last time, either," I assert. The few remaining Weasleys and Professors all seem to
take a collective breath.

"Right," Dumbledore says, seeming to stand taller. "There isn't a moment to lose. Severus. You
know what you must do," Dumbledore says, looking at Snape.

Snape is glaring at Sirius and me. He'd been surprisingly quiet during the interview with Wormtail.

"I do," Snape replies, finally pulling his hatred from my Godfather and me.

"Good luck, my friend," Dumbledore says, and without another glance, Snape storms from the
Hospital Wing.

On his way to bend the knee to his other master.

My anger surges and then dies just as quickly. I sway on my feet, and Sirius holds me up until
Madam Pomfrey points us to a bed. He leads me backwards, taking most of my weight.

"I can go back to my dorm," I protest, even though I know it's a lost cause. Madam Pomfrey simply
glares with her hands on her hips. I sit on the edge of the bed and turn to Dumbledore.

"It's been a long day, Professor. I know, now that it's started again, you'll have a lot on your plate.
But if you could find a few minutes to speak with me tomorrow, I'd appreciate it. I'd like Sirius and
Mr and Mrs Weasley there and anyone else you deem prudent."

Dumbledore gives me a penetrating stare, and I try hard not to squirm under the examination. I let
my exhaustion shine through and my determination to survive the upcoming war. I don't know that
Dumbledore can use Legilimency without a wand, but I learned long ago not to doubt
Dumbledore's powers.

"I'll send word, Harry, when I have a few moments."

I nod and look at the rest of the crowd, all watching the interaction between Headmaster and
student with looks ranging from awe to irritation. Mrs Weasley looks fit to bust.

"Come, Arthur, Molly, Bill. I'll show you somewhere you can sleep for the night. You too, Sirius.
Harry doesn't need us hanging over him, and Poppy looks near bursting with impatience to lay her
hands on her charge."

Sirius squeezes my shoulder once, then walks to join Dumbledore's side without a word. Molly
fusses over me for a moment, attempting and failing to make my hair lay straight. She pulls me
into yet another hug, this one quick and sharp, before allowing herself to be ushered towards the
door.

"Oh, so I'm allowed to look over my patient now?"

Bursting is exactly what Madam Pomfrey does. She looks like she took a bottle of pepper-up
potion as steam pipes out of her ears.

"It's not as if he has open wounds and did battle with yet another killer snake! The boy is
determined to put me into an early grave with all this nonsense. Shoo, the lot of you."

The hospital matron herds the rest of my entourage out of the Hospital ward, with Dumbledore
chatting quietly with Sirius and Mr Weasley at their head.

I don't have the energy to remind her she closed my wounds hours ago.

Hermione slips out from around Pomfrey's outstretched hands and falls into me as my arms rise
automatically to hold her. "Come back later, with the cloak and the map," I whisper in her ear.
Then she, too is gone, hurrying over to Ron, stopped halfway to the door to wait for her.

Ron's look is not precisely calculating. Confused, more like. Maybe hurt to be left out of the loop.
Because its obvious something happened between this morning and tonight that Ron isn't aware of.

He simply can't fathom what.

I have no idea what we're going to tell him. It can't be, 'Hey guess what? Hermione and I, and
probably you too for that matter, died in Malfoy Manor in about three years from now, and now
we've got a do-over, but you don't remember it.'

But we'll have to tell him something because things must be different this time. Things already are.
I certainly never kissed Hermione like that in our previous life. To do it in the middle of the Great
Hall...?

Mortimer was right. I am a moron.

I let Madam Pomfrey's scolding slip over me, hearing but not listening to a lecture I could repeat by
rote by now. Ignoring the hospital-issued pyjamas she places on the foot of the bed, I free the
scabbard from my back, shove it under the pillow, and lay down on my back with my hands under
my head to wait for Hermione.

I'm asleep before my head even hits the pillow.

 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone for reading! I hope you like it.

Hermione
In the back of my brain, I'm still spinning tales to tell Bellatrix while that knife digs into my skin. I
watch the water slide into the drain, expecting it to be tinged pink with my blood.

Despite the shower's heat pounding down on my head, goosebumps break out over my body. I
reach up and smack one of the runes on the wall, and the shower head changes from a storm to a
drizzle.

Thank goodness they never change the prefect bathroom password.

They really should.

Prefects share that password around like it's candy. Most of the upper-level students sneak in here
to bathe. I'll mention it to Professor McGonagall next year.

Next year.

We're back in Hogwarts, with three years left to go.

Two, until we leave.

If we follow the original timeline.

But how can we follow the original timeline when Harry has already buggered it all to hell? Not
that I'm complaining. I don't think I could have done it better myself if we'd had weeks to plan, and
that's saying something. Between his actions in the maze and his devil-may-care attitude since
coming out of it, he's already thrown half of what happened— before —out of whack.

Merlin.

I can't keep it all straight in my head.

If it weren't for the fact that Harry seems to remember dying too, I'd be convinced that everything
that's happened was some sort of dream. Or that the twins were testing one of their daydream
toffees on me, which had a horrible, catastrophic side-effect.

But Harry does remember.

Before he stepped out of the castle tonight, he knew he'd be coming face to face with Voldemort in
a few minutes. Harry didn't even hesitate. He held me in his arms and promised me he'd come out
alive, and he did.

More than that!

He captured Wormtail, freed Sirius, destroyed a Horcrux, and claimed the Sword of Gryffindor, all
in one fell swoop.

My fingers trail up to my lips, rubbing against the smooth skin with prune fingers.

He kissed me.

That never happened before.

I've been kissed. But that...that wasn't just a kiss. It was an experience. Power surged through me
from my fingers to my toes. Harry practically radiated it.
I felt like I was flying and sinking all at once.

Imploding and exploding.

Butterflies burst to life inside my stomach while the earth dropped out from underneath my feet.

This means that this has to be real. I don't have the imagination to dream up such nonsense. Events
that spectacular can only happen around Harry.

I need to talk to him alone. He knows much more about what prompted this blast to the past than I
do. I'm sure of it.

I pour the conditioner into my hand and lather my hair, stepping out of the spray to let it sit awhile.
I slide down the magically warmed tile and let the steam seep into my pores.

My left forearm, the one that Bellatrix carved her brand into, is clean.

The skin is blemish free, though phantom pains have been shooting down my arm all night. I run
my fingers over the slick skin. When I close my eyes, I can almost feel the letters scrapped into my
flesh.

Can something hurt if it hasn't happened to you yet?

My head wilts on my neck, unable to support the storm gathering inside me. I dig the heels of my
palms into my closed eyes, fighting off the headache building there. Holding the tears inside.

Harry was different tonight. Or maybe it's the fact that his seventeen-year-old personality shines
through his fourteen-year-old body.

Either way, I'm not the only one who noticed. By the time Snape stormed out of the Hospital
Wing, he was staring at Harry as he could almost taste the shift in him.

No.

It's not just that the last three years have had a profound effect on us.

This was a different Harry from Fourth Year. Transformed from the Harry of yesterday morning,
when we were fighting over the Hallows. Perhaps the strangers among us tonight simply thought
Harry was usually that intense. That Harry made it a habit of bursting with strength and regularly
threatened incompetent Ministers with magical swords covered in snake blood.

I mean, yeah, he kinda does.

Or he has.

Did?

A smile cracks my face before it falls again.

But anyone who knew him even the slightest bit knows that while brave, Harry is somewhat
reserved. At least until he's pushed. In our timeline, Harry has been on the verge of bursting with
frustration for ages. This Harry, though...no. Any hope of slipping back into place as if nothing had
changed vanished the moment Harry climbed from the ground brandishing the Sword of
Gryffindor like he knew how to use it.

Which, to be honest, was...breathtaking.

Not hot.

Harry is not fanciable to me. He's my best friend, and we don't think about each other like that. But
there's a reason why half the girls at Hogwarts swoon every time he walks into a room, and it's not
just because he's The Chosen One.

If I didn't know it before tonight—I understand the inclination now.

I really, really get it.

Professor McGonagall gave the Weasleys a direct order, and as one, they turned to Harry to wait
for his instructions instead. While that sort of leadership indeed fell on Harry's shoulders in our
original timeline, it doesn't happen for years yet. Tonight, without a word, they fell into step
behind him. His mere presence was enough to transform the order of things. By the time the last
straggler left the Hospital Wing, even Dumbledore was taking his cue from Harry-freaking-Potter.

Unfathomable.

Maybe he should die more often.

If nothing else, it's certainly proven that Harry is a formidable player in the game. Whatever that
game may be. If he keeps this up, he'll pass all his OWLs with flying colours.

Yet, it makes a beautiful sort of sense.

It's what Dumbledore was training him for, after all. So Harry could lead. Dumbledore wasn't
going to live forever, and though I know better than to mention it to Harry, what happened on that
Astronomy Tower never made sense to me. Especially after the reading of the will.

Dumbledore knew he was going to die.

Soon.

That's why he left us the items that he did.

How he knew remains the mystery.

But the truth is that Dumbledore spent the last year of his life prepping Harry for the burdens that
would soon fall on his shoulders, and the results of that preparation were evident tonight. He might
have physically been the youngest in the room, but there wasn't a moment when he wasn't in
control of it.

The next question is, does Harry realize it?

Probably not. Harry was always the last to see the impression he made on others.

When my fingers are so pruney I've lost my fingerprint, I rinse my hair and sneak back into my
dorm.

After I braid my curls away from my face, I pull out a book to wait.

I give it an hour before I climb out of my four-poster bed. My roommates were already asleep
before I made it back to the dorm.

Thank goodness.
I have zero patience to deal with Lav-Lav tonight and all her insidious questions about Harry. But I
needed to give Ron enough time to pass out before grabbing the map and the cloak.

I'm physically exhausted. My muscles scream in protest. But I don't think I could sleep even with
the help of a potion.

I was dead. We were dead.

Now I'm sneaking into the boy's dormitory—back in a time in my life when I didn't care about my
hair.

This jaunt back into the past just gets better and better.

I bet this isn't what the founders had in mind when they put wards on the girl's dorms but chose not
to do the same with the boys.

The sounds of snoring greet me as I creep into the fourth-year dorm. Ron really needs to learn to
use a silencing charm on his bed. Though, in this case, his outrageous snorts help mask the light
tread of my slippered feet. I lift the lid of Harry's trunk and reach to where I know the cloak is
kept. I fling it around my shoulders, tucking my hair into the hood, before pulling the map from the
chest and quietly shutting the lid.

I stop in the common room to activate the map.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good—"

My eyes glaze over when the image of the seventh-floor hallway appears on the map.

The cabinet...

The vanishing cabinet is still on the first floor. Broken, waiting for some aspiring student to pull it
from purgatory and fix it. It hasn't even been moved to the Room of Requirement yet.

I take off at a run.

Harry is asleep by the time I make it back to the hospital wing. He's on his back, with no blanket,
still wearing his clothes. The only things he took off were his shoes and socks. His ankles are
crossed, and his hands are linked behind his head. His wand is still in the holder on his wrist.

One glance tells me that he spelled his attire to fit him properly because his jeans are snug on his
hips, and the plain white t-shirt Ron brought him has risen on his stomach to show the soft
sprinkling of hair below his belly button.

He's too skinny. Years of neglect had more than one physical consequence on his body that I know
will leave a permanent mark. It's part of what makes his power so remarkable. All that strength
packed into such a compact form.

It's more than just his magic too.

Even at this age, the outlines of his muscles are clear. I watch him for a moment as his lungs swell
with every breath, his chest expanding and contracting. With every inhale, the ridges on his abs
appear, the muscles in his body curving in his sleep.

He hasn't even bothered to remove his glasses.

We were dead, and now he's so filled with life.

Looking at the boy he was, it's easy to see the man he had become. Three years seems insignificant
in the grand scheme of things. But watching him now, it feels like the difference between one life
and the next.

Seven hours ago, we were dead, then ten minutes later, he was kissing me.

With shaking fingers, I lift my hand to his face, pushing his untidy fringe from over his eyes. He
catches my wrist as my fingertips graze his skin, his eyes popping open to look for his attacker.

"It's just me," I whisper, and he releases my arm with a sigh.

Living in a tent for half a year on the run, from...well, everyone ...does tend to affect one's reflexes.

"You alright?" Harry asks me, not moving a muscle. My fingers trail over his face before slipping
away.

"I should be asking you that," I reply, pulling up a chair.

Harry sits up in the bed, putting his back against the wall. With a flick of his wrist, the curtains pull
closed around us. Another minute longer, and we're surrounded by the usual privacy charms we
used in the tent.

"I don't think Pomfrey would enjoy walking into this conversation," Harry says with a sheepish
grin.

"Did you put the notice me not charm up too?"

Harry nods, twirling his wand between his fingers.

"Yeah. The only people who might be able to take them down would be one of the Professors, and
even then, probably only Dumbledore or McGonagall, Snape and Flitwick."

Harry lists the most powerful beings in the castle outside of himself, not even realizing he's
compared his skill to theirs.

His head falls back against the wall, and the silence sits thick between us.

"Come here," he says, patting the bed next to him.

"I'm okay down here," I say.

I pretend I'm comfortable, even though years of experience have proven that these are some of the
most uncomfortable chairs in the castle. I think Madam Pomfrey does it on purpose to discourage
students from lounging around, waiting on their sick friends all day.

Still, I don't think I should push our luck any further than we already have today.

Tonight.

Whatever.

I'm painfully aware of all the touching we've done tonight. Harry isn't an exceptionally touchy
person. Though it wasn't uncommon for us to huddle together in the tent, I like to think it had more
to do with warmth and needing physical comfort than anything else.
For the most part.

Though, after the events of the day (has it really only been a day?!), maybe that's all he's offering
now too.

Harry opens his eyes and lifts his brow in my direction, and I shed my cloak and climb into the bed
without another word.

It's peaceful with him, crazy as that sounds. For the first time since this bizarro hell began, I feel
like I can breathe easily.

"So," he starts, then links his fingers with mine.

"It's real, right?" I ask, proud that you can barely hear the tremble in my voice.

"I'm going to say yes, unless it's possible to share a hallucination?"

He phrases it like a question, so I answer it as such.

"I'm sure it is. There are potions that offer a similar effect. But that's usually for the purposes of
getting high. Those types of fantasies are similar, but not identical, as each person's own brain
chemistry alters the potion to give you a unique experience. I don't know how we could be
experiencing anything like that."

"Right," he chuckles, running his thumb along the inside of my palm. I conceal the shiver at his
unconscious touch. It's—a lot.

"Do you want to start," he asks, "or shall I?"

I sag in relief to be given a choice.

"You, please."

I angle my body to see his face. I tuck my feet into my body criss-cross, and one of my knees ends
up on his thigh. It isn't a huge bed. He doesn't release my hand, so I wrap my other around both of
ours and sit them on my lap. "I feel like maybe you got more information than I did."

Harry scoffs, his chest rising in irritation.

"If that's what you want to call it. I came to sitting in a waiting room. I was suffering a bad dream,
and I sicked up all over the floor. Only the sick never appeared. Then I noticed I wasn't in the tent.
Someone called my name as I was trying to make a break for the exit. I realized I was in the same
clothes as my dream. That's when they took me to Mortimer."

He stares at her, his expression flat.

"Not a dream, by the way. Nightmare. Worst moment of my life." Harry cups my cheek, and I lean
into his touch. "Thank Merlin for do-overs." He rests his forehead against mine, and he's trembling
against me.

"Mortimer?" I ask quietly, my curiosity and need for knowledge quickly overriding my fear. Harry
pulls away, running his free hand through his hair instead.

"My personal undertaker, he claimed. He yelled at me for dying again."

"Again!?" I practically shout.

I should have brought my bag. Or at least quill and parchment. I should be taking notes. Maybe the
Headmaster will let me use his pensive. We know about the device by the end of Fourth Year,
don't we?

I'm already frowning, and we haven't gotten out of the waiting room yet.

"Yes. Again . Apparently, I'm absolutely brilliant at it. Do it all the time. Big surprise there. But
there's a predetermined file or something? We're supposed to die at a specific time. Fate, or
whatnot. He said I'm supposed to live until I'm a hundred and seventy-something, I don’t know,
and the fact that I keep dying will get him fired."

Bloody Hell.

"So, this time, when he sent me back, he let me keep my memories. That's when I found you. The
paper he made you sign was the same thing. It gave you the right to retain your memory. Now here
we are. Though the wanker could have picked a better time to drop us."

"That's an understatement," I agree, my mind wandering off in a thousand different directions. "I
don't believe in fate," I add distractedly.

"Well, you don't believe in prophecy either, Mi. Yet here we are."

"I wonder why he picked now?"

"He didn't tell me when he was going to place me. Another asshole who makes choices for my life
without letting me know beforehand. What he did say though was I would be young enough to
learn from my mistakes but old enough to—" Harry chokes on the words. A blush rushes up his
neck, visible even in the dark. "Just old enough."

"Hmmm."

"He says I'm the strongest wizard since Merlin. Powerful, but a moron."

My hands jerk to cover my mouth, but my giggles can't be hidden. Harry chuckles too.

"It is funny," he says grudgingly, "if you don't think about it too hard. Mortimer kept rambling
about the stronger the magic, the stupider the wizard. He said that Merlin died a shite load of times
too. Lucky me."

Harry sounds disgusted with the whole situation. I can't say I blame him. But...

"Your power has changed, Harry. Even now, sitting here in the dark, you're almost glowing with it.
Have you not noticed?"

Harry shrugs, then loses the fight against a yawn.

"No. I'll take your word for it. One thing that hasn't changed is how God damned angry I am.
Sirius is lucky I love him. Because if I wasn't so concerned about getting his arse out of that cave
and free from Grimmauld Place, there are few things on earth that could have stopped me from
pinning Dumbledore to the ground and demanding answers out of him."

I scoff but reply with, "Professor Dumbledore, Harry," in reaction to Harry's lack of title usage,
more out of habit than anything else.

"I'm so mad, Mi. So, fucking angry. When I was with Mortimer, he listed the number of times I'd
died. I stopped listening because there were so many. I can blame every one of those experiences
on having no idea what was going on—except for maybe the Dementor. I don't think I can
condemn anyone but me for falling off my broom.”

He gives a wry chuckle before anger crests his expression.

"I don't care if everyone thinks I'm too young. Do you think the Queen of England grew up without
training for her responsibilities because people thought she was too young to handle them? No. She
was taught from birth what to expect. In trying to protect me, they've screwed us again and again.
'The Chosen One' had no fucking clue what he was chosen for until he was bleeding out on the
floor.

"I watched that bastard and his sycophants kill you today, Mi. We wouldn't have been in that
position, if I had all the facts beforehand."

I lean into his shoulder, offering him whatever support I can. I know him so well I can see his fury
in the air. I feel its echo in my chest, coursing in time with my blood.

“You know,” he says. “I’m not the only one who was getting looks tonight. Hermione of Fourth
Year would not have handled things as smoothly as you did. There’d be finger pulling and high-
pitched voices and all-around panic.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” I whine. “I always came up with the plans!”

“Agreed. But you always freaked out the most too.”

He’s almost laughing before his face falls again.

"What are we going to do then?" I ask, already creating a dozen different plans depending on his
answer.

Something Harry said is tickling at the back of my mind.

"That hinges on what happens tomorrow. If Dumbledore offers to tell me about the prophecy and
agrees to start training us now, then we'll go along with the status quo. At least for the time being.
But if he blows smoke up my arse, then I don't know."

That's...

Huh.

Strong as Merlin, who also died multiple times...

"What?" Harry prods, and I shake my head. My eyes are so dry I have to blink several times, telling
me I've been staring off into space. "I have a theory about the power thing," I announce.

Harry smiles at me.

"Of course, you do. Let's hear it then."

"If you keep dying, and they keep sending you back to try it again, could you be collecting
magics?"

Harry's face freezes, his eyes getting a faraway look. He licks his lips, his hands tightening into
fists.
"Think about it. They let us keep our memories this time, so that's an additional three years of skills
and practice that we didn't have the last time we were this age. Which means we can use the extra
knowledge that we have. But technically, we still shouldn't be able to, because we're not as strong
now magically as we are in three years. But what if every time you die and come back, you just
keep adding on to what was already there. Even if you didn't remember the previous knowledge
you'd learned, its...shadow, for lack of a better word, was always there."

I scrunch my face in irritation. I'm not describing this very well.

Harry seems to understand anyway.

"It's like playing a game of cards," he breathes, "and every hand, instead of turning in all your
cards, you keep some, so your card count keeps getting bigger and bigger."

"Exactly!"

Relief surges in me that Harry seems to understand what I was saying.

"I died twice third year. That would explain why, by the end of it, I could perform a spell most
adult Wizards can't."

"Did they keep sending Merlin back to try again, because he was one of the strongest Wizards in
history or— "

"Was he one of the strongest Wizards in history," Harry picks up my thought, "because he kept
dying, so they kept sending him back?"

My stomach flutters, and heat rises in my chest. My mind, always racing, freezes at the thought.

"If that were true, Harry—" I stop to consider the consequences if something like that were
possible. "There wouldn't be a spell on earth that you couldn't perform. All you'd have to do is learn
it. You'd be more powerful than Dumbledore. More powerful than Voldemort. More powerful than
everyone."

Harry's shoulders droop, and he pulls at the back of his neck. His head hits the wall with a thunk. I
can't think of a time I've seen him so dejected.

So empty.

"I don't care," he decrees. It’s like I'd just asked him to choose between coffee and tea. "I want this
over with. I have to fight him, and I have to win because anything else is unacceptable. But outside
of that, it makes little difference to me. What good is unimaginable power if you can't even protect
the people you love?"

Which is why Harry will win, when the time is right.

I move to put my back against the wall, and Harry immediately lifts his arm to sling it around my
shoulders. I snuggle into his side, his warmth fighting back the chill of the night.

"Master of Death..."

I huff under my breath.

"Oh Harry, please not this again. I don't think I can spend the next three years listening to you go
on about those damn Hallows."
"No. I mean. Yes, but—" he shakes his head and looks at me. "When I was dead, the guy was
listing off my supposed titles, and Master of Death was one of them. I didn't think about it at the
time because yeah—"

"Yeah," I concur with a smile.

"But Mortimer, the guy, person, thingy. He called me the Master of Death. Several times. Actually,
he said whoever gifted me that title deserved to be fired, because the only thing I'd mastered was
doing it. But still, that's gotta mean something. Right? Actually, what he said was— "

Harry scrunches up his nose, concentrating on whatever happened after he died but before we
found each other.

"Harry James Potter, Bond-Mate, The Boy Who Lived, The Man Who Conquered, Master of
Death, one third of The Golden Trio, The Hero of Hogwarts, The Deliverer of Damnation, and The
Death Eaters Bogeyman."

My eyes pop out of my head, and I choke on my tongue as Harry rattles off the impressive list of
titles associated with him. Wait a minute.

Son of a...

"The Golden Trio? You don't think that means the three of us, do you? Oh God! I got a nickname!"

My head falls to his chest, and I can feel the rumble of his laughter through his shirt.

"I think that's a safe assumption, Mi. Actually, it's worse than that. I have it on good authority they
call you Gryffindor's Princess."

Bugger.

I can't keep the groan of frustration inside my lips.

I lift my head from his chest, catching his eyes. He's watching me with a relaxed half-smile on his
face. His eyes are glowing in the dimness with amusement. "Why do you keep calling me that?
Mi? You've never called me that before."

His mouth drops open with shock and sheepishness rolling over his features. I think he’s even
startled himself.

"I'm not complaining," I hurry to assure him, seeing the look of panic behind his eyes. "I like it. It's
just new."

I do like it. It kind of sounds like he's saying mine.

Which, yeah. I shouldn't be thinking things like that.

But I like it.

"I'm sorry. I, ah, I didn't mean to. I think I read it in my file. I sneaked a peek when the bloke's back
was turned. It must have stuck with me."

My heart speeds up until I'm sure Harry can see it thundering away in my chest.

"You saw your file? I was in it? What did it say? Tell me!"
If a sigh can be heavy, his weighs a ton.

"No. I took a quick peek, then threw it away. I don't care what you say, Hermione. There is such a
thing as too much information. I don't want to know what's supposed to happen fifty years in the
future. This conversation right here proves that nothing is written in stone."

His eyelids droop, head resting against the wall.

"That's sensible, I suppose. But come on, tell me something. Anything. All I got from Valdis was '
congratulations, you're dead. Sign here, and welcome to the afterlife.' "

"I'll tell you that you're not supposed to die until you're almost two hundred and in the arms of your
soul mate. That's all I peeked at your portion."

Harry cracks his eyes, then closes them again at the stunned expression on my face.

"Soul mate? I have a soul mate? Who?" I demand with curiosity burning fire in my veins.

"Some bloke who doesn't deserve you, I'm sure."

He doesn't even open his eyes this time.

"That's all you're going to give me?" I pout.

"Honestly, that's all I saw. Hermione Granger, Golden Trio, Gryffindor's Princess, dies at some
outrageous age, with her soulmate. I freaked out."

Why was my information mixed in with Harry's?

My portion?!

"Next time," I instruct him, "try to take it with you."

Harry huffs out a laugh.

"Duly noted."

One of the things I love most about Harry is there isn't ever any need to fill the silence between us.
We can sit together for hours, days , and never need to whisper a word. Even now, it isn't strained.
I rest with him in stillness while I gather my wandering thoughts.

"Hermione."

"Hmmm?"

His thumb is running up and down my arm, and goosebumps pebble over my skin.

"My scar held a Horcrux."

Ahh.

That .

I tilt my head to better see his face. His eyes are still closed, and his face is peaceful, his glasses
resting on the bridge of his nose.

Sometimes it really sucks to be right so often.

"I know," I say, soft and gentle.

"I did too, I think. Or I wasn't surprised when he told me. He took it out. It hurt like—like nothing
I've ever felt before. But tonight, when Riddle, and then the snake showed up, I didn't feel any of
the pain in my scar like I usually did. I felt them, but I didn't feel like I was dying because of it."

His voice shakes.

"I thought it was a good thing, when I let Mortimer peel it from my mind. But now I feel like I've
lost an advantage. I hated having him in my head. Sometimes, though, we used it to our
advantage."

My chest hurts, and I realize it's from lack of oxygen when I gasp in a breath. My heart bursts
through my ribs as adrenaline surges through my blood. I twist in Harry's grip, rising to my knees. I
take Harry's face in my hands, forcing him to look at me.

"No, Harry. Absolutely not. You are not allowed to regret that you got that monster out of your
head. I don't care what sort of advantage you thought it brought us, the price you paid wasn't worth
it. I want to scream from the top of the Astronomy Tower that you're free of that bastard."

His face falls, eyes tight with worry.

"But— "

"No buts, Harry. Today or three years from now, nothing has changed. We're still searching for
Horcruxes. With yours gone, we're one down."

"Two," Harry says. "I killed the snake. Three. The diary.”

"Three," I agree. "All we need to do now is destroy the locket again, find the cup, the ring and the
Ravenclaw artifact, then Avada that bastard."

"That's all, huh?" Harry jokes sarcastically.

"Easy Peasy."

Harry starts to snort, his chest hiccupping in spasms. My giggles flit out of me in peeps until the
laughter explodes from my pores. I collapse onto Harry's chest, my hands gripping the front of his
shirt. His arms wrap around me, his head resting on my shoulder, as our combined laughter roars
until tears slip from our eyes.

I wipe the moisture from my face, then his, before settling back into his body. Harry broaches the
next topic of discussion.

"On a different, yet no less amusing subject, what are we going to do about Ron? He'll notice
something is different. He already has. You should have seen the looks he was giving me tonight."

I did. But still, it's Ron.

"No offense to Ronald, Harry, but are you sure he will? He's not known for being quick on the
uptake."

"I kissed you in the middle of the Great Hall, Mi. Yeah, I'm pretty sure he's going to know
something's up. Not to mention that this morning I could barely conjure the shield spell, and now I
can perform it wandless and wordlessly."
I try not to squirm at the reminder of that kiss.

I ignore the heat that rushes up my cheeks and pretend I haven't been thinking about it
approximately every fifteen seconds since his lips touched mine.

Defend and deflect.

It's what we're taught in duelling. Maybe it'll work here too.

"Merlin, Harry. Ronald is fifteen." I know I'm whining. I don't care. "You know how obnoxious he
is at this age! He barely survived without me hexing his bollocks off the first time around."

Harry chuckles. "Yes, well. Now you have three years more tolerance built up. If nothing else,
we'll be able to escape the Won-Won debacle this time." I cringe, scrunching up my nose. I'm not
so sure about that.

Defend and deflect.

"What else did Mortimer say?"

Harry twists his head on his neck, using a finger to push his glasses higher up his nose. "Make
friends with the Goblins. A little interspecies corporation never hurt anyone."

"Quite sensible."

Harry nods.

"Yeah. I figured one way or another I'd have to go to the bank this summer. I can ask to talk about
my parent's estate. I want to see if there were any books in the vault too. My parents were highly
trained in defense. Maybe there's something in there I can use. I've never taken the time to go
through it. I didn't care about it before. I never understood there was more than gold stored there.
Just pulled out enough money for school and went on my way. Now, I think I'd like to learn about
my history."

His eyes are shining, and he looks away by the end of his spiel.

"That's a really good idea, Harry. I'd love to help if you want the company."

His answering smile is soft and happy.

"Of course, you can come. But don't lie. You're only interested because I mentioned books."

I laugh at that, smacking him on the chest.

"What else?" I prompt, knowing from his tone that there's more to discuss.

"You're not going to like it."

I elbow him in the side, telling him to get a move on it.

"He told me to bond a House Elf. I already have one in mind."

I return to my spot snuggled under Harry's arm.

"You're right, I don't. Dobby will be thrilled though."

"Winky too, if she'll have us. You saw her tonight, Mi. She looks broken. I was thinking you
should bond with her."

"Me?" I squeak. "Harry! I can't—I can't bond an elf. You know how I feel about that."

"You," he says and chucks me under the chin. "No one would take better care of her than you.
They need the bond, and deep down I know you know that. Instead of trying to free them, start by
showing them what a good master looks like. Change the system from the inside out."

I sag into Harry's shoulder.

"When do you plan on doing this?"

"Tomorrow. If Dumbledore isn't honest with us tomorrow, I—I'll have to run from the Dursleys. I
can't stay there and pretend that I don't know what's going on in the background. I need to train. To
spend every waking moment until the final confrontation preparing so that when I face him for
real, I can beat him. And we need to search for the Horcruxes. I can't do either if I'm pretending to
be fifteen again and ignorant of everything around me. If I bonded with Dobby, at least he could
make sure I didn't starve living in the woods again."

His thumb is doing that distracting thing up and down my arm.

" We won't starve, Harry. Where you go, I go. You'd think you'd have gotten that through your
head by now."

Harry tries to pull away, and I already know what's coming. I bury myself into his side, not letting
him put an ounce of distance between us.

"I don't think you should come this time, Mi. You have your parents back. You should stay with
them. Stay in school. Stay with the library, and you can help me from here. We've already proved
how dangerous it is to be around me. I won't be able to take it if something happens to you again."

"Harry," I try to interrupt him, but he talks right over me.

"No, Mi. You had your say, now it's my turn. You are the most important person to me in the
world. The most important thing. I'd die a hundred times over if it meant keeping you safe, and I
didn't. I didn't keep you safe. You died, and I watched, and there was nothing I could do about it."

I want to comfort him. To tell him it's alright now. But a sob catches in my throat. His lips touch
the side of my head, and then, with strength that catches me off guard, he all but pulls me into his
lap.

I have a leg on either side of his thighs, and when I look into his eyes, tears are streaming down his
face.

"I know you were the one tortured. But I had to listen to it. I had to listen to you scream, and that
brilliant bloody mind of yours lie through your teeth even while she was hurting you so horribly."

His voice breaks, and I choke as the image of it flicks through my mind like a move.

"I watched, knowing I was right there but still too far away, as that bitch Bellatrix pulled the knife
across your throat. Then Riddle killed me. I'll live the rest of my life, however long that is,
watching as your lifeless body drops to the floor on repeat in the back of my mind. I won't do it
again, Mi. I can't."
I'm pressed tightly against Harry's body for the second time tonight, my hands grasping at his shirt.
Instead of tears filled with laughter and release, this time, he holds me as I sob.

When he breaks, I break.

Finally, releasing all the fear and terror of the day before—of the last several years where there was
no other choice but to keep moving forward. I can taste his sorrow on my tongue. It's heavy in my
heart, warring for the place of superiority in my soul.

The tears of his grief drop onto my shoulders. Harry presses me into his embrace and buries his
face into my hair. His lips are moving, but I can only make out half of what he's saying.

Thought I lost you.

Won't risk it again.

Love you so much.

Desperate mumbles from the man who means everything.

I died, and he died, and even if it never happened, we're still suffering the price. We'll pay with
nightmares of things that never transpired but still left a scar.

I officially hate time travel.

It's a long while before our tears dry up and our breathing returns to normal. With a muttered spell
under my breath, I clean Harry's glasses. He runs his hands over my face, wiping away the
moisture and the baby hairs that stick to my skin from my weeping.

The air around us is stirring. Weak daylight filters through the windows, giving the privacy curtain
an ethereal glow before Harry breaks the sanctity of our peace again. My head is resting on his
chest, my arms wrapped around under his armpits with my hands on his shoulders.

I feel like a monkey. I feel safe.

His hands rub up and down my back, his rhythm never slowing.

"That bitch is going to die by my hand, Hermione. I promise you that."

I have no doubt he means every word.

"Thank you, Harry. That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me." Harry snorts. I wait for a
heartbeat, two, and then, "But no matter where you go, I'm still going with you."

His shoulders slump in defeat.

"Why are you so stubborn witch?"

"I'd blame you, but I think we both know I was born this way."

His breath huffs against my head. Reluctantly, I pull back so I can read his eyes.

"Harry, nothing has changed between yesterday and today, yet everything is different. Where you
go, I go. I don't think I could leave you if I tried, which I wouldn't, because I don't want to."

He cups my cheeks in his hands and brings our foreheads together grazing his face against mine.
"Nothing has changed, yet everything is different." His breath slips over my face.

Everything.

"I'm going to burn Malfoy Manor to the ground," he growls.

He'll get no complaints from me.

But...

I unlatch my hands from their death grip on Harry, his shirt now fantastically worse for wear.

I'm sitting on Harry's lap.

No...I'm straddling Harry's lap.

As inconspicuous as possible, I slide to the side and reclaim my previous spot. I ignore the way I
feel raw without his body pressed against mine.

"We need to talk about Malfoy."

"Ugh. Do we have to?" Harry grouses but rolls his eyes and nods his head. "Yeah, okay."

"He was scared, Harry. Scared for us as well as himself. He could have identified us. He knew who
we were. He lied right to Bellatrix's face. To his father's face. He could have elevated himself as
Riddle's right-hand man for handing us over, and he didn't"

Harry is seventeen, stuck in his almost fifteen-year-old body, and suddenly looks one hundred.

"I know. I was thinking the same thing, before you got here tonight. I think we need to try to turn
him, before Riddle gets his hooks in. Draco probably already knows what happened tonight. Or at
least the version Riddle tells his followers. He may be a foul loathsome evil little cockroach," he
pauses, waiting for the giggle he knows I'm going to grace him with.

He isn't disappointed.

"But he doesn't deserve whatever Riddle does to him to put that amount of fear on his face. I still
have nightmares about finding Malfoy in that bathroom in sixth year. If we can stop that from
happening, we should."

Oh yeah. That reminds me.

"Speaking of Sixth Year, I grabbed the vanishing cabinet on my way down here."

"What?" Harry exclaims, jerking in shock.

"Yeah. I activated the map, and then it dawned on me. It's just sitting there. Broken. So, I found it,
shrunk it, and put it in my pocket. Maybe we should buy its twin and use them ourselves. But that
avenue into the school, at least, is dead to the Death Eater's use."

"You're a genius, Hermione. Do you know that?" I try not to preen under his praise.

"Can I tell you a secret?" I ask after the silence stretches for a bit.

"Of course. You know you can always tell me anything."

I pull my lips over my teeth before saying in a small voice, "I'm kind of looking forward to taking
my OWLs again."

Harry's amused laughter slithers over my skin, that damn distracting thumb running up and down
my arm.

"Only you would be happy about a chance to re-take an exam," he chuckles under his breath.
"What about your parents? Are you excited to see them?" I'm slower to answer that. I've purposely
avoided thinking of them yet.

"Yes. I am. I honestly never thought I'd see them again. But the danger is still there. The reason I
sent them away is still pertinent. I think I may spend some time with them this summer, then
strongly suggest they go abroad. Maybe an extended holiday, or a jaunt with Doctors Without
Borders. They've always talked about doing that one day. With the right persuasion, I could make
that happen. And I won't have to take their memories again."

"That's a good idea, Mi," Harry says, squeezing my arm. "Though, it just occurred to me. You
realize we won't be able to do magic outside of school."

I jerk at his side, dumbfounded at the truth in his words.

"Bugger," I pout, deflating with the realization.

"Indeed," Harry agrees. "If Dumbledore agrees to train me, I'm going to insist on moving to
Grimmauld Place a lot sooner than a week before fall term. If nothing else, we can use the holiday
to plan how to attack the next school year. I wish we lived closer to each other. You know I need
your brain."

Oh!

That's a great idea.

"Can I use Hedwig tomorrow?" I ask, and Harry gives me a bemused smile.

"Of course, you never have to ask. She'll be happy for something to deliver."

Easier ways to communicate...

"Do you know what a cell phone is, Harry?"

The bemused expression doesn't ease any.

"I live with Muggles, Mi. Yeah. I do. I don't have one. The Dursleys would never pay for me to
have a mobile phone. They barely tolerate the one or two times I've received calls on the home
phone."

"Oh, I know that. But my parents have them. They offered to get me one, but Muggle electronics
won't work in the castle. Too much magical interference. Now though, I'll send my parents an owl
and ask if they'd get us both one! It'll be perfect. We can talk as much as we need to, and no one
will be the wiser. Even if Voldemort's followers were sitting outside your Aunt and Uncle's house,
there's no way they'd think to spy on Muggle technology."

Harry's face lights up, then falls just as quickly.

"That's genius. Brilliant! But I wouldn't want your folks to go out of their way. Aren't those things
expensive?"

"Not really," I assure him. "But my parents are both Dentists. They can afford it either way. And if
it makes you feel better, you can pay them back after we visit the bank. Or from the Triwizard
earnings. Are you still planning on giving it to the twins for their joke shop?"

"Absolutely. I don't need it, and their shop was amazing. I might see if they can't make us
something special even. Their dark arts defense line was top notch."

I wholeheartedly agree.

The sun filtering under the curtain casts weird shadows on the ground, and my eyelids start to sag.
I'm sure I've been awake for well over twenty-four hours now. My bones feel heavy, and my head
tilts onto Harry's chest.

He roughly clears his throat, grabbing the back of his neck. I jerk myself awake. "By the way, I'm
sorry about kissing you earlier."

My heart sinks, but I blank my face when I feel Harry look at me.

"We can blame it on my nerves, or whatever. I mean, I don't regret it," he quickly assures me,
rubbing his thumb along the outside of my arm. "Honestly, it feels like we should have done that a
long time ago. At least once. Get it out of our systems, or whatnot. But I'm sorry. I shouldn't have
kissed you without asking first."

A blush blooms up my cheeks, and I duck my head to avoid his gaze.

Should have done it ages ago?

Stop it, Hermione! Harry is your best friend, and he doesn't feel that way about you!

But that kiss—it didn't feel like friends. It felt life-altering.

"Are you really sorry?"

I can feel his eyes boring into me.

"No, not really."

My breath puffs out in a laugh.

"Don't worry about it, Harry. We'd just come back to life. I think? I can excuse your impertinence
this once."

Silence sits for a moment, then...

"What about the next time?" he asks, his voice so quiet I barely hear him.

Next time?

I don't reply, and neither does he.

The sun has crested the horizon, and the rays of yellows and oranges peek through the cracks of
the curtains as exhaustion finally pulls me under.
I don't put up any fight when Harry slips his arms under my shoulders and knees, laying me down
on the mattress. He pulls the blanket up to my shoulders, and Harry's lips press into my forehead. I
turn onto my side, and he slips in behind me. Harry's power, a steady comfort in a time and place
when everything feels out of order, cocoons me in warmth as I succumb to sleep.
 Chapter 5
Chapter Notes

One of the things I regret losing the most is all the comments from last time. I had
close, if not over, 3k. It was one of my greatest pleasures talking to you guys and
debating and, in some cases, plain out flirting lol.

I know I won't get as many because we've all said whatever we already wanted. But
remember I have a short-term memory issue, so I won't remember what you said the
first time anyway
 Harry

"I thought he said that Hermione wasn't his girlfriend."

"Maybe he doesn't realize that she is."

"Oi! Don't look at me. I have no idea what's going on."

"I'm surprised Madam Pomfrey didn’t nip it in the bud."

They think they're whispering. They're not

"Pomfrey tried to make Hermione leave when she checked on me this morning," I mumble through
a haze of exhaustion without opening my eyes. I tighten my hold around the witch currently asleep
in my arms. "I threatened to run her through with my sword. Madam Pomfrey took affront to my
threat, though it wasn't a threat so much as a promise. She never returned from running to
Dumbledore."

Mr Weasley chuckles, and I drag open my eyelids.

"I always did say that man had exceptional common sense. You don’t get between a Wizard and
his Witch."

His wife shoots him a dirty glare.

I carefully ease my way out from behind Hermione as I withdraw my arm from under the pillow
we share. My nose twitches as the hairs that have escaped her nightly braid graze against my face.

"By the way," I add as I slip off the edge of the bed. "You guys aren't as quiet as you think you
are."

I don't remember taking my glasses off before I fell asleep, which means Hermione must have
some time this morning. I find them on the chair with her cloak.

She makes a little huffing sound, and I pull the blanket we were sharing up to her shoulders,
tucking my portion of the fabric around her back, enveloping her inside. Her next huff is a grunt of
discontent, and she wiggles backwards, searching out my warmth.

We'd become accustomed to sharing a bed long before last night.

Even when Ron returned, she'd often sneak into my cot late at night and scurry to her own before
Ron woke up.

Careful not to disturb her, I slide the sword out from under the pillow. Ron opens his mouth to
speak, but I cut him off instead.

"If you wake her up," I warn with a low tone, tapping him on the chest with the hilt of the blade.
"I'll be running you through with this instead."

It takes more strength than it'd be worth to hide my smirk when Ron's look of disgruntlement
contrasts with the amused expressions of the rest of the Weasleys.
Excluding Molly, but that's to be expected.

It's only Ron, Bill, and their parents this morning, thank Merlin. I don't think I could handle the
twins yet today. Not to mention a pouting thirteen-year-old Ginny.

A shudder runs up my spine in horror at the thought. She's cute at sixteen, but at thirteen, not so
much.

That's—Yeah. That's done.

I drop into a squat to pull on my socks and trainers.

"It's not really your sword," Ron says petulantly. Looking through my lashes, I decide that
Hermione was right. He is obnoxious at this age.

Where it made her cringe, though, I can't help but smile.

I've always been broody, as Hermione has so often pointed out. She's the serious, studious one. I
don't know how often she's fallen asleep with her nose in a book.

But Ron, Ron keeps us sane, for as much as he drives us nutters.

"Try to take it from me, Ron, and find out," I grin at him. "Lost for a thousand years, and it
appears to me twice. Maybe, like wands, the sword picks the wizard. Besides that, I'm descended
from the Peverell brothers, who are suspected to be descendants of Gryffindor on the maternal side.
I'm sure I could make a case that I am the rightful owner of the sword."

Bill doesn't bother to hide his snort.

"Where in Merlin did you learn that from?" Ron demands.

"Three guesses."

Climbing to my feet, Ron meets my eye, and we grin.

"Hermione," we supply together.

I head towards the loo, with the entire assembled Weasley crew trailing in my wake. Ron tries to
follow me inside, and I quickly turn and shut the door in his face and lean my body against it.
There's a thump against the other side, where Ron didn't stop fast enough and strode into the wood.

I use the toilet and wash my hands before slipping the scabbard back over my shoulders and setting
the sword across my spine. I'm confident Dumbledore won't seek to take it from me. After all, he
willed it to me in the previous timeline. I plan to keep it with me until someone asks for it back.

When they do, I'll tell them to go to hell.

I should probably disillusion it.

It's asking for trouble wearing a thousand-year-old blade across my back in the middle of hundreds
of students. I can't remember what year we learned that spell.

Not yet. I know that much.

Either I need to ask about that specific charm and wait for someone to show me, or let them think
Mi and me learned it on our own.
I need to appear capable enough that they'll include me in critical decisions but not so powerful that
people get suspicious.

I suppose Hermione and I will have to decide how much we display for every situation we
encounter.

I'm already exhausted.

My lungs are heavy and achy, like the beginning of a cold. But that's not it because wizards rarely
get sick.

My entire life has revolved around one thing, and here I am, expected to do it again. I want to lose
myself in the sleeping witch's hair and wake up in a time when this was all a bad dream, and we
were just regular teenagers.

Nothing is different, yet everything is.

I can't help but admit that's something that never changed. In the end, she was everything.

I run a quick scourgify over my clothes, hoping you can't tell Hermione spent the wee hours of the
morning crying in my lap.

All four Weasleys are waiting for me when I get out.

"What time is it?" I look at the window and see the sun reasonably high over the skyline.

"After eleven, dear," Mrs Weasley replies. "We thought it best to wake you before Sirius finished
with the Ministry. Peaky?"

Mrs Weasley openly examines me from top to bottom.

It's a look I've long associated with the woman as being weighed, measured, and found starving. It's
a potent reminder of my family's mistreatment that the first thing Mrs Weasley ever does is attempt
to get me to eat.

It doesn't matter if we've been apart for months or hours.

I've often wondered if the size of her sons is more due to genetics or how much she feeds them.

"Yeah, Mrs Weasley. I could eat."

I allow myself to be led out of the Hospital Wing with a single glance at Hermione, tucked into the
bed.

As it is, it's causing me physical pain to walk away from her.

I don't know if it's because I watched her die yesterday or I let Mortimer get into my head.

But my breathing becomes easier when Hermione is in my line of sight. It's a long distance between
the Great Hall and where she's still asleep. The second I turn the corner from the Hospital Wing,
my fingers spasm with the need to ensure her safety.

Bellatrix has to die.

I won't sleep easily until she's hanging out in Death's waiting room.
I'm seriously considering striding into Azkaban and slitting her throat in her cell. It'll save everyone
a lot of pain and heartbreak in the long run.

Merlin.

I've stopped walking entirely and am already partially facing the other direction.

This is going to be a problem.

"You know she's going to go nutters when she wakes up and finds out you left her there," Ron
observes, rightly guessing I'm stressing over leaving Hermione alone and asleep.

I shake my head and flex my hands, pivoting to resume our stride down the hallway. We've fallen a
good step behind his parents.

"She couldn't sleep last night. You know the way her brain works. I was listening to her ramble as
the sun came up. If she's asleep after we get some food, I'll wake her up before we meet with
Dumbledore."

Speaking of which.

I raise my voice some.

"Any idea when we'll be called to the Headmaster, Mr Weasley?"

"Haven't the foggiest," he replies.

"Ministry officials have been in and out of the castle all morning. I took the day off so that I could
stay with you lot. It's become a tradition, after all. When one of our children comes face to face
with You-Know-Who, it's nice to spend a little quality time together as a family."

Mrs Weasley scowls and slaps her husband's arm, but Mr Weasley grins over his shoulder at us.

I swallow back the lump of emotion that gets stuck in my throat.

"Thanks, guys. I appreciate it."

We turn the last corner into the Great Hall. There's only a handful of students there—stragglers
getting a late breakfast or early birds grabbing lunch. Relief surges through me. I'm not ready to
face the rumour mill that is Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Ron grabs my arm, and we let the others pull ahead even further.

"Umm, Mate? Why was Mione sleeping with you?"

I give him a confused look in a feeble attempt to appear like I don't understand the question. This
tactic wouldn't have worked a few months ago.

Or in a few years?

He'd learned how to read my bullshite by then.

I can’t make up my mind if things are in the future or the past.

Either way, I'm thankful for Ron's dimness. He's brilliant at chess but rather daft at interpersonal
relations.
Not that he gets much better at it.

"Because she fell asleep there, and I didn't have the heart to wake her up." I throw off his
scepticism with a shrug. "I was made to understand in rather fierce tones that she doesn't appreciate
me almost dying with yet another go-round with Voldemort. If I woke her, there was no telling
how much longer she'd lecture me for."

All true, as far as truths are concerned.

"Yeah," Ron says, looking a little lighter. "That makes sense. She's as bad as Mum sometimes."

When Ron comes to a full stop, I do too. The Weasleys make themselves comfortable at the
Gryffindor table, Mrs Weasley already piling a plate high. Bet a sickle, it's for me.

Ron seems to be struggling with what he wants to say.

"What?" I push.

My stomach gives a vocal growl now that I'm so close to food.

Ron finally makes up his mind.

"Are you guys together? I mean yesterday, before the task, and then last night afterward, and now
today..."

Okay. Maybe he's not as dim as he looks.

When did Ron start to develop feelings for Hermione?

Sixth year? Fifth? Fourth? Was Ron envious of Hermione for going to the Yule Ball with Krum, or
narked because Krum stole Hermione?

Was he jealous, jealous? Or irritated because Hermione caught the prince of the party when Ron
was sure she'd be there to save him from going alone?

Does any of that matter after what I saw in that file? Does it matter that already I've come to crave
her like a life-giving substance?

Soul Mate, Hermione Jean Granger.

It didn't say, wife.

Soul Mate.

That's—more. Right? In a way, it makes a perfect kind of sense.

But the Horcruxes show us what we fear most, and Ron's fear was losing Hermione to me.

That's three years from now. What about today?

I can't very well say, 'Sorry Ron, but I realized I'm in love with our girl overnight.' How he feels
about her does make a difference. It makes all the difference in the world. We've proven a hundred
times over that you can change the future.

I won't get in the way of whatever Ron and Hermione have.

I need them too much to risk losing either of them.

Those months alone in that tent with Hermione taught me one thing: we need Ron in our life. Just
because Ron doesn't remember what he and Hermione were to each other or what they were
becoming doesn't mean Hermione has forgotten.

She knows, and I know, what she felt for him.

We were all waiting for them—him—to get his shite together long before that tent.

A flock of birds attacking my head doesn't sound like a fun time.

I won't get between them. Like everything else, I'll wait for it to play out.

"No, Ron. We're not together, but Hermione..." How do I even put it into words? The truth, I
suppose. "Hermione is the most important person in my life, Mate. I'd die for you both, but—"

Ron interrupts me, grabbing my shoulders. He shakes me, his fingers digging into my arms. Blood
rushes to his face, with the tips of his ears turning pink and determination coating his features.

"We'd die for you too, Harry," Ron insists. "You know that, right? Don't go off and do something
stupid. We can get through this together."

They do die for me.

I pull Ron into a hard hug, smacking him on the back.

I have to clear my throat before I can talk.

"I know, Ron. I don't plan on running off and doing something stupid. I promise, any stupid
decisions, I'll make sure you're right there beside me."

"Damn right I will be," he declares, pulling away again.

"But, Hermione," I continue. "I'd kill for her. I plan on it. I'm going to kill that bastard Riddle, for
good this time. Cut off his head and scatter the ashes like you would a vampire. I'm going to watch
his pitiful excuse for a soul burn, and anyone who would dare take her from us can burn right
along with him."

My anger simmers in the pit of my stomach.

"They hate me, Ron, because he can't defeat me. But they hate her , simply for being who she is.
We'll win this war, because of Hermione. Because of my mother. She and I aren't together, but
Hermione was the first person to give me a hug after my parents died. The first person to tell me
she loved me. She's the most important person in my life, and when you look death in the eye and
walk away again, sometimes you need to hold the person you love most."

Ron gawks at me like a fish out of water.

Too much. I said too much.

"And you've said this to her?"

My eyes flick to all the exits, pushing my glasses up my nose. It's second nature now to know the
swiftest way to escape. The need to run is coursing through me, and it's all because of questions I
don't have the answers for.
"Not in so many words, no."

"You think she's not your girlfriend? After all that?" He asks again, gaping at me with wide eyes.

"She's like my sister, Mate," I say automatically. It tastes like a lie, though, and sits bitter and foul
on the tip of my tongue.

Ron huffs disbelievingly, rolling his eyes.

"You're taking the piss out of me, right?"

"What?" I demand, starting to feel defensive.

"Umm, Harry. I don't know how to break it to you, and maybe it's because you don't have any
siblings. But I don't talk about my sister like that. I certainly wouldn't kiss her like you kissed
Hermione yesterday."

I'm running on four hours of sleep, talking about Hermione is making me need to see Hermione
like someone used a compulsion charm on me, and my stomach is growling so hard I think Mrs
Weasley just heard it because she throws a suspicious look over her shoulder at us.

"Cause, it's cool, you know—if you did like Mione like that. I mean, it might be weird at first, but
it would be loads better than you kissing your sister. And yeah..."

Says the boy who doesn't know that Mione has fancied him for years.

"Look. I'm hungry. I—I can't deal with this right now. Voldemort is back, and frankly it doesn't
matter if Mi was my soul mate. I'm not willing to let another person get hurt because of me and
everybody I love does. Anyone close to me is at risk, and if he thought I had a—" I choke on it.
"Even if—" girlfriend feels too weak for what we are.

"Ask me again after I've ran Voldy through with my sword, okay."

Ron's head jerks back in surprise at my outburst.

"Yeah. Okay. Sorry, Mate."

He lifts his hands between us, bemusement and hurt on his face.

"No. I'm sorry. Just—can we go eat? It's...I'll tell you about," shit "everything, after we eat and
ditch your folks."

"Sure," Ron agrees, heading towards the tables. "I'm ruddy starving anyway."

"Haven't you already eaten once today?"

It's not the last time I'll see that you're completely nutters' expression on his face.

"Hours a go!" he complains, and I smile, watching him slide onto the benches beside Bill.

"Harry, dear. I've made you a plate," Mrs Weasley confirms as soon as I sit down.

I smile at her before I tuck into the food.

It's a relief, honestly, to know that no matter what point in time it is, some things will never
change.
I feel her before I hear her.

I'm halfway through my second helping of pie when Hermione's voice rings out over the Great
Hall.

"Harry James Potter!"

The air of camaraderie freezes in the room before excited chattering picks up again.

Let the rumours begin.

I twist in my seat, grinning at the girl to my left. She's changed from her Gryffindor sleep pants,
wearing jeans and a shirt. Her hands are on her hips, and her hair is a mass of well-manipulated
curls that hang in layers past her shoulders.

She looks more like the woman she became than the girl she was.

She's so bleeding lovely like this.

Fucking Mortimer.

"Ohhh, someone's in trouble with the Missus," one of the twins taunts.

The three missing Weasleys joined us about halfway through our meal. "Oh, shush you," Mrs
Weasley admonishes.

It's easy to tune them out when she's in front of me.

"You needed sleep, Mi."

I give her my cheekiest smile, looking up at her from the bench.

"Madam Pomfrey almost caught me in your bed!" she hisses, then blushes when she realizes what
she's said.

My grin only gets wider.

"Too late for that, Luv. She'd already caught us. I may have told her to bugger off in not-so-polite
tones."

"Oh, Harry, you didn't!" she laments, but I'd swear she's pleased rather than irritated.

"Come on," I say, motioning with my head for her to join us. I scoot over on the bench, giving Ron
a hard shove. He grumbles but slides out of the way. Hermione slumps in defeat as she takes the
seat in between us.

She leans close to whisper to me, and I start to pile hotcakes on a plate for her.

"I was scared when I woke up, and you weren't there. It's been months since you weren't the first
thing I saw in the morning."

I link one of her hands with mine, lifting it to my lips before I even consider what I'm doing.

“I don’t like the way it felt."

"I know," I say, lowering my mouth to her ear. "I'm sorry. I almost couldn't do it. My hands were
shaking when they led me away from the Hospital Wing. I thought I was having an episode or
something. I gotta admit it makes me feel better to know it freaked you out as well. I'm starting to
wonder if he didn't do something to us before he shoved us through that door."

"If I ever get my hands on that Mortimer guy, I have about a thousand questions to ask him,"
Hermione declares in a low growl.

Poor Mortimer. Sucks to be him.

Hermione, on a quest, is not to be trifled with.

The conversation picks back up once Hermione sits down. I push her hair behind her ear with a
finger to more jabs from the Weasley siblings.

I can feel several sets of eyes flicking to watch us as we whisper to each other. This has to stop.

Right then.

I squeeze it once, feeling her pulse throb in her fingers, then let go of her hand.

Hermione exhales through her nose, lips pulled tight, before seeming to sit up straighter and
tucking into her food.

Even inches from me, the need to touch her is overwhelming.

"When do you have to leave, Mr and Mrs Weasley?" she asks.

"We'll leave after we meet with Dumbledore."

I sit back and listen to the twins harass their siblings and Mrs Weasley scolding her unruly brood. I
watch Arthur as he watches the chaos with an amused smile. I've always thought Mr Weasley
rather liked the pandemonium that is his household. If Molly spends all her time smothering her
children, she's less likely to notice what her husband is getting up to behind her back.

I trail the back of my pointer finger up and down Hermione’s leg where no one can see it under the
table if only so I don’t suffocate beside her.

When Hermione pushes away her plate, I act.

"Mi. I'm stuck on that last homework assignment for McGonagall. Ron, you are too, right?"

We haven't had any homework for days. No need. All our classes are either testing or readying for
the end of the school year.

Ron boggles his answer before he catches on.

"Whaaa—yeah!" he corrects quickly. "Yeah! Stuck. Transfiguration. Changing stuff into other
stuff. Need Mione's help."

If Hermione rolled her eyes back further, they'd get stuck that way.

"We better try to get it done before that other thing we have to do today."

I turn towards the Weasleys, who wear expressions from amusement to bemusement to plain out
flabbergasted.
"Right," Ron agrees.

The three of us rise from the table and practically sprint from the Great Hall.

The twins yell "goodbye, little lovebirds!" "Use protection!" as we flee.

Bloody hell. Right in the middle of the Great Hall.

"That was real subtle Harry," Mi grouses, and I look down when her hand slides into mine.

"Thanks," I mumble. "I try."

"Where are we really going then?" Ron asks.

"The Room of Requirement," Hermione and I say together.

I stop and glance at her, my jaw on my chest. I find my expression mirrored on her face, dramatic
with her chocolate eyes.

"Huh?" Ron asks. He rips me back to the here and now. "What the bloody hell is the Room of
Requirement?"

I close my eyes and send a prayer to Merlin.

I hate time travel.

Chapter 6

Hermione
“What's he doing?”

Harry is walking in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, waiting for the door to appear.

"Calling the Room of Requirement to him. Also known as the Come and Go Room."

The door materialises, and Harry pulls it open, looking both ways down the corridor before
gesturing for us to go in. Ron just stands there with his jaw on his chest, glancing between Harry
and me like we've grown second heads.

Which, in his defence, it probably feels like to him. It kind of feels like that to me.

"Woah," Ron breathes, finding a replica of the Gryffindor Common Room, excluding the wall-to-
ceiling windows the room provided. The fire is roaring in the corner, plus a table with a chess set
and a stack of books.

"Blimey!" he cries as the door slips shut behind Harry.

"When did you discover this room, and if you knew about it, why have we been practising charms
in the Transfiguration classroom?"

He walks the perimeter of the room and runs his fingers over the furniture and tapestries.

Harry moves over to the windows, looking out onto the Hogwarts grounds.

Several students are playing a pickup game of Quidditch, and I watch his hands twitch with the
desire to hit the sky. He wraps his arms around himself and grabs the opposite elbow.

His newest form of self-comfort.

"We learned about it in Fifth Year," Harry says.

His back is to the room, and his voice has a detached quality about it.

I swallow down a choke of indignation but let my pique churn in my belly.

Of all the—!

"Dobby shows it to us, though Dumbledore told me about it by accident at the Yule Ball."

Ron stumbles on his feet, using the back of a nearby chair to steady him.

A puff of air escapes his lips, and he leans his shoulders back as if to put more space between him
and us. I can see his brain attempting to process what Harry's just said as it flickers across his body.

I—I can't.

I turn to Harry instead, hissing in his direction.

"Harry James! We talked about this!"

He's started pacing the length of the windows, ignoring the few fliers enjoying the summer sun
before the beginning of hols.

"No, Mi. We didn't. We said we needed to discuss what to tell him, then complained about how
daft and annoying he is at this age—"

"HEY!" Ron bellows.

I glance at him, but Harry isn't done yet.

"He'd think we're crazy, Hermione!"

"Oh, and tossing it out there like it's the weather is going to make it easier? Even now, you're so
impulsive! Haven’t you learned by now not to leap before you jump!? You've already died doing
that very thing!"

My hair falls into my eyes, and I shove it away with an impatient growl. Of all the fool headed,
miserable—

"I need him, Mi," he snaps. "We need him."

Now he's all but begging.

“You and I both know I won't be able to keep this sort of secret to ourselves, and better to tell him
now rather than accidentally bugger it up in six months and have him think we're even more
mental."

One glance at Ron over my shoulder, and it's obvious enough that's exactly what Ron's thinking.
He's easing towards the door, eyes flicking to the side as if debating his chances of taking off at a
run.

Harry braces himself, then faces his best mate.

"We're from the future, Ron. We die about three years from now, and they sent us back to get
things right this time."

"They ?" he squeaks. "Us ?"

Ron stutters, choking on his own tongue. His eyes bug out, his stress flushing him from the base of
his throat up to his ears.

This isn't going well.

"Is it really that hard to believe?" I ask, coming to stand at Harry's side.

I ease my wand out from my pocket in case we need to subdue Ron.

Harry won't take action, of that, I'm sure.

He'd rather risk Ron running and bringing the entire castle down on us than raise his weapon to his
friend.

Even if he's already threatened him with that damn sword half a dozen times.

Boys are so stupid sometimes.

"We've travelled backwards through time before," I remind him. "How is this any different?"

"With a Time Turner!" Ron exclaims, running his hand through his hair. "You want me to believe
you died and came back to the past."
"Technically, I'm pretty sure you died too," Harry declares, only making things worse.

Ron blanches, the blood draining from his face so quickly I'm afraid he might pass out. He falls
heavily backwards, his bum landing on the table.

"Harry," I snarl at him and smack him upside the head.

"Ow!" He whines, rubbing at the spot with his hand. His shoulders lift to his ears, and he jumps
away when I try to hit him again.

"What? It's true!"

"Not. Helping!" I bite out, my wand tight in my hand now.

If nothing else, I'll need it to clean up the sick since Ron looks a heartbeat from losing his lunch all
over the floor. I close the distance between us and, ignoring how he flinches at my touch, shove his
head between his knees.

"Deep breaths, Ron. It's okay. It's all going to be okay."

Ron sucks in a painful-sounding gasp of air, grasping his knees in his hands, before looking up at
us from a half-hunched position.

He pleads in silence for us to tell him it's all a joke, his brothers thought up.

"Look," Harry says, a beseeching tone lacing his words. He drops to a squat in front of our best
friend, so Ron is taller than him again.

"You asked me what's going on with Mi and me? Well, this is it. This is the truth. The three of us
were on the run after the Ministry fell and the Death Eaters took over Hogwarts. You told me then,
just like you promised me today, that you'd never leave my side."

He takes a deep breath while Ron seems to be holding his. You can see Ron's horror as he listens to
our story.

"We'd been on our own for months, living in Grimmauld and then a tent, when we were captured
and taken to Malfoy Manor. They killed us. I know it sounds outrageous, but it's the truth. I'll be
eighteen next month; Mi will be nineteen in September. One minute, we were in the hands of the
enemy, the next, we were in some sort of waiting room to be sent—" Harry's shoulders rise in pain.
“— On ,” he trembles.

"And five minutes after that, we opened our eyes and were in the Great Hall, listening as
Dumbledore called the contestants down to the pitch."

Harry catches my eye over Ron's shoulder, and I nod my head encouragingly.

"Last night was easy, because I knew what was going to happen. I didn't even have to duel with
Riddle. Last time, we fought, and—" his throat tightens, making his voice come out weak and
gruff. "Cedric Diggory died. Wormtail got away. Barty Crouch Jr. was given the kiss by that
Dementor, and Fudge told the world I was a liar."

Ron sways where he sits.

"The Dementor," he croaks, eyes wide and hands shaking. His lips move, though no sound comes
out, and I know he's remembering how Harry called his Patronus before anyone even knew the
Dementor was there.

"You're not taking the piss out of me?" he asks in a strangled voice.

I rub my hand soothingly over his back, and Harry watches the motion with anxious eyes. It makes
me want to pull away for some reason, even if I don't.

"Think about it, Ron," I implore in my softest voice. It's not very gentle. I don't have a lot of
sweetness in me. "Does it feel like we're lying?"

Ron swallows roughly, sitting up straight.

"No," he admits reluctantly, "but I really want you to be."

"You and me both," Harry grumbles under his breath.

He pulls on his Gryffindor courage and wraps it around him like armour.

"I can prove it," Harry says, and Ron pulls away, giving him a dubious look. "If bringing you here
wasn't proof enough. When we talk to Dumbledore, if he's honest, and that's a big if from where
I'm sitting at the moment—"

"We're mad at him," I add helpfully when Ron looks confused at his friend’s mounting
aggression.

"Get back on track, Harry," I instruct, and Harry shoots me a grateful smile.

"Right. Sorry. We are mad at him, but that's neither here nor there. Later, today, I'm going to
demand he tell me why Riddle has been after me since I was a baby, and he'll tell us, hopefully," he
adds in a growl, "that there was a prophecy made when..."

Harry hesitates, a far-off look in his eye. I don't know how he's still sitting like that. My legs are
burning simply from watching him squat. Years on a broom, I suppose. His thighs are pretty
amazing.

But, yeah. Bad Mione. Not the time. Not the place.

"Actually," Harry goes on. "I don't know for sure when the prophecy was made. Trelawney
prophesized it, if you can believe it. During her job interview for Hogwarts. I don't even know if I
was born yet. Anyway," he shakes his head.

I go to him and run my hands through his hair. His eyes close as he leans into my touch, and I take
over his story.

"It says that the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born at the end of July, to
parents who have already defied Riddle three times. Riddle will mark him as his equal."

Harry shivers at the reminder of his birthright.

On the next path, when I drag my fingers through his hair, I brush the fringe from his brow. The
lightning scar seems to glow.

For the second time, Ron looks on the verge of sickness. He tips his head up to the ceiling and
breathes deeply through his nose.

I let Harry's hair fall while continuing to scrape my nails across his scalp and watch as the thick
strands flow through my fingers.

When Ron has regained his composure, I look directly into his eyes.

"And he will have power that the Dark Lord knows not."

"For neither can live," Harry parrots by rote, his voice dead and empty, "while the other survives."

"Blimey, Harry," Ron sighs, his eyes as round as saucers. A moment after that, he shouts in our
faces. "Wait!"

Got there already, did you, Ronald?

I admit it was faster than I expected.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Here it is," he mumbles under his breath. Or at least, he must have. I didn't
see his lips move.

Weird.

Ron jumps up from the table. The outburst is so unexpected that Harry falls backwards on his bum.

"If you have power that You-Know-Who doesn't have, what is it?!"

He's bursting with excitement coursing through his every limb.

Harry grumbles under his breath, and I put my hands under his armpits and haul him to his feet
when Ron doesn't make an effort.

Wanker.

"Love," I answer for Harry, my lips tingling and my limbs buzzing, and—I look to the man beside
me to see he's already staring at me.

"Love?" Ron grunts. He's obviously unimpressed with the answer. "How can love be a power?"

"You'd be surprised," Harry breathes. A blush heats my face, but I can't avert my gaze.

I blink, and the moment is gone.

"How can you say that?" I demand, looking at our wayward redhead. "Love is the reason Harry is
even alive, Ron. His mother sacrificed herself because she loved him."

I point at Harry.

"Next year, Voldemort tries to possess him, and he can't because he couldn't stand to be that close
to a heart as pure as Harry's. Our love for each other saves us over and over again!"

I jab myself in my chest, my words cracking with tears. "I DIE becau—"

My voice catches in my throat, and Harry takes three giant steps to pin me against his chest, his lips
resting against my hair.

A sigh escapes my lungs, and I melt into his comfort.

"It's not going to happen, Mi!"

He snaps, and his composure flees, and Ron takes a step closer and closer until he's right at our
side.

He looks horrified at his best friend breaking, and his throat bobs as he swallows over and over.
But his chest hitches, and his hands tremble. He rocks side to side on his feet, unsure of what to do
but not wanting to be left alone.

I reach out for him, and he joins our group hug wrapping an arm around each of our shoulders. I
hide my face in Harry's neck as tears slip down my cheeks.

I'm not a crier, dammit! The fact that I'm crying at all just makes me weep more.

Stupid dying and coming back to life.

Maybe it was my tears or Harry's metamorphosis into a more brutal, protective version of himself
that finally brings it home.

Harry rests his cheek on the top of my head, facing our friend.

With a searching look, Ron steps away. "It's real, huh?" Ron asks haltingly. He tilts his head to the
side and examines us from head to toe.

"You guys are together."

I jerk in Harry's grasp as the question catches me off guard. Not so much a statement but a
declaration as something finally clicks in his mind.

Harry holds me tighter.

"Because that makes a hell of a lot more sense than the sister bullshit. Like, I would have believed
that yesterday morning, but today it's all rubbish."

Sister?

Maybe in the First or Second Year, but that's the last time I had brotherly feelings for the black-
haired man in our trio. Not that I followed him as he walked around the castle like a moon-eyed
girl, either.

"It's complicated," Harry hedges, voice so deep I can barely hear him.

Uuuunderrrstatement , I sing to myself.

His posture is exuding shut the hell up vibes.

"Yeah, yeah," Ron waves it away. He rolls his eyes and scoffs out a laugh. "I heard all that all an
hour ago. Death, destruction, and Bob's your uncle...Cause I gotta tell you, Mate, I doubt three
years have changed her that much. If you told her what you told me this morning, Mione would
have locked you in a broom closet somewhere or turned your skin green until you came to your
senses."

"What did he say!?" I demand.

Ron shrugs his shoulder.

"Same thing he always says. He's dangerous to be around, would be better off without us. A
girlfriend would be a target."
Ah.

Yup. I got that speech eight hours ago. I turn in Harry's arms, so I'm leaning against his chest. My
face squishes up, and I hum in acknowledgement.

"He gets broody after a fight. You know that. It doesn't get any better in the future. Worse, but I'm
sure you realise that. Just ignore him."

Ron nods along, his shoulders bouncing with agreement.

"I get that. What's next?"

A rigidity flows over Harry.

"You."

His voice is fierce, and Ron tenses in front of us. Having been the recipient of several of Harry's
outbursts, he takes a step back.

"Me?" He gulps.

Even at this age, he knows Harry well enough to understand when Harry is threatening him. He's
seen Harry threaten other people often enough.

"What did I do?" He demands. "If it was in the future, I can't even remember! You can't be mad at
me for something I haven't done yet."

"You broke our hearts," Harry says flatly, and it's the first time I've witnessed him speak of it like
that.

Something cracks inside my chest to hear him put it so baldly.

I knew Ron broke mine, but I didn't leave my own misery long enough to consider what it did to
Harry.

Ron's anger is starting to build, colour brightening his cheeks. He tightens his fists at his side.

"I—"

Harry joins him in righteous indignation. He steps away from me, and the loss of him is
unimaginable. He moves into Ron's personal space and shoves his finger into Ron's chest.

"You—"

"It doesn't matter," I interrupt them both, stopping a fight that won't end well for anyone. I put
myself in between their bodies. Harry tries to push me behind him, and I squeeze his cheeks
between my fingers until his voice comes out in a mumble.

I force his chin down until he has no choice but to meet my eye.

"It. Doesn't. Matter. Either it's in the past, or it hasn't happened at all. But it makes no difference
here."

I turn to stare down Ron, surprised again at how short he seems to me now.

"The only thing that counts is from this moment on. We told you Ron, because you're our best
friend, and Harry needs you at his side. Something," I grouch, giving Harry a scathing look over
my shoulder, "about spending too much time in the library when you're not around. But mark my
words, Ronald. If you storm off and abandon him—us, one more time, I'll make the birds feel like
you were having a spa day. We're not only talking about what happens in the future. I'm referring to
the here and now. You've been a shitty friend this year."

It dawns on me that he doesn’t know what the birds are.

"Yeah, okay," he quickly agrees, nodding his head and backing away.

His hands are in front of his chest as he hastily wards me off. He looks terrified and confused, and
it's a positively adorable look on him.

Harry sniggers under his breath.

Silence falls between us, and while it's not as peaceful as it could be, at least I'm sure Ron isn't
going to start screaming mental as soon as we leave the room. Harry runs his fingers over the back
of my hand.

"We better get back to your folks, Ron." he says.

I discreetly wipe my eyes with my fingers, and then Harry pulls me back around. He lifts his hands
to my face, cupping my cheeks and using his thumbs to clear the tears from my skin.

I link my arms around his back again and rest my cheek on his chest.

Harry looks at his friend, whose shoulders slumped as soon as Harry decided not to pummelled
him.

"Don't tell your folks, okay, Ron? Molly will have kittens."

Ron makes a strangled noise; his mouth open and gaping

"I couldn't even if I wanted to, Mate. I still have no idea what's going on."

I swallow my laughter down against Harry's embrace.

Fair enough.

Really, I'm not sure that I do either.

Dobby finds us five minutes later, ecstatic that we've discovered the Room of Requirement but
wringing his hands at how long it took before he looked for us here.

Dumbledore is ready for Harry.

We’re halfway to his office when Ron speaks up again.

“What’s with the new nickname?”

“Because she’s mine.”

Deeep breath, Hermione.

He must feel my hand spasm, though, because he tries to pull his arm away before I grip his fingers
tighter in mine.

Ron snorts, his head bouncing back.

“Yeah. And you think she’s not your girlfriend.”

 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes

I'm going to ramble. Feel free to skip it lol

I've given it a lot of thought since I started this fic…damn, a year ago—till today.
There were so many little things I wanted to change, and this is my opportunity to take
advantage of that.

Most of these fics show a cocky, kinda unpleasant, in my opinion, version of Harry
that has him seducing a 13-15 yr old Hermione and trashing everyone else. Smarter
than everyone else with more power.

I deeply and sincerely don't think that would happen.

I think, in my mind, that the second they told Ron, he'd rise to the occasion. Ron hates
to be left out. He despises it. So if he's confronted with two world-weary, supped-up,
desperately frustrated best friends, he's gonna do what he can so they don't leave him
behind.

On top of that, if they told him what a prat he had been and how he left them for a
while…young Ron would be embarrassed and disheartened and would try even harder
to prove that he isn't the same man. In the same way, he tried to rise to the challenge
when he did return to them.

As to Ron and Hermione? If you go back in time far enough, so before the sixth year,
fifth maybe, he's not going to be crushing hard. Harry and Hermione show up, get him
to believe they're from the future and a couple, and what does he care, other than his
two best friends suddenly snogging is weird to him.

I tried, and I don’t know how well I succeeded, to show a Harry, while powerful and
knowledgable, that still knows when to ask for help and when he’s not the smartest
person in the room. And who certainly has faults and isn't a perfect human or wizard.

I've also given a ton of thought to his interactions with the older Order members.
When he dies, for all intents and purposes, he's in charge. Dumbledore told the Order
to look to Harry. Even though MY Harry didn't get to that point in the story, Bill and
Fluer took their cues from him. When he got back to the castle, McGonagall did what
he told her to do.

He's become accustomed to a certain amount of respect, and if not deference, then at
least having his opinion carrying a weight. You've gotta imagine losing all that
autonomy would be hard for him. Especially because now he knows how much was
kept from him then, and how much manipulation of the situation got him to the
position they were in when they died.

How do you handle that? The same people you were leading a month ago now telling
you your bedtime.

How do they handle it? Do they get upset and reprimand him for his insolence or do
they see the man he will become and unconsciously, or consciously, submit to his
leadership?
 How would Harry handle either situation?

Even the issues of names!

The majority of the people in the last book had lost their honorifics and were friends
on a first-name basis with the trio. What happens when instead of Professor
McGonagall, you slip and call her Minerva.

The personal relationships outside of the trio are fascinating to explore.

There are a lot of tiny aspects of time travel that I don't think —or at least I hope I'm
not talking out of my ass—that hasn’t really been touched on.

There's more to it than just the Harmony relationship and killing Voldemort and I hope
I can build on that.

We talk a lot about a 17-year-old Harry being stuck in his 14-year-old body, but what
changes does that wrought besides how he looks? He's 17, in a 14 year old body, with
the emotional maturity of either a toddler or grandfather who has seen more horror and
a man with twenty lifetimes.

I don't know ♀️ I just think the emotional consequences of that are fascinating.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Harry

Once again, I feel her before I see her.

I look towards the dormitories and watch as Hermione descends the stairs. Her hair is braided
back, her red Gryffindor sleep pants exchanged with plaited blue and green ones. Her shirt is long-
sleeved and grey and two times too big for her, drooping to the side and showing a long expanse of
shoulder and arm.

On closer look—it's one of my shirts.

I didn't think she'd worn them before the tent, where our clothes ended up willy-nilly.
I wonder when she swiped it?

"You should be asleep," I admonish her when she's close enough. How long has Hermione slept in
one of my shirts?

She collapses onto the couch beside me, pulling her feet up and into her lap.

Mi tries and fails to hide a yawn.

"I did go to sleep. For a little while. But your brooding woke me up."

"I'm not brooding," I reply without hesitation.

She shrugs, covering her mouth with her hand as another yawn rips through her body.

"Sure, you're not. I set an alarm for one a.m. before I went to bed tonight, so I could come
downstairs to check for you."

I flip up my wrist, not yet accustomed that the watch the Weasleys gave me for my coming of age
is no longer on my arm.

"What time is it?" I ask her, and she smirks at me.

Her wand buzzes where it's shoved through her hair.

She turns off the alarm with a finger flick and pulls the wood stick from her braid.

"One o'clock," she says with a smile. "Told you I could hear you brooding.

"You're impossible, witch," I grouch at her. "You should be in bed."

I go back to staring at the fire. It's dying rapidly, the light in the room diminishing with the red and
orange embers.

I lift my arm, and she automatically scoots over, but instead of lying against me, she lies down on
the couch, her head resting on my lap.

"Seriously, Mi. Why aren't you asleep?" I ask, my fingers already gliding over the top of her head.
Her eyes close at my touch.

"I could say the same to you," she counters, always prepared for a verbal spar.

I'm not asleep because I see her dying every time I close my eyes. But I'm sure that's not an
appropriate answer here.

"Just thinking," I tell her, hoping she leaves well enough alone.

Naturally, she doesn't.

"I know," she replies with a sigh. "I wasn't lying. I can hear it from my four-poster. I could feel it.
Like a bumble bee buzzing in the back of my mind. It's muddling up my own thoughts."

I scoff at the outrageous accusation. We sit in silence for a few moments, and I watch the fire burn
down to ashes while ignoring how soft the skin of Hermione's forehead feels under my thumb.

"Today went well, I thought."

She says it hesitantly, her mind leaping in a thousand different directions. Her mouth picks a
subject she thinks I'll tolerate.

"Yeah," I agree, letting my head fall back on the couch. "I was pleasantly surprised."

It's the first time we've been alone since we woke up. We haven't had a chance to talk without
prying ears.

"Sirius is officially free. Already filed paperwork for your adoption."

I don't need a recap. I was there for all of this. But it's best to let her get it out of her system.
Hermione likes to think out loud.

"Yup," I say, only paying half attention.

"How long do you think you'll have to stay at the Dursleys this summer?"

I shrug.

My pointer finger trails down the outline of her hairline and over the curve of her jaw.

"Month. That's usually the way it works, isn't it? A week or so after my birthday."

"When are we going to the Ministry? Oh!"

I cut her off before she finishes.

"Yes, I heard Madam Longbottom took her oath this afternoon."

Mi huffs that I beat her to it.

"It's only temporary until a new Minister can be voted in."

I chuckle lightly at that.

"You didn't spend six years rooming with her Grandson. I'd bet money she's in the job until she
dies. Even then, her ghost might keep the spot."

I dig my fingers into her scalp, loosening more of her hair.

Then, "How did you hear about it? You were in the library for hours."

Very, very, long hours. I had to leave after two, but it didn’t stop me from sending Prongs to check
on her.

She's purring under my touch.

"Heard it in the hallway. By the way, Professor McGonagall gave me permission to borrow books
over the summer. Madam Pince went ballistic, but I have the stack we talked about."

I know she's not really purring, but it feels like it.

"That's nice."

She wiggles a little, settling her head deeper into my lap and her bum into the cushions.

"I'm still irritated that you didn't warn me before you told Ronald," she says.
She doesn't seem that irritated to me.

"I thought you could hear me brooding," I counter. "Certainly, you knew it was going to happen."

She huffs in pretend annoyance.

"Yes. I did. But I didn't realize it would be ten minutes after I woke up!"

She smells like fruit. Strawberries and vanilla or something. It's distracting me. It's a different
smell than I associated with her all those months in the tent. Of course, she wasn't getting regular
packages of supplies from home via Owl Post. By the end, we were all using the same soap and
shampoo.

Which was a combination body wash/shampoo thingy that smelled like moldy pine cones because
that was easiest to steal.

She's waiting for my response.

"I woke up to the loud sounds of four Weasleys standing over us and asking each other why you
were asleep in my arms. The other three dropped the subject when I threatened to stab Ron with the
sword, but funnily enough, that didn't seem to discourage him the way you think it would. I had to
give him something, and my initial excuse only made it worse."

Her eyes pop open, looking for me in the dimness. "What did you say?" she demands in soft tones.

Even though her hair is braided, nothing short of magic that neither she nor I possess can keep the
glory of her curls contained. That goes for Muggle hair products too. Mousse only goes so far.
Already bits are popping out here and there, and I twirl a particularly twisty strand around my
fingers. I hold her braid in one hand so it won't hurt and ease the band from the bottom.

Her mane spreads out on my lap.

A smile tips up my lips when I think about her hair.

It gets everywhere.

The witch is always shedding.

The entire tent was covered in it. In the showers, on the furniture. I even pulled strands of the stuff
off my balls a time or two. I'm convinced that Hermione's hair has its own soul, its own
personality. It took me ages until I could lay next to her without it smothering me in my sleep.
That's when she started braiding it back at night.

"It doesn't matter," I tell her when I remember to speak.

"Suffice it to say nothing short of time travel would have gotten me out of the mess I made."

"Hfpt," she huffs, letting her eyes slip closed again.

Now both of my hands are playing with Hermione's hair. I stretch one hand out along the back of
the couch and move my other arm to the armrest.

"If it's any consolation," I try, hoping I sound more tactful than I feel, "I don't think he'll be as
obnoxious this time around."

"Doubtful."
"I mean it," I push. "Between what we told him, and what he heard Dumbledore say, I think he'll be
a lot more palatable. It'll be you and he at the Tea Shop for Valentine's Day, mark my words."

She tenses against me, and my hand flits to her forehead before I have a chance to stop myself. I
run my thumb across the lines and watch as they smooth under my touch.

It feels like we've always done this.

"That's not going to happen," she says softly.

There's nothing in her voice. No regret, no sadness. Just plain and simple truth.

"Why not?"

Thanks to a year of torture at the hands of Umbridge, my voice is calm, and my fingers don't
tremble where they trail up and down the outline of Hermione's face.

"I know we never talked about it. Which is kinda weird actually, because you and I talk about
everything. But I thought you liked him. He liked you. Likes you, even now. Even if he doesn't
know how to say it."

My throat is dry and scratchy, and I swallow several times before continuing.

"It's almost like fate," I prompt her. "You have the chance to do it right, this time. To skip the pain,
he caused you and get right to the good parts."

There.

I said it.

I did the right thing. I did my duty to my brother. Anything that happens next is out of my control.

"If this is fate, it has nothing to do with him."

She opens her eyes at last, and even looking at her upside down, she is so very lovely.

"But he did cause me all that pain. And—" she shrugs, and her weariness makes me sad for her. "I
liked him. But, how much of that was because I liked him or because I was alone and liked being
liked? I know that doesn't make sense, but I can't explain it any clearer than that. The truth of the
matter is, that Ron and I wouldn't even be friends without you. You make him tolerable."

A puff of air escapes me. It would be a laugh if I weren't concentrating on the witch with her head
in my lap.

Even in near total darkness, I can see the blush as it colours her skin.

"I'm not saying that if you died for real tomorrow, we wouldn't still be friends. But not like we are
today. We all have our parts to play, and I understand that now. I even get what you were saying
about too much time in the library, as heathen as that thought is."

That makes me chuckle.

"But the big difference between my relationship with you and my relationship with Ronald is you
go to the library with me, even when you don't want to. Ron won't."

My other hand joins the first and starts twirling her hair around my fingers again.
"Even if it had happened, it wouldn't have lasted long. A few dates maybe. A snog or two. Then
we'd go back to trying not to kill each other with you playing peacemaker. The thought of it now
makes me feel all minging."

I do laugh at that.

"You're beautiful, Mi," I say, not even caring that it gives away too much. "Not to mention the
smartest person anyone has ever met, Dumbledore included. No offense to my best mate, but
certainly you're not saying that you thought Ron was the best you could do?"

She lifts a finger to her face, and I smile when she gives herself a pig's snout while itching her
nose.

"I guess that is what I'm saying. I didn't have any girlfriends besides Ginny, because Harry Potter
was my best friend. They either all hated me because they assumed we were sleeping together on
the side or wanted to use me to get to you."

I didn't know that.

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

She lifts a shoulder, then lets it fall again.

"I'll admit, there were quite a few that asked me out. Most of the straight ones from fourth year up
if we're laying it all on the table. Even Seamus, before he realized he preferred blokes to birds. But
most were either using me to get at you or wanted to prove that they could nab Harry Potter's girl.
Ron was all that was left. And you..."

Anger rushes through me.

"Ow," comes from a little voice below, and I jerk when Hermione's hand touches mine, releasing
the pulling grip I had on a strand of curls.

"I'm sorry, luv," I say absently, running my fingers over her head.

But...

"Who?" I demand, already building a list of assholes.

McLaggen, for sure. She never did tell me what that wanker did to her to make her hide like a
hunted animal at Slughorn's party.

"It doesn't matter, Harry."

Her hand squeezes mine again.

"The fuck it doesn't," I exclaim. "Tell me who, and what they did to you. I promise I won't kill
them," I add at the wide-eyed expression on her face. Maim, torture, disfigure. Maybe, pull out
Hermione's sneak spell and use it to write douche across their faces.

But I won't kill the fuckers. I swear.

Probably.

Hermione starts laughing, and I pause in my mental disembowelment to look down at her.
"Really?" she asks. I blush as I realize I must have been talking out loud.

"Sorry," I mumble, and she pulls her lips over her teeth to control her smile.

"What about you and Ginny?" she prompts, and I can't contain my gag.

Her eyes widen in surprise. Now that it's completely dark, it's easy to read her face.

"Yeah," I say. "That's a hard pass."

"What? Why?"

"Sixteen-year-old Ginny was fun. Fourteen-year-old Ginny?" I shiver involuntarily. "Besides that, I
may be stuck in this body, but I'll be eighteen in a few weeks. Pedophilia doesn't do it for me,
thanks."

"Harry, that's horrible," she croons, trying and failing to control her laughter. "And completely
inaccurate. A four-year difference isn't that bad."

"Maybe in ten years' time it isn't. Right now? No. Besides that..."

This is why we don't talk about this stuff. It's awkward and uncomfortable, but I have to do it since
she was honest with me.

"You know that whole only wanting to date you to get to Harry Potter thing?"

She nods, my hand spread wide on the side of her face. My thumb swipes back and forth on her
cheek.

"Hi." I say. "I'm Harry Potter. Nineteen years from now, we could have been married with three
children, and in the back of my head, I'd always wonder; was it me, or my name?"

"It's a rubbish name," Hermione says, and it catches me so off guard I burst into laughter.

"Thanks," I smile, fixing my glasses and returning my free hand to her hair.

The falling silence is easy, and I can hear her brain kick back into gear, going off in another
direction.

"The meeting went better than expected."

I agree.

Much better.

I went into it all righteous indignation and left—well, I'm still narked. But if I can't punch Ron for
things he hasn't done yet, I suppose the same goes for Dumbledore.

Besides, I need Ron. No matter what has happened in the past, I need him at my side.

"Professor Dumbledore didn't mention the Horcruxes," she continues, "but I didn't really expect
him to. At least he was up front about the prophecy. Now it's not just the three of us that know.
Sirius and the Weasleys needed to understand. If nothing else, Arthur will be able to help contain
Mrs Weasley's instincts to keep you hidden away. She knows now that no matter what, you're
going to have to take a position of leadership in the coming confrontations."
Great. Just what I want.

"Joy," I say dryly.

"Don't be like that," Hermione coaxes.

She heaves herself into a sitting position, turning to face me. My hand reaches out to pull her back,
and I tighten it into a fist to stop the motion. She pivots to meet me on the couch. "I know it's
frustrating, but it's a necessary development. We spend a lot of time with the Weasleys, Harry. We
need Molly on your side."

I remove my arm from the back of the couch and scrub my hands over my face.

"It's not that, Mi. I'm fourteen again."

"Fifteen, in a month," she's quick to interject.

"Fantastic. Fifteen. Even if we told them everything we know, no one will believe us."

"That doesn't matter," she insists. "What good will telling anyone do anyway? We've, and by that, I
mean you obviously, have already changed the most recent events. Nothing else happens for ages.
By then, we'll have adjusted our game book, and either subvert him, or be able to skip it altogether.
Excluding the breakout from Azkaban, which I'm still pondering how to prevent, I doubt anything
will be like it was before."

"So, you're telling me this whole thing was pointless."

My throat closes, and I shove up from the couch, suddenly desperate to run.

To fly.

To grab my Firebolt, take Hermione, and hide in the Forest of Dean for the rest of our natural lives.

I cross my arms over my chest and dig my nails into my arms to keep from screaming at the top of
my lungs.

"No!" Hermione cries, turning, so her feet hit the floor. "I'm telling you you've already done it,
Harry. You've already won!"

She grabs my hand as I stalk past her, hauling me to a stop.

"Professor Dumbledore admitted to the prophecy with witnesses. He requested that he give you
private lessons next year without being prompted. By this point in the last timeline, he was already
planning to shut you out. Refusing to make eye contact with you. He was terrified that if he looked
in your face, he'd see Voldemort looking back at him."

I shiver involuntarily at the memories of sharing a brain with that monster.

"But he can obviously tell that something is different. That you've shed your connection to
Voldemort, or that you're strong enough to overcome it. He trusts you Harry, without a year of
Umbridge and a possession by Voldemort to make it happen. This war isn't one fight. It's going to
be filled with hundreds of little battles, and you've already won the first bouts!"

She reaches for my other hand and tugs, and I almost collapse on top of her before I twist and land
on the couch beside her instead.
My shoulders collapse under the weight of her stare, and I fall backwards on the sofa, pulling her
with me. She ends up straddling my lap, her arms over my shoulders. Her fingers grip my shirt.

After a tense moment where my hands' spasm and my heart thuds out of my chest, she relaxes her
arms to link them behind my back.

"Mi," I say, unsure of anything anymore.

Hermione squeezes my chin between her fingers, forcing me to look at her.

"I know you're frustrated, Harry. I know how much you despise sitting still when you feel like you
need to move. But you do nothing without a purpose, even brooding on the couch at one a.m. Even
running head first into a situation without stopping to think about the consequences. What were
you doing down here instead of going to bed?" she demands, her voice firm.

It cuts me with its edge.

"Waiting for Dobby," I reply automatically. "I wanted to bond him as soon as possible. He didn't
show up tonight."

She releases my face, running her hand over it gently instead. Without a word, she rests her cheek
on my shoulder. With my hands low on her back, I slide her closer until there's barely any space
between us.

Then closer still.

I mimic her and link my arms around her middle.

I breathe easier.

"Dobby doesn't start cleaning the dorms until Fifth Year. We'll go to the kitchens together
tomorrow. Coming back—It wasn't pointless, Harry," Hermione says softly.

"Yeah, okay," I agree.

I hold my mouth shut through a yawn. Subterfuge is worthless between us, though. I've known it
since I was eleven. After we've sat for so long, I thought she'd drifted off, she speaks.

"Think you could sleep?"

Listening to Ron's snores? Not a chance.

"Maybe," I lie.

I want to kiss her again.

"Okay," she whispers to my unasked question.

The second time is entirely different from the first. The first time we kissed was fire, fear, and
desperation I'd never felt before. Including being face to face with Riddle.

I had to do it. There was no other choice.

This time, we made a choice together.

Her lips are soft as a pillow. Her eyes are shut, and her face is relaxed. I watch her for a moment
 before I surrender and give myself over. Her hands slip up my shoulders and cup my neck, pushing
me deeper.

If I hold her any tighter, it’ll hurt.

It doesn’t feel like she’s close enough.

I can’t remember the fear of her dying when she feels so alive under my touch.

I expect my heart to be pounding. Don't you get a rush of adrenaline when you do something
forbidden?

It isn't.

It keeps a steady rhythm in beat with the pace of our lips.

A low moan rumbles deep in her chest, and I know we have to stop this. If we don't stop now, I
won't be able to.

Like she can hear my thoughts, she drags her lips from mine on an exhale. I chase her, though I
know it's a bad idea.

Luckily one of us has our wits about them.

Hermione flicks her wand, and the couch stretches to twice its width.

I go where she shoves, lying flat on the couch. She manoeuvres me how she wants me, using my
bicep as a pillow and curling her back into my side.

"I've set the alarm for six," she mumbles through a yawn. "If anyone wakes us up before then, run
them through with the sword."

She takes a deep breath, and on her exhale, she's asleep.

I follow her a heartbeat later.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry for the rant lololol

 Chapter 8
Chapter Notes

Gah!!!! Keri found me a new fan casting for Hermione, and I am 100000 percent here
for it! Chiara Scelsi. She is forever my Hermione now.

Harry

Hermione is sitting on my bed by the time I make it back from the shower.

Her legs are crossed.

She has a book in her lap, looking for all the world like she belongs there.

This isn’t the first time she’s hidden in our dorms. When the common room is too crowded, but the
library doesn’t give us the space to talk, the three of us have spent many an hour lounging across
our beds.
After the last couple of days—

“People are going to start to talk if you spend any more time in my bed.” One moment to the next, I
no longer care how it appears to others. But she deserves to have a choice in the matter. “I’m
almost positive Colin snapped a picture of us on the couch before we woke.”

She blushes and shrugs but doesn’t make to move when I drop my bathing supplies on the end of
the bed before opening my trunk.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replies, scratching her nose. “They already talk.”

Fifteen-year-old Hermione would care.

No.

Fifteen-year-old Hermione would give me a lecture about the patriarchal double standards and how
people should pay more attention to their school work than gossiping about who is kissing who.

Eighteen-year-old Hermione is past the point of worrying about what she sees as frivolous
nonsense.

“Thank that damn Rita Skeeter. If people didn’t think we were a couple before Fourth Year, they
certainly do now. We talked about that last night. If you don’t care, I don’t care. And I could have
sworn I set my alarm for six,” she complains.

I can hear her mumbling under her breath about faulty spells and casting when you’re tired.

Her hair is twisted at the top of her neck, held back in a red holder. She’s not in a school shirt but is
instead wearing a pink collared shirt that stops right at the tops of her jeans. Her shoes are on the
floor.

I’m wearing my school uniform, but apparently, that’s not required today.

I don’t even know what day of the week it is.

“Yeah. I turned it off,” I tell her distractedly. “What day is it?”

“Sunday.” Her head snaps up from her book. “You turned off my alarm? How?”

Sunday?

What—never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ll take her word for it.

Without bothering to unbutton it, I pull the Oxford over my head and stuff it into the trunk, pulling
out a grey T-shirt.

“Yeah. It went off, I might have sworn at it. Bloody annoying thing. I disabled it and went back to
sleep.”

I ram the toe of my foot into the heel of the other, peeling off my shoes. Then I shuck my black
school trousers and pull out a pair of jeans.

“Uhhh, Harry?”

I glance up as I yank the denim up over my hips and back down again to zip and button. The shirt
comes next, and I shrink them both to fit me better. I have no idea why I ever tolerated swimming
in Dudley’s cast-offs.

Dying puts your priorities in order.

Next time someone kills me, I’ll do it in clothes that fit. When my shoes are back on, I slam the
trunk shut, and slide the scabbard over my shoulders before disillusioning it.

Hermione stares at me like she’s never seen me half naked. Her flush starts inside her top and
blooms up her cheeks.

“What?” I say, snapping my fingers in front of her face.

She’s biting on her bottom lip.

We’ve spent every summer together for the last seven years and lived in a tent for six months. It’s
not the first time she’s seen me in my trunks. Hell, it’s probably not even the first time this week.

I move my shoulders here and there, settling the blade across my back.

It’s only been a day.

Two?

Already I feel more at ease with the sword across my shoulder blades than without it. Hermione
shakes her head back and forth before she clears her throat.

“Last time you were skin and bones. I don’t remember you being so fit.”

I snort through my nose, enjoying the far-off gaze she’s wearing.

“Right, Hermione,” she mumbles to herself in the way she does, shaking her limbs. “Not the time,
not the place.”

Her face takes on her teacher’s expression.

“How did you use my wand?

I pull at the back of my neck, not understanding the question.

“It was beside us. The alarm spell activated. I shut it off.” I shrug my confusion. "What's the big
deal?"

The book falls from her lap as she climbs to the edge of the bed on her knees.

“You shouldn’t have been able to do it, Harry.”

“Why not?”

A headache is blooming behind my eyes, and the lack of sleep over the past several days is finally
catching up to me. I wonder if we could ward the door and snooze for a few more hours without
anyone attempting to look for us.

I dismiss it as a bad job.

Hermione’s biting her bottom lip. I can see her thoughts rapidly firing behind her eyes.

“What, Mi? I can’t keep up with the thoughts whirring through your brain. It’s making me dizzy.”
She opens her mouth, then snaps her jaw shut again. She falls from her knees back onto her heels,
and I tilt my chin down to look at her. “Why does that bother you? I used it in the maze no problem
and you didn’t make a fuss.”

Hermione clears her throat again, looking around the room before her eyes land on mine.

“It’s only that—” She makes a pained sound. “The alarm spell is keyed to me, Harry. It’s not
something we learn in school. You shouldn’t know it, and even if you did…I mean, yeah, we
shared a tiny space for a bloody long time. So maybe you do know it, but it’s spelled to my wand.
My magic. Those tarts I’m stuck rooming with kept turning my alarm off in my sleep.”

Her eyes glaze over in malice. It won’t be pleasant for Lavender and Parvati if we’re forced to
come back next year.

“If I somehow fell into a coma with my alarm set, that alarm would keep going. Only my magic or
my death should cause the spell to disable.”

“Oh.”

I have no idea what to say to that. Give me a basilisk over magical theory any day.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Oh.”

Her shoulders droop in confusion, and I swear I can taste her defeat on the back of my tongue.

“Hey,” I comfort her and cup her face in my hand. “It’s okay, luv. You’ll figure it out. You always
do.”

She sighs so deep I feel it down into my toes.

“I’m bloody irritated with that Mortimer guy,” she mumbles, and I huff under my breath, pushing
my glasses back up my nose. “You and me both, but why this time?”

She looks up at me, still propped on her ankles and knees.

“Something is different, Harry. Certainly, you feel it?”

Hermione isn’t usually one for understatements, but I think she’s undersold the pot this time.

“Yeah, Mi. I feel it.”

I’m not sure I can lay the blame at his feet, though.

I blame it on Bellatrix and how it made me feel when that knife slid across Hermione’s throat.

At the unimaginable horror that eats at me every second and the solitary promise that I will keep
her safe no matter what happens next. Maybe I blame it on Mortimer for putting thoughts into my
head that have no place being there.

What the hell does being soul mates even mean, anyway?

If Hermione found a book on it yesterday, she kept it to herself.

Most of all, I blame myself for not being able to control either emotion.

“It has to be because of him!” she asserts with the same fire in her eyes when discussing SPEW.
“When he shoved us through that door. Maybe we weren’t supposed to go at the same time. Maybe
something— we —got jumbled somehow. Maybe it’s because he’s incompetent and didn’t know
what the hell he was doing. But something happened when he brought us back, Harry."

She looks so hopeless, grasping at any straw she can to make sense of everything that's happened
the last two days.

Including us.

"Because you should not have been able to turn off that spell.”

Her voice has dropped so low she's all but whispering.

I run my thumb across her cheek, listening for footsteps coming up the dormitory stairs. That’s
something else that’s happened too. Ron finally learned the meaning of three’s a crowd. Of course,
finding us asleep together for the second morning in a row probably has more to do with that
development than Ron magically gaining discretion.

I lean forward and bring my lips to hers. The blood that has been coursing through my body with
the insatiable need to fight quiets for just a moment.

What is going on with us? tumbles through her mind.

I don't care, I whisper back.

“I need to go to the library,” she breathes against my skin, to the surprise of no one. A smile splits
my face so wide I feel it crack. “I hate mysteries,” she grumbles.

My eyes drift closed as I laugh at her silently.

“I know, luv. Come on then.”

I grab her by the hands and keep her steady as she climbs to her feet.

“I need to head to the kitchens first. I want to talk to Winky and Dobby. But then I’ll pull books off
the high shelves for you for the rest of the day.”

Mi scoffs at me as she bends over to pull on her trainers.

“Don’t bother,” she laughs. “You’re not six feet anymore, remember? Magic will have to suffice.”

I roll my eyes at the reminder I’ve lost a good six inches since coming back in time.

Bloody Witch.

It’s rude to point out a man’s height when you know he already has issues with it.

“Give me one of your Quidditch jerseys, would you?” she says when I go to grab the invisibility
cloak from my trunk.

“Huh?”

Why does she need my jersey?

“I’m going to shrink it and give it to Dobby. He’ll lose his mind with excitement! Imagine it.” She
spreads her hands wide like she’s showing a project. “Potter stretched across his back. We’ll have
to stop him from banging his head into the wall with happiness.”

I chuckle, then cringe at the knowledge the little elf is probably going to throw himself at my feet
crying all morning. Doing as she says, though, I pull the jersey from the trunk, then watch as she
shrinks it down to elf size.

On that thought, I pull a handful of gold out of the chest to give to the elf as well.

I let Hermione lead the way out of the dormitory, keeping an eye out in case Ron is lounging
around somewhere. I think he mentioned wanting to send a letter to Charlie last night, but to be
honest, I haven’t been paying him much attention.

The puzzle of her wand is still niggling in the back of my brain.

I didn’t have any problems using her wand at all.

It worked for me as smoothly as if it were the holly and phoenix feather currently in the holster
around my arm. But I struggled with even the simplest spells with the blackthorn wand.

I hadn’t even considered it.

Hadn’t had the time or the inclination to. But Mi is right. It’s weird that hers worked for me as if it
were my own.

“Mi,” I say and grab a hold of her elbow. “Hold up.”

We’re halfway to the kitchens, alone in a sunlit corridor. I pull my wand from its resting place and
hand it to her base first.

“Do a spell.”

Hermione gives me a dazed look, her mind forming and discarding ideas in rapid succession.

With a twist of her twist and a flick of the wood, a gaggle of birds appear in the air, lazily flapping
in a circle. Silently she makes them move this way and that, testing the boundaries of the magic
before a wave of her hand cancels the spell.

Next, she creates several bundles of that magical blue fire she’s so good at.

“Perfect,” she breathes, her eyes wide as she stares at my wand.

Her other hand lifts to her mouth, her fingers lightly running over her lips. I can almost see her eyes
twitch as a thousand thoughts I’d never consider flashpoint in her head.

It honestly makes me woozy with how fast her mind jumps around.

She hands me back my wand, then passes hers over without a word.

“Expecto Patronum,” I shout, a clear image of Hermione smiling up at me from over some book
fueling the magic of the spell. Prongs bursts from the end of her wand, looking about for danger.

When all he finds is us, he canters up to Hermione, rubbing his antlers up and down her side before
drifting back into nothingness.

“Neville used my wand once too, remember? When his broke in the fight over the prophecy.”
I nod my head and watch as she pockets her wand again.

“But it’s not like we can go ask him if it was difficult,” I mumble.

“I hate time travel,” she declares, and I heartily give my agreement.

“We’ll go to Ollivander’s when we go to the bank,” I promise as we start down the hallway again.
“He’ll be able to explain it to us. I’m sure it’s because we’re so close. The wand chooses the
Wizard. Our wands chose to work for our best friends.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, though she doesn’t sound like she believes it.

I have other things on my mind as we tromp down the last set of stairs to the kitchens.

“Hey, Mi,” I prompt, and get a distracted, “Hmm?” in return. “Do you know how to Bond with an
elf?”

That pulls her up short again.

She looks at me with clouded eyes.

“Unfortunately, yes. It’s ironic, really. The elf has to swear to you. So in theory, they’re giving
away their rights and autonomy. It’s disgusting. They ask to be slaves, Harry, without every
knowing there could be something better for them. Its—”

I cut her off before she really gets going.

“Hey,” I soothe, reaching for her. She melts into my touch like water, wrapping her arms around
my waist.

“I don’t think I can do this, Harry.” Her voice is muffled against my chest. “It’s—it’s slavery.”

I’m thankful she can’t see me roll my eyes.

“Are you going to beat her?” I ask playfully.

She jerks her head away, giving me an outraged look. I tighten my hold on her so she can’t pull
away entirely.

“What?!” she demands. “No! Of course, I won’t.”

When did I become so touchy-feely?

I’m going to drop that squarely into the ‘side effect of dying,’ category and never think of it again.

I drag my thumbs across her cheeks, trying not to smile at the irritation flaring behind her eyes.

“Then you will be a good Master for Winky. She will love you, and you will love her, and you will
both take care of each other. Plus, added benefit, if we do have to go into hiding again, neither of
us will starve. Or be forced to swallow down inedible fungi.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” she grouses, her arms still held loosely around my middle. I laugh under
my breath.

“Nobody said it was, Mi.”

She’s quiet for a minute, but I can still see the stress filling her eyes.

“If it makes you feel any better, Winky appears far more competent than Dobby does. I mean, I
love the little guy. But I’m kind of afraid for my safety whenever he’s around.”

Hermione giggles.

“Well, don’t worry. I’ve already started nipping supplies to re-build our stores. I’ll grab a bottle of
skele gro when Madam Pomfrey isn’t looking.”

“I’ll send Dobby to Grimmauld Place as soon as school’s out. He can start adding to your hoard.
You can send Winky there too if you want. Or maybe your parents will be okay with her being at
your place. But either way, Mi, you saw how bad it got for her last time. She didn’t thrive like
Dobby did working for the school. She needs a person to take care of, and I can’t think of anyone
who will treat her better than you.”

“Yeah,” she sniffs. “Okay. Let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”

She steps out of my hold but slips her shoulders under my arm, so we're walking with her pressed to
my side and my thumb rubbing circles into her skin.

The kitchens are always bursting with activity, with elves moving to and fro carrying dishes and
ingredients for food.

I barely have time to take it all in before a rocket is barreling in my direction.

“Harry Potter, sir! You’ve come to visit me in the kitchens!”

As usual, the wind is knocked out of me at the strength of Dobby’s embrace.

“Hi, Dobby,” I squeeze out between strangled gasps for air. Hermione’s amusement is evident, and
she covers her mouth to side her laughter. “I was wondering if we could talk?”

“Is Winky here?” Hermione speaks up, looking around the kitchens.

Dobby grabs both of our hands and starts weaving in and out of house elves and tables alike,
bringing us over to the fireplace again.

Winky doesn’t look well.

She doesn’t look well at all.

She’s perched on a stool in front of the fire, a bottle of butterbeer hanging loosely from her fingers.

So, this is when the drinking started.

Probably the night of Barry Crouch’s death in the first timeline. Or in his capture and arrest in our
current one. Hermione falls to her knees in front of the little elf, gently prying the mostly empty
bottle from her grasp.

“Hello, Winky. I’m Hermione, do you remember me?”

Winky turns to face Hermione, motions slow and uncoordinated.

“Yes, Ma’am,” she says politely. “You is Master Potter’s Mistress Hermione.”
Hermione’s eyes flare at the title, but she doesn’t bother to set Winky straight. I guess it’s true
either way you look at it.

“That’s right, Winky. I’m Harry’s friend, and we’ve come to talk to you. I’ve been very upset since
we saw you before Christmas, and then the other day with—“Hermione hesitates, not wanting to
set the elf off. Already fat beetle tears are sliding down her cheeks.

Hermione clears her throat and reaches into her pocket, pulling out a chain.

“My father gave this necklace to me when I was a little girl,” she tells Winky. “It’s very important
to me. You are very important to me too. I know how much you loved your family. I know what a
good elf you were for them and how well you took care of them. I’m Muggleborn, you see. So, I
don’t have an elf to take care of me.”

Her eyes flick to me from over Winky’s shoulder, and I give her my biggest smile, encouraging her
to go on.

“I was hoping, Winky, that you’d agree to join my family, and be my elf.”

Without waiting for permission, Hermione lets the chain of the necklace dangle from her fingers
before opening the loop and slipping it over the elves’ bat-like ears and around her neck.

Winky seems to freeze, not even breathing before she bursts into tears.

Hermione looks terrified, looking desperately at Dobby and me for help. Dobby rushes over to his
friend, trying to silence her with words of encouragement. It only makes it worse. Other elves are
pausing in their work to stare at us as Winky throws herself from the stool and curls into a ball to
cry.

With no other options left, I drop to the floor beside Hermione and sit on my bum, pulling the tiny
creature into my lap. The action seems to startle her enough that the flow of tears momentarily
stops, her eyes so wide it would be comical if it weren’t so sad.

“Do you not want to be part of a family again?” I ask her.

The tears return, but at a slower pace than before.

“Winky—“she hiccups, pulling herself back under control. “Winky is a bad elf, Mr Harry Potter.
Yous don’t want Winky as your elf.”

Hermione lowers herself in front of me, solidly encasing Winky between us.

“Of course, I do!” she insists, already reaching out a hand to wipe away Winky’s tears. I don’t see
the point, to be honest. A fresh set takes their place immediately. “You’re not a bad elf, Winky.
You were just in a bad situation. If you agree to be my elf, I promise to never make you go up high,
or do anything that makes you unhappy.”

“Winky does what she is told! Winky is a good elf to Master Harry and Mistress Hermione!”
Winky declares fiercely, then bursts into tears again.

“Oh dear,” Mi sighs, attempting to comfort the crying creature in my lap.

I look to the side, where Dobby is watching the commotion with a longing look on his face that
makes my heart break.
“What about you Dobby? I know you like being a free elf, but—“ I can’t even finish the question
before Dobby lunges at me, wrapping his arms around my neck so tightly that suffocation is a
distinct possibility.

“Yes. Yes. YES! Harry Potter! Dobby will be your house elf!” Before I can even react, he says,
“Dobby does wear his fealty and that of his blood line to the house of Potter.”

It’s almost like being disillusioned as the Bond slides into place. Then it’s over, and I don’t feel
any different than I did before.

A shiver runs over Hermione.

“Dobby loves Mr Harry Potter and his Mi! Dobby will keep your secrets and smite your enemies
and cook your dinner every night!”

Hermione’s eyes sparkle in delight as Winky crawls from my lap to hers, Dobby taking her place
excitedly.

“No smiting will be necessary, thanks,” I huff.

I hope Mi has some bruise paste stashed away because I’m going to have elf-shaped bruises all
over my legs by the time we’re done. He’s jumping up and down in happiness, his hands strangling
me in tiny arms.

“You’d better let him go, Dobby,” Hermione says through laughter. “Or you’re going to kill your
new Master.”

Dobby’s eyes widen in fear, and he quickly climbs from my lap.

“Is that it?” I ask, and Dobby nods his head nervously, twisting his fingers into knots.

“Are yous mad at Dobby, sir, for hurting you? Should Dobby punish himself?”

I reach for him as he lunges, stopping his momentum before he can run his head into the wall.

“None of that, now, Dobby. You know how I feel about you hurting yourself. First rule as my elf,
no more punishments. If you think you need to be punished for something, let me know, and I’ll
take care of it.”

Hermione gives me a dirty look, and Dobby sighs, his shoulders dropping in relief. “Thank you,
Harry Potter, sir.”

“It’s Harry,” I tell him. “You don’t need to call me sir or Harry Potter.”

He pulls his head back and frowns at me, and I give it up as a lost cause.

“Oh!” I look at Hermione, petting the quieted Winky like she would Crookshanks all curled up in
her lap. “The jersey!”

Hermione’s eyes light up, and she pulls the golden garment from her back pocket, shaking out the
fabric until it’s the right size again.

“This is for you, Dobby. We thought you’d like it.”

Instead of looking happy, however, he looks on the verge of tears.

“Yous is giving Dobby clothes, already?” He asks in a trembling voice.

“Damn,” Hermione breathes, “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“No,” I assure him quickly, then take the shirt from Mi and hold it out, showing Dobby the back.
“You love clothes, Dobby. We wanted to give you a present. Think of it as a uniform. Like the tea
cosies of Hogwarts. Only in the House of Potter, your uniform is whatever you want it to be. We
can go shopping if you want. You can pick out anything that looks fun.”

Dobby looks at the garment wearily before taking it into his hands. He flinches as if waiting for a
blow. When whatever he’s expecting doesn’t come to pass, he squeals in delight and pulls off his
current shirt to replace it with my Quidditch jersey. With the flick of Hermione’s wand, it fits him
like a glove.

“Perfect,” Mi says.

“What about you, Winky?” I prod gently. “Do you want to work for a family again?”

Winky sits up on Hermione’s lap, looking me in the eye.

“Winky does wear her fealty and that of her blood line to the house of Potter.”

Bugger.

Like an egg running down my face, the Bond seals tight.

Hermione’s expression squishes up. She can’t seem to decide whether to laugh or cry at the distress
on my face.

I clear my throat and look at the elf still sitting serenely in Hermione’s lap.

“Thank you Winky. I’d like you to be Hermione’s elf, if that’s alright with you.”

She smiles at me broadly.

“Of course, Mr Harry Potter.” The elf blushes fiercely. “Of course, Harry. I will always serve our
house with honor. It will please me to serve your Mi.”

Hermione’s blush is as bright as Winky’s when Winky climbs from her lap and bows.

“How may I serve you Mistress?”

Hermione’s discomfort is palpable, and even Dobby seems to think it funny.

I rescue her.

“Well guys, Hermione and me both stay with Muggles over the summer break. You can go to
Grimmauld Place, Dobby. There is already a house elf there, but he belongs to my Godfather. I’d
appreciate it if you’d help them until I get there later in the summer. Hermione will talk to her
parents, and then...she can just—“

I have no idea how house elf magic works, but Hermione, who has read every book ever written on
the creatures, steps in.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Winky. I need to speak to my parents first. I’ll call for you when I am
ready. Is there anything you need from me? I’d love to take you shopping as well. For a uniform,
or whatever you want or need.”

“Yous do not live together?” Winky asks, looking between us with a confused expression.

“Not at the moment,” I tell her. “But we will eventually.”

That seems to settle her.

“If you’s not be needing anything at the moment,” she says primly, “Winky would like to go get
cleaned up now.”

Hermione smiles brighter than the sun.

“That sounds wonderful, Winky. Thank you for joining our family.”

Winky bows, her nose touching the floor, and then pops out of the kitchens.

“Well,” I say, smiling at how easy that all was.

“Watcha wanna do, Dobby? Hang out here until the end of school, or go travel a bit?”

I pull out the galleons I’d shoved into my pockets and hand them to the elf. His eyes go wide, and
he starts to tremble.

“Stop freaking out, Dobby. I just want you to have some spending money. Do what you want,
buddy. I’ll holler for you when I need you.”

Dobby looks somewhat pained, and with a snap of his fingers, the money vanishes.

“I think I’ll go make your bed,” he says primly, and just like that, he’s gone.

I climb to my feet, wiping off my pants before hauling Hermione to hers.

“Okay?” I confirm.

“Yup,” she says. “You got two elves, and Winky is taking a shower. Worked out great as far as I
can tell.”

I laugh at her and nod at the other elves as they bow and scurry out of our way.

“What now, my lady? To the library?”

“To the Library, Lord Potter,” she jokes, and together, we leave the kitchens.

I get my chance to corner Malfoy the day before summer hols.

He’s coming back into the castle alone, his broomstick over his shoulder and his hair a windswept
mess. He’d obviously been for one last ride before he has to pack his broom away for the holiday.

I hurry to close the distance between us, then pull my cloak from around my shoulders.

“Draco.”

I think the use of Malfoy’s first name pulls Draco to a stop, rather than any desire to have a
conversation with me. Of course, Malfoys never passed up an opportunity to rub his supposed
superiority in my face, either.
He freezes mid-step in the middle of the entryway, then turns and gives me his best sneer.

“Potter.” Draco looks up and down the hallway, confirming we’re alone.

“Scared, are you? Looking to see if I can’t put in a good word for you with the Dark Lord? Maybe
you’d be willing to give up the Mudblood and Blood Traitors for a chance to save your own skin.”

I swallow back the need to retort with anger and instead think about that day in the future, and the
past, and the look of terror on Malfoy’s face.

“No, actually. I thought I’d offer you the chance instead. We both know he’s back. Riddle is
probably lounging around in your dining room as we speak. I’m sure; that being raised as you have,
it feels like your time has finally come. As if you’re on your way to power and eternal glory.

“I’m here to warn you that one day soon, you’ll realise that’s all a lie. Riddle will take everything
from you.”

I take a step closer.

“Your home, your parents, your free will, and then your very soul. One day soon you’ll learn it’s
either kill for him or be killed by him. Torture, or be tortured. You’ll have to watch your friends
and enemies both bleed out at your feet, by your hand, or risk ending up on the floor beside them.”

Draco, already pale, blanches until his skin is translucent with fright.

The veins stand out stark on his throat, the little pulse point hammering away like mad. Draco
takes a step back as I talk until his shoulders slam against the stone wall.

“There’s going to come a day where you learn what it means to be one of Voldemort’s lap dogs.
He doesn’t just brand you. He takes his payment in flesh and blood. When that day happens, come
to me. No questions asked. We’ll protect you. Heal you because I’m sure you’ll need it. Then I’ll
help you get revenge for every terrible thing that man does to you and yours in the name of blood
superiority.”

“You know nothing,” Draco spits out, voice tight with fury.

Already he’s regaining his composure, straightening to his considerable height. He’ll rival Ron for
height one day, I know.

“I know that when you go home this summer, Your Dark Lord will be sitting in your house. I know
that he’ll expect you to wait on him hand and foot. I know your mother will be terrified for your
safety.”

Another step closer. I never break his eye contact and keep my voice as steady as I can.

“I know he’ll have three items on his agenda. Amassing followers, because what’s the point of
naming yourself Lord if you have no one to lord over?

“He’ll be obsessed with the Department of Mysteries. Keep that tidbit to yourself if you don’t
mind. I don’t want to explain how I know that.”

For the first time, something other than fear flashes in his eyes.

“I know he’ll be consumed with killing me. A half-blood nobody orphan raised by Muggles, and
I’ll be all he thinks about. Rails about. His final task to prove his might, is to destroy a boy half his
size. That alone makes me question his sanity, don’t you think? Most powerful Wizard to walk the
earth and all he fears is me.”

I try not to sound jumped up, but it’s hard.

“What do you want, Potter?”

Draco hisses out the words, the colour rushing to his face at a speed that would make me dizzy.

He’s almost sputtering in his anger.

Anger and humiliation that he allowed me to see him flinch, if even for a moment.

“I want this to all be over. But it’s only just beginning. So, I’ll settle for you at my side on the day
of the final battle. I’m the adopted son of Sirius Black, Draco. We’re family, you and I. Whether
we like it or not. Watch him, see the madness seep from his pores. When you’re ready to run,
contact me. I think you have a Godfather you trust. He’ll be able to get in contact with us. I’ll be
waiting when you’re ready.”

Draco shoves past me, using his shoulder and taller form to knock me to the side. He doesn’t run.
That would be too low class for a highbred pureblood like Draco. But he walks so fast towards the
dungeons and his safety that it might as well be at a jog.

“Do you think it wise, Potter, to antagonise Draco like that?”

I didn’t hear the snake come up behind us, but I don’t find that too surprising for some reason. I
flick my wand into my hand but don’t raise the weapon.

Snape gives me his best sneer of disdain at the sight of me arming myself.

Of course, Snape doesn’t realise that I don’t need a wand or voice to make him withe on the floor
anymore.

One of the perks of time travel.

“He’s in more danger than he could ever realise,” I say, concentrating on Draco and not the pain
I’d like to cause Snape.

“He’s just too stupid to understand it right now. But you do, don’t you Snape. Aren’t you his
Godfather? What would you do to protect him?”

I feel the familiar sensation of Snape pressing in on my mind.

However, my thoughts are locked up tight, and I keep my face bland and our eye contact steady. I
feel a surge of vindication flash when a look of consternation flickers over Snape.

“Detention, Potter. First week of school. For back talking a teacher.”

I roll my eyes at his childishness but give him an empty smile.

“Look forward to it, Sir.”

He storms away from me, robes billowing. I wonder if he casts a charm on them to make them
sway in an imaginary wind like that? I watch him walk until he turns a corner and leaves my sight.
Then I pull the cloak back over my shoulders and run to find Mi.
 Chapter 9
Chapter Notes

The first time I wrote this chapter, I hated it Like, with an unholy passion. Now it's
one of my favorites.

We all have our headcanons about characters and situations and the like. I've always
thought of Harry as very in his feelings, which is pretty spectacular if you think about
it because most children of abuse are taught from a very early age to keep their
emotions controlled at all costs.

Harry has always been his own worst enemy. I'm not talking about the big bads that
are habitually trying to kill him. I'm talking about him making the big bads job easier
by constantly allowing his feelings to get the best of him. The best and worst human
trait to have.

The fragility of Harry’s mental state has always been something I wish more fics
delved into. We see him time and time again try to push people away because he loves
them. Because he thinks being close to him will get him hurt.

He doesn't understand sacrifice unless it's coming from him. Ties into that hero
complex thing. Even if he made it through the final battle, maybe, especially if, I think
he'd take the loss of life in a much more...destructive way? He'd take it personally? In
his mind, it's not necessarily the battle of good vs evil or dark vs light. It's him vs
Riddle and every person that dies because he hasn't dispatched Voldemort yet he feels
is his fault.

Even in the timeline set up in this story, he's got a list of people whose death he blames
on himself. Now adding Ron, Hermione and himself to the list. Probably Draco,
because as soon as Riddle was told that Draco knew it was them and refused to
summon Voldemort, Voldy will kill Draco too.

But time travel has a rippling effect. You come back, see all the dead people alive
again, swear you'll save their lives, and then fudge other things up because your sole
focus was saving the people you lost before.

If, in the premise of this challenge, everyone has a specific time to die, will that person
die anyway, and now you have twice as many deaths on your hands? Now you have to
somehow survive their death twice? Or do you save them, and mess things up because
they were supposed to die? Or, was it Harry's continuously dying when it wasn't his
time that caused the other deaths to happen?

Would he accept it was their time to die, or would he blame himself anyway because
he's convinced that the future isn't written in stone?

What would that do to a psyche already as frail as his?

I've always thought Harry reminded me a bit of the Green Arrow (TV version) Hyper-
vigilant, killing comes easily but tries to avoid it, sometimes to a detriment to himself.
Willing to accept the blame for others' wrongdoings. Damaged beyond recognition by
the things done to him but promises to power on and do what's right despite the cost.
 Wow. What I meant to say was I liked this chapter and how it shows his hair trigger,
and unpleasant personality lol

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Hermione

“Look who I found in the hallway,” I announce, leading Luna into the cabin.

We just took off from the Hogsmeade platform, and the gang is still getting themselves situated in
the cabin we claimed for the ride home.

As I come in, the Twins take off, looking positively gleeful.

Harry gave them the Triwizard winnings this morning before we left the school—along with a list
of defensive items they either already invented in the other timeline or that Harry thinks would be a
beneficial addition to our arsenal.

Fred and George have had that evil little grin ever since.
I don’t know whether to be proud or afraid.

Probably a little of both.

With no Umbridge, at least they’ll get their Newts this time. Mrs Weasley will be thrilled!

I had no idea Harry had put so much thought into weapons beyond magic and spells.

I shouldn't have been surprised, though. Last time we fought to disarm. This time Harry is aiming
to kill.

The thought should bother me.

It does.

Killing is bad! Killing is what differentiates the dark from the light.

Then I sense Harry’s eyes on me, scanning for non-existent wounds, and feel his horror claw away
at my insides, and somehow, I just can't find the indignation I know I should be expressing.

I suppose I'm reserving my judgement for if and when he actually starts to leave bodies in his
wake.

“Who’s the blonde?” Ron asks, looking past me to where Luna, pale hair long down her back,
trails into the train compartment as if by accident.

I smack Ron upside the head as we make our way inside.

“Oi!” he exclaims, rubbing at the spot I hit, but silences as soon as I shoot him a dirty look.

“Everyone, this is Luna Lovegood. Luna, this is everyone. You already know Ginny, I think.”

Ron should know her too, the wanker.

She lives two miles from his house. Though, in his defence, Luna had an extremely sheltered
childhood with only her father for company.

Ginny smiles at our once and future friend.

“Yeah, we’re in the same year.”

I always forget that Luna’s a year behind us. She may be the weirdest duck I’ve ever met, but you
can’t deny she’s brilliant.

“Luna, this is Ron, and Harry.”

Both of my boys give her a little wave. Ron looks confused. Harry looks relieved.

We tried to corner her several times in the last week, but she doesn’t spend time in the common
areas yet, since she hasn’t started hanging out with us. We always seemed to miss her at mealtimes
too.

Which made me afraid she was hiding from bullies and eating at strange times.

Whiiiiich only added fuel to Harry’s simmering fire.

She might not know it yet, but she’s one of us. I pity anyone who tries to mess with her next year.
Okay, well, I don’t pity them all that much.

“Hello, Harry,” Luna says in her dreamy voice, perching in the corner of the train car. “I’m glad to
see they sent you back again.”

Or maybe she does know it after all.

Ron makes a choking sound, and Ginny starts to pound him on the back. Harry’s eyes bug out of
his head, but he’s at least somewhat accustomed to Luna’s eerie capability of knowing things she
has no right to know. He gathers his composure quickly.

“Thanks, Luna. I’m relieved too.”

Ginny and Neville look genuinely confused. Join the club, guys.

Luna smiles serenely at Harry, her expression widening when I sit beside him.

“I see you’ve finally sealed the Bond between you. Congratulations!”

Harry glances at me, a Do you have any idea what she’s talking about look on his face.

Not a clue, I confirm with a lift of my shoulder. Just go along with it.

He gives her a strained smile.

“Thanks,” he answers. “We’re happy too.”

I sigh, frustrated with the fact that I’m without the Hogwarts library for the next two months, and
who knows when I’ll be able to get to a bookstore. I run through the types of Bonds I know of in
my head, coming up with far too few.

“How are Winky and Dobby adjusting to the change?” she asks, and Harry’s chest slumps in
understanding.

The Bond.

Harry Bonded with Dobby and Winky.

“Good,” he says, smiling at her. “Dobby has almost killed me twice, but I’m hoping his excitement
will die down soon. I gave him a handful of gold and told him to have fun until I have something
for him to do.”

“Winky is staying at the castle,” I add, “until I brace my parents for the fact that Harry gave me an
elf as an early birthday present.”

Ron snorts at that, complaining that he didn’t get anything as cool for his birthday.

“I’ll be sweet sixteen, Ron,” I say, and he gives me a bewildered look. “It’s a muggle thing. Don’t
worry about it. I promise to get you something epic for your next birthday.”

“I’m gonna remind you of that,” he promises, and I fall silent as the general chatter of the train car
switches to summer holiday plans.

Harry leans back and starts to brood.

I’m sitting in the corner of the train car, my back to the wall. I’m reading a trashy romance novel
about a Wizard who rescues a Squib from a tower. The sex between them is so magical that it gives
her full powers back. But I’ve disguised it as a book on potions so nobody asks to read it.

Or takes the mickey out of me. The sex is graphic.

Harry looks asleep.

The keyword here being looks.

Harry’s head is in my lap, and his body is stretched over the rest of the bench. His eyes are closed,
and his legs are crossed at the ankles. His fingers are entwined over his chest. Only, the Sword of
Gryffindor is lying lengthwise, disillusioned down his body, and his fingers are actually gripping
the hilt.

Neville is across from us, his nose buried in a book on Advanced Herbology. Ginny and Ron are
on the floor, playing a game of exploding snap. Luna is asleep, I think, using Ron’s school cloak as
a pillow.

Her feet are in Neville’s lap.

I’m not positive he’s even noticed.

My fingers trail lightly across Harry’s forehead and over his scar, my pointer finger outlining the
former Horcrux. I run my hand through his hair, keeping a soothing rhythm before I reach the end
and start my path again. He might look like he’s asleep, but every mile between us and the castle
and closer to his imprisonment in Surrey, the tenser he becomes. We’re less than an hour from the
station. He’s practically vibrating with hostility.

I’m almost glad to be going home, if only to be spared from some of Harry’s pouting.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he says without bothering to open his eyes.

No one gives him the slightest attention. The people closest to us, those in this compartment,
stopped listening to his bitching days ago. He’s done little but since.

The same goes for the double glances and sarcastic comments about our noticeable change in
relationship, whatever that may be.

The only one still giving us confused, almost irritated looks is Ginny.

Now it’s become a bit of a joke.

We were in reversed positions, me lying on the couch reading with my head in his lap when the
Twins asked us when the wedding was going to be. Harry asked Fred what Angelina’s toothpaste
tasted like when Fred licked it off the back of her teeth.

An unofficial truce was called, and both combatants were removed from the field of battle.

That was two days ago.

Harry’s lousy mood has only gone downhill.

We haven’t told Neville and Ginny what happened to us. We agreed that Ron was the only
exception. Who would believe us anyway? But it hasn’t stopped Harry from complaining about
things he has no right whinging about in broad hearing in a room full of people.
Like now.

“You don’t have a choice, Harry. You have to go to your Aunt and Uncle’s house.”

Harry’s hands tighten on the invisible sword.

“I’d like to see them try and make me,” he grumbles.

Ron speaks up from his position on the floor.

“Me too, Mate. I could use a good laugh. You, an underage wizard unable to do magic, verses,
well, probably every adult on the train platform. Please, try to refuse.”

Harry lies there with his eyes shut. Neville peeks over his book, watching the play-by-play.

The truth is, if anyone did try to confront him, Harry would win. One-on-one, they wouldn’t stand
a chance.

Dumbledore.

That’s about it.

He’d smash a regular Wizard. One who has spent the majority of his life relegated to everyday
charms and hasn’t spent the last several years honing their magic into a weapon.

He might succumb to a large group of adversaries no matter their skill level, but if Harry didn’t
flat-out win, he’d certainly leave them bleeding and broken.

We spent a copious amount of time in that tent learning every spell in the mountain of books I
brought with us, and he’s twice as strong now as when we died.

He’d have the added advantage that they’d be fighting to subdue, and Harry would fight to wound.

“Fuck you, Tosser,” Harry says conversationally.

“Backatchya, Wanker,” Ron says in the same bland tone.

He smiles at me from over his sister’s shoulder, though. My eyes flick down to see the same smile
echoing on Harry’s face.

Eyes still closed.

I shake my head and go back to my romance novel.

Boys.

Mine and Harry’s relationship isn’t the only thing that’s adapted in the last few days. Ron and
Harry have gone through a brutal adjustment as well.

Whether from weariness or lack of patience, Harry has stopped pulling his punches. Metaphorically
at least. The old Harry was very cautious of Ron, his every choice dictated by how it would affect
his best friend.

This new Harry doesn’t give a fuck.

Ron has risen to the challenge beautifully. I don’t know if he’s trying to make up for the acts he did
in the future or behaviour that has already come to pass, but instead of being upset with Harry’s
abrasive manner…honestly, I think he likes it.

I like them better this way.

The sarcastic indifference is hand over fist better than ping-ponging between the hostile cold
shoulder or the pandering bromance the two flip-flopped between in the last timeline.

The carriage door opens, Lee Jordan preceding the Twins and...

Bugger.

Not today, of all days.

Cormac McLaggen comes striding in, looking like he owns the room. Fred and George look
nauseous but shoot apologetic glances before gathering their things from the overhead
compartments.

No one says a word to Cormac.

Harry’s eyes remain closed, but his muscles pull so tight I can almost hear them singing with
tension.

“I thought I’d come and say goodbye before the summer hols start,” he says pompously as if we
care a lick about him.

When no one replies, I take it upon myself to move this little tete-a-tete along. I know what’s
coming, after all. Or some variation of it.

This isn’t going to end pretty.

As discreetly as I can, I slide my wand into my palm. We’ll be in London soon, and then I’ll be
without magic for the next nine weeks. Might as well use whatever time I have left to turn Cormac
into a slug.

“Yes. Have a good holiday, McLaggen. We’ll see you on Sept 1st.”

He smirks at me, oblivious or uncaring at the compartment full of dirty looks he’s receiving in
every direction. He hasn’t looked at anyone but me since he came in.

I close my eyes and pray to Merlin he’s not going to hit on me with everyone watching.

I wasn’t lying when I told Harry that a good portion of the boys asked me out for the sole purpose
of hoping to get under Harry and Ron’s skin. But making a move with Harry’s head in my lap is
extreme, even for McLaggen.

“You looked good this year, Granger. We’ll have to go to Hogsmeade next semester. I’ll show you
all the best spots.”

My shoulders slump in defeat, and my breath whooshes out, my sudden exhale the only sound on
the train.

The only sound in the world, it feels like. Today was not the day to try Harry’s temper. He’s been
itching to take it out on someone.

With one graceful move, Harry rises and slides from the bench, the scabbard in one hand and the
sword free from its confines in the other. He disillusions it as he goes, so by the time he comes to a
stop, the Sword of Gryffindor is shining in his hands.

Dammit.

I don’t think this is what Dumbledore had in mind when he gave the heirloom to Harry.

Cormac swallows audibly, the motion causing his Adam’s apple to push against the blade.

“Harry!” I hiss, and he pulls it back some.

Harry never takes his eyes off the boy in front of him, twice as big as he is, cowering in fear. When
he speaks, it’s directed towards me.

“Like this?” he asks. As one, the heads in the car turn from Cormac and the sword to where sit on
the bench. “This is what you meant when you said they hassled you in an attempt to get one over
on me?”

Bugger.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Pretty much. But this isn’t necessary, Harry. I’m quite capable of fighting my
own battles.”

It’s like I didn’t open my mouth.

“Slughorn’s party?” he prompts, and I swear to Merlin, I don’t care how many witnesses there are.
I’m going to kill him with my bare hands. Stun him, sit on his chest, and choke him until his
eyeballs pop out of his head.

“That one wasn’t so much about you, I don’t think. But yeah. Worse, actually. The man had more
hands than an octopus that night. But you can’t kill him, Harry. You promised.”

I glance around the tiny cabin and see a half dozen pairs of wide eyes watching the scene play out
with rapt attention. I can read it in their expression. Since when have I had to extract promises that
Harry won’t murder a man in cold blood? Neville doesn’t look as horrified as the rest, though, and
doesn’t that add another level of fear to this already precarious situation?

What is it about Harry that makes him act without thinking it through?!

Why is it we all follow him over the cliff without knowing what’s at the bottom?!

I rise to my feet, moving in the cramped space until Harry is forced to meet my eye. He does, for a
moment, before returning his gaze to a trembling McLaggen. I grab his cheeks between my fingers
and drag his face to mine.

“You promised me,” I grit out through clenched teeth.

Unlike last time, he doesn’t let me manhandle him. Despite my best effort, his head swings back to
stare down Cormac.

“I promised not to kill anyone. I won’t kill him, just maim him some.”

If Harry nicks him with that blade, he will kill him, whether he means to or not.

“Honestly, Harry,” I huff in annoyance.

Cormac sneers at Harry, and I turn my head away. I don’t want to see what’s about to happen. If I
don’t watch it, I can’t be called as a witness at Harry’s trial.

Too many people mistake size for power. Before he dies, for the final time, Harry is going to
disabuse a lot of people of that notion.

“Officially staking your claim, Potter?”

Cormac is...a moron. I thought Ron was obtuse, but this is ridiculous. Certainly, a boy with grades
like his can’t possibly be this stupid.

“You manky git,” I scoff. I sit back down. “You’re on your own, Cormac. I tried.”

The room seems to hold its breath, waiting for Harry’s response. His anger burns in my chest. But
his face is blank, his hand steady when he moves the point of the sword to press into the shirt over
Cormac’s heart.

“Claim?” he chuckles, the sound anything but humorous. “Like she’s property? I should let you
shoot your shot with her. There won’t be enough left to bother cleaning up by the time she’s done.”

“No thanks, I’ll pass,” I say, pretending to read my book.

My emotions are ping-ponging between exasperation and trying to ignore how unimaginably hot
Harry is jabbing that sword into Cormac’s neck.

Cause yeah. It’s doing something to me. Or maybe it’s the sleazy romance novel.

Harry presses harder, and Cormac eeks.

No. It’s Harry.

Damn.

That shouldn’t be so attractive. I should be furious. I can take care of my bloody self!

But there’s something about Harry with a sword that just flat-out does it for me.

“You heard the lady,” Ron says, fists tightened at his sides. “Leave. Before we let Harry run you
through and tell the teachers, you tripped.”

My eyes flick to the redhead, and he’s trembling with rage.

“But yeah,” Harry speaks up. “Spread the word, McLaggen. Hermione’s off the market. Way off.”

Finally thinking with the right appendage, Cormac takes two giant steps backwards and flees,
practically running from the compartment.

“I’ve missed something,” Ginny says. She sounds more amused than irritated. "Would someone
care to explain to me what just happened? Do we need to check Harry for Polyjuice?”

Ron grunts then shrugs with a whatcha gonna do? face when I shoot him a scathing look.

“Was that really necessary?” I complain.

“Yes,” every boy in the compartment answers.

Harry's shoulders collapse.

A thousand different emotions flood my bloodstream so quickly it makes me dizzy, and I have to
blink several times to get my bearings back.

Harry is standing in the middle of the tiny room, his sword lowered but his breath coming in heavy
pants. Now that the perceived danger has passed, the adrenaline has fled from Harry and been
replaced with shame and confusion and a wave of anger so acute it makes me dizzy. He didn't even
realise what he was doing until the blade was in Cormac's throat.

I doubt anyone but us realises how close Harry came to ending the boy's life.

I'm not sure if even I realised until just this moment.

Ignoring the group of onlookers, I stand and pull on his hand until he pivots towards me.

His free arm comes around my waist, and his head droops forward until I'm supporting half of his
weight.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“I know, Harry. I know.’

I drag my hands over his scalp in a way that always pulls his eyes closed, and the tautness of his
muscles goes slack in my arms.

“It’s just, I—”

He sounds so tired.

“Shhhh,” I whisper, moving closer and closer until he can feel my exhale ghosting across his lips.
“It’ll get better,” I promise him.

His face is rubbing up against mine, trying to burrow in any way he can.

“I doubt that.”

It’s more a sigh than a sentence.

It doesn’t matter that we’re in a compartment full of people. It doesn’t matter that before, this
wasn’t something he and I did. It takes the smallest lift of my chin until my lips touch his, and I
will him back to peace with gentle touches and warm kisses.

We don’t stay that way for long.

Long enough for the rest of his anger to flow from his body like water. Then I ease him onto the
bench beside me and press him until his head is back on my lap. The sword is gone from view
again.

“Okay,” Gin breaks the silence. “I definitely missed something.”

The smallest imitation of a smile graces Harry’s face before it fades back into the abyss.

We stay that way until the bell dings out over the speakers, and as one, we start to move.

The Hogwarts Express has made it to London.

 It’s time to face my parents.

Chapter End Notes

The first time, I thought of this chapter as just pointless filler. Now it's one of my
favorites.
 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

It was pointed out to me several times that for some reason A03 wasn't showing the
correct update day. I think it was because I had several chapters saved as a draft, and
so it was using the update day that I uploaded all the saved chapters.

To ensure that is the correct theory, I'm dropping another lol.

Harry
The doorbell rings a heartbeat before Vernon’s harsh voice echoes loud enough to fill the entire
house.

“Boy! Get the door.”

I contain my eye roll, already on my way to answer the front door.

He knew I was going to answer it. It’s been my responsibility since I was old enough to reach the
handle. He only yells like that because he likes the sound of his own voice.

It’s going to be a bloody long summer.

I take a step back in surprise when I see who’s at the door.

“Sirius!”

My Godfather grins at me, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He’s in Muggle clothing—jeans and
a black t-shirt. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are shining. My gaze flicks to the street behind him,
where a brand-new motorbike rests up against the curb.

It's not like the previous one, somewhat ratty and rather old. This one is sleek black and chrome set
low to the ground with footrests towards the front and saddlebags on the back.

There's no sidecar, thank Merlin.

“Heya, Pup,” he smirks, obviously happy with my response. I step out onto the walkway, shutting
the door behind me. “Surprise!”

He reaches for me, and I happily fall into his hug.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as I pull away, still shocked beyond measure at seeing Sirius out
in the open on Privet Drive.

“Thought I’d come and check on you. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Bugger.

The Dursleys will lose their minds if they see Sirius here.

“Yeah, hold on.”

I open the front door again and stick my head inside.

“I’m going to the park,” I say, and stop mid-motion in slamming the door when Vernon yells
back.

“Who was at the door?” he demands, and I twist and lift one finger at Sirius to tell him to give me
a moment.

“No one. Salespeople. I told them to get lost and never come back.”

“Too right, boy,” Vernon yells, then grumbles at the unrespectability of door-to-door salesmen too
softly for me to hear. “Fine. Go then. But don’t cause any trouble.”
I grunt at the obtuseness of the man.

“I won’t start any, Vernon. But I have no problem finishing it.”

I slam the door before he can say another word.

Sirius is cracking up on the doorstep, pushing his unruly hair out of his eyes.

“You need a haircut,” I tell him as I start up the drive to the sidewalk.

“Now you sound like Molly,” he grouses, falling into step beside me. I guess that means the
Weasleys are already camping out in Grimmauld Place. “Muggles treating you, okay?”

I shrug, then run my hand through my own unruly hair.

“Same as normal, I suppose. Though it’s only been a few days. I know you aren’t here to free me
from their clutches yet. So, what’s up?”

The park is only a block from the Dursleys, and we’re walking at a good clip.

“You tell me, Pup. Something’s happened. More than you’re letting on. I’m not leaving until you
tell me the truth.”

The cell phone in my pocket seems to burn, and I have to resist the urge to touch it. I wish I could
talk to Hermione. I'm in no mood for a lecture on any rash decisions. This affects her as much as
me.

I find the first empty picnic area and sit on top of the table. Sirius slides onto the bench, looking at
me expectantly.

“Fine,” I say, already tired of keeping the secret.

Though, to be fair, I’ve told everyone who’s outright asked, so I haven’t really kept it at all.

I shove my glasses back up my nose.

“Hermione and I died about three years in the future at Malfoy Manor at the hands of Bellatrix and
Voldemort. I woke up in death’s waiting room, or whatever, and he threw a massive hissy fit
because I died, again, and he’s going to get fired. He sent me back with my memories, hoping that
I’m smarter than I look and can skip past mistakes, knowing about them ahead of time. Then I saw
Hermione.”

A shudder rips through me unbidden, and I clench my hands between my knees so hard they
tremble.

Sirius misses nothing.

"I told him I’m not smarter than I look, and if he wants me to stay alive, I need Hermione. She’s
the brains of this operation. He made us sign a form to keep our memories, then shoved us through
a door that had DO NOT ENTER written across it in big bold letters, and we popped up in the
Great Hall about five minutes before the third task started. Luckily, since I did know about
Voldemort coming back that night, I was able to avoid duelling with him and captured Wormtail.
The first time he almost killed me. This time, it was kinda fun.”

Sirius’ face goes through a series of changes as I rattle off my tale. First, he seems to be laughing at
me, sure, it’s some kind of prank.
Then the humour bleeds from his eyes, horror filling the crevices in his skin as he starts to believe
me.

By the time I finish, his hand is roughly rubbing at his forehead, and his eyes are tightly shut. I
can’t tell if he’s imagining my duelling Voldemort or trying to escape the mental image.

“I—I—”

I can’t stop my smile.

“That’s about what I sounded like too, when a Judge Judy wanna-be told me I was dead a hundred
and fifty years too early.”

“Who’s Judge Judy?” Sirius asks, and I remember that not only is my Godfather a pure-blood
wizard and therefore has little knowledge of Muggle television, he’s been in jail or on the run for
the last decade plus.

Let alone American television.

“Never mind,” I chuckle, but sober quickly. “So, believe me? Or are you already wondering how to
get me into the spell damage ward at St. Mungos?”

Sirius shakes his head, pulling his shoulders back to sit at his full height.

“Oh no, Pup. I believe you. The differences are too great not to. I don’t know how to break it to
you, but the boy that went into that maze isn’t the same boy that came out.”

"Technically, it was the same person. I had already been put into this time by then. It's the boy who
went to the Gryffindor table and the one that left."

Hermione would say the details are important.

I'm so tired.

All my energy zaps from me with a sigh, and I take my glasses off to clean them on my shirt. If
only to have something to occupy my hands.

"The point stands."

“So, I’ve been told,” I reply dryly. “But I don’t have the time to pretend to be ignorant. You heard
the prophecy. I have to kill him. Even if I didn’t, I’d still have to, because he’s not going to stop
coming after me until I’m dead at his feet, and everyone I love with me.”

Sirius grabs my knee, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“Which means I can’t pretend to be a fifteen-year-old kid with a chip on his shoulder and anger
issues.”

“No,” Sirius interrupts with a barking laugh. “You’re a what? Eighteen-year-old kid with a chip on
his shoulder and anger issues?”

The edges of my lips tip up in a reluctant smile.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll give you that. But—I don’t know when the next confrontation will be. I don’t
know when the last will happen. What I do know is that I was given an opportunity to prepare
myself this time around and I’d be foolish to waste it. I’ll stew at the Dursley’s this summer
because I don’t have a choice. I’ll go back to Hogwarts in the fall because I don’t have a choice.
Hermione thinks it’s the best thing to do, and she’s usually right about these things. I’m going to
learn as much as I can, as quickly as I can, and the next time I face him, I plan on winning.”

I take a breath, pulling in my scrambling thoughts.

“I still have some time. In the other timeline, it took him a while to get his operation up and
running again. He had followers to punish, and devotees to break out of Azkaban.”

“What?!” Sirius exclaims.

He almost comes off the bench in alarm.

“He spends about a year attempting to break into the Department of Mysteries. In the meantime, he
gets into Azkaban and frees all the imprisoned Death Eaters. When he can’t get into the Ministry,
he tricks me into doing it for him. Some stuff happens, but it won’t happen this time, because I
won’t be fooled twice. After that, he starts the guerilla tactics. Assassinating Ministry employees in
their homes. He orders Draco Malfoy to murder the Headmaster, so that was a lot of fun.”

Sirius cuts me off.

“Harry. You can’t just let all this knowledge go to waste. I’m sure Hermione would agree with
me.”

I lean forward with my elbows on my knees, lacing my fingers between them.

“What do you suggest I do, Sirius? Walk into the Ministry and start sprouting prophecies? Tell the
new minister that I’m from three years in the future? They’ll have me branded insane within the
first five minutes.”

Sirius’s throat contracts, his eyes darkening in anger.

“It’ll be a few months until Voldemort’s flexing his muscles,” I try to assure him.

“At least, if he sticks close to what happened last time. Though, I already buggered some of that up
for him. Last time, Crouch Jr was given the kiss before he could be interviewed, and no one
believed me when I said Voldemort was back. He had a whole year of planning without any
resistance except for the Order. Wormtail was never caught in the previous timeline either. He died
by his own hand about ten minutes before Hermione and I did.”

“By his own hand?” Sirius questions, looking slightly sick.

My face is blank when I reply.

“He owed me a life debt. I called it in.”

He’s silent for a moment, and my hand drifts to the phone in my pocket, itching to hear Hermione’s
voice. “What else happens, Pup?”

I look at my Godfather and see the heavy weight on his shoulders.

“I’m not even sure I could tell you at this point. I’ve already changed a lot, just my first week back.
I caught Wormtail, like I told you. You’re sitting here next to me. In the previous timeline,” my
voice catches in my throat, and I clear it roughly.

“We never clear your name, and you’re trapped in Grimmauld Place with only Kreacher to keep
you sane. He doesn’t do too hot a job, by the way. He betrays you to Bellatrix, the only other Black
he trusted. You die in about eleven months. Voldemort used our connection to trick me and lured
me to the department of Mysteries. The Order saved us, and you were sent through the veil by
Bellatrix.”

I swallow down my pain but let my anger burn.

“I’m going to kill that bitch, Sirius. She killed Hermione. Tortured her, scarred her, then slit her
throat, right in front of me. If it’s the last thing I do in this life, I’m going to see her dead at my
feet.”

Sirius doesn’t comment but pulls an envelope from his back pocket. He looks this way and that
before producing his wand and giving it a switch.

The envelope triples in size.

“Speaking of Blacks.”

He flips the envelope over, pulling out a stack of parchment.

“Adoption paperwork, and a couple of other things. I just need you to sign. You’ll still have to
spend a few weeks at your Aunt and Uncle’s every year but...” a quill and ink appear, and Sirius
flips the papers around for me to place my signature on the marked spots.

“I’ve been thinking about that, by the way. The whole familiar wards thing. It isn’t something
Dumbledore has deemed to explain to me yet in this timeline. We don’t talk about it until after you
die, which isn’t going to happen this time.”

I can’t help that I sound like I’m growling by the time the quill slides against the parchment. I
won’t lose him again.

“But from what I understand, the reason I have to come here every year is because of my mother’s
blood. Dumbledore says it’s because I call this place home, but that can’t be it. I haven’t called this
place home since the first time I stepped onto the Hogwarts Express. So, the real power of the
magic must lie with Petunia.

“So long as she still calls this my home, the protection spells work. Which makes sense. After all,
Petunia shares more blood with Mum than I do, and it’s the magic of my mother’s bloodline that
keeps it active. So, if my mother’s bloodline offers me her home, I remain safe from Riddle's
killing curse, at least until I turn seventeen again.”

Sirius rubs his chin, then gathers the papers back into a stack.

“In theory, at least. I haven’t tested it yet.”

Sirius scoffs in derision.

“I don’t know, Pup. But I’ll ask Dumbledore if you want me to. That kind of spell work is beyond
me. I’m a man of action, not a man of theory. I bet Remus would have some ideas about it
though.”

I shake my head no, waving off the offer.

“I bet Hermione would be thrilled to deconstruct it with him. I don’t care anymore.”
With one more glance around, Sirius vanishes the quill and paperwork.

“Speaking of Hermione. How is she handling all this?”

A genuine smile spreads across my face.

“Better than I am. She’s irritated that she couldn’t find any books on it before we left Hogwarts.”

Sirius chuckles at that.

“I promised her all the books she could buy, the next time we were in Diagon Alley together. I
doubt they have anything on dying and being sent through a portal back to your teenage bodies, but
I suppose it never hurts to look.”

The near-constant anxious feeling seeps into my bones again, and I flex my hands, trying to work it
free. “I— “

Every time I think about it, I want to throw up.

“We were on the run for almost nine months before we were captured. Six in a tent in the woods,
going from spot to spot every few days. Just the three of us. Ron, Hermione and I. Alone, in a tent,
with no one else for company. I’m—“ I rub at my temples, staving off the migraine I get every
time she wanders into my brain.

Which is near constantly.

“I’m struggling being away from her. Them. Watching her die—” My voice trembles when I try to
talk about it. “It affected me in ways I wasn’t anticipating.”

“So, you and Hermione are together in the future?”

Why does everyone keep asking us that?

I shake my head, looking at Sirius through partially closed eyes.

“No. It was never like that with us. Even now...I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Something must
have happened, when they brought us back. Or maybe it’s as simple as having watched her die.
I’ve always loved her. Always!” I say with more force than necessary.

“She’s my best friend. She’s been the most important person in my life since I was eleven. None of
that has changed. But since Bellatrix slid that knife across her throat?”

There’s a burning in my lungs, and it catches when I try to breathe. My heart is in my throat, and I
desperately want to cry, and I don't know why.

"It hurts, Sirius.”

I’m almost pleading.

“My stomach aches. My hands keep reaching for a person who isn't there. I—"

I clutch at my chest because there's no Hermione to hold onto. I look like a crazy person. Like I did
when Riddle took over my mind. I was withering on the floor, fighting for my soul, and now it
feels like it's half a world away. I'm seconds from hyperventilating.

"I'm not going to last a month," I all but sob. "I'm not!"
He doesn’t try to touch me, which I'm thankful for. I don't think I could take it right now.

Not from anyone but her.

“Now she’s on the other side of London,” Sirius supplies unhelpfully. I glare at him from behind
my lenses.

“Thanks for the reminder," I snarl.

Yanking my glasses off and throwing them onto the table, I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes.

I pull the cell phone from my pocket. “Know what a cell phone is?”

Sirius nods his head.

“Hermione’s parents bought them for us, so we could talk over the summer without having to wait
for an owl post.”

“Did they now?” Sirius says, a knowing tone to his voice.

Ignoring my Godfather, I dial her number by heart, then push the speaker button.

“Harry!” She answers, happiness pouring through the line. My heart speeds up, though I
purposefully ignore the sensation. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until tonight.”

Sirius lifts his brow at that, and I give a one-shoulder shrug, ignoring the blush that heats my
cheeks. But that doesn’t matter because my throat loosens and the constriction of my lungs allows
me to breathe again.

I know they can hear my shuddering breath, but neither of them mentions it.

“Well, something came up and I wanted to talk to you. Don’t get mad, Mi, but I did a thing,” I say,
my shoulders lifting to my ears in readiness for her explosion.

“Hello, Hermione,” Sirius says.

“Sirius!” Hermione exclaims in surprise. Then, in a much harsher tone, “Harry James Potter! What
did you do?”

There it is.

“You didn’t leave your Aunt and Uncle's house, did you, Harry? You promised me you’d stay.”

Sirius and I both laugh at the scolding tone her voice takes.

I can perfectly picture her, hands on her hips, toe pointing, head bobbing back and forth between
Sirius and me. I know I’m smiling like a loon, but I can’t help it.

Sirius replies before I can.

“It’s Harry James Potter-Black, now,” he tells her. “I came to visit him here. We had some
paperwork to sign for his guardianship, and other stuff to talk about. Though, it seems kinda
pointless to adopt a seventeen-year-old. Tell me, is my Godson still this scrawny in the future?”

The line goes silent for a moment until...

“Harry,” she breathes, voice barely discernible. “You didn’t.”

I try to look away from the astonished accusation in her tone, even though she can’t see me.

“He knew something was up, Hermione. What was I supposed to do?”

“Lie!” she practically shouts.

“Everyone knows something is up. You’re not exactly discreet on the best of days, let alone with
the amount of magic thrumming through you this timeline. You’re practically wearing a blinking
sign over your head that says ‘ challenge me! I dare you!’"

I do dare them.

"But you said it yourself! Suspecting something has changed isn’t the same as confirming it! We
agreed,” she huffs in a breath. “Dammit Harry, we agreed that we wouldn’t tell anyone else!”

“Who else did you tell?” Sirius asks, face wide with amusement.

“Ron,” Hermione and I reply together.

“Ahhh,” Sirius agrees knowingly. “Makes sense. I couldn’t keep something like that a secret from
your dad if my life depended on it. He’d smell the lie on me the minute my feet touched solid
ground.”

“Yes, well,” Hermione huffs, clearly still irritated. “In answer to your question, no. He’s not quite
so scrawny. Quidditch does a body good and all that. He's at least six inches taller and quite a bit
wider in the shoulders if you must know. If I have my way, and I usually do, he'll be quite fit by
the time we're of legal age again.

"I have a whole exercise regime planned out for him as well. Wizards rely on their wands too
much. I don’t think anyone has ever tried to knock Voldemort unconscious with their fists.”

Sirius barks out a harsh laugh, his eyes wide in incredulity. I just grin at him, in awe as always at
Hermione’s brilliance.

She’s not done yet, though.

“But he’s certainly as irritating in the future as he is right now. Matter of fact, I don’t know why I
put up with him! He’s intolerable. Honestly, Harry. What is the point of making plans if you toss
them out the window at the first sign of conflict?”

Sirius throws his head back and laughs, his arms wrapped around his chest.

“Come on, Mi,” I pout into the phone line. “I’m chaos, and you’re order. It’s why we make the
best team. You can’t have one without the other. Besides, you know you love me. Admit it. That’s
why you put up with me. If you didn’t, no one else would.”

It hurts.

“Truer words were never spoken,” she agrees with aplomb.

It takes Sirius several more moments of laughter to get himself back under control.

“While I have you both there, Harry told Dumbledore that he needed to visit the bank this summer.
I have to go as well, to finish up some paperwork. No one told me what a hassle it would be to
come in from the cold. It was easier living in caves.”

I shoot Sirius a dirty look, but he doesn’t look apologetic in the least.

“Do you think you could meet us in Diagon Alley on Thursday? We can go to the bank then hit the
Ministry. Madam Bones still wants a chat with you, Pup, and we can grab the prophecy from the
Department of Mysteries.”

Hermione sighs into the phone.

“I really wish we could Apparate again. I hadn’t realised how dependent I had become on my
magic until it was ripped away from me. And my parents…well, I love them, and I missed them
terribly. However, I’ve discovered I’m not as keen as I used to be about being told what to do.”

I dip my head into my shoulder and try to contain my laugh.

“It’s only been three days, Hermione. Certainly, it’s not that bad.”

She sighs heavily into the phone.

“No. It’s not. My folks are great, as you know. But...I feel like I’m wasting time, just sitting here. I
don’t have the books I need, and I can’t practise my magic, and even with Winky popping in to
check on me all the time, I’m already going stir crazy."

Funny, isn’t that what I was saying before I was stuck in this place? Stir crazy. That’s a good
description.

"Plus, you know—"

Her voice clogs in her throat.

“I know, Mi,” I agree, feeling stir crazy and a hundred other things I can’t put into words. “Me
too.”

“You, okay?” she asks me, voice soft and serious.

I pick the phone up from the table and hold it in my hands.

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “There’s not enough time. I’m always narked off. Dudley is
being an asshole again since I haven’t saved his life yet. I probably won’t, now that Fudge isn’t in
office so there won’t be any Dementors to fight this summer. Every time I think about you my
hands twitch with the need to feel you alive, and I think about you all the damn time.”

I did not mean to say that out loud.

I feel like I’m losing my mind.

“Oh, Harry,” she sighs.

We’re silent for a moment, and I close my eyes and force myself to picture her the way she hugged
me before she left the station with her parents and not the way she looked with blood coating her
chest.

“I’ve been dreaming about it,” she whispers, and my eyes snap open. “I’m not sure how, really,
since I didn’t see it happen. The last thing I remember is...well. It doesn’t matter.”
I’ve been dreaming about it too. Every night, over and over again. It’s worse than when I was
dreaming of the department of mysteries.

So much worse.

Hermione is still talking.

“What matters is that I am alive. You’re alive, and already too much has changed for us to end up
in that situation again. I won’t lose you, Harry. I won’t. Not again. We’ll be ready this time.”

I huff at that.

“Don’t you mean for the sixth or seventh time. I stopped listening after the third time he’d said I
died.”

“Not. Funny,” she says in a low and dangerous voice.

I let the silence fill the void between us.

“Diagon Alley, Thursday?” Sirius asks.

I jerk, having momentarily forgotten he was here. He looks almost as pained as I feel.

Hermione eeks on her end of the line, and I know she forgot about him too.

“I can pick you up, Hermione,” Sirius offers softly. “If your parents can’t make it into London.”

“I can have Winky take me, if my parents can’t,” Hermione says.

A lightbulb goes off in my head.

Fucking bloody hell!

“Hermione, could Winky bring you here?”

Silence, then, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Sirius and I both laugh.

“So, we’re good for Thursday then?” he confirms.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Do you think you could bring Ron along? Have they moved into headquarters
yet?”

Sirius double takes, then grins at me.

“From the future. I forgot. Yup. They’re moving in this week. Molly is having a fit about the state
of the house. I did what you said, though, and have been nice to Kreacher. Apologised and
everything. He seems to be keen to help clean now.”

Hermione butts in.

“By the way, Sirius. Your mother’s portrait. I know it’s up with a permanent sticking charm. Take
out the entire wall. Now that you’re free, you can have construction workers in to fix things up.
Oh!” Hermione adds, and I know exactly what she’s going to say.

“There’s a locket, in a cabinet in the drawing room. You won’t be able to open the locket. We need
you to swipe it and put it somewhere safe. DO NOT KEEP IT ON YOU,” she demands in a tone,
so harsh Sirius flinches back.

“It’s dangerous. Pick it up with a cloth,” she goes on. “Harry and I will destroy it when we get
there later this summer. But if you could grab it before Kreacher does, we’d appreciate it. We were
going to do it ourselves, but now that you know,” Hermione takes a deep breath, trying not to yell
at me, I'm sure. "You can do it for us.”

Sirius stares at me, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue.

“Actually, Mi. I have an idea.”

I look between Sirius and the phone.

“Instead of not letting Kreacher know, tell him all about it. Tell him that Regulus told you about
the locket and about his promise from Kreacher to destroy it. Tell Kreacher that you want to help
him fulfil his final obligation to Regulus. He’ll be overjoyed. He’ll never betray you after that.”

Sirius rises to his feet, questions rapid firing over his face.

“I want answers. All of them. Now.”

That’ll take longer than we have over the phone.

“Can you have Winky bring you to the park by the Dursleys, Mi? Or just to my street?”

Her sigh slithers over my skin.

“Winky?”

I hear the pop in the background of the elf’s apparition.

“Yes, Mistress? Is Mistress hungry? Or perhaps needs Winky’s help with a chore?”

I can feel the pain on Hermione’s face at the eagerness of Winky to serve her.

“Winky, can you bring me to Harry’s Aunt and Uncle’s house?”

“Number four Privet Drive, Little Whinging,” I say into the phone.

Hermione repeats it to Winky.

In a pop of magic, I lose the connection between our phones. I drop the device like it's on fire.

I don’t hear them arrive on the street.

I take off on a jog back towards the Dursley’s house to find Hermione running pell-mell down the
sidewalk towards the park.

“Hermione!” I yell, then wave my hands above my head before I pick up my pace in her direction.

As is her habit lately, she leaps into the air when she gets close enough, and I catch her mid-jump.

She laughs when I spin her around.

“Why didn’t we realise we could have the elves transport us in the last timeline?” I question.
The band permanently wrapped around my lungs relaxes for the first time in days.

“Because the last time Dobby tried to help you, you lost all the bones in your arm.”

Her hands scratch through my hair and down my neck, and I shiver in response.

“Oh yeah,” I chuckle. “Good point.”

“Are you wearing the sword of Gryffindor?” she asks me, trailing her hands up and down my back,
feeling the sword next to my spine.

“I don’t leave the bedroom without it. The cloak is in the pouch on the back. My wand is in its
holster.”

“How did you disillusion them?”

Her hands are still feeling up and down my spine, and I close my eyes to fight the physical reaction
it causes.

“The trace is on your wand. I don’t need my wand to disillusion it.”

“Oh,” breathes out in a sigh.

I didn’t even realise that her legs were around my waist until she slides her feet back to the ground.

I cup her face in my hands, pushing away the baby hairs that broke free of her ponytail. “I needed
this,” I mumble, the relief palpable at having her in my arms.

“I told you I’m alive,” she whispers.

“It’s easier to believe when I can see you. When I can touch you.”

I rub my cheek against her face, and her eyes drift closed. Hesitantly, waiting for her to shove me
away or slap at me, my lips slide over her mouth.

Once, twice.

The third time, she catches my bottom lip, sucking it lightly before letting go.

“You’re going to have to get over this eventually,” she whispers against my lips, but I notice she
doesn’t pull back. Instead, she threads her thumbs through the loops of my jeans.

“I know,” I quietly agree. “When they’re dead, maybe. Then I’ll be able to breathe easy again.”

She places her cheek on my shoulder, and I run my fingers over her back.

"Are we going to talk about this?"

"About what?"

Her head tilts up to meet my eye without untangling our bodies. I kiss her again, slower this time
until she sighs into my mouth and goes boneless in my arms.

"Stop doing that," she says weakly. "I can't think straight when you're doing that."

"Good."
She covers my mouth with her hand when I lean in. She's still wearing that dopey, pleased smile.

I lick her palm.

She shudders.

Unfortunately, she doesn't move her hand away.

"About this , Harry. About the kissing and the touching and the way my stomach twists when we're
apart and my skin sings when we're together."

Oh.

She’s always had a way of putting things into words I never could.

She trails her pointer finger side to side over my lips before dragging her hand away.

"Do we have to?" I whine. "I'd rather go on with the kissing and touching and inappropriate
thoughts that I won't admit to having."

"I prefer to analyse things from all angles."

"I know," I agree. "I prefer to act first, ask questions later. So you do your thing and I'll do mine
and we can meet somewhere in the middle."

"Does meeting in the middle include palming my bum?"

It really, really does.

"At least I can feel your heart pounding against me."

"Dammit, Harry. You’ve got to stop saying shit like that. I'm perfectly healthy, you're…well you
need therapy. Lots and lots of therapy. But other than that, we're fine. I know it’s hard, but you
need to get over it."

Bloody fat chance of that.

“Okay. We can’t keep wallowing in this.” Hermione steps away from me, shaking out her limbs.
“Where’s Sirius?” she asks.

Our fingers entwine, and I pull her as close as I can and still walk beside her.

“Still sitting at the picnic table where I left him. Hopefully," I add, knowing my Godfather's
penitence for causing trouble. "Are you ready to do this?”

She looks up at me, her ponytail high on her head and her brown eyes glowing.

“I don’t think we really have a choice at this point.”

We're almost to Sirius when she says as nonchalantly as she can.

"And you're not as circumspect as you think you are with those dirty thoughts."

I bark out a laugh to rival my Godfather's.

Sirius rises from his perch, offering Hermione a hug.

“So, Sirius,” she says, sliding onto the bench.

I resume my seat on the table, and she scoots until she's between my knees. I don't hesitate to drop
onto the bench behind her and drape myself over her back. Her hands lift to press me tighter when
I skate my arms around her front.

To get closer, I lean my head against her face.

Still alive, still alive, still alive…

Shhhhh slips quietly through my head.

Sirius’s look is calculating.

I don't like it at all.

Hermione either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

With seven years of precedence, she takes in a fortifying breath and grabs the bull by the horns.

Or the dog, as may be.

“What do you know about Horcruxes?”

I have no idea what time it is. Hermione and Sirius left hours ago. The house around me is silent.

Everyone has gone to bed or at least separated into their own rooms.

Before he took off on that bike, Sirius passed me the communication mirror. I lay on my bed,
twisting it around in my fingers. This little piece of glass, barely bigger than my hand, could have
been the difference between losing Sirius and saving his life.

How can we get more of these? They’re certainly easier to use than owls or patronuses.

Even easier than the cell phone that currently sits on its charger on my desk.

Crack!

I’m on my feet before I understand what’s happened, my wand inches from Hermione’s face. Her
eyes are as wide as Winky’s, whose hand she still grasps in hers.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says sheepishly, biting her bottom lip while I lower my wand.

“What’s sleep?” I joke, still out of sorts from her unexpected appearance in my bedroom.

Vernon bangs on my door, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“What’s all the racket for, you freak?”

Hermione covers her mouth with both of her hands. I step closer to her out of reflex when the
handle starts to rattle, but I learned long ago to lock the door on the inside as well as out.

“Bugger off, Vernon. Why are you always harassing me? Go bother your own son for once.”

Hermione buries her head into my shoulder, smothering her escaping giggles.
Vernon gives the door another hard bang, and then his grumbles disappear as he goes off to nag
someone else.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles, wiping her escaped laughter from her face.

“Don’t worry about him. He’ll get over it.”

Hermione turns to look at Winky over her shoulder. Winky’s eyes are wide, and her hands are
covering her bat-like ears in fright.

“Winky?”

“Yes, Mistress,” the elf replies, uncovering her ears in layers.

“Would you sleep in my room tonight and come get me when my parents knock on my door? It’s
locked, so they won’t come in to find me gone.”

Winky’s gaze flicks between us, a frown marring her bushy brows, but she nods her agreement at
Hermione’s request.

“Yes, Mistress,” she intones before popping out of the room.

Together we turn to face the door, waiting for another explosion. A door slams down the hall, but
Vernon doesn’t reappear.

“Come here,” I instruct her, taking her hand in mine.

The bed is small but no smaller than the camp beds we slept on for months.

I pull the covers back and climb onto the mattress, scooting until my back is against the wall. I hiss
through my teeth from the coolness of the paint touching my bare skin. It didn’t even occur to me
to put on more than just my sleep pants before pulling Hermione into bed with me.

She’s wearing a pair of boy’s boxers and a thin strapped top. Her legs seem like they go on for
miles from this angle as she climbs into my bed on her hands and knees before turning around and
plopping down against me.

Hermione snuggles into my front, her arse in that perfect sweet spot between my hips.

Think about Umbridge. Think about Umbridge.

She sighs so deep I feel it in my gut, then reaches behind herself and pulls my arm over her front. I
weave my other arm under her head, resting it next to my sword.

“Wasn’t it just ten hours ago you told me I need to get over this?” I whisper into her hair.

“Shove off, Potter,” she replies, her voice already weak and sleepy.

I can't help myself.

I tip her head back and to the side, then entwine my lips with hers.

There's no hesitation this time.

No fear she'll push me away.

Hermione takes the lead, as usual, and her teeth pull on my bottom lip before she sucks it between
her lips and slips her tongue into my mouth.

Her hand lifts to fist in my hair, and we stay that way until—I don't know. Until she’s too tired to
hold the awkward position any longer.

Her breathing evens out within minutes. Asleep in my arms.

Harry ! she cries out when they slit her throat, begging me to save her.

H-h-harry…she whimpers, asking why I let her die.

Har-ry ! she accuses because I promised to protect them and instead led them to their deaths.

"Harry!" she whispers with her—

"Harry!" she pleads with me again, and this time my eyes snap open to see her tear-stained face and
her hands rubbing my cheeks.

"You're dreaming, baby," she says and it must be true because her skin is touched by the sun and
not splattered with her own blood. It must be true because her flesh is warm against me and not
cold and covered in slash marks where I can not reach her.

I blink like a goldfish and her form fizzles clear into view, and my eyes skate around the darkness
surrounding us before they settle on her face again.

"Hermione?"

I don't understand because she shouldn't be here but she is and I feel her weight on top of me. I lift
my arms to touch her but my hands are shaking so fiercely they freeze several inches from her
shoulders.

"Tell me five things you can see," she orders me.

Are we—

"Huh?"

My breathing is coming back under control, or it would be if she weren't sitting on my chest.

"I've been reading a book on PTSD."

"What?" I boggle, finally coming back to my senses.

She chuckles self-deprecatingly and runs the back of her hand across her cheek.

"Just do it, dammit! Five things you can see."

It's a tone of voice that expects to be obeyed.

My eyes graze my paltry space.

"You, my desk, my alarm clock, my phone and the window," I rattle off nonplussed.

"Four things you can touch."

"You," I say again. I'm suddenly very aware she has a knee on either side of me and is running her
fingers through my hair. "The bed, the scratchy sheets, your hips," I add, slipping my palms up her
leg.

My hands are still trembling.

"Three things you can hear."

"You," I declare. "Your voice has regained some of your impatience if you must know."

She laughs again, but it sounds more like a sob.

"The fan. The bed is squeaking."

"Two you can smell."

"You. Strawberries and Vanilla or something and these sheets that probably need to be changed."

"One thing you can taste."

"I'm assuming the taste of my own fear doesn't count?" I ask dryly.

My heart has slowed.

My breathing has dropped back to normal. Mi has slid down some so she's no longer sitting on my
ribs, which brings a whole new set of problems to the forefront.

"No," she sighs in exasperation. "It doesn't count."

I surge up and kiss her then.

"I taaas ooor toothaste," I mumble against her mouth, and she breaks our kiss to drop her head onto
my chest and laugh.

"Bloody Hell, Harry. Why do I put up with you?"

"Because nobody else will."

I finally slide my arms around her back and she turns her face so her cheek is against my shoulder.
My hands rub up and down her spine.

"Why did I just write you some backarsed shopping list?"

Her shoulders shake as she sniffles against my neck.

"Did it help?"

Did it?

"Yeah," I agree because the horror of her death isn't playing on repeat in my mind at the moment.

"Every time you find yourself back there , I want you to list off everything that proves you're here.
With me."

"Easy at that?" I whisper into her hair.

"Easy as that."
It’s not as easy as that

But it helps.

I don't go back to sleep.

No, instead, I just listen to her breaths and feel her heart beating. I look around my room and list off
all the differences between here and there starting with the witch puffing warm air against my
chest.
 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes

Yesterday started out so good. It ended in my top five worse days ever. After twenty-
four hours of tears and some hysterics, phone calls, zoom calls, frantic paperwork
searches and copious hugs, I'm now sitting at a table in the bowling alley watching my
husband and sister smile at each other with watery eyes and tell stories about how at
almost forty and fifty years old, they are standing on the same lanes their mother took
them three decades ago.

I love you, mom. Both of you. Take care of each other.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Hermione

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you, honey?” My mom asks, as we pull the car into
a parking spot a block down from the entrance to Diagon Alley.

Thursdays are always her paperwork days at the clinic, so she took the morning off work to take
me into London.

I wait until we’re out of the car and walking down the street before I answer her.

I’d love to spend the day with her.

There’s so much going on right now, and I want nothing more than to confide in my mother.

Sure, I didn’t tell her the most dangerous aspects of my adventures with the boys in the last
timeline, but I told them as much as I could without scaring them. I told her about my crushes and
about Krum. I told her about teaching Grawp English in the Forbidden Forest. I told her about
Sirius and letters brought in the beaks of exotic birds.

But I can’t plan a war based on my knowledge of future events with my mum watching from over
my shoulder.

“No, mum. It’s okay. Harry and Ron and Sirius will be there. Harry wants to go through his
parent’s vault to look for books. I’m sure everyone will be bored out of their mind before lunch
time.”

“Everyone but you,” she says with a knowing smile. “Was it Harry’s idea to search for books in a
treasure vault, or yours?”

I laugh, biting my lip to keep it contained.

“Yes, yes, mum. It does sound like something I’d suggest. But no, this was all Harry’s idea. I
won’t deny that I was rather enthusiastic about the project. If he’d have tried to do it without me,
well, let’s just say he would have had a very uncomfortable ride back to school the minute I could
use magic again. But the plan was all Harry’s. Sirius is coming to supervise. Ron, well, I suspect
he’ll be more hindrance than help to be honest. But if we’d have come without him, he’d have
thrown a fit.”

Mum hums knowingly, as we enter the pub that looks shut down from the outside.

Wizards sit in varying degrees of wakefulness, some nursing tea and coffee, but others seem to be
still nursing their drinks from last night.

I suppose there aren’t designated hours to serve alcohol in the Wizarding World.

I wave to Tom as we make our way through the tables. He has a mug encircled in his hands, steam
rising in winding twists from over the rim.

Does he ever sleep?

But no Harry.

“Where are we meeting the boys?” Mum asks, and I gaze over the gathered patrons one more time.

I don’t know why I bothered.

Whatever happened to us when we were shoved through that door, it’s given me almost a sixth
sense of Harry's presence.

I’m sure I’d be able to tell if—

I turn just before the green flames burst into the floo, and a smile splits my face as Harry precedes
Ron, then Sirius into the pub.

Sirius is dressed in a suit, looking like he just stepped out of the pages of British Vogue. His salt
and pepper hair lays clean and fresh over his shoulders, slick instead of rough and ragged. He has a
black, purple velvet lined cloak draped across his shoulders, looking every inch the head of a
powerful Wizarding family.

He’d give Lucius Malfoy a run for his money.

Ron is in jeans and a t-shirt, his battered old trainers covering his feet.

Harry though, the sight of Harry takes my breath away.

Okay.

This look works for him.

His dark jeans fit, which in and of itself is a miracle. He’s in a white Oxford, open at the throat,
tucked into the band of his trousers. His chest is covered with a waistcoat of the finest material, the
straps of the scabbard pulling his shoulders back and puffing his chest out.

It’s a new scabbard, and there’s a buckle that slinks between his pecs, with a wand holder over each
shoulder.

I would have called his hair shaggy this morning. Now it seems to fall to his shoulders in waves.

Instead of trainers, black dragonhide boots disappear inside his jeans.

Momentarily forgetting about everyone else’s presence and ignoring the fact that I slipped from his
bed only a few hours ago, I go to him.

As soon as his arms snake around my back, the pressure building in my bones eases.

I sense him, like a comforting blanket in the back of my mind. He’s always there, since. But only
when he’s close enough to touch do I feel like a normal person again.
Which is maybe the scariest thing I’ve ever thought.

Ever.

Harry whispers into my hair, his lips close enough to my ear to graze my lobe, but I don’t catch
what he’s saying.

I concentrate on the way his arms pull me close, his palms open on my back. The way his face
buries into my hair, and that first deep breath that calms the trembling in his limbs.

My hands slip in between the hilt of the sword and his spine, holding him so tightly I’m sure it
pinches the skin on his neck.

There is something seriously wrong with us, and for the life of me, I don’t think I want to fix it.

He leans in to give me a kiss, I think, but changes tactics at the last minute and simply rubs his
cheek against mine.

It takes my mother’s voice talking to Sirius for me to come back to my senses.

I open my eyes to see Ron staring at us from over Harry’s shoulder. I swear he’s grown half an
inch in the week since I’ve seen him last.

His head is tilted to the side, and his eyebrows are drawn down. He doesn’t look angry. Confused
perhaps. Then his lips tip up in a smile, and he's all but laughing at us.

"Not his girlfriend my arse," he mumbles low enough, so only Harry and I hear.

His mother has forced a haircut on him. Harry must have escaped from Molly’s clutches for the
time being.

I like Harry’s hair like this.

It’s long enough that I could probably pull the front back and into a tail.

Run my fingers through it.

Bugger.

I’m so screwed.

I meet Harry’s eye from under my lashes, a blush already burning my cheeks red.

Okay? He seems to ask.

Better now. I give him an infinitesimal nod.

I tuck into his side, not too close, and turn to see my mother and Sirius chatting amicably a few feet
off. Their eyes keep flicking in mine and Harry’s direction, however, and near identical grins are
fighting for dominance of their features.

Yeah, yeah.

I barely contain my eye roll.

I wonder what their facial expressions would say if they knew I’d snuck out every night since
Monday to sleep in my best friend’s bed.

Yeah, Hermione. Best not to think about that.

I look at the boy beside me instead.

“Nice get-up,” I say playfully.

“Sirius thought we should look the part,” Harry says, “as this is our first trip to the bank since his
return and my adoption.”

My blush only gets worse.

“You’ll do the job admirably, I’m sure,” I mumble.

Harry steps forward, offering his hand to my mother.

“Mrs Granger. It’s good to see you again. Thank you for letting Hermione spend the day with us.
Without her, I don’t think we could tackle building a home library.”

Mum gives up the fight for her smile, grinning ear to ear at Harry’s little speech. She takes his
hand in hers but then uses it to pull him into a hug.

He’s still short for his age, but so is Mum.

He stutters in surprise but accepts her hug with grace, if with an uncomfortable expression on his
face.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Harry,” my Mum says. “We both know it was a matter of your
personal safety.” Harry looks bemused, glancing between Mum and me. “She’d hurt you, dear, if
you did anything with books without her express involvement.”

Harry laughs at that, agreeing wholeheartedly.

Ron steps forward and accepts my mum's enthusiastic hug with a smile on his face.

Ron is used to overly affectionate mothers. It’s only Harry who cringes at the thought of being
touched. Because excluding a year he was too young to remember, the only time he’s been touched
his entire life has been in pain.

His so-called family, Voldemort and all his followers.

It’s no wonder Harry cringes away when people try to embrace him.

As if Harry can read my thoughts, he twists our hands together and caresses the inside of my palm
with his thumb.

“You have your phone, Hermione?” Mum asks, pulling me back to the here and now.

“Yes, Mum,” I reply. “Though I’m not sure how well it will work in Diagon Alley. The sheer
amount of magic in the air tends to interact poorly with Muggle electronics.”

“Fair enough,” Mum agrees, dragging me in for a hug.

Harry doesn’t let go of my hand, and it pulls my arm backwards as she tugs me forward.
“You’ve been keeping something from me, miss,” Mum whispers into my ear. “I expect to hear all
the details when you get home tonight.”

Double bugger.

I try not to let her see my cringe.

“Are you sure you don’t mind bringing her back, Sirius?” Mum asks, turning her attention back to
Harry’s Godfather.

“Not at all, Jean.”

They interact like they’ve been friends for decades, not like this is their second meeting.

With a final smile in our direction, Mum makes her way to the front door, and back into London
proper.

Once the door shuts behind her, we head out the other exit, into the alley that opens to the
Wizarding World.

It’s barely nine in the morning, and the shops are just opening. The ice cream shop won’t be open
for hours yet.

Harry’s thumb strokes across the inside of my palm, and my nerves shoot in about a thousand
different directions at one.

“So, books!” I say, knowing I sound just this side of crazy.

“Do you expect there to be a lot of books in the vault? What kind of books are we looking for? Do
you want to go to Flourish and Blotts as well, or perhaps the bookstore down in Knockturn? I know
for a fact that the Knockturn store has tomes on the dark arts.”

“Take a breath, Mione, sheesh,” Ron complains when I do, in fact, take a big gulp of air.

“Relax, Mi,” Harry laughs at my side, and I take another breath, letting his words calm me down.
“I don’t know what to expect in the vaults. I’ve only been in it once, and even then, only a few feet
inside. After First Year, Molly usually pulled money out for me.”

“We’ll pop into the Black Vaults too,” Sirius adds in. “There’s generations of old furniture and
treasures and junk I could care less about in ours. I’m sure the same can be said for the Potter
vaults. Your grandparents used to have one hell of a library. I bet it all got packed and stuffed into
the catacombs along with the rest of the household. They died pretty soon after your folks got
hitched.”

Harry’s hand tightens in mine, and I try to offer him my support.

Even in casual conversation, this is the most he’s ever heard about his family’s possessions, even
in the other timeline. I always assumed we’d have time, after the war, for us to learn about his
family history outside of what we needed to know to survive.

With Sirius alive and free, it looks like we’ll be getting that education a lot sooner than either of us
expected.

“I lived with them the last two years of school,” Sirius tells us fondly as we make our way up the
trail that leads to the towering white bank.
“I know,” Harry says distractedly. “Your bitch of a mom burned your name off the family
tapestry.”

Sirius laughs, sounding more like a dog than a human. Several passing witches speed their pace,
scurrying away from us.

“Somehow I keep forgetting you two know more about me than I do at this point,” he chuckles.

Ron looks slightly sick.

“No,” Harry says, and I turn my head up when I feel his eyes on me. “Just different things. I don’t
know nearly enough. About anything.”

“We’ll learn,” I tell him, pulling our linked hands in front of my body and wrapping my other hand
around his upper arm.

“Yeah,” he sighs, sounding tired.

Ron drapes his arm over my other shoulder.

The doors open automatically as we reach the front of the bank. We step inside, and Harry slows
his stride so that Sirius takes the lead.

One of the security goblins approaches us when Sirius makes no effort to move farther than the
front of the room.

“Lord Black and Harry Potter-Black, to discuss their estate,” he says before the Goblin even has a
chance to ask a question.

Harry steps forward, letting go of my hand at last. He moves up to Sirius’s side, talking in low
tones.

“Pull it back some, Padfoot. I need the Goblins on my side. That won’t happen if you walk in as
pompous as the Malfoy’s.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Sirius says, and I can physically see some of the air deflate from his sails.

He may have spent the majority of his adult life in Azkaban, but Sirius is still a pure-blood wizard,
and he was raised to think a certain way, even if he rejected the majority of that education.

The Sacred Twenty-Eight title comes with a lot of prejudices outside of blood pride.

“Follow me,” the Goblin says when he returns.

“Thank you, my good Sir,” Sirius replies jovially, and the Goblin double-takes at the swift change
in Sirius’s attitude.

We stop at a counter with a ledger and a quill.

“Please sign in here. All visitors to the bank must be recorded.”

We sign in the designated area, and it flares red when I scrawl my name across it.

The Goblin appears at my side.

“Miss, it is required that you sign your true and legal name,” he says.
Harry stands up taller, looking between the paper, still glowing red around my name, and the
Goblin.

“I did,” I insist, and Ron peeks at it too.

“Hermione Granger. That’s her name,” Harry assures the Goblin.

With a look heavy with distrust, the Goblin scoops the ledger into his hands and then begins to lead
us down a hallway lined with paintings and marbled statues. We enter the farthest office, the desk a
grand example of Goblin engineering.

There are four chairs in the room, two in front and two in back. They're spaced out so that none
blocks the other. Ron takes the farthest in the corner, and before I can interrupt, Sirius slides into
the seat beside him.

“This is your show, Pup,” Sirius says, giving Harry and me a sarcastic smile.

Right.

We take the two chairs up front, Harry adjusting the sword as he sits.

It’s only a minute before the door pushes in again, and a different Goblin enters. He’s dressed
impeccably, his clothes screaming money. There are half-moon glasses perched on the edge of his
nose, and rings line his fingers.

“Lord Black. Harry Potter-Black,” he announces, and Harry and Sirius rise from their seats.

The Goblin’s voice is deep and gravelly. Harry reaches out his hand, and the Goblin stills for just a
moment before returning the gesture and giving Harry and Sirius both a firm shake.

“I am Ragnok, Chieftain of the Horde. I will be your account manager from here on out. I have
been expecting you for many days now.”

Harry looks to Sirius for direction from the corner of his eye, and all Sirius can do is shrug.

“I am honoured at your hospitality, Chieftain,” Harry supplies, regaining his seat.

Ron goggles at Harry’s formal speech, but now isn’t the time to tell him Harry has done nothing
but prepare for this meeting since the moment we were sent back.

Ragnok turns to me and gives me the slightest of bows. “Lady Potter-Black.” I start at the title, my
heart suddenly beating out of my chest. “Welcome. It has been many years since we’ve had a
Bond-Mate in our midsts.”

Uhhhh.

Harry’s whole-body tenses and I feel it thrumming between us.

Lady Potter-Black? My name on the spelled ledger...

He makes his way to the other side of the desk, unaware or uncaring about the bomb he’s exploded
in his wake. Sirius hisses in a breath.

“Bloody Hell,” Ron whispers.

“Excuse me?” I demand, sitting at the edge of my seat.

“You say you’ve been expecting me, Sir?” Harry interjects, glancing between us with a look of
near panic on his face. I can taste his emotions on my tongue. Fear, excitement, and utter and
complete confusion. I want to reach for him.

I don’t, because—

Bond-Mate?

What in the actual hell?

“Yes,” Ragnok says, settling himself in his chair and opening several folders on his desk while
placing four small boxes in a row at the edge. “We received the paperwork from the Bond Office
late Friday night last. Your Bond sealed that day, did it not?”

My fingers are tingling, my feet are completely numb.

I’m panting in my seat, but no amount of concentration will get my pulse back under control.

My heart is thumping so hard it hurts, the pace of the blood flowing through my veins leaving me
lightheaded and dizzy.

“Excuse me, Sir,” Harry says. I’m impressed with the firmness of his voice. “I apologise for our
ignorance on the subject, but I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Ragnok looks genuinely puzzled.

“The Soul-Bond with Lady Hermione Jean Potter-Black. Née Granger.”

Ragnok bows in my direction again.

A noise escapes from either Sirius or Ron, but I can’t tell which. Harry lifts his hand, and silence
falls behind us. How he does that in his fourteen-year-old body is still a mystery.

Harry looks at me, and all the colour floods from his face leaving him pale and gaunt, before all at
once, it comes rushing back. He averts his gaze, looking at the floor by my feet.

His chest is heaving in tiny gasps.

“Harry James Potter,” I demand, having seen that guilty expression on his face often enough to
know what it means. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

Sirius’s abrasive laugh barks from behind us.

“Oh, they’re definitely married.” Sirius says. I whip my head to glare at him and find him leaning
conspiratorially into Ron’s space. For his part, Ron seems stuck between amusement and horror.
“The only people who take that tone with a man are his mother and his wife. I heard Lily use it on
James often enough.”

Harry lifts his chin, looking at the Goblin, watching the scene play out with a barely-there smile on
his face.

“Again, pardon my ignorance on the matter, Chieftain, but is there a difference between a Soul-
Mate and a Soul-Bond?”

W-w-WHAT?
Why is Harry asking about Soul-Mates?

Think, Hermione, Think the little voice demands in the back of my head.

The Goblin nods his head stoically.

“Certainly, there is. Soul-Mates, while rare, are common enough in all species. I, myself have a
Soul-Mate, married this nigh-on fifty years. They are almost always romantic in nature. A Soul-
Mate is a physical connection, as much as it is emotional. They say that even if you were to spurn a
Mate, or could not be with them for some reason, you would always feel the physical pull. Your
comfort level would always be highest with them. They are your equal, in every way. You are,
what they cannot be.”

I’m the chaos, while you are the order.

Weeks spent alone in a tent. Days without speaking. The nights spent snuggled close, if only for
physical comfort.

For peace in our souls.

“There is no such obligation with a Soul-Bond. Quite the opposite, actually. Soul-Bonds go deeper
than simple romantic lust. Your souls are linked for all eternity. It is said, by some, that Bonded
souls used to be one soul that was split into two. It then spends the rest of its existence seeking its
other half out, no matter how many times they are put into the world.”

Like a magnet, my gaze slips to Harry’s. I feel him in the back of my head, comforting, like a
blanket.

Only when he’s close enough to touch do I feel like a normal person.

Wasn’t that what I thought less than an hour ago?

Ragnok keeps talking.

I take Harry’s hand in mine, and immediately my heart starts to slow.

“You most often find Bonded in siblings and friends. To have a Bonded-Mate is rare indeed. It is
prized among all others in the Goblin culture. The deeper the Bond, the greater the connection. The
stories claim that some Bonded-Mates could share their thoughts, their dreams. They even share
their magic."

Well, that explains that! I Bloody well have been hearing Harry's thoughts!

Oh, Merlin! That means he's been hearing mine too!!

"That is why I will be seeing to your estate matters personally from here on out," Ragnok
continues. "In the eyes of the Goblins, you are as one, from this moment forward. There will be no
task that your lady wife could not do in your stead. Her word is yours, among the Goblin Horde."

Bond-Mate…I've heard that term before.

“As I said, it has been many years since a Bonded-Mate has appeared. So long, that Wizards have
all but forgotten them. They are told as bedtime stories now, to lure little humans to sleep with
pleasant dreams of their happily ever after.”

Ron opens his mouth to speak at that, probably to comment on some tale his mother used to tell,
but at a quick look from Harry, shuts his mouth without saying a word.

You can basically hear his jaw snap.

“You said the Bond was sealed, Sir? How exactly does that happen?”

Ragnok reaches for the smallest box on his table, popping the lid and handing it to Harry, who
stands to accept the velvet-lined parcel.

“For Soul-Mates, it is usually activated with a kiss.”

Harry shoots me a look before resuming his seat and peering into the box in his hands. It looks like
a ring box, but there’s no jewellery inside.

“For Soul-Bonds, it is different for each person. Some are born with the Bond strong in place.
Others, it takes an act of joining to complete the Binding.”

I speak up for the first time, an idea on the tip of my tongue.

“Excuse me, Sir. But as an example, if a Soul-Bond existed between two Wizards...would say, the
act of becoming Animagi together and maybe plotting a secret invisible map to a magical location
activate the Bond?”

Sirius gasps from behind me.

“Exactly!” The Goblin agrees.

“Or maybe,” Harry says quietly, looking at me “saving a little girl from a Troll.”

His stare is so heavy I can feel it like a physical thing.

Harry lifts a ball from the velvet box, twisting it around in his fingers, before handing it to me.

It’s not a ball at all but a circular carving of wood. Polished to a high shine, our names are
engraved upon it, stacked, one on top of the other.

Harry James Potter

Hermione Jean Granger

Bonded-1991

Mated-1995

“There is a room, deep inside the Department of Mysteries, that handles the bindings on Bonds and
Mates. When a connection is sealed, a sphere is created from a grain of wood. Each creation is
different, as no two pieces of wood are the same. The Soul-Mate connection, when accepted, is an
immediate binding. Gringotts is informed, so that accounts and estates can be updated for the
change in status that often occurs. The sphere is cut for Bonded as well, though often, no one
comes to claim their mark.”

Now that the shock has worn off, my mind is running at a thousand miles a minute.

It makes...I sigh. So much sense. This timeline, and the last.

I could think one thing, and Harry would say it out loud. No matter what happened in our lives, we
always found our way to each other.

Bond-Mate.

I push my way into the conversation.

“How would one know that they’ve met their Mate, or their Bonded? We had no idea.”

Ragnok gives me a penetrating glance.

“You felt no different, Lady Potter-Black? Nothing at all?”

I swallow thickly, and my lack of response is answer enough.

I’ve felt different since the moment we came back, but I’d been— we’d been attributing it to the
return. It never occurred to me that we kissed within moments of our restoration. We assumed it
had to do with being shoved through that door, since that was the only change.

But we’d never kissed before either.

Ragnok nods his head knowingly.

“Usually, magic flows during a binding. Muggles think nothing of it. A spark of static. But
Wizards can feel the pull. With Bonded-Mates? I imagine the Magic was substantial. Did you not
notice the flare when the Bond was sealed? It would have been visible to all who witnessed it, I am
sure.”

“Oh!” Ron yips, a look of dawning comprehension on his face. “That’s what that was!”

He’s practically vibrating in his seat.

“Yeah,” he says, looking at Ragnok and gaining enthusiasm for the subject. “We all saw it. There
was this huge blast of power, and a burst of bright light. I had to look away. It was like staring into
the sun from two feet back. Then it stopped,” he says lamely. “But Harry was on his way to the
third task and then fought You Know Who like thirty minutes after that, so I figured it was just
accidental magic or something.”

“I felt it,” Harry all but whispers. “It felt—like nothing I’d ever felt before.”

When he meets my eyes again, I shiver.

“It felt like fire, blazing from my core. I felt invincible. Even with my eyes closed, I saw the light. I
felt—” he breaths. “ It felt—”

Like surrendering.

“But we’d just— “

He stopped mid-sentence, eyes quickly jerking to the Goblin and back to mine.

“Remember when we ran into each other in that office?” he says, his voice tight and low.

I nod my bottom lip between my teeth, suddenly unable to locate my voice. It’s all I’ve thought
about in the last two weeks, except for him.

“ He told me then. He told me that some Granger girl was my Soul-Mate. Then when I peeked at
the folder, I saw it printed there. Your name.”

Realisation strikes me like lightning. He said it himself, didn't he?! That's where I'd heard it before.
He damn well told me!

I smack his arm with the back of my hand.

“You miserable Prat! That’s how you knew all those nicknames!”

I really should have more irritation in my voice if I want to get my point across.

Harry looks away, shame making his face heat.

“Some bloke who doesn’t deserve you,” I breathe, repeating back what he’d told me that night. My
Soul-Mate was just some bloke who didn't deserve me.

Harry looks at me again.

“I saw nothing about a Bond though,” he says, almost pleading with me to believe him.

Every other person in the room falls away, despite the fact that I know we’re giving away too much
information to the goblin.

"Yes you did, you moron! You told me! Right there, the first thing it said next to your name!"

Understanding blooms on his face.

"I didn't—" he stutters. "I didn't know!"

Of course, he didn't. I don’t think he could lie to me if he wanted to at this point.

He never could, anyway.

Soul-Bound.

Soul-Mates.

Bonded in this life, and the next.

Everything makes so much sense.

My hands are trembling, but now it’s for another reason.

I don’t believe in prophecies, even though I’ve seen the proof with my own eyes. Do I still not
believe in fate, when the boy I’ve loved since I was twelve is announced as my Bonded-Soul-
Mate?

“Where could I find a book on Bonded-Mates?” I ask Ragnok, ignoring the surprised laughter that
breaks out from all three of my boys.

“It has been so long since there has been a Bonded-Mate in the Wizarding World. I will check the
Horde’s collection. It is not done to give a Wizard one of our books, but in this case, I believe an
exception can be made.”

Harry gives the Goblin a seated bow of respect.

As my horror ebbed, so did Harry’s. He almost feels serene through the—through the Bond
between us.

“We thank you for your kindness, Chieftain. I assure you; my wife will return any loaned items in
good order.”

I jerk at him, calling me his wife, panic welling up inside me anew.

But it’s a whole different kind of panic. A panic that makes my knees weak and my palms sweat,
and butterflies explode in my stomach.

“Not one person had better breathe a word of this to my parents,” I demand, and even the Goblin
laughs this time.

Ragnok lifts the second box from his desk, handing it again to Harry.

“At one point in time, there were Binding Rings for every Wizarding family in Britain residing
inside the walls of this bank. This set belonged to the Potters, since before the Potters were their
name. They are yours now, Lord Potter-Black.”

“Harry, please,” Harry says, rising and taking the second box from the Goblins' pointy fingers. “I
would prefer you address me with my given name, Sir. It sounds like we’ll be working closely
together for many years to come. I would choose not to stand on formality any more than
necessary, if that is alright with you.”

The Chieftain nods, giving Harry an appraising look.

“Then I am Ragnok to you.” He quiets, then, “You are a very strange Wizard.”

We all laugh at that.

“You’re not the first to say so,” I tell the Goblin Chief.

Harry turns and kneels in front of my chair, placing the box on my lap. His hands are trembling
when he flips the lid on the velvet.

They’re a matching set but as different as night and day.

Equals, but opposites.

Like Bond-Mates.

His ring is black as night and wide as the head of a nail. It twists and curves like a tree branch, the
engravings seeming to move the longer I stare at it. It almost looks alive. Hammered into the band
is a single white stone, brighter than a star and older than a diamond.

It screams power and safety and might.

The female band is as delicate as a flower.

In a metal, so light it glows, the ring bends and arcs and peaks in the middle, for all the world,
looking as glorious as the tiara that rests on Princess Diana’s head. The stone is black, so dark it
seems to suck in the light from the band.

It takes no imagination at all to picture it on the hands of generations of Potter brides.

“Slip the band onto her finger,” Ragnok encourages, “and claim your Mate for all the world to
envy.”

Sheer and blinding terror flares within me, and I gasp in a painful breath before I realize the panic
is coming from him.

Now that I know what it is, it’s easy to distinguish his feelings from my own.

I’m okay. I try to tell him. Relax, Harry.

The horror crawling up my belly only eases a little.

He pulls the smaller band from the box and slips it onto my left ring finger.

My breath releases in a hiss as unimaginable energy sings through my limbs. Is this what Harry
feels like all the time?

Peace settles inside my chest.

Harry brings my fingers to his lips and kisses my hand before rising and settling back in his chair
again.

He leaves the second band in the box, in my lap.

Silence falls in the chamber as all those gathered collect their scattered thoughts.

Harry, in a way only he can seem to do, has already mastered his end of the Bond.

All it took was someone telling him what it was before he figured out how to manipulate it.
Because the little bundle in the back of my head that I’ve come to associate with Harry has fallen
silent for the first time in weeks.

“Congratulations are in order!” Sirius says, rising from his seat.

“We’ll have to celebrate at another time though. While this has been enlightening, we do have
other orders of business to see to this day,”

His own folder filled with papers appears in his hands, and he drops it carelessly onto the Goblin’s
desk. “Signed and delivered, Sir.”

The Goblin pulls the parchment free, flicking over them quickly.

“Everything appears in order, Lord Black. I do need to hear you speak the words.”

Sirius wears an expression I’ve seen on the Twin’s face a time or two. Terror trips along my spine.
My stomach drops to between my knees in anticipation of whatever prank he’s about to pull.

“I, Sirius Orion Black the Third, do hereby renounce my right of inheritance and pass my title of
head of House Black to my Son by law and magic, Harry James Potter-Black. And his wife,
apparently, Lady Hermione Potter-Black. May their union be a joyous one.”

Harry’s dread seeps back into my head.

Ragnok nods, putting his signature in the appropriate places.

Sirius lifts his hand to stop the complaints already tipped on the edge of Harry’s tongue.
“No, Pup. You need all the power and clout you can get to fight the upcoming war. It won’t take
effect until you are of legal age but being the heir apparent of two Sacred Twenty-Eight houses will
be influential enough to throw around for the time being. Even if our blood is no longer pure,” he
adds in a sneer.

Ragnok lifts his head at that, pushing at the other two boxes remaining on the desk.

I grab them both while Harry sulks silently in his chair.

Either he has no response or isn’t willing to fight in front of a stranger.

One box holds the Potter rings, rubies glinting, and a lion’s head on either side. The other set is the
Black crest, emeralds shining as bright as Harry’s eyes.

“He is of legal age now, Sir. He is Bonded and Mated, married in the eyes of the law. As of two
minutes ago, he is the Head of Houses Potter and Black, Lord and the second richest Wizard in
Europe.”

This time, the panic is on Sirius' face.

“The trace?” he asks.

“Gone, as of Friday last.” Ragnok says.

“Bloody hell,” he swears, leaping from his seat. “You’ve been in fucking Surrey alone for a week,
without the wards.”

Recognition bleeds onto all our faces.

“Chieftain, I need a floo. As quickly as possible.”

“You may use my personal floo, Mr Black. It will ensure your privacy. Follow me, if you will.”

I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s noticed the honourific was dropped from Sirius’s name.

Ragnok rises from his chair, holding a bound booklet in his hand.

“While we are gone, perhaps your Lady Wife would like to do some shopping,” he says, dropping
the packet at the edge of the desk.

Then they are gone, just like that, the speed of Ragnok’s feet at odds with the length of his legs.

Well, that explains all the magic he’s been doing. It wasn’t because he was doing it wandlessly.

Or maybe it was.

But most likely it was because he was married.

We are married.

The awkwardness between us is palpable. I can feel Ron’s eyes on me as I reach forward to grab
the booklet off the Goblin’s desk.

Harry shoves from his chair and begins pacing the room.

Ron’s sniggers start out small, easy enough to hide. Within moments though, he’s laughing full out,
tears streaming from his eyes.

“Trust Harry to take a trip to the future, and come home with a wife,” he exclaims, slipping down
in his chair from the strength of his chuckles. “Only Harry Potter. And he’s stuck with you! You
already nag him worse than my Mum nags my Dad.”

Of all the—!

“In the other timeline, you had a crush on me .” I point out, anger making my voice harsh.

That slows his amusement some but doesn’t stem the flow of giggles.

“Also,” I add with a vindictive smile. “I just want to remind you, Ronald, that we didn’t go to the
future. We were sent to the past. Because we died. You probably died too! They’ve had no need to
keep you alive without Harry.”

The pity party I’m expecting never comes.

“Worth it,” he says, still smiling. “You should have seen your faces. Guess you gotta tell Mum she
was your girlfriend after all,” he jokes, finding himself hilarious. “Honestly, I wasn’t even
surprised. I mean, I was, but man…” he peters out.

Technically by then, I was already his wife.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this, Ron,” Harry hisses, running his hands through his hair.

“Yeah, I am. I know I’m always bitching that Harry gets all the good stuff, but you can have it
Mate. Mum is going to have kittens.”

“I take it you’re not,” I turn to Harry, trying not to sound offended. “Relieved, at least a little. I
mean...” Of course, he’s unhappy about this. It’s never been that way between us. They, whoever
they are, got it wrong. Horribly, disastrously wrong.

I’m on the verge of tears, and I have no idea how to stop it.

Harry stops his pacing and comes to me, dropping onto his heels at my side. He cups my cheek in
his hand, and I lean into his warmth.

“Oh luv," he croons. "It’s not that. Surely you understand that. It...makes sense, you know? In a
deep instinctual way, it makes perfect sense. Like the first time I touched my wand, Mi. Hell, if
we’d have just kissed all those years ago, instead of blowing that ‘love them like a sibling,’ smoke
up everybody’s arse, this would have already happened. But you must realise that the second I put
on that ring, I put a huge target on your back.”

Gah!

Married to Harry. It does make perfect sense. Leaves me with about a thousand more questions too.

But if I don’t push the issue now, Harry will take off and leave me behind, if only for some
backasswards desire to keep me safe. I pull the other band from the box before snapping the lid
shut again.

"What if I don't care about that?" I ask him, trying not to let my voice tremble. Then I almost shout.
"How many bloody times do we have to have this conversation you wool headed imbecile?!
Because it got old about five years ago!"
 Ron is sniggering again.

"Luv," he says so softly I almost can't hear him. "Your safety is all I care about."

I'm going to lock him in that closet, just like Ron suggested.

“It’s worth it,” I snap, taking a page out of Ron’s book. Without another word, I slide the band onto
his finger.

Harry lifts up on his knees, and I tip my head forward, letting him place a kiss on my lips.

It's not the first time he's kissed me. Obviously . It's not even the second. I mean, it's been...a lot, by
this point. But somehow, it feels like the most important.

Ron starts making gagging noises in the background.

“Ugh, Circe. Are you guys this nauseating in the future? ‘Cause if so, I’m going to have to find
new friends.”

Harry huffs a laugh, rising to his feet.

“Explain to me why we said we needed him again?" I ask. "It would have been easier just to cut
him off entirely.”

“Oi!” Ron yelps in outrage.

“Because without him I spend too much time in the library.”

“There is no such thing as too much time in the library,” I say primly.

“That’s why I need him,” Harry says with a smile.

Just like that, I'm as serene as a butterfly in a garden. Married or not, I belong to Harry. I always
have.

Then Harry’s face falls.

Aaaaaand his panic is back.

Fabulous.

Chapter End Notes

Master of Dying.

I started this prompt because one, I was kinda hard-core obsessed with it lol. But two,
because the idea of it fascinated me. A set time to die. What an idea. Dangerous and
enticing. What trouble could a person cause knowing you were set to die at a certain
time? What sort of torment would it cause you to know that the person you love was
going to die and there was nothing you could do about it?

We've all talked about it in the comments. Some of us have spent obscene amounts of
time discussing it in messages and in posts where the comments section grows into
100 comments long.

Both of my parents have passed, both from cancer, and both took wildly different
approaches lol. My mom lasted a year, let them experiment on her, did every tiny
thing they suggested, and then donated her body to science after she died. My father
was diagnosed on the 6th, told his doc to fuck off (with a smile) asked for good drugs
and the number of a prostitute that gave discounts, and died 20 days later from failure
to thrive.

Yesterday I spent all morning alternating between talking with my MIL on messenger
while she and I tag-teamed calling her fucking air conditioning people. Six weeks that
damn AC had been out, with my MIL as the full-time caregiver for her FIL who was
suffering from Alzheimer's. When we started the day, the AC people said they didn't
know when it would be fixed. Then, it was that the parts would be delivered to the AC
people Friday, and my MIL next week. An hour after that, and another phone call
each, where we didn't even talk to anyone lol. Just left messages for the person in
charge, Mary messaged me to tell me it would be installed at 8 am this morning.

#bitchesbeenbitching

At 12:45, I told her I loved her, to call me if anything else happened, otherwise call me
as soon as the AC people got there this morning.
Three hours or so after that my step-brother-in-law called. (She and her husband had
been married for decades by this point.) I thought, foolishly, it was about the AC.

45 minutes after I told the only mother I had left that I loved her, she, her husband, and
her father-in-law lost their lives in an automobile accident.

Somehow, in a weird twist of fate, in between that last conversation with my second
mom and the conversation informing me she was gone, I left a comment on chapter 9
of this fic that read the only surety in life is death.

The irony is not lost on me.

Don't waste your condolences on me. I'm okay. Shaken, I was the last person she
spoke to, and in a weird twist of fate became the first person to know, after. Worried
for my sister-in-law, who has only watched this type of pain from the outside and has
never had to suffer it up close. I feel bad for my husband who is now punishing
himself with the all too familiar shoulda/coulda/woulda's about ignored phone calls
and missed opportunities.

We are not religious. One of my Uncle's was a Budist, and I thought that his funeral
rites were beautiful and fascinating. I have no jdea what comes next. It's something
I've thought about fairly often. Reincarnation? Heaven/Hell? Nothing? A different
after life for every religion? Somehow I think about my mom out there, somewhere, in
the ether, but not my dad. Which is weird, right?

I think it's because after my dad died, the kids told me PopPops Ghost was still at the
house. They hung out with him for like a year! When someone, still unnamed, colored
on the ceiling under the bunk bed, they told us PopPops ghost did it Honestly, I
can't even be mad about it lol. Genius! What do I know? Maybe he did.

I know I'm rambling. My husband and sister are bowling. In between rambling into
A03, I'm trying to help two VERY cute 18-year-old boys pick up the 49-year-old
MILF belonging to another team. (Total MILF. I don't blame them. I'd do her.) These
boys future lovers will have this night and the wisdom I am dropping to thank for the
multitude of orgasms these young bucks bestow on them.

I might post a few chapters tonight. Reading and writing make me happy. Talking
about reading and writing makes me happy. Harry Potter makes me happy. You guys
make me happy.

I love you mom.

Just in case you were wondering, their AC did in fact get replaced this morning. My
step brothers mother (follow that lol) drove three hours to get to my MIL house to sit
there while the work got done. #ittakesavillage
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

Thank you all, for your well wishes and condolences. They mean the world to me.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry

I resume my pacing around the office.

“You’re brooding,” Mi says, flipping through the booklet in her hands. She looks like she's reading
in the common room, not that we've just been informed we're married.

How is she suddenly so nonchalant?

“No, I’m not,” I deadpan, hitting one end of the office before flipping back around.
Bond-Mates.

I should be freaking out. Hermione was freaking out.

Kind of. She was—surprised.

She collected herself within moments.

Why aren’t I freaking out?

Can I be freaking out about not freaking out?

“Now you’re pouting like a five-year-old,” she says, without ever taking her eyes from the papers
in her hands.

Why are we not freaking out!?

Ron sniggers from his chair again. “I can’t decide if this is the weirdest thing I’ve ever witnessed,
and that’s saying something by this point, or if it makes a bizarre sort of sense?”

“You aren’t upset?” I question, stopping my pacing to look at him.

He shrugs, the tips of his ears turning red. That’s never a good sign.

“It’s weird.”

I mean, yeah.

But no.

“Bloody hell, Mate, you’re married!” His eyes bulge out of his head. He adds in a half whisper, as
if she isn’t sitting two feet away from him. “To Hermione!”

But haven’t we always been? Honestly. Even when I was snogging Ginny, Hermione was basically
my wife.

“Does it make it weirder if I say it isn’t all that surprising to me?”

“Yes,” Ron says.

"I'm fine," Hermione replies. "Stop pouting."

Well.

"But—"

She cuts me off, never taking her eyes from the booklet in her hands.

"Should we count?" she offers half-mockingly. "List me five things you can see."

Ron looks completely bewildered.

"Does it look like I'm having a panic attack?!" I growl.

"Yeah," Ron pipes up. "A bit."

"Harry, dear," Mi says in a tone so close to Mrs Weasley that both Ron's and my heads snap to her.
"Do shut up. Almost all of my questions have been answered in one fell swoop and it explains the
sudden snogging. It really changes absolutely nothing, except, again, the snogging."

She barely stops to take a breath.

"On top of that, it makes all the naughty thoughts I've had when I've seen you naked acceptable. "

"NAKED!" Ron all but yells.

"Oh please, Ronald," she sneers. "We lived in a tent. I've washed blood off your naked body more
times than I can count. You're 6'3 and built like a bloody dragon. Everything is in proportion.
You'll make some witch very happy."

Her head flicks up.

"Just…don't tell my parents."

A laugh bursts out of me unbidden.

Ron is glowing, quite pleased with himself. If his chest puffs out any further, he'll fall off his chair.

This changes everything. I can leave the Dursleys for one. I can do magic. I stop my pacing on the
other side of Ragnok’s desk and flip my fingers at the boxes in Mi’s lap.

Accio boxes.

They flow to me silently, whizzing through the space between us until I pluck them out of the air.

“Show off!” Ron huffs, and I grin in his direction.

I pop the lid on the top box, seeing the Black crest gleam back at me.

“I can’t believe he passed up his inheritance.”

“I can,” Mi says, bending the corner of one of the pages before continuing to flip. “He hates
everything about his family, except you. Makes perfect sense to me. He looks like he’s making this
huge sacrifice while, in reality, he’s pushing off all his duties and responsibilities onto you.”

“That isn’t— “

Hermione looks up, meeting my eye.

“That sneaky bastard! I signed every paper without looking too, because he said it was for the
adoption.”

“The pointless adoption,” Ron points out unhelpfully.

“No. It did what it was required to," Mi says. Her eyes light up, and I feel her pulse of excitement
as she folds another corner.

"The Black name carried a lot of weight, and now it will again. You heard Ragnok and Sirius
talking. Second wealthiest Wizard in Europe and heir to two sacred twenty-eight families. And
Harry carries both of those names now. Plus, a title.”

“So do you,” Ron chirps up, amused again at the distress on her face.
“I really wanted to hyphenate my name when I married,” she says with a pout.

Ron bursts into laughter.

“Married at fifteen and upset that you couldn’t keep your maiden name. Your priorities are all atta
whack, Mione.”

"Eighteen, of you'd like to get specific."

I turn my face away so they can’t see me smile.

“Must I remind you Ronald, that since apparently I am married, I am no longer bound by the
Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery?”

Ron pales and moves over to Sirius’s seat.

“In other words, Mate. Piss my wife off, and she’ll hex off your bollocks.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron sags in his seat. "Wife," he mumbles again.

"It'll take some getting used to," she admits.

"And you're just—just okay with this?" I confirm

She waves it off.

"Like Ron said, this is nowhere near the strangest thing that's happened to us. I imagine it'll change
the sleeping arrangements some."

Ron blushes as lust rushes through my body at a speed that makes me dizzy.

“Training starts now,” I say, and Mi nods.

“Agreed.”

“I need to go shopping,” I add, thinking about going to Ollivander’s shop.

Something has been nagging at me since we got back. I want to ask about the Elder Wand, and I
used Hermione’s wand without any issues...

Now that I think about it—Bonded. Mated.

That probably had a good bit to do with it.

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Mi chimes in.

So much to do, such little time.

“I still want to go into the vaults.” I say.

“Why wouldn’t we?” she questions, barely paying attention to me.

“What are you looking at?” I demand the next time I pass them in my pacing.

“I’m shopping, obviously.”

She's so bloody nonchalant about everything.

Ron perks up, moving yet again, this time taking the seat next to Mi. He scoots the chair closer
until he’s leaning over her shoulder. She huffs at him but then moves the book between them.

His eyes go wide.

“What is that?” he asks for the both of us.

“An inventory of the Potter-Black vaults.”

I freeze, a tightness in my chest.

“An inventory?” I parrot, sounding like a moron.

She lifts her chin, and I swear I hear her condescending Oh, Harry in the back of my head.

“You know from the last timeline how far back your family goes. From the size of this list, they
never threw anything away. And from the research I did, excluding a few specific instances, almost
all your ancestors were only children of only children. It’s all just kind of...accumulated and
trickled down. So, yes, Harry. There’s an inventory. There’s about a thousand years of junk
packed, shrunk, and shoved into the tunnels under our feet.”

I shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs clouding it.

“Why wasn’t I ever told any of this before?”

Rage spikes in my gut, and the need to lash out is palpable on my fingertips.

Hermione, as usual, has the answer already prepared.

“And what would have happened if the Dursleys were aware you had a vault of gold, and gems,
and antique furniture lounging around and awaiting your return? Heck, Harry. There’s probably a
Manor sitting gathering dust somewhere too.”

My shoulders slump in acknowledgement of her statement.

“Taken it all and left me in a ditch.”

“By the time you were old enough to deal with it yourself, everyone who could have told you
about it was dead, and we were on the run.”

“Yeah, okay,” I agree, my anger always close at hand, thrumming lightly under my skin.

“Anything good in there?” Ron asks, and Hermione drops the entire booklet into his lap.

“Take what you want, Mate," I tell him. "From the looks of it, Mi has already started a list.”

“Just the libraries,” she mumbles under her breath with a blush colouring her cheeks.

She is so lovely.

“I couldn’t do that,” Ron protests, but something in the book has already caught his attention, and
he sounds rather distracted.

I slip the male rings on my hand, and they magically resize to fit my fingers.

One on each hand.

“I truly could not care less, Ron," I tell him.

He folds down the corner of a page.

Chess Set I think I hear Hermione laugh in the back of my head.

Ron was right. This is so weird.

I float the boxes back to Hermione, and they land lightly on her lap.

Should I?

Is she really talking to me in my head? Or do I just know her so well I know what she’s thinking? It
was like that before, sometimes, in the other timeline.

I lift my brow and run my fingers through my hair.

They’re yours. Do what you want with them.

She pops both lids, and slips them onto her hands, a ring on each middle finger.

My own rings burn when their mates touch her skin. Hers must too because she gasps and looks at
me.

We’re married, she breathes into the back of my head.

My lips pull tight over my teeth, but her giggles breakthrough first. Within a minute, we’re
laughing so hard that Ron joins in, too, though from the bewildered look on his face, he has no idea
what he’s laughing about.

Married.

The door opens up, and Sirius strides back in, followed by Ragnok.

“Change of plans, Pup. We’ll meet at Grimmauld at seven, then everyone will go to your Aunt’s
and Uncle’s house.”

“Everyone?” Mi asks, face a clean mask and ready for business.

“Everyone. You don’t leave my sight, Lady Potter-Black.”

She sighs in frustration.

“Yes, Dad,” she says in a mocking tone, and Sirius starts at the unexpected title, then winks at her.

“Where were we?” he asks, sliding back into a chair.

“I think you were pawning off all your responsibilities as Head of House to me," I say with an
irritated tone.

“Caught that, did you?” he smirks.

“Mione did,” Ron chips in, still going through the vault's inventory.

“Excuse me, Chieftain,” Hermione perks up. “Would you have a ledger of the accounts, and a list
of all businesses associated with the Blacks and Potters that I could examine?”
Ledgers? Businesses?

Ragnok smiles at her, his flat lips stretching across his face giving him an expression that would
give little children nightmares.

“Certainly, Lady Potter-Black. If I may say so, it is exceedingly pleasant to see a woman take an
interest in the family’s financial welfare. Too often in Wizarding families the woman is expected to
tend the home and have no say-so in the building of its wealth.”

He hands her another folder, this one thick, with several sleeves filled with parchment.

Hermione beams at him, for all the world, a student who has been rewarded for answering the
question correctly. I try to keep my face blank and not look as out of place as I feel.

“My husband has other concerns to contend with.”

Hermione sends a pulse through the Bond, and I remember one of the main reasons we came here
today. The Bond, thing, threw us off course, but it’s time to get back on track.

Even in chaos, she is the order.

“I’m sure, Ragnok, when you came to work today, educating witless young Wizards was not on
your schedule. However, I’m afraid I need your instruction at least once more.”

I must have said it right because Ragnok bows slightly in my direction again.

“Certainly, Harry. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to have a business account opened please, and several employees paid from that account.
But I don’t want it associated with the other Potter-Black businesses.”

“What would be the purpose of this account? Is there a need one of the other businesses in the
Potter Trust could assist you with? Those are all thriving, as your Lady Wife will confirm when
she goes over the ledgers.”

I double-take at that. Potter Trust.

Of course. How else would the gold keep replacing itself inside the vault?

Just one more thing no one thought I needed to know about.

I take a deep breath and will my anger to subside.

“Yes. This will be my personal account. Managed by my wife and I alone.”

I pull the folded lined paper from my pocket and slide it over Ragnok’s table.

Ragnok opens the slip, looking between it and me before pulling more papers out of his drawers.

“The name on the account, Harry?”

He looks at me expectantly.

“Galactic Alliance Enterprises.”

Mi shakes her head in exasperation.

“Oh Harry, really?”

“What?” I grin at her.

“I’m totally Luke Skywalker! Raised by his Aunt and Uncle, watched over in secret by his father’s
best friend. Discovers he has powers and saves the world? I think it’s appropriate.”

Sirius is barking chuckles in the background, though I seriously doubt he’s seen Star Wars. Maybe
the first, since Moony is a half-blood. But by the time the last movie came out, he was already in
Azkaban. I don’t see how he had access to a telly in the cave.

Ron’s, “Eh, Mate? Have you gone mental?” just makes me smile wider. “As you wish, Harry,”
Ragnok says.

Ragnok is silent for a few minutes before speaking again.

“Mr Weasley.”

Ron starts at being addressed for the first time by the Goblin since we entered the Bank.

“You do not have an account yet at Gringotts, I see. Would you like to open one? We will then
have your funds deposited directly inside.”

“Eh?” Ron replies again, eloquent as ever.

I turn to face him in my chair.

“I need you at my beck and call, until this is over, or until we’re dead. We could finish Voldemort
in months, or it could take years. There’s no telling. But until then, I need an advisor. Someone to
tell me when I’ve gone mental.”

“You’ve gone mental, Mate,” Ron supplies without hesitation.

I lean closer to him.

“Ron,” I growl under my breath. “Last time we almost spent a year in a tent starving to death
because I couldn’t walk into a bank and get any money. At least like this we can dose you with
Polyjuice and send you to the grocers. Take the bloody money. You’ll earn it, I promise.”

He looks ready to complain some more, before Hermione answers for him.

“Yes, please. Mr Weasley will need an account. The three of us will each be signatories in,” she
closes her eyes in phantom pain, “Galactic Alliance Enterprises. We’ll need checks, and or Muggle
credit cards, or whatever methods you have available to access our funds in the Muggle world."

She looks at me before adding, "The Potter-Black house elves will also be paid from this account."

Ragnok nods again, pulling out more forms and pushing a quill and ink forward for us to sign.

"You pay your house elves madam?" he questions, glancing between Hermione and me.

"Of course," she says primly. "We believe in equal rights for all creatures."

His eyes widen though he attempts to hide his surprise. Score one for my wife. It's my turn, I
suppose.
Here we go.

“I’ve spoken to Molly Weasley, and she’s agreed to work as my housekeeper and manage our
affairs at home, as my wife and I are heavily involved in the war effort. Her paycheck can be
deposited into their account directly. Taken, please, from the Galactic Alliance funds. If Gringotts
were to ever fall, I don’t want it known that I have personal employees.”

Rage flares in Ragnok’s eyes at the implied insult, and I prep myself for what’s to come.

“I understand your care for your employees, Lord Potter-Black.”

We’re back to that, then.

That’s okay.

I was expecting his anger.

“But Gringotts always has been and always will be in the care of the Goblins!”

I push my glasses up my nose, keeping my face even.

“What is the Goblin's opinion on the budding war then? Voldemort is back. You know that as well
as us. He won’t stop until he’s named himself king and subjugated anyone he sees as below him.”

“Goblins do not involve themselves in the affairs of Wizards,” he insists harshly.

This is it.

What I came here for.

I feel my own nerves and adrenaline like an echo in Hermione.

“That has worked in the past. But should Voldemort win, playing neutral won’t save you from
destruction. He doesn’t respect the Goblins any more than he respects my wife. In his eyes, you
both are the same. Unworthy of your magic and suitable for only serving him and his. The Goblins
are powerful and well respected. Half of our History of Magic lessons are nothing but the might of
the Goblins and the price Wizards have paid in underestimating them.”

I take a fortifying breath.

“Voldemort is a different beast altogether. If he wins, there will be a fountain in the middle of the
Atrium in the Ministry of Magic. It will portray him being supported on the backs of Magical
Creatures, Goblins among them. The first thing he’ll do is enslave all the Muggle born and half-
bloods that don’t fall in line. Then, the next stop is the Goblins. By the time he’s done, you’ll be
treated little better than house elves.”

Ragnok’s eyes are tight in anger, his pointy fingers trembling in rage.

I flash to another Goblin I saw, with a similar look on his face.

In Malfoy Manor’s Dungeons.

How did you get into my vault?

She was insane.

Torturing, and killing Hermione because she was afraid someone had been in her vault.

But why?

What was she hiding? What could strike that sort of fear into the heart of the scariest woman alive?

“I’m not asking you to join the fight. You know what’s best for your Horde. You were chosen as
their Chieftain for a reason. I’m only asking you to keep an open mind, and remember always, that
Voldemort and his minions cannot be trusted. He’ll lie to your face, while robbing you blind.”

Ragnok struggles to get himself back under control.

It’s a fake.

Relief broke across her face. All tension drained from it.

There’s only one thing that could strike that sort of fear into Bellatrix.

“Thank you for your concern, Lord Potter-Black, but I assure you—”

“Even now, Voldemort is using you to build his power. To harbour his very soul. I would be
willing to wager the entirety of the Potter-Black fortunes that at this very moment, there is a dark
artefact sitting in the Lestrange vault. By being neutral, you have already aided in his assertion
over you.”

Hermione’s heart is pounding.

Ron is holding his breath.

I can almost feel Sirius’s eyes boring into the back of my head.

“If you have a way of detecting Dark Artefacts, I suggest you take a gander in there. When you
find it, whatever it may be, DO NOT touch it with your bare hands. It is supremely evil. It corrupts
those who encounter it, even for only a few moments. Voldemort is using you and this great
institution to keep himself alive. When he’s amassed enough power, he’ll take it from you, and kill
any Human or Creature that ever-stepped foot in that vault, simply to keep his secret.”

Without a word, Ragnok pushes up from his desk and leaves his office. When the door shuts, the
click of the lock is audible.

“Harry!” Hermione hisses, jumping up from her chair. “You think?”

“A Horcrux. There’s one in her vault, I’m sure of it.”

“Malfoy Manor...”

“Bellatrix lost her mind.”

“She was screaming...”

“Think about it, Hermione. She didn’t lose her shit, until she saw the sword. That’s what she kept
screaming as she sliced you open. ‘ How did you get into my vault?!’ What would scare Bellatrix
like that? Who? Nothing short of Riddle. I think he’d love the idea of a Gringotts Vault. An
orphan, raised with nothing, suddenly discovering wealth beyond his very imagination hidden for
Wizards eyes only. The Lestrange's were, and will be, his biggest supporters. Snape has his own
Vault, yet he sent the sword to Bellatrix’s. At Riddle's insistence most likely.”
Hermione’s eyes widen as she thinks through my logic.

My scar burns, but I can’t tell if it’s real or if I’m remembering the pain from before. I rub my
fingers against it, feeling the outline of the mark Riddle branded me with.

“But if she knew— “

I cut Mi off.

“Malfoy didn’t know about the diary. He simply thought it was a personal artefact of his leader,
and therefore dispensable when his leader was defeated. I doubt he told Bellatrix what it was she
was hiding for him either. Remember, Riddle doesn’t trust anyone but himself. Doesn’t love
anyone but himself. He can’t. When he was born, he was missing those parts. Every time he splits
his soul, he loses another fragment holding him together. Remember when he tried to possess me?”

Sirius hisses in through his teeth.

Hermione sways on her feet.

“I—I was unconscious at the time. But I heard the stories afterward. It hurt him, worse than it hurt
you.”

I turn to look at my Godfather, speaking to Hermione.

“His brain couldn’t process grief.”

I look at Hermione, my wife, and remember her prone form that day. I remember the fear that shot
through me when I thought she had died. The need to follow them when Sirius went through the
veil and I thought I’d be alone forever.

“He couldn’t process love. I thought I lost you both that night, and Riddle had to flee rather than
feel emotions he had no previous reference to.”

Hermione throws herself at me, and I catch her in my arms.

I suck in her warmth, feel it flood the Bond in the back of my mind.

She sniffles into my shirt, and I run my hands over her back.

“It’s fine, Mi. It's not going to happen this time. No one is going to take you from me again.”

“Okay,” Ron says, and I turn my head to my best friend, having momentarily forgotten his
presence. “I get it now. You two.” He wiggles his finger. “I totally get it.”

Hermione huffs out a laugh against my chest, turning her face and looking at Ron.

Ron tilts to Sirius.

“They do this all the time. This joint talking thing where no one ever finishes a whole sentence.
They just throw random words at each other, and the other person knows what’s being talked
about while the rest of us watch it like a ping pong match.”

Sirius snorts.

Ron looks at us again. “Just, don’t snog in front of me, k?”

“No promises, Mate.”

Sirius throws back his head and laughs.

I cup the face of the witch in my arms, loving the smoothness of her skin.

“You, okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “She can’t hurt me anymore.”

“No one will hurt you again,” I promise her.

I hold her for a moment, tempted to do just what Ron requested we not, and kiss her here and now.

I mean, we’re married, right? Does that mean I’m allowed to kiss her now?

Not that anything was stopping me before. The indent of her head in my pillow plays truth to that.

She drifts from my grip, and I walk the length of the wall, while Mi sits down and starts discussing
the possible Horcruxes with Sirius and Ron.

“We’ve been fighting reactively this entire war," I declare. "It’s time to be proactive."

“Harry,” Ron says, “We’re locked in Gringotts, Mate. I’m not sure how much more proactive you
want to be.”

“I need to talk to Ollivander.”

I feel their eyes on me.

Hermione is boring into my head.

I wonder if I can share memories with her as I could with Riddle?

“Okay, Harry. We’ll go see Ollivander.”

Sirius is trying to placate me. It’s not helping.

“Soon. Today, if possible. If his timeline stays the same, he’ll take off in a few months’ time. I
didn’t battle Riddle with the Phoenix Core Wand, so he doesn’t know about the twin cores yet.
That’s an advantage. I want to push it.”

“Relax, Pup. We've time.”

I scowl at him, feeling the weight of the Bond Ring heavy on my finger.

Since I slipped it on, I feel like I have even less time than I did before. Hermione is walking about
with a target on her finger.

“The Ministry too. Mrs Longbottom as Minister can only do good things for us. I want that
prophecy and everything that has anything to do with Hermione being linked to me destroyed.”

Hermione looks at her watch.

“We have plenty of time left today, Harry. It’s barely eleven.”

“You think you can remove the prophecy without Voldemort finding out?” Sirius asks.
“We broke into the Ministry twice in the last timeline,” I say.

“And almost died both times,” Hermione adds pessimistically.

“We did what !?” Ron demands incredulously.

“That’s why this time I’m going to walk in the front door.”

The door unlocks, Ragnok leading a trail of Goblins before him.

They place three boxes on the desk before turning and leaving.

Ragnok stares at me, his penetrating glare measuring and judging.

Without a word, he tips the first box onto the floor. Jewellery spills over the marble, some of it
twinkling in the light.

Evil, I'm sure. Cursed.

Not a Horcrux.

The second box tips, and a book in a language I can't read crashes to the ground. Hermione gasps,
recognizing something that the rest of us don’t.

My pulse speeds up, my heart thundering in my throat.

Adrenaline floods my body, my limbs tingling with the need to move.

Not a Horcrux.

With the flick of his wrist, the third box falls, and a golden cup clatters onto the ground. Tiny, with
two handles and a minuscule badger engraved on the front. My scar sings, and even though my
knees buckle, it's a relief in a way to know that I can still feel the Horcruxes.

It’ll make it that much easier to locate the rest.

After all, I might not carry his soul any longer, but I lived with it for sixteen years. It makes sense
that that kind of evil leaves a residue behind.

The thought makes me sick.

I pull the sword, and its ringing fills the air, magic pouring from it or me, I can’t tell which.

The Horcrux wails, sensing the vehicle of its destruction close at hand.

With a scream of anger, I lift Gryffindor’s blade above my head.

Ragnok bellows, lifting his hands to cover his face and falling backwards. Hermione shouts my
name, Ron’s roar following a fraction of a second after hers.

I slam the sword into the cup, feeling the blade pierce the metal and slice through it like butter,
lodging into the floor beneath. The gold folds under the power of the sword, the cup resembling
nothing more than a pleated ingot.

Then the Horcrux wails its death. The vision of Riddle, distorted and thin, pours from the cup. This
echo is a pale imitation of the half-man that birthed it.
Eventually, though, the apparition vanishes, destroyed by steel and Basilisk Venom.

“What. Was. That?” Sirius hisses, standing behind me.

Ron is still stretched over Hermione’s body, chest heaving while she attempts to wiggle out from
underneath him.

I pull the sword from the ground, then bend and lift the destroyed Horcrux, dropping the cup
uselessly onto Ragnok’s desk.

“You’ve chosen your side, Chieftain. You will go down in Goblin lore as the wisest and bravest
Chief to ever lead your people.” I say, breathless from the battle with the cup. “The light side
thanks you for your contribution to the war.”

Once more, I reach down and offer my hand to Ragnok, who is prone on the floor, watching me
with whitened eyes.

The blade is still bare in my left hand.

After a moment's hesitation, his eyes flicking between my sword and the hunk of metal on his
desk, he allows me to help him to his feet. His fingers dig into my hand so hard it hurts. I keep my
face blank.

A trick I owe Voldemort my thanks for.

Ragnok rights his clothing, regaining his composure.

“We’ll be doing a thorough sweep of the vaults.”

“Could you tell the difference between this one,” I point to the floor with my sword, where the
jewels still lay scattered, then to the cup on his desk. “And this one?”

He looks at it, his face twisted and distorted.

“I—Yes. Yes, I could.”

“If you come across another like this one, I will happily destroy it for you. There are very few
methods available for their destruction.” I pause for a moment, but in for a penny… ”In your
searches, you may keep an eye out for any trinket that belonged to a Hogwarts Founder.”

Ragnok looks sick.

“We-we will. Thank you, Lord Potter-Black, for your assistance in this matter.”

He regains some of his composure as he continues to speak.

“We do not take part in Wizarding affairs. What you store beneath our floors is not our concern.
We are the keepers of treasure, not the dictators of it. But we cannot allow this type of magic to
fester in our walls. As you said, it is dangerous to all who are near it.”

Bagman filters into the back of my mind.

I scabbard the sword, and Ragnok takes a shaking breath.

“Also, Sir. I understood from a contact of mine that Ludo Bagman had been placing bets against
my competitiveness in the Triwizard Tournament. He owes the Goblins no small amount of gold,
 from what I hear. Please pay his debt from the Potter-Black accounts. I don’t care what the cost is.
If he does ever pay what is due, you may return it to me if you deem it fair. I won’t have him using
my name for ill.”

Ragnok stares at me before his lips tip up in a smile. It really is most displeasing. “You are a very
strange wizard indeed, Lord Potter-Black.”

I’m drained. My hands are shaking, and I desperately need to sit down.

Instead, I bow.

We’re nowhere done for the day.

“At your service, Chieftain Ragnok.”

He bows in return.

“Let us finish here, Harry.”

He settles at his desk, and in turn, the four of us resume our seats. He must signal, somehow,
because two other Goblins appear. One hands Ragnok a stack of items, including bags of gold, and
the other cleans the mess. The cup is placed in a bag and then handed to me.

I take it without protest, sitting it on my lap.

“To business,” Ragnok says with aplomb. Hermione perks up while I sag in my seat.

I’d rather battle Voldemort.

Chapter End Notes

I had a fantastically weird conversation with Annie (whose A03 name I can't
remember to save my soul, sorry, if you're reading this) about nudity in Europe and sex
in boarding schools lol. Which, naturally, devolved into a conversation about nudity in
that damn tent lol.

The general consensus was there was probably a shit ton of nudity at that school, and a
shit ton of sex lol.

The tent? If it was the tent from 4th year, which I think it was? Then probably not so
much nudity, since they all had their own space. It had multiple rooms I believe. If it
was the tent from the movie? Then the three of them probably saw quite a bit of dick
in that tent, if simply because of close proximity. And I always think back to that
scene in the movies, and the books I suppose, where in book 7 after they jump off the
dragon and are changing out of their wet death eater clothes, they strip down in front
of each other no problem.

I say all that, to say, well, I added more nudity, because Annie told me I should and it
made sense lol. (shrug)
Chapter 13
 Harry

I’m coming out of my skin.

There’s no other way to describe it. The deeper the trolly cart gets into the tunnels, the tighter my
flesh pulls against my bones.

I’m almost thrumming with the ache to move.

To do.

My fingertips are tingling with the need to pull wand and blade and slice until I feel relief.

Hermione was in her element, talking with the Goblins.

I wouldn’t be at all surprised if, after I zoned out, she adjusted the entire Potter-Black portfolio or
whatever to support creature rights and Muggle-born businesses.

Hell, she’s probably signed up for an internship.

Even now, with the cart zigging and zagging at such speeds, Ron looks moments from being sick,
she’s still chatting with Ragnok about interest rates and returns on investments.

I don’t even know what that means.

The longer we sat there, with Ragnok and Hermione droning on about items I don’t give a flying
fuck about, the harder it was not to scream in frustration.

Hermione signed that blasted little book, and it called her a liar.

Every scrap of magical parchment that has her name scratched anywhere on it, has adjusted to read
Hermione Jean Potter-Black.

Wife of the Boy Who Lived.

Bonded-Mate to The Chosen One.

Even if I don't understand the entirety of what that means, the Goblin’s reaction, combined with my
Godfathers and best friend, tells me it's a huge bloody deal.

I need to get to the ministry.

Now.

She can’t come with me. Which is going to cause the fight to end all fights. You need a badge, and
what will hers read?
You got it.

Hermione Potter-Black.

The trolley pulls to a stop, Ragnok leading his charges from the rails.

She's going to maim me.

Especially when I lock her in that damn vault for safe keeping.

Because the first thing the ministry does is print you a visitor's badge with your name on it.

“The Potter and Black vaults are on the same level but guarded with different enchantments. You’ll
be able to enter both, now, with the same key and pulse of magic.”

He steps aside and hands us the new set of keys.

“You can also activate them with the signet rings on your fingers. Just press them there,” he
indicates a circular pattern on the wall.

Hermione steps up and, with a tentative smile, presses the head of the Potter ring into the stone.

Her smile is beautiful when she glances over her shoulder at me. I can’t help but grin in return,
though it feels false on my face.

Ragnok steps inside the vault and I fall behind until I’m the last to enter. He explains the different
rooms; I’ve never been further than the entrance chamber. Another stone door slides open at
Hermione’s silent command, and I have to blink twice to adjust my vision to all the gold suddenly
blinding me.

That’s a lot.

Ron is goggling.

Hermione is taking notes with the inventory booklet open in her hands, listening with rapt attention
as Ragnok points out various items he thinks would interest the Lady of a High House.

Sirius finds the closest couch and flings himself across it, pulling out a pocket watch and
smothering a yawn. He throws an arm over the back, crosses his legs at the ankles and looks a
heartbeat away from taking a nap.

I manage to see the time over his shoulder.

My fists clench, and I turn my back, close my lips, and scream because it’s already two o’clock,
and every second I’m down here is another opportunity for one of Riddle's lackeys to discover that
—

Hermione.

Is.

My.

WIFE.

Merlin. I don’t know what to do with that.

Wife.

Bonded.

Mates.

Fucking Mortimer!!

Now THAT is information that would have been beneficial.

Because ‘your soulmate is some chit named Granger,’ is a hell of a big difference between ‘First
Set of Bonded-Mates in a Millennia.’ By the way, you’ll be able to share thoughts and dreams and
magic, and when the Bond seals, a notification will go out to anyone interested!

Ron is right.

All the horrible shit happens to me.

Hell, Hermione and I even share the same initials now.

Yet nothing at all is different. It makes...perfect sense.

The only thing that’s changed between us in my mind is now I have an excuse to think about her as
much as I do. To want her, to need her in the way a fish needs the water.

It’s elemental.

It’s magic.

I’ve always loved magic.

The Mating Bond sealed with a kiss. The kiss. Friday last. As of tomorrow, we’ve been married for
two weeks.

Nothing has changed, yet everything is different.

With one moment of weakness comes a whole bag of consequences.

Hermione, as my friend, was one thing. Hermione, as my wife, is another creature entirely. With
the act of a kiss, she’s become the most wanted woman in Britain, and we didn’t even know it.

For weeks now, that information has been sitting somewhere buried in the Ministry, ready to bare
its secrets to anyone who comes looking.

I kick out in frustration and knock over a pile of antiques.

They crash to the ground in a thunderous roar, the sound of gold against rock painful on the
eardrums.

The sudden silence of my family is deafening.

Right.

“Ragnok,” I say, closing the space between us and giving him a bow. I never thought I’d be
thankful for books on Goblin customs and the last few nights of Hermione’s lessons.

“Thank you for your hospitality this afternoon. At this time, I need to speak with my companions
alone. Could you give us a few moments to discuss some business?”

He returns the bow with that sickly smile on his face.

“Certainly, Harry. Just ring the bell when you are ready to be collected. I will ensure that several
carts are sent down, as I’m sure your Lady Wife will be needing them.”

He turns to Hermione, giving her the deepest bow I’ve seen yet.

“Lady Potter-Black. It has genuinely been a pleasure. I look forward to many years of prosperous
cooperation with you. The trunks we spoke of are in one of the back storage rooms. You are
already keyed to the wards. They should come to your call. I will have the books we talked about
pulled and ready for you by the time you conclude your visit today.”

Hermione positively beams at the little man.

“Thank you, Chieftain. If you are agreeable, I’ll owl you next week, after I’ve gone over the
documents you’ve given me. And the books, of course! I’d love to discuss your knowledge in
greater depth if you have the time for it.”

His smile makes me cringe.

“For you, madam, I can make the time.”

He bows to her again, while Ron and Sirius both hide their snickers.

“Chieftain,” I say before he can leave. “If you would wait for me just outside, I have other business
to attend to while my wife concludes her,” is she really shopping in the Potter vaults? “Her
organising of our possessions. I’ll be just a moment, and we can ride back together.”

“As you’d like, Harry,” he says, then turns and heads back into the caverns. As soon as he’s out of
ear shot, the others turn on me.

“Where in the world do you think you’re going, Pup?” Sirius asks.

“Harry James Potter!” Hermione hisses.

I turn to Ron instead. He's got his hands in his pockets and is watching me with amusement in his
face.

“I'd bring you with me, Mate, but you can’t do magic outside of school yet. I need you to stay here
with them. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.”

“Doing something stupid, I take it?” he asks conversationally.

“No.”

“Yes!” Hermione and Sirius say as one.

Ron shrugs, then asks, "Is this one of those situations you'd like me to point out that you’re
behaving irrational and slightly unstable?"

I think about it for a minute, then admit, "Probably."

"Good," he says, turning to look through the piles. "I've done my job for the day then."
“Ronald!” Hermione growls and stomps her foot, gaining my attention. “Harry!”

Ragnok is still waiting for me.

“I’m going to the ministry,” I tell them, my voice as calm as ice. “Alone."

Protests explode from all sides, but I raise my voice and power over them.

"It shouldn’t take me long. But it can’t wait another minute. I’ll apparate right to the visitors'
entrance, and then straight back to the bank. I have the communication mirror on me, and the cell
phone, for all the good that’ll do. Oh—”

I slip the Bonding ring from my finger, and hand it to Hermione, who suddenly looks on the verge
of tears. “Put this back in the case, would you? I can’t wear it there.”

She takes it from my hand with trembling fingers.

“Slow down, Pup.” Sirius demands. “What is going on?”

“Don’t you get it?!” I demand, running my fingers through my hair.

I’m coming out of my skin!

“Hermione Potter-Black,” I hiss, throwing my arm out in Hermione’s direction.

Her eyes are wide, her face tight, her bottom lip trembling.

“Every official document concerning you now has that name etched across it! Already, Riddle has
spies in the ministry. How long until you think he discovers that we’re married? He might have
known before us, if we hadn’t come to the bank! I’m going to the ministry, and I’m destroying
every record that exists of our Bond and Marriage. If I have to burn the fucking Ministry to the
ground to do it.”

I kick out again, knocking another pile of trinkets over.

“Harry,” Mi breathes, her hands already outstretched to comfort me.

“No!” I say, taking a step away.

“At least let us come with you,” Sirius says. “It’s too dangerous for you to go on your own.”

I shake my head, stepping backwards as I go.

“This is the safest way. No one will expect me to walk in through the front door without an
entourage. I’ll go, do what I need to do, and slip back out again."

"I can't let you go alone, Pup," Sirius says again, his voice a little firmer.

"I'd like to see you try to stop me," I growl. "I'm of age, and thanks to your scheming, Padfoot, I'm
also your head of house. As your head of house, I order you to stay here and keep my wife safe!"

Ron meets my eye from over their shoulder, and I can see him trying to keep his opinions to
himself. I'm sure I'll hear an earful later, but I'm thankful at least I'm not fighting all of them.

“We need to make a plan,” Hermione insists, anger pinking her cheeks.
“I need to keep you safe!” I bellow, and she takes a step back out of reflex.

I take a deep breath and move into her personal space. Take her face into my hands and push away
the hair that insists on blocking my view of the freckled skin that covers her nose.

I rest my forehead against her face and breathe in her scent.

Strawberries and vanilla and the smell of old books.

It soothes me in a way that nothing has before.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I—“ Has she always been this beautiful, or is the Bond colouring
my judgement? Because even in jeans and a T-shirt, she glows brighter than any jewel in this
vault.

“I’m going out of my mind, Mi. Potter-Black. I feel like I just signed your death warrant. It’s like
seeing your face looking back at me from the wanted posters, only now you share my name. He
can’t find out, Hermione. He can’t.”

“Let me come with you,” she begs, and I hear the pain in her voice. Feel her desperation in that
little bundle of raw nerves in the back of my consciousness. She’s desperate to stay with me, and
I’m determined to get her as far away from me as possible.

At least on paper.

“No. They make you sign in, remember? Hermione Potter-Black. I won’t take the risk. I’ll go
alone. Charm, bribe, or curse anyone I have to, and burn every scrap of paper that links me to you.
Then I’ll be right back. You have my word.”

She’s practically snarling.

“If you fucking die, again, Harry Potter, I’ll kill you myself.”

I laugh at that.

“I’m not going to die,” I assure her.

Her scoff could move mountains.

“You always die when you run off and do something rash!”

Okay, well, now that’s not fair.

“Kiss me,” she says, and I lean forward to do so, but she stops me with a hand on my mouth. “Not
now. The next time you die. I don’t care when he sends you back. First thing you do is kiss me.
We’ll work everything else out later.”

I snort through my nose.

“Deal,” I promise.

She gives me a nod.

“I need the orb,” I tell her, and without asking questions, she pulls the box with the Bonding orb
from her bag and hands it to me. I shove it into a pocket. The need to run is coursing through me.
She must be able to sense it.

“Go,” she instructs and gives me a gentle shove. “I have work to do here. If you aren’t back in two
hours, we’re coming after you.”

I give her a tiny smile, then turn my back on them and run from the vault.

"You need therapy!" she yells after me.

I’m sure there’s an assigned apparition point for the visitor’s entrance to the Ministry, but I have no
idea where that’s at.

I’m not licensed at this point, so I don’t think it matters anyway.

I apparate right outside the giant phone booth that Author took me to for my Ministry hearing, and
with a quick glance to ensure that no one saw me, push my way inside.

I’m not arriving during their busy time this visit, so there are only a handful of people walking
around the atrium instead of hundreds bustling from the floo’s and rushing to their business. I
garner second and sometimes third glances when people recognize who I am, but luckily, no one
stops me before I get to the visitor’s desk.

It’s the same Wizard as last time, his face marked with shaving scars and wearing the hideous blue
security robes. He pays me little attention and is instead shoving a roast sandwich into his mouth.

“Welcome to the Ministry,” he says through a half-chewed bite. “State your business.”

Only years of watching Dudley and Ron eat keeps my face clean of the disgusted sneer I feel
tugging at my lips.

Three years.

Three additional years’ worth of manners drilled into me by Hermione and patience built through
systematic neglect and abuse, and this is where it’s brought me.

Forcing my way into the Ministry.

For the third time.

Life has a twisted sense of humour.

“Harry Potter-Black,” I announce firmly, my heart thundering in my chest, “To meet with the
Minister of Magic.”

The wizard chokes on his food, his eyes bugging when he finally looks at me. I take a hasty step
back when bits fly from his lips, and he hacks and thumps on his chest in an attempt to get the food
down the right pipe.

“Uh.”

I plaster a bland smile on my face, waiting patiently for him to get a grip on himself.

“D-dooo you have an appointment?” he garbles out, fumbling with a stack of parchment on his
little desk.
“No,” I say politely, rocking back and forth on my feet. “But I’m sure she’ll be willing to see me.
I’m friends with her Grandson, you see.”

He fumbles with the papers some more, a dribble of food stuck to his chin.

“I—“

Another wizard walks by in the same blue security robes, and I flag him down.

“Harry Potter-Black, to see the Minister please,” I force out between clenched teeth.

He does the same double take but then moves behind the desk and lifts his finger after verifying I
don’t have a meeting scheduled.

“One moment, Sir,” he says, before walking in the opposite direction. I go ahead through the
screening process, letting the bumbling moron in front of me weigh my wand and print me the
visitor’s badge.

Lord Harry Potter-Black.

Just like I thought.

It’s been legal for all of three hours, but distinctions like that make little difference in the magical
world. You don’t have to wait for faxes and paperwork when your name is changed magically.

Mi’s has probably changed twice in the last two weeks. Three times.

Once when we kissed, then again when I signed the adoption paperwork.

Then the added honorific of Lady.

How long until a magical form indicating the marriage and name change shows up on some filing
Wizard’s desk, waiting to be shoved into a cabinet? How much money would they make by
slipping a copy of that form to the nearest reporter?

At least Skeeter is still in the jar on Hermione’s windowsill.

The security wizard makes his way back.

“I apologise for the wait, Mr Potter, but the Minister’s Office has asked that you make an
appointment for a more convenient time. She is unavailable at the moment.”

I let my air out slowly, thankful to Merlin, Circ, and Morgana that I left Ron and Mi back at the
bank.

I hate using this card. It makes me want to puke.

Ron would never let me live this down, even if we lived to be a thousand.

I clear my throat and give them a smile.

“That won’t work for me, I’m sorry. Please inform them that The Boy Who Lived requests an
immediate conversation with the Minister. I won’t be leaving until I get one. If that can’t be
arranged, I’m sure the papers would love to hear that our newest Minister has declined an
invitation to speak with the person who defeated You-Know-Who when he was only a baby. The
only person to ever survive the killing curse. I’ve come to offer her my congratulations on her new
posting. I won’t be leaving until I do so.”

Their eyes are bugging out of their head, the fool sitting down still with food on his chin.

I’m probably cringing, but I can’t help it. That was painful. I don’t even need Ron to witness it. I
can hear his laughter ringing in my ears anyway.

“Ye-yes sir, Mr Harry Potter, sir.”

“It’s Lord Potter-Black,” I say, remembering the whole reason for this farce. “I’ve been adopted by
Sirius Black.”

That does it.

The semi-competent one takes off at a run, awe and fear making him desperate to do my bidding.

If this is the level of Wizard, we have to guard our Ministry, no wonder Riddle is able to take over
so easily. There was barely any fight last time.

This is why.

“You have a little,” I scrape at my chin, and the sitting Wizard blushes, bringing both of his hands
to his head in a rush and wiping down his face.

The second wizard is gasping when he gets back.

“Follow me, Mr Potter-Black,” he huffs. “I mean—L-L-Lord, sir. I mean—” Ignoring his stutters, I
motion for him to lead the way, and we head towards the lifts, his pace quick and his chest
heaving.

I’ve been up here before when we infiltrated the ministry a few months ago.

In a few years?

Either way, it’s a familiar path as the elevator rises in its cage until the disembodied voice
announces, “Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff.”

“It’ll be a few minutes until they're ready for you sir,” the security wizard says, leading me over to
a sitting area. As we pass through open offices, heads peek out down the hallway, watching as I’m
led to the dead end. When I look over my shoulder and glare, faces scurry to jump out of my view.

“Thank you,” I say, and offer my hand for the man to shake.

He looks at me with startled eyes and gingerly takes my hand. The motion starts out gentle until
he’s shaking me so fiercely my entire body jostles.

I yank my hand from his grip, giving him a sickly smile, and then wipe my sweaty palm on my
jeans when he takes off back towards the lift.

The Minister's door is closed.

The seating area is pleasant, at least, and instead of taking a seat, I walk to the nearest portrait,
giving it a nod when he introduces himself.

How many of these portraits have frames in other locations?

Even now, is Dumbledore aware that I’ve stormed the ministry? Is there a pureblood descendant of
Malfoy on these walls, listening and waiting for the opportunity to whisper his gathered
information to his master?

"Hem, hem."

Adrenaline surges through me, and I jerk like I've been hit with a stunner. In a single move, I pull
my wand and sword both, twisting on the balls of my feet and aiming for the sound of that voice.

My wand comes to rest a foot from Umbridge's nose.

The sword an inch from her throat.

She screams in terror as my weapons come to bear on her, covering her face and scrambling
backwards. She slips over her own feet, landing in a heap on the carpet as her cries call her co-
workers from their offices.

Magical beings in robes and uniforms come tumbling out from open doors, wands raised at the
ruckus.

Tonks skids to a stop beside me, hair pink and grey Auror robes dingy. Madam Bones pulls to a
halt behind her, her monocle dangling from around her neck. Through the din of people, I spot Mrs
Longbottom, her wand in her hand and irritation pulling her eyebrows together.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demands, pushing her way through the throngs of people.
"Don't you all have work to do? Back to your offices, the lot of you."

With a glare that would make grown men cry, she forces her employees into compliance by sheer
willpower alone.

In twos and threes, they scamper back from where they came from. All except those that spilt from
the Minister's office themselves.

Hermione pulls through my bloodstream, my fingers tingling at the panic she’s throwing out. I try
to calm my breathing and tell, show, something to her, that I’m okay.

When the pulsing in the Bond bleeds into relief, I give her a mental hug, then shut the link tight.

The only decent piece of information Mortimer gave me.

I put the bundle I’ve come to associate with Mi into a trunk and snap the lid shut with a click.

Now that I know what it is, it's as simple as drinking water.

"Mr Potter!" Mrs Longbottom snaps, still attempting to wiggle in front of Madam Bones. Tonks
steps aside with a squeal, rubbing at her side and giving the diminutive Minister a dubious glare.

"Is there a reason why you're holding my Undersecretary at wand point?"

I find it curious that she doesn't mention the sword. If the way Madam Bones' eyes pop out of her
head is any indication, she does too.

"It's Lord Potter-Black, now," I reply conversationally, bowing as respectfully as I can. "I've
ascended to Head of House for both of my families and accepted the Lordship in my adopted
father's stead."
"Congratulations," Mrs Longbottom says dryly. "Kindly put your wand away."

I don't.

Instead, I address the Head of Magical Enforcement.

"I made you a promise, Madam Bones, to rid you of your dark wizard problem. I thought I'd start
right here. You don't get much darker than Delores Umbridge. She could share Voldemort’s soul
and you’d never tell the difference."

I could throw my memories in a pensive and prove it.

The woman in question is whimpering, her bow sitting askew on her head. She's lifted on one
elbow, her legs a jumble and her skirt displaying an unflattering amount of pink underthings.

Suddenly I’m nauseous again.

"This is exactly what I've been telling you, Augusta." God, her voice makes me sick. Even
pleading, she sounds like a simpering child. "The boy isn't right in the head. Stun him, quick, and
get him in St. Mungo’s before he causes any more damage."

All eyes flick to me, and I don't bother to fight my smile as I stare down at the woman on the floor.

"I have a bit of a temper problem," I admit. “I'm sure if you were in my shoes, you'd suffer from
bouts of rage too. It should make you furious, that a blood purist sits so near our Minister.
Whispering little tales in her ears.”

Blood crimsons the cheeks of the toad-like Witch, giving her a sickly hue to match the pink of her
frock.

“Tell me, Minister. Has she started dropping hints about Hogwarts yet? Offering to lower herself at
your behest to spy on the headmaster. Has she shared her theory about Dumbledore’s Army? A
ragtag group of Mud-bloods and half-breeds and children not yet old enough to do magic outside of
school?”

Mrs Longbottom gives very little away, but Madam Bones either doesn’t have a very good poker
face, or my second outburst in front of her in as many weeks has stolen it from her.

Her eyes harden to slits, and she takes a step closer to us.

“Has anyone checked her legislative history, either? She’s written and passed laws to curb the
rights of Merpeople, Werewolves, House Elves, Goblins—I bet if you dug real deep, you’d even
find an idea for a Muggleborn Registration Act.”

A sickly purple colour spills from Umbridge’s wand.

I duck to the side, pulling my weapons to my chest and throwing up a shield in front of me. Madam
Bones pushes Mrs Longbottom behind her, a shield raised in front of them.

The Minister drops to a knee below Madam Bone’s outstretched arms, shooting a binding spell
from around the shield. Tonks fires as well, and Umbridge ends up bound and wandless, spitting
curses until someone seals her mouth with a gag.

“Somebody help me up!” the Minister admonishes, lifting her hand for assistance. “I’m an old
woman!”
Half a dozen different people lunge for her, knocking each other over before Madam Bones holds
Mrs Longbottom’s hand steady while the older woman lifts from her bent knee.

“Dumbledore never mentioned what a pain in the arse you were, boy,” she grouses, looking at the
withering witch on the floor.

I don’t know what to say to that.

This wasn’t on my agenda.

“Sorry.”

I scabbard the sword for the second time today before I shrug.

“Bah,” she flicks her hand, dismissing me.

She points to Umbridge, who’s silently cursing me with her eyes.

“Someone set her up in one of the holding cells until we can fit her into the schedule.” The
Minister looks Umbridge in the eye. “If he’s wrong, sorry for the inconvenience.”

With that, Mrs Longbottom turns on her heel and marches back into her office.

“Are you coming, Potter?” she yells over her shoulder, “or did you just come to make a mess of my
hallway.”

I scamper after her, suddenly all too aware of why Neville is as timid as he is.

She settles onto the couch in her office and pats the cushion next to her. I take the seat that’s been
offered, watching with weariness as five others file into the room.

There are too many people here. I can’t let this many know.

Even Madam Bones feels like one too many.

“Now that that little display of showmanship is over with,” Mrs Longbottom says with something
resembling respect in her voice “Tell me what I can help you with. I’m sure you didn’t just storm
into the Ministry to point out the shortcomings of one of my aids.”

I fight the urge to twitch under her glare and instead place my ankle on my knee.

“No actually. It wasn’t. I hadn’t given Umbridge an inkling of consideration until I heard that
obnoxiously phoney little throat clearing thing she does. But then, I thought, best not waste a
perfect opportunity.”

Tonks openly snorts through her nose, then quickly covers it up by covering her mouth and
coughing.

“Then get to the point, Lord Potter-Black. I’m a very busy woman, who now has to add an
afternoon interrogation to my list of things to do.”

The oxygen leaves me in a slow puff, my cheeks filling with air.

“I need to speak to you alone.”

“Absolutely not,” Madam Bones declares, rising from her seat.

I barely get the statement out.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Madam Minister,” Tonks agrees, shooting me a nervous stare.
The three other assistants join in the rebuttals, while Neville’s Grandmother stares me down.

“Dumbledore thinks very highly of you,” she says.

The comment catches me off guard, and I start at the compliment.

“Thank you,” I reply, unsure with what to say.

“My Grandson adores you as well. Helped him out of a few tricky spots in the past, haven’t you?”

I tip my head in acknowledgement.

“Neville is going to be a very powerful Wizard one day. He simply needs to believe in himself.”

Speaking of.

“I’m actually living in the Black residences now. We start defence training tomorrow. He’s
welcome to join us at any time. I’m also hoping to start a defence club next school year. I hope you
allow him to participate.”

Mrs Longbottom smiles at me so quickly I can’t be sure it was ever really there. “What is it you
want, Harry?”

Her bluntness pulls me up short.

I need to get her into the Department of Mysteries.

Bugger.

I school my face into the blank mask Umbridge taught me to wear.

I hate time travel. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Too much information is just as bad as
not enough.

I hope she forgives me for this.

“Do you want to know why your children were tortured into insanity?”

Gasps ring out around the room.

Anger fills the hard lines of Mrs Longbottom’s face, and I try not to flinch as I remember
Dumbledore mentioning something about scars gifted him by the elderly woman.

“I already know,” she says harshly. “As do you. They were tortured for knowledge they did not
have. About He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named’s whereabouts.”

I nod my head to agree with her, but...

“But why did they think your son and his wife would have that sort of information? Help me, and I
can give you answers to questions you never knew you had.”

The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop before the Minister rises from her seat.

“Leave us,” she says to her entourage, and immediately they start to protest.
I cut in before it gets too loud.

“Actually, Minister. Perhaps we could take a walk?”

She dips her chin in a firm nod, rising from her seat.

“Stay here,” she instructs her aides. “We’ll return shortly.”

We make it to the elevators, eyes from every office following in our wake, when Mrs Longbottom
finally speaks.

“You have me boy, what do you plan on doing with me? I’ll warn you now, I may be old, but I’m
faster than I look. If you think you could possibly outmanoeuvre me, you have another thing
coming.”

My jaw hits my chest, before I recover myself enough to almost laugh.

“No, ma’am,” I assure her as we enter the lift. “I thought a trip to the Department of Mysteries
would do us good. Give us a chance to stretch our legs. I’ve always wanted a tour.”

Mrs Longbottom hits the number for the correct floor, frightening away any potential passengers
whenever the lift comes to a stop.

“Anything in particular you’d like to see, Lord Potter-Black? There are several items of interest on
that floor.”

I look straight ahead, almost afraid to make eye contact with her. My palms are sweaty, and
flashbacks of the last two times I was heading in this direction dance before my eyes.

“I hear the Hall of Prophecies is lovely this time of year,” I say, hoping she can’t hear the nerves in
my voice.

“Beautiful weather they’re having,” she agrees, and I swear the woman is smiling again.

There’s none of the hesitation in her step that haunted ours two years ago when we reach the
appropriate floor. She strides from the metal box like she owns the building, waving away every
Ministry employee that attempts to help.

“Minister Longbottom, Ma’am,” a startled employee says, as we push through the corridor that
holds the Hall of Prophecies. Mrs Longbottom doesn’t slow her steady gate.

“Ma’am,” he says, calling after her. “You need to sign in.”

She doesn’t look behind her, so neither do I.

“Lead the way, son,” she says when we’ve shut the door on the Wizard manning the desk.

I clench my fists so she can’t see them tremble, and step in front of her.

It’s not as dark in here as it was the last time, the orbs giving off a dim glow to join with the
torches lit on the wall. I don’t need to light my wand, to find my way through the maze of shelving.
I’ll always remember what row it was, that I watched my Godfather get tortured, only to find out it
was a figment of my imagination.

My hands are sweating when we reach the spot, and Mrs Longbottom takes in a sharp gasp of
breath when she sees our names written on the yellowing label.

S.P.T to A.P.W.B.D.

Dark Lord And (?) Harry Potter

I reach for the dusty ball with shaking fingers, and without hesitation smash it into the floor.

“NO!” The Minister cries, her arms outstretched to stop me.

But it’s too late, and the ghostly white figure of a bespeckled Professor Trelawney, fifteen years
junior, floats from the shattered glass.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice
defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he
will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither
can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born
as the seventh month dies...."

“What have you done?!” she hisses, horror lacing her voice. I look her in the eye and see the fear in
her bones.

“When was your Grandson born?” I ask her.

Her voice is steady when she answers.

“The end of July.”

I hope that my voice is as firm.

“How many times did your children fight and defy Tom Riddle?”

Augusta Longbottom is not a weak woman, but her hands shake at her sides.

“Three,” she says in a whisper, her fingers rising to her mouth. “It could be my Neville,” she
breathes, and I shake my head no.

With the tug of my fingernail in the corner of the tape, I pull the label from the spot on the
shelving, setting it on fire and dropping it to burn.

Then I look at the most powerful woman in Wizarding Britain, and remember she’s still a mother
without a son, and a Grandmother with a Grandson she’d do anything to protect.

For what feels like the hundredth time, I lift my fringe from my forehead.

“No, Madam Longbottom. It isn’t. He chose me, and in doing so, picked the path that we are all on
today. He chose the means of his destruction the day he killed my parents. The day he tried to kill
me, and instead was forced from his body. Less than even the weakest ghost. But he knows the
prophecy exists, and he’ll stop at nothing to get his hands on it.”

“But you’ve destroyed it.”

I nod, unable to tell if the band around my chest is loosening in relief or tightening in fear.

“I did. But he doesn’t know that. I need your help to defeat him Ma’am. What will you do, to help
me destroy Voldemort a second time? For good.”
“Anything,” the Minister offers me, and if I were Riddle, I would quake at the hate in her voice.

I lift the Soul-Bond container from my pocket and pull the orb from the box. Her eyes go wide, and
her breath leaves her in a whoosh, when I hand her the tiny wooden sphere.

“Help me protect my wife.”

 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

I will not apologize for Harry being all up in his feelings lol. That's canon, and I will
die on that hill.

Hermione

I’m good at compartmentalising.

It’s what allows me to prioritise and triage when what I really want to do is sit and cry and scream.

It’s what allowed me to live in a tent with two boys I harboured secret and not to secret feelings for
and not lose my sanity.

Or my virginity.
It crossed my mind, okay! What else is there to do in a tent with two extremely fit men for months
on end?

Even I eventually got tired of reading.

It’s how I took my parent’s memories with the full knowledge that they’d probably never know me
as their daughter again in my lifetime.

Which is why when Harry comes marching into the Potter vaults closer to six p.m. than four, I
remain sitting on the floor surrounded by three open trunks with non-detectable expansion charms
on them rather than running to my supposed husband and pummeling him with my fists.

I glare at him instead, from over a stack of books and underneath my lashes.

Ron and Sirius, who long since abandoned me to my compulsions and started a game of chess,
watch his coming with wary looks.

He walks within a foot of me then stops, uncertainty bare on his face.

Whatever control he had over the Bond was obliviated quite some time ago, and I can see his
emotions written in the lines of his body.

He’s nervous, and tired.

Exhausted, more like. I can feel his weariness on my tongue.

He's suffering an adrenaline crash and it serves him right for storming out of here all brimstone and
fire!

But then his guilt hits me on a primal level, and damn him, I can’t even be angry.

And I was ready to be furious.

Like, attack him with the birds and shrink his balls to raisins angry. But he looks like someone just
kicked his puppy, and all I want to do is hug him.

Compartmentalise, Hermione.

Business first, hand holding later.

“Finish your task, then?” I ask, attempting to sound like I don’t care either way.

Harry smiles at me, and despite how heavily his shoulders droop, his smile is so true, and real, and
ugh.

Just so Harry.

“Yeah. Got our apparition licence. Don't ask how." I laugh at that. "I destroyed the prophecy, and
the Bonding Department is run by Unspeakables, so they couldn't say anything even if they wanted
to. If they break their vow, they go insane. Remember last time when Riddle tried to use one to
grab the prophecy? They actually offered to let me Obliviate them, but—" he shrugs. "I didn't want
to risk messing it up."

"You'd have done fine, I'm sure."

His little smile is everything.

"I learned from the best."

He clears his throat before he continues.

"There are protections on the orbs, so the Goblins can only speak of it to the owners of the Bond.
Certain insanity and all that…"

Despite the sheer size of these vaults, (I'm convinced Gringotts takes up half of underground
London,) it feels like it's just the two of us, in a space too tight to breathe easily.

This day has been...a lot.

You, okay?

Bond or no Bond, I'll never understand how he does that. He always seems to know exactly what I
need to hear.

Yeah. Tired. Long day.

When he smiles at me it's everything.

We should talk, he says.

I agree. This has been a lot to process with not a lot of time. But I don’t want an audience for
whatever needs to happen.

Tonight.

Because there is no way I’m going back to my parent’s house after what we discovered. We already
popped out of Diagon Alley to call them and ask if I could spend the night with Ginny. Ginny is at
Grimmauld Place, so I didn’t even have to lie.

Though my mom still sounded suspicious.

Not that I can blame her.

We’re married!

His eyes are alight with laughter as he bites his bottom lip.

That okay with you? I ask, really kinda liking this Bond thing now that I know what it is. Yeah, he
breathes with a soft smile. I really think it is.

It does something to me, to see his face light up like that. I hope he can’t feel the butterflies in my
stomach, or the way my heart is thumping out of my chest.

“This place looks different,” Harry says, turning in a circle with his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Hermione insisted that we organise it,” Ron says with an annoyed huff.

“Your wife is a bit of a control freak, Pup,” Sirius chimes in with a mischievous smile on his face.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Harry replies, grinning ear to ear.

I reach into the closest trunk.

“Speaking of which, this is for you.”

I hand him the leather bag I found mixed in with some of his parents belongings.

“What is it?” he asks, pulling on the belt that loops around his hips.

“A purse,” Ron replies with a chuckle.

“No, it’s not!” I insist, having already had this argument.

“It’s a pouch, like the one you got from Hagrid. Only this one is bigger, and you wear it differently.
The large band goes around your waist, and the pouch sits on your hip and thigh, the bottom chain
holding it to your body.”

“Or,” Sirius speaks up, “There’s an additional strap so you can wear it over your shoulders like a
scabbard. The bag then cinches to your side. There are dual wand holders on the shoulder straps.
It’s how your dad wore it. But if you're determined to keep that sword,” he is, “then I suggest you
strap it to your thigh.”

“It was my dads?” he asks Sirius, longing filling his face.

“Yeah, Pup. Your mom gave it to him. She thought it made him look dashing or something.”

Ron sniggers again.

Without another word, Harry loosens the buckles and begins strapping the black leather to his
thigh and hip.

All he needs is a gun, and he’ll look like Indiana Jones.

Actually, has anyone ever tried to shoot Voldemort?

“Your family was kinda lame,” Ron says, missing the way Harry’s face falls. “This vault is all
gold and family heirlooms. The Black vault had shit that would curse your bollocks off if you sat
on it.”

Harry huffs in amusement at that.

“You found that preferable over jewels?” he asks disbelievingly.

Ron shrugs, a flush pinking his cheeks. “Well, the jewels are nice and all. But I had more fun
going through the other stuff is all I’m saying. Hermione did too,” he adds, throwing me under the
bus.

I clear my throat and avoid meeting Harry’s eye.

“That’s not the way it was at all. The Potter’s have an amazing history. And the library, Harry! I
can’t wait until I can set it up. But the Black’s apparently had several books in specialised subjects
that they kept in their vaults. Family secrets and the likes. I never saw them last time. I think they’ll
be beneficial.”

Sirius scoffs so hard he barks.

“What she means to say is, the Black vault is filled with spells so evil your skin will peel off.
Literally. Your lady wife is of the mind, and rightfully so,” he gives Ron a sideways glance, “that
the best way to fight the dark is to understand the dark.”

Ron twists up his face, not liking the argument we had in the other vault.
“I’m tired of getting hit with unknown spells! I’m not going to learn how to cast them, just the
counter curses or antidotes. But if we’re going to protect ourselves, then we need to know what
we’re fighting.”

Sadness flickers from Harry, and I know he’s thinking about the same thing I am. When Dolohov
hit me with that spell in the Department of Mysteries. Harry cringes before releasing a pent-up
breath.

“I ran into Umbridge.”

Ahhh. So that’s what that was.

“Who?” Ron says.

“Delores Umbridge?” Sirius asks, snapping to attention.

I ask the more relevant question.

“Is she still alive?”

Harry flushes horribly, and my stomach sinks at the thought that he actually killed the hag.

“Yes,” he answers with a huff, pulling at the back of his neck. “It was a close call though," he
admits.

I bet it was.

"You can't keep going off half-cocked every time someone makes you angry, Harry."

I slam the last trunk closed and shrink it down.

"I know that Hermione! I'm not going off half-cocked. If I were, you'd be the first to know.
Because I'm always fucking angry!"

I do know that.

He even dreams about killing Bellatrix. What to do about it is a whole other topic.

I swear, if it's the last thing I do, I'm dragging him kicking and screaming, or more likely, bound
and gagged, to a mind healer.

Maybe not this week, but as soon as he chops off Voldemort’s head.

I levitate a pile of books into the first trunk and feel his frustration lick up my spine. We need to
finish up here and get back to Grimmauld for the meeting.

"I thank you for your temperance," I say primly. "But my point still stands. Your list of people to
kill is starting to rival Voldemort’s."

Harry runs his hands roughly through his hair, then settles his glasses and pulls back his shoulders.

"I don't see what's wrong with that."

I whip to face him, climbing to my feet.

I close the distance between us and get into his personal space. My blood is pulsing in my veins,
heat flooding onto my face.

“Since when did you become a murderer, Harry? Because the man I love isn’t a killer!”

Harry snaps.

" SINCE THEY MURDERED YOU !" he screams, his chest heaving and his eyes sparkling like
emeralds. Trinkets scattered about the cave float lightly in the air.

"I became willing to kill the minute they killed you in front of me. I wanted to slit her throat and
leave a note on her forehead with a permanent sticking charm."

He throws his arms above his head.

"This is what happens when you fuck with Hermione Granger!"

I don't even know what to say to that.

He means it. With every fibre of his being. He means it to the bottom of his soul.

But he can't let what happened to us dictate him like this. Already it's eating him alive.

“Well, you’re going to have to disabuse yourself of that notion pretty damn quickly, Harry! You
can’t just kill anyone who’s ever wronged me!”

“Why the hell not?” he demands hotly.

“Because there’d be very few people left!” I snap. “You and Ronald included! So, unless the next
time you die, you’d like it to be from a self-inflicted sword wound, I suggest you get over it.
Swiftly! And stop snapping at me! I know you’re angry, but it isn’t my fault!”

Harry seems to double in size, and then just like that, he...crumbles. There’s no other way to
describe it.

Harry collapses in on himself, pulling at his hair. Everything that was in the air clatters
haphazardly to the ground.

The lightning-quick switch of his emotions gives me whiplash.

It makes me want to be sick.

One moment he's bursting with intensity. The next he looks like someone pulled the plug out of his
back.

You can literally see it all drain from him like water down a sinkhole.

"I'm sorry,” he breathes, and I taste it on my tongue more than I hear it with my ears. "I—”

With a stretch of his arm, his hand is around me, and I stumble into his chest. His grip on me is
almost painful. His fingers dig into my shoulders and neck. I can feel his chest tremble when he
gasps for air.

What sort of magic flooded through him, the most powerful Wizard alive, when he brought his lips
to mine? What sort of influence does a Soul-Mate Bond cause when you’re already sharing a soul?

I thought, with the knowledge of what happened between us, he’d finally start to get better.
Instead, it’s just made it worse.

“I don’t understand.”

I really , really don’t.

“I don’t want to kick you when you’re down, but all of Britain knows I’m your best friend. All of
Europe thanks to Rita Skeeter and that tournament. Why is it so different with me as your wife?”

“You don’t get it,” he growls, his hands tightening his hold. “It’s going to be so much worse now.”

I don’t get it.

But maybe I don’t have to. Because it’s terrorizing Harry enough for the both of us.

“Harry,” I sigh and slink my arms around his back. “What is it going to take to convince you that
I’m going to be okay?”

Ron and Sirius are still here somewhere, but when I open my eyes, they’re nowhere to be found.
Thank goodness for vaults with multiple rooms. “The Fidelius charm,” Harry whispers, and I jerk
in his arms with surprise.

“What?”

Harry cups my cheek, moving my hair out of my face.

“I want to put a Fidelius charm on you. On our binding. We can tell the Order, and your parents,
but no one else.”

That’s...

“Can that even be done?”

Harry nods his head, tight little jerks that show the tension singing through his body.

“The Unspeakables seem to think so. It was their idea. I—” He hesitates for a moment, his tongue
darting out to lick his lips. “The Bondees don’t know until a Bond is sealed, but the Hall of
Bindings has a record of it for always. They told me when a person is born, when their soul is
formed, if they share a Bond, the names are engraved on the wood.

“The dates don’t appear until the binding is complete, but the Hall of Bindings have known that
we’d be Bonded-Mates for as long as we’ve been alive. Only our sphere is that golden color. The
first set of Bonded-Mates in centuries and they kept it to themselves. Not even that, Mi. The most
famous wizard alive has a Bonded-Mate, and they swore to take that knowledge to their graves. I
don’t trust much these days, but I trust them when they say this is the best way to protect you.”

“But—”

I don’t want to hide it. I want to sing it from the rooftops.

He lowers his forehead to rest against mine, his breathing coming in tight little gasps.

“I can’t breathe, Mi. Every time I close my eyes, I picture it. The thought of anyone hurting
you...it’s like ripping out my own soul.”

There it is, isn’t it?

He’s always been over-protective. I didn’t tell him about boys in the last timeline because I was
afraid of what he’d do to them. Then I did, and he almost killed McLaggen.

Why didn’t I see it before?

The trauma he suffered, combined with the Bond...

We were Soul Bonded, even then. Did he watch me die? Or did he feel it? Was our joined soul
ripped in two when Bellatrix took my life?

“Okay, Harry,” I say, and I bring my hands to his face. “We can do the spell. But I need to be a
secret keeper too."

He seems to just...collapse. His whole body goes limp, and he sags into my arms.

“Thank you,” he whispers as he hides his face in my hair.

“You have to get over this,” I tell him, my voice as soft as satin.

“When she’s dead,” he says, and I already know, it’s going to take a lot more than that.

At Harry’s insistence, despite the fact that I could have easily just disillusioned them, I removed all
three rings this time.

They joined his in the boxes, where he put them in his pouch.

“They next time I put those on, Harry James Potter-Black, I’m not taking them off again.”

Ignoring the sniggering from our best friend, Harry pulls me in and places a kiss on my forehead.

His smile is, gods , lighter than I’ve seen in years. It’s like a weight has been lifted from his
shoulders. With the flick of a wand and a muttered incantation, a strange sort of peace seemed to
fall over Harry.

I don’t understand it at all.

I’m already dreading the day it’s over.

But the happiness he feels right now? It’s intoxicating.

“I promise,” he mumbles against my skin.

I’m going to hold him to that.

If nothing else, today has been a day for learning.

I never knew you could send letters via floo.

We made the decision to hide the bindings but leave the marriage intact. After all, no amount of
magic can change my last name. It is what it is at this point. With Harry purging it all at the
Ministry, though, there's not a document currently in existence that has my name on it.

I didn’t agree to this stupid spell because I honestly thought it would make a lick of difference.

I agreed to the spell because Harry is obviously struggling, and if this will make him feel better,
then it’s the least that I can do.
Since the day he saved my life, I’ve always put him first.

I don’t see that changing any time soon.

As soon as Sirius cast the spell for us, it was obvious that he and Ron forgot. Telling them we were
Mated and Bonded was fun.

They thought it was just as funny the second time they found out as they did the first.

Which is good, I suppose, as it eased Harry’s mind immensely. That means what few people at the
ministry that had found out about it, either from Harry’s undertaking today or in the last two weeks,
would have forgotten too.

It also meant that Ragnok had forgotten as well.

Which was unfortunate. Once that bit of business was over with, and Ragnok could confirm we
weren’t full of shit from the previous paperwork he’d already filed, we had to let Dumbledore
know again.

The only reason the order was meeting tonight was to handle the complications that arose from
Harry suddenly being without his mother’s protection.

We can’t explain that without explaining the rest.

Which is how I learned with the right spell and a push of magic, you can send letters via floo
powder.

It’s not often used because there’s no guarantee of delivery. Luckily for us, Dumbledore was in his
office. It took only a few moments to get a response.

Fidelius! Excellent idea. I’ll be with you shortly.

There are already several people waiting for us by the time we make it back to Grimmauld.

The results of Molly’s influence and Kreacher’s improved attitude are already evident.

The house looks more like the last time I saw it rather than what it looked like when the Order used
it for headquarters in the previous timeline.

The floors in the kitchen sparkle, the flames of the fire roaring merrily in the hearth.

The smells of food waft out from various pots and pans in and around the oven while Kreacher, a
shiny white tea towel wrapped around his waist, hops to and fro, filling mugs with ale and tea
alike.

The twins are in a corner with their heads together, up to no good, I’m sure.

Ginny lifts her eyes from the magazine in her hands, gaze narrowing on mine and Harry’s linked
fingers before turning her attention back to her reading.

My how things change.

She thought the train incident was funny. I don't see her laughing anymore.

Shacklebolt is at the table, deep in conversation with Arthur.

Remus and Tonks are at the other end, and her eyes are alight as she listens to Remus talk with rapt
attention. Moody isn’t here yet, but I know whatever is planned for tonight will surely involve him.

Hestia Jones and Emmaline Vance both are at the counter with Molly, and I catch a snippet about
meat pies over the general hum of the kitchen.

It’s so bizarre to me that I know every person in this room.

Some of them intimately, and yet for them, this’ll be the first time we meet. One day soon,
hopefully, Tonks will have Remus’ baby. But how long have they known each other today?

A week? A month?

Or had it already begun before the Order was re-established?

She is an Auror, after all, and he was one, once upon a time. Perhaps they were already friends
before Voldemort's return forced them into such close confines.

Sirius makes a beeline for his best friend, throwing his head back in mirth at something Remus
says while Tonk’s eyes scan the trim form of her second or third cousin. She offers him her mug,
and he takes it with a smile, downing the remaining liquid in one gulp.

Ron moves from behind where I’ve pulled Harry to a stop and heads deeper into the kitchen.
Called, I’m sure, by the smell of food.

“Wotcher, Harry,” Tonks says, winking in his direction.

“Backatcha, cuz,” he replies with a smirk on his face.

I jerk in surprise at Harry’s side.

Have they met already?

I’ll tell you later comes drifting through my head.

I got to admit, I’m rather relieved that my hearing Harry’s thoughts are as simple as a Bond and not
that we were going crazy.

Because it was starting to feel like we were.

Our ignorance of the situation is just another example of how ill-prepared Muggle-borns are for
the Wizarding World. Ron and Sirius knew precisely what happened between Harry and me the
second Ragnok said the words.

It’s no wonder I’m looked down on as lesser to purebloods. Their education starts at birth. Mine
has been bare bones at best, despite all my reading.

Harry was right.

I’m no longer surprised he died so often. They totally and completely screwed him.

“Harry, dear,” Mrs Weasley calls to him, bustling out from around the counters.

The conversation immediately dies out as all eyes turn to Harry.

His discomfort is palpable on my tongue, but he holds up well to the outside scrutiny. He smiles at
Mrs Weasley, giving the goggling bystanders a polite nod.

She holds her arms out towards Harry, who releases my hand and steps into her embrace willingly.

I know it’s hard for him.

She’s the only mother he’s ever had, but at the same time, it only makes him miss his own that
much more.

Even before the Bond, I knew he used to compare Mrs Weasley to the mother he never knew. He
wondered what would be different and what universal truths are the same to mothers the world
over.

He tries to pull away, but she cups his face in her hands, keeping him from a clean escape.

Her fingers move his fringe from his eyes.

“You need a haircut, dear,” she instructs him, and I swear I hear Harry’s snort of amusement in the
back of my head.

“I like it like this,” I accidentally admit out loud, then immediately turn my face away to hide my
blush.

Harry’s delight in my head only grows. I clear my throat, then try to power on.

“I mean, it suits him, don’t you think?”

Mrs Weasley scrunches up her nose in distaste.

“Hmmm,” she hums but keeps the rest of her opinions to herself when Harry extracts himself from
her clutches.

“Does anybody know what’s going on?” Tonks asks, looking around the room expectantly.

Ron bursts out a short laugh before quickly smothering it at the withering glare his best friend
gives him.

“Best wait for the others,” Sirius says, flicking the buttons on his waistcoat and letting the garment
slip from his shoulders. Kreacher divests him of the trappings of his wealth and status until all that
remains of Sirius’ pureblood getup are the pinstripe pants and the black bespoke shirt, partially
unbuttoned and untucked from his pants.

“In the meantime,” Remus says, standing up from his chair.

As soon as Remus’s attention is elsewhere, Sirius steals his mug and begins to drain its contents as
well. “Introductions are in order, I believe.”

He starts with Tonks’ smiling up at him, and he gives her a soft smile in return.

“We have Nymphadora Tonks,” she squints her eyes at him in warning, and he hastens to repair his
mistake. “Who prefers to be known by her surname only.”

The red bleeding into the roots of her hair from her budding anger vanishes in a swish of pink.

Remus turns his attention to the rest of our party.

“Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

Kingsley rises from his chair, offering his hand to Harry.

“We’ve met, in a way. I was one of the Aurors sent to Hogwarts to hear the testimony of Crouch Jr
and Pettigrew.”

His voice, dark and gravely, rushes over my senses.

It always gave me a sense of security, like a warm blanket on a cold night.

Kingsley was my friend, of a sort, for a while at least.

I love Harry and Ron, and Ginny was the closest thing I had to a true female companion. But I
spent several nights sitting in front of a fire with Remus and Kingsley, talking about magical theory
and a hundred other things that none of my peers had any interest or desire to learn about.

I hope I can get that sort of companionship again.

Kingsley gives Harry a firm shake, not attempting to hide his evident up-close examination of The
Boy Who Lived.

Harry, for his part, seems to take it in stride. “I remember, yes,” he says before pulling his hand
away. “Nice to meet you, Mr Shacklebolt.”

“Kingsley is fine,” he assures Harry, before resuming his seat.

He eyes the hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor peeking out from over Harry’s shoulder but doesn’t
comment on it, for which I’m grateful. I’ve had enough displays with that damn sword for today.

It’s not over yet, either. That bloody locket is somewhere in this house.

“You wrapped that whole situation up nicely,” Shacklebolt says.

It’s not a compliment.

More like a prod for more information. Harry lifts a shoulder in a self-deprecating way, using the
tip of his finger to push his glasses further up his nose.

“I do what I can,” he says.

It’s obvious, at least to me, that he’s trying to toe the line between not flexing his metaphysical
muscles but not allowing them to think it was a fluke and he’s just a child to be protected.

Harry pivots at Remus’s voice, making the rounds of handshakes and smiles for the new, not really
new, acquaintances in the room.

I’m trying hard not to feel put out that I’m not included in the introductions, but I know that this is
about Harry. All of this, everyone in this room, is here because of Harry, whether they realise it yet
or not.

The floo sounds from the other room, and the thud of Moody’s stump proceeds him into the
kitchen.

“Ahh, and this is Mad Eye Moody,” Remus says, gesturing to the grizzled old Wizard.
He looks a right-sight better than the last time we saw him but is still a little wiggly around the
edges. I suppose being kept prisoner in your own trunk for the better part of a year will do that to a
person.

After all, it’s only been two weeks tomorrow.

“Professor,” Harry says respectfully, and Mad-Eye scoffs in his direction. He grabs the flask from
his hip and tips a splash of its contents on the floor before bringing it to his lips and taking a hard
pull.

Checking its contents.

Before, he only trusted himself. Now he can’t even do that.

“I don’t know about Professor,” he growls in Harry’s direction. “Never got around to much
teaching, did I?”

Harry starts at the comment, and a feeling of deja vu that I’ve never experienced makes me sway
on my feet.

“Someone get me a glass of water, would ya?”

Harry turns his head away a moment before Mad Eye pulls his magical eye from the socket. A
gagging noise sounds from somewhere in the room.

“Keeps sticking since that scum wore it.”

“Mad Eye, you do know that’s disgusting, don’t you?” asks Tonks conversationally.

Harry abandons his post in the middle of the kitchen, almost rushing to where I’m still standing just
inside the entryway. He keeps his back to the room, dipping his head to speak to me.

I tune out the rest of their chattering.

“It’s utterly bizarre,” he whispers in my ear, one of his hands on my hips to hold me to him.

All of the blood rushes from my head, and I sway on my feet again, but this time for an altogether
different reason.

“Word for word, it’s the exact same thing he said to me the first time I saw him when they came to
take me from the Dursleys after the Dementors.”

It takes several long blinks for me to understand what he’s saying.

All I can seem to concentrate on is the feel of his fingers spread over my hip. His palm is warm,
and his fingertips are digging into the meat slightly as if he’s gripping me for support.

Married married married married married chants incessantly in ribbons through my mind.

“Are you okay?” I finally manage to squeeze out, thankful you can’t hear the tremble through my
whisper.

“It’s disconcerting,” he admits, and when I move my head to look at him, his eyes catch with mine.

They’re so unbelievably green.

I know he thinks that if he were to become an Animagus, he’d be a stag like his dad, but I
disagree.

Harry would be a panther. He’s all lithe muscles and contained speed, his black hair as sleek and
thick as fur. Those startlingly beautiful eyes would look just as natural, surrounded by a panther's
grace hunting in a forest as they do, staring back at me from Harry’s startled expression.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “It is.”

Disconcerting is an excellent adjective.

I can hear my heartbeat in my ears and an echo—a double thunders along right beside it. Fear roils
in my stomach, butterflies making me Luke!

But there’s also excitement and anticipation that has a distinctly masculine flavour.

I think I forget how to breathe, but maybe Harry is breathing for us both because instead of
collapsing from lack of oxygen, I lift up on my toes as Harry takes the tiniest step closer.

Oh.

This is...

I’ve slept in his arms almost every night since we came back. But have we ever been this close
before? Even with space between us it feels closer than lips on lips.

Married whispers on a breeze.

Someone clears their throat, and I startle in Harry’s embrace, blood rushing to my face in
embarrassed horror. The sounds of the kitchen floods back into my ears, almost like an avalanche,
and it isn’t until that very moment that I realise I’ve completely forgotten about the room around
us.

There are a dozen people in the kitchen, but all I saw, heard, or felt was Harry.

Harry bites his bottom lip, his chest jostling in silent laughter despite the blush colouring his own
cheeks.

An almost silent groan slips from me, and Harry cups the back of my head, pulling my face down
to hide against his chest. Even though I’m sure every eye in the room is on us, I link my arms
around his back, letting them rest under the scabbard.

“We’ll talk later,” he whispers against my hair, and I nod as well as I can with my head tucked
under his chin.

This is so...Ron is never going to let us live this down.

The whoosh of the floo bursting to life finally pulls me from Harry’s embrace.

My eyes widen in surprise when Professor McGonagall proceeds the Headmaster into the kitchen.
McGonagall rushes to us and with a swift rub of her palm against Harry’s startled cheek, pulls me
into a hug.

“Words cannot express my feelings, Mrs Potter-Black, ” she whispers into my ear, low enough that
only Harry could hear her. “I am at your disposal during this, I’m sure, confusing time. Anything
you need, dearest, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me.”
I link my arms around her back and inhale her familiar scent. Books and inks and the tinkling of
feline.

“Thank you,” I mumble harshly, suddenly near tears.

She wipes a tear from her own face when we separate.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says with a smile and with one last cup of Harry’s cheek, steps away to
make room for the headmaster.

I guess she got our letter.

“Harry, my boy!” he exclaims, his arms wide and his smile shining. “You wonderful, wonderful
man. It appears you’ve had quite the busy day! Augusta couldn’t decide whether to rail at your
impertinence or crow with pride at your cheek.”

Harry stutters to respond, and my eyes flick to him, suddenly desperate to know what he did to poor
Mrs Longbottom.

“It had been a long morning,” Harry replies, his voice laced with worry. “I didn’t mean to lose my
temper.”

Dumbledore is almost dancing on his feet in happiness.

“Don’t worry, my boy. Don’t worry at all. A little rebellion will do her good. The power’s already
gone to her head, I assure you. I do not doubt that Mr Longbottom will be nigh on desperate for
September first before the summer is out.”

The others are following the conversation with rapt attention, confusion clouding their faces.

“Hermione,” Dumbledore sighs with pleasure, turning to me. “My dear.”

I can count the number of times the Headmaster has addressed me directly on one hand, and
certainly never by my first name.

He spreads his hands open and wide beside my face, and I can’t help but smile at his obvious
jubilance.

“I can not tell you how pleased I was when I heard the news. I’ve known of the Soul-Bond since
the beginning, of course. Who could not by watching you. But the other?”

His voice hitches, and he seems to catch himself before smiling again.

“I’m so very happy for you both. Adjustments will have to be made, but what is a little
inconvenience, compared to such happy news as this.”

Dumbledore smiles even wider before taking a seat at the table and crossing one knee over
another.

With the flick of his wand, a bottle of Firewhiskey appears, along with a silver tea set.

“We’re missing something,” Remus says, and Sirius barks in his amusement, eyes flicking between
him and us. Even Ron is snickering under his breath, his hand covering his mouth in an attempt to
keep it contained.

The tea pours itself into the tiny goblets, the Firewhiskey taking the place of the milk. Dumbledore
lifts one to his lips, nodding in Harry’s direction.

The floor is yours, he seems to say.

Married married married married married.

“First, we need every person in this room to agree to a Fidelius charm. What we are about to tell
you, cannot leave this house.”

Agreements break out amongst those gathered, excitement for the impending announcement filling
the kitchen.

Without a word, Harry reaches into the pouch on his hip and pulls all four boxes from its depths.

The tension in the room is so high you can see it in the air.

I feel it as it rubs against our skin.

It’s almost prickly in texture, and my lungs contrast in painful pants. Harry lines the boxes up on
the edge of the kitchen table.

It’s the Slytherin in him, using the situation to his best advantage. This sort of presentation will
make an impact like few others could.

He opens the first box and slips the male Potter ring onto his own finger before sliding the female
onto mine.

He places it on my left hand, next to where our wedding bands would be if this were that type of
union.

The click of the lid snapping shut seems to echo, the snap of it sharp enough to make me flinch.

The Black ring is next, and he slides it onto my right hand, the ring snug against my skin. Murmurs
begin when an inkling of an idea forms amongst our once and future family.

When the Mate rings appear, there’s a collective gasp from the closest onlookers.

It makes the air thinner somehow.

Even though I wore the ring for only a few hours, my hand felt bare without the metal encasing my
skin, and I sigh in relief as Harry pushes it past my knuckle to rest lovingly on my left ring finger.

Finally, he pulls the smallest box from his hip, and, tipping open the lid, pulls the orb from the
velvet and rolls it gently across the hardwood of the table.

Just like that, the Fidelius charm activates.

Shacklebolt lifts it from the table, rotating it in his grip to read the engraved marks.

His eyes go wide in shock, staring at us with open amazement.

Dumbledore looks ready to bust.

“Bonded-Mates,” Shacklebolt breathes in that calm, soothing voice of his.

Harry takes my hand in his and with a tiny tug, walks several feet into the middle of the kitchen.
The nerves I’m expecting from Harry never appear.

Instead, he’s almost serene as he looks into my eyes before facing the rest of the room.

“May I introduce you to my wife. Hermione Jean Granger Potter-Black.”

Mrs Weasley, with a sharp intake of air and her hands to her chest, drops into a dead faint.

The entire room explodes into noise.

Chapter 15
 Harry

The cacophony of sound that explodes when I make my announcement is an assault on our senses.

Hermione’s shoulders lift in shock, and her hands rise in an effort to protect her ears.

Her eyes are alight in laughter, the sound of it tinkling like glass.

I close the little distance between us and hold her to my body, unable to contain my own laughter
inside.

Everything makes so much sense when I wrap my arms around her.

Happiness I didn’t know I could experience buoys around in my chest as Hermione tries to hide her
face from the onslaught.

Questions and exclamations are bandied about from so many directions I can’t tell one from the
other anymore.

Arthur jumps from his chair, immediately falling to his knees by his prone wife, but Molly is
already coming around.

He helps her into his vacated seat and joins as she tries to fan herself.

Never have I seen an example of horrified excitement so clear as I see it on Molly Weasley’s face.
She looks like she can’t decide whether to scream or cry, and it makes her look like a fish, her
mouth opening and shutting again at random intervals.

I meet Ron’s eyes over their shoulders.

He’s mid-chew, a cake of some sort in his hand, and he kind of shrugs and half nods before
grinning and shoving another bite into his mouth.

A chuckle escapes under my breath.

I suppose that’s a nod of support. Or a sign that the continued ruckus is as good a result as I could
have expected when dropping this sort of news.

If it was a surprise to Hermione and me, I can only imagine what it’s done to all the purebloods in
the room. They grew up on stories of Bonded-Mates living, as Ragnok said, happily ever after.

We’re in the second phase of a war that’s lasted two decades.

Happily, ever after feels a long way off right now.

Ginny storms out of the room, and I spare half a second to feel guilty about her but then decide that
it isn’t even worth that long. Instead, I kiss the top of the head covered in curls laughing against my
chest and remind myself that according to that file, the woman in my arms was literally made for
me.

Sirius and Remus are cheek to cheek, talking in hushed tones.

Remus’ eyes are on us, and as Sirius talks, a smile breaks out on his face. At something Sirius says,
Remus laughs outright, and it completely changes his expression. He looks decades younger, and
the transformation is startling.

Hermione squeezes my side, and I drag my attention back to my wife.

My wife, whom half the order now knows about.

Terror eats at my insides as Hermione tries to get my attention. I don't need to count, as she's been
encouraging me to do, because the danger isn't in the future anymore.

It's right here in this room.

Probably reading the panic on my face, Dumbledore gives me a swift nod of assurances.

Even though he seems to be thoroughly enjoying the commotion around him, he rises to his feet,
gesturing for the others to simmer down.

It was unnecessary.

As soon as he stood, silence began to fall.

He bows to me, his blue eyes twinkling and jumping in amusement. I return the courtly gesture as
much as I can with Hermione in my arms.

He faces the firing squad again.

“I know there are questions to be asked and a celebration to be had. However, there are other
matters we need to attend to first. As all of you know, Harry has spent most of his life living with
his Muggle relatives under protections laid down as his mother died.”

Hermione grips my hand, and I twist our fingers and suck in her strength.

“While the Soul-Bond has been in place for some time now, the Mating-Bond is a recent event. So
recent, in fact, that we were unaware of its existence, until Harry and Hermione made a trip to the
bank this morning and were informed of its presence.”

Emmaline Vance interrupts.

“How can that be possible, Albus? Surely they’d have felt the bindings?”

Hermione answers before Dumbledore can.

“Harry and I were both raised by Muggles, Ma’am. We’ve—” she looks at me, and I swear I hear
her thoughts, sense her deliberating about how much to say. I cut in.

“We’ve been able to read each other’s thoughts for years. Almost from the moment we met. We
can feel when the other is around. It’s not even all that big of a secret. More like a running joke
between our friends.”

Ron snorts so hard food slides from his mouth.

“It was kinda freaky to be honest,” he adds.

I step back in before the conversation gets away from me.

“But since we were raised by Muggles and had no knowledge of Soul-Bonds or Soul-Mates, we
just sort of shrugged it off. When the Mate-Bond—“ I feel her eyes on me and turn to watch
Hermione watching me.

Bonded-Mate.

Dumbledore clears his throat.

“Take it from someone who has known them for some years now. While it may have taken them
by surprise, it makes perfect sense to the rest of us. But the protections that have kept Harry safe
for the last fourteen years are now null and void.

“That is what we will do tonight. We go to collect Harry’s belongings from his Muggle residence
and lay down what protections we can for them. I hope we can encourage them to leave the home
entirely. Britain is no longer safe. But if not, we will do what is in our power to ensure their
continued security.”

Dumbledore lowers his voice, as chatter picks up among the other Order Members.

McGonagall makes her way over to us.

“Hermione, my dear. Your safety needs to be considered as well. It would please me to go with you
to explain the situation to your parents.”

Panic flares behind Hermione’s eyes, and she tugs at a strand of her hair.

“If it’s all the same to you, Professor, I don’t want to tell my parents anything. I was of the mind
that,” she stops and closes her eyes, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “I was planning on spelling
them into joining Doctors Without Borders,” she admits, “and dealing with them at Christmas.”

Her voice drops even lower. “Or maybe after I turn eighteen.”

McGonagall’s face scrunches in displeasure, her nose downturned and a lecture priming on her
tongue. Dumbledore, however, chuckles under his breath.

“Quite understandable, Mrs Potter-Black. Very sensible, as always. Your parent’s safety is
certainly at risk, both as the parents of a well-known Muggle-born, but now also as the parents to
the wife of Harry Potter.”

The blood leeches from Hermione’s face. I pull her to my side.

“It’ll be okay,” I promise, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. “If I have to camp in your folks’
front yard, I promise I won’t let anything happen to them.”

Dumbledore laughs again.

“I don’t think we’ll have to go to such extremes. No, Lady Potter-Black has the right idea, I think. I
have a hard time picturing, say, Lucius Malfoy, traipsing through a third world country ravished by
poverty and war looking for a pair of Muggles he’s never met before. With the right push, and an
obliviation here or there, we can get your parents safely out of the way until this whole messy
situation is resolved.”

One way or another.

Harry Potter’s wife.

Speaking of which.
I raise my hand in the air, and the room quiets as if I’ve cast a silencing charm.

“Already,” I say loud and clear, “I’m fighting the need to have Hermione obliviate each and every
one of you.”

Dumbledore laughs again, as do one or two others. The ones that know me best. I’m glad they
think it’s funny because I’m completely serious.

Maybe they don’t think that she could do it, but I know she can.

She’s done more than most of them could ever dream of.

Dumbledore meets my eye, and I know he, at least, knows I'm deadly serious.

“Word of this Bond is not to leave this house. I know the knowledge is under Fidelius, but
somehow that doesn't feel enough to ensure Hermione’s safety. I can’t force you all into the
unbreakable vow,” I say, despite how much I wish I could. “But Voldemort wants to kill me for a
reason, and it isn’t because I’m prettier than him. I’ve survived the killing curse once. I’ll do more
than that to keep her safe!”

Shacklebolt rises from his seat.

“I will take the vow, if that is what you require.”

I can feel Hermione’s shock at that.

I stand up to my full height, wishing for the thousandth time in the last two weeks that I was taller.
“Your word of honour will be enough, Kingsley,” I assure him.

He takes my hand in his, giving it a firm shake.

“You have it,” he declares.

The others quickly follow after him.

Dumbledore pulls his pocket watch free, and I still don’t understand all the different ticks and
dials.

“Night has fallen,” he informs the gathered masses. “It is time we go.”

People break off into twos and threes, preparing for the task ahead.

There's a line of friends and family jostling for my attention, but I call for Dumbledore instead,
ignoring the anxious looks from the Weasleys and the amused expressions from Padfoot and
Moony.

"Sir, why are we even bothering?" I ask, and he lifts his eyebrow at the question.

"I was just planning on bringing Dobby, grabbing my trunk, and never thinking about them again. I
don't understand why this is necessary."

Dumbledore smiles, but the expression is relatively empty.

"I understand you don't have the best relationship with your family, Harry. But do you honestly
want to leave them to the mercy of Voldemort’s restraint?"
I open my mouth to say I don't give a shit, but Mi answers before me.

"No," she says, shooting me a dirty look. "He doesn't."

"I—" I try to say anyway, and Hermione hits me with the back of her hand in the middle of my
stomach.

"Hey!" I make a strangled noise at the impact and jerk to protect my gut, my lip turned up in
disgruntlement. For such a small person, she sure does hit hard.

"Merlin," Remus breathes, his eyes wide and his face shining.

"I know," Sirius agrees. "It’s like watching James get lectured by Lilly all over again."

"How didn't we see it before?" Remus counters.

Sirius shakes his head slowly, grinning ear to ear.

"I have no idea."

“I’m glad this is entertaining to you,” Hermione pouts with her nose up in the air. It’s adorable.

“You have no idea,” Sirius replies again. “It’s like the best prank ever.”

Hermione huffs and crosses her arms over her chest in irritation. I can’t help but smile at her
petulance.

“Kreacher,” Sirius calls. “Could you come here for a moment please?”

Kreacher starts twisting in and out from between people’s knees, making his way over to his
master.

“Yes, Master Sirius? How can Kreacher be of service?”

Sirius smiles at the elder elf, and their interactions are such a stark difference from what they had
before that it makes me double-check.

Mi seems to recoil in shock.

“Harry accepted the oaths of Head of House this morning.”

“Oh, is that what I did? I was under the impression they were unceremoniously dropped onto my
lap, but let’s not banter about semantics now, I suppose.”

Sirius ignores me and continues to talk to Kreacher.

Mrs Weasley looks on the verge of fainting again.

“Please ensure the Master Suite is ready for Harry by the time we get back.”

“Wait,” I almost yell in my effort to slow Kreacher down.

He was already bowing and turning by the time Sirius finished. “I don’t need the Master bedroom.
You should have that.”

Kreacher freezes in his tracts.

“Can’t,” Sirius says, shrugging with a small smile. “Master bedroom is warded to the Head of
House. Besides, you couldn’t pay me enough money to sleep in that room.”

He laughs when I frown, remembering the room was his parent’s space.

“Don’t worry, Pup. This was always the plan. That room was the first to be cleaned out. Got a new
mattress and everything. Never been slept on. Remus and I have the Jack and Jill rooms upstairs.”

Well, that’s going to change soon.

I try not to smirk at the knowledge that Remus and Tonks get married in a few years.

“Jack and Jill?” I ask, unsure of the term. Remus’s lips turn up in a small smile. “More like Jack
and Jack,” he says. “The two bedrooms on the top floor. There’s a secret passageway between
them. The muggles call that configuration Jack and Jill. Usually there’s a loo separating the rooms
that connect with doors on either side.”

What? I slept in that room for months.

“How did I never know that?”

Remus gives me a bemused look.

“How would you know that, Harry?” he asks, and I have to swallow back my tongue.

“Sorry,” I reply, shaking my head and running my fingers over my forehead. “It’s been a long
day.”

Remus smiles for real this time, and I swear he looks like a different person.

“I can only imagine.”

“May Kreacher go now, Master Harry?” the elf asks, looking towards me, and I start at being
addressed so.

Oh yeah.

“Kreacher, before you do that, Hermione and I have been friends with a set of elves for a while
now, and a few weeks ago we Bonded with them. I had no idea at the time that I would be Head of
House for two families before the month was out.”

I shoot Sirius another glare.

“Will it be alright with you if they stay here? Winky is really Hermione’s elf, and Dobby, well, I
guess he’s mine.”

Kreacher stands up straight and bows until his nose touches the ground.

“Kreacher would never presume to tell his Master what he can and cannot do. With this many
people in the Black residence, there be plenty of work for Kreacher to share.”

I can feel Hermione’s displeasure at the thought of the elves waiting on us all hand and foot, but at
least she keeps the comments to herself.

“Dobby, Winky,” I call in a lifted voice and the pops of apparition ring out in the kitchen.
“You called, Harry Potter sir?” Dobby says, bouncing up and down on his toes.

He’s still wearing my Quidditch jersey with Potter stretched across his back. However, he has
several beaded necklaces around his throat, and his socks have been replaced with over large jelly
sandals. Winky is wearing a prim purple dress with a bow in her hair.

She rushes over to Hermione and wraps her in a hug.

Kreature looks askance to see our house elves wearing clothing.

“You’ve been gone all day, Mistress,” Winky says with distress, her ears drooping in concern.
“Winky was worried. You’d be needing Winky! Who would take you to Master Harry’s bedroom
if Winky wasn’t with you?”

A dozen sets of eyes turn in our direction, and blood rushes our faces.

Hermione ducks her head and lowers herself into a squat to better talk to her newest companion.

“Harry is moving houses tonight. Remember we told you he would be by the end of the summer?
Well, it happened a lot sooner than we were expecting. This will be your home now. At least, until
we go back to Hogwarts.”

I don’t know what we’ll do with them then, filters through my mind.

“Will you’s be living with the Master now?” Winky asks in her squeaky little voice.

“I—” Hermione looks up at me, and I don’t know what to say!

We always end the summer in the same house together either way.

Hermione looks back at Winky.

“Yes Winky. Harry and I will be living together now.”

Winky throws her arms around Hermione’s neck, and Mi has to lower a hand to the floor to stop
her from tipping over.

“Dobby, Winky,” I say, calling the attention of our elves to me. “This is Kreacher.” Kreacher gives
a bow that our elves return with aplomb. “Kreacher, this is Dobby and Winky. Dobby has been my
friend for years, and we met Winky last summer. If you can help them get settled in I’d appreciate
it.”

Hermione speaks up, rising to her feet.

“I don’t know what the bedroom situation is like, but I’d appreciate it if Winky could have her
own space. Also, Kreacher,” she adds, and I’d know what’s coming next even without a Bond. “As
you can see, our elves are free to wear whatever they like. We’d be more than happy to take you
shopping. Consider it a uniform of your choice. Or Dobby can take you shopping if you want. You
don’t have to wear a towel if you don’t want to.”

My eyes dart to Mrs Weasley when she makes a sound, her face scrunched up in displeasure.
Arthur lays a gentle hand on her elbow, and Molly’s mouth snaps shut again.

When she eventually blows, it’s going to be spectacular.

Kreacher looks to his fellow elves, and I swear I can see the calculations going on behind his eyes.
For all that he can be an old, disgruntled fellow, he’s far from unintelligent. Our previous
relationship with him proved that.

Finally, he seems to have come to a decision.

“Kreacher will consider it, Mistress,” is all he says before bowing and turning away.

Dobby runs up and gives me a knee-bruising hug before scattering after his fellows. Silence falls in
our little group, the only noise coming from the others talking amongst themselves on the other
side of the kitchen.

“Well,” Dumbledore says. “As illuminating as this has been, time ticks on. We’d best head to your
Aunt and Uncle’s house Harry, before they start to worry where you’ve gone.”

“They’ll be more concerned when I show back up,” I reply, and I swear Dumbledore winks at me
before turning to stride from the kitchen.

Sirius wedges his way in between Hermione and me prying our fingers apart.

He leans his head down until his cheek is almost against Hermione’s face.

“You’ve been using the elves to sneak into Harry’s bedroom?” Sirius snarks under his breath.

Hermione stumbles over her feet.

“Shut up!” she pouts.

She must be really out of sorts. Elsewise, my Hermione would never take that tone with someone
she thought of as an authority figure. “It’s not like that at all. I haven’t slept very well since...” her
eyes flick to me. “Since Harry fought Voldemort again.”

Since we died, is what she means.

Sirius nods in understanding, wrapping his arm around her shoulders in an offer of comfort.

Though, knowing what we know now, I think we can agree they weren’t my nightmares.

I flush at that. I’m sure I wasn’t meant to catch that thought.

“I know that,” Sirius whispers. “I saw the way it was when you’d been separated for a few days.
But you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

Merlin.

“Bugger off, Padfoot. Leave her alone.”

I give my Godfather a playful shove, and he pretends to be wounded, stumbling over to Remus,
who catches Sirius as he falls against him and laughs good-naturedly.

I can’t get over the changes in them.

They were both so troubled in the last timeline. Today they seem almost giddy.

I imagine this is what they were like when my folks were alive. Despite the turmoil going on in the
world, they were laughing and smiling and pulling pranks on one another.
My dad discovering he’d accidentally wed my mom would have been the ultimate prank in their
eyes.

Even Moony, who I know from stories was the most sensible of the three, would find that a laugh
riot.

I link my fingers with Hermione’s again as we follow the long line of people up the stairs and out
of the house.

Dumbledore has already stolen the light from the streetlamps with his deluminator.

Thanks to Ron and the Twin’s rescue of me from Privet Drive when I was twelve, more people
know the location of my not-so-homey home than not. Only the older Order members have no idea
where we’re going tonight.

Had this been in the other timeline, everyone would know where I live by the end of the summer.

Because they’d had me under surveillance.

Without my knowledge.

Irritation boils in my stomach, but Hermione squeezes my hand. She gives her head a tiny shake
when I look at her, and I let the anger go.

I suppose that’s another benefit that the wards has already broken.

Now everybody’s spying will be done in person rather than under an invisibility cloak.

I have little doubt although Hermione and I are both legal adults and married, and technically no
one holds any authority over me, we won’t be allowed to so much as sit on the front stoop alone.

For the time being, it’s fine with me.

If it were me by myself—but it’s not.

There’s no way I can ditch Hermione at this point, even if it would be safer for her. She could
probably sniff me like a bloodhound half a world away. Her safety is all that matters.

If that means we have a permanent entourage until Voldemort is defeated, well, then that’s the way
it’ll have to be.

Dumbledore is pairing people off with those that know the location and those that don’t, and those
who can apparate and those who can’t when I walk into the middle of the group and speak up.

“Sir, Hermione and I can both apparate. We don’t need to side along.”

Dumbledore double takes, then gives a tiny nod.

“Very good, Harry. We can go in one trip that way.”

He turns to start reassigning couples.

Mrs Weasley, who up until this point had been arguing with the Twins about whether being of age
meant that they could be active members of the Order despite still being in school, turns to us
instead.
As my eyes adjust to the dark, the horror on her face becomes apparent.

“Since when are you able to apparate?” she demands, her hands on her hips.

Hermione’s emotions spike in that little bundle in the back of my head.

“Since this afternoon,” I tell her. “I got licensed when I was at the ministry.”

McGonagall, who walked up while I was speaking, stops dead in her tracks, her eyes boggling out
of her head.

“But when did you learn how to apparate?” she asks, her voice rising in pitch.

I figure it's best to tell the truth whenever possible.

“At school,” I tell them. “You teach us there.”

I try to sound like she’s the one being unreasonable, but that wasn’t the right response. Sirius turns
his back to hide his amusement, but everyone else is wearing expressions ranging from horrified to
flat-out disbelief.

“Yes, but when ?” she insists again, leaning forward on her feet. “That class isn’t offered until
Sixth-Year.”

Much to my surprise, Dumbledore lifts his hand, silencing his deputy Headmistress.

“I’ve learned in my old age, Minerva,” he says with a twinkle in his eye, “that it is better to not ask
questions from which you don’t really want the answers.”

His hand runs down his beard, his majestic purple robe giving him the aura of a Wizard from a
Muggle picture book.

McGonagall jerks her head, taken back by his response.

“But I do want the answer!” McGonagall insists, anger pinkening her cheeks.

“No, Minerva. I really don’t think you do.”

I turn and face Hermione.

Does he know? Hermione asks through the Bond.

Best not to ask questions from which you don’t want the answer, I reply.

I all but see her eyes roll in the back of my head.

“Right then.”

Dumbledore pivots to where the Weasleys are still having it out.

“Molly, dear,” he says, walking over to them. He pats her on the face, the motion somehow
condescending yet endearing simultaneously. “There’ll be very little danger tonight. Let the boys
have some fun.”

With that, Molly huffs and turns on her heel, marching back into the house.

For the first time since we left the Black residence, I notice Ron; his shoulders are slumped with
his hands shoved in his pockets.

He’s outside the assembled group, watching the chaotic pops of people disappearing into the air.

“Sorry, Ron,” I say, realising that he can’t come along. “This isn’t going to be pleasant, anyway.
You aren’t missing much.”

“Sure,” he says, shuffling his feet. “Guess I’ll wait for you inside.”

Without another word, he follows his mother up the stoop.

“He’ll be alright,” Hermione says, tugging on my fingers.

“Yeah,” I say, wishing there was a way I could make this easier for him.

The last thing I have patience for is coddling Ron. Even if, when our positions were reversed last
time, I was put out over being left in Privet Drive by myself all summer.

Within a moment there's only three of us left.

“See you over there, Pup,” Sirius says, and just like that, I’m alone.

With Hermione.

“We better hurry up,” she prods me.

“Mmm-hmm,” I agree, but don’t move an inch.

“Har-ry,” she says, in that way that breaks my name into two syllables. Without thinking, I dig my
hand into her curls and pull her closer to me.

“One minute,” I plead.

She looks at me with those big brown eyes. When she wraps her hand around my wrist, I swear my
skin burns at her touch.

“Twenty seconds,” she counters. “Any longer than that, and they’ll send someone back looking for
us.”

I hate it when she’s right.

“How are you? Are you okay?”

She releases her breath in a silent huff, rolling her eyes at me.

“I’m fine, Harry,” she says in quiet exasperation.

“Yes,” I agree. “But how are you really?”

She closes her eyes and seems to lean into my touch.

“Tired,” she finally admits. “It’s been a long day. Which will only take longer if we don’t hurry
up.”

“Ron’s right,” I pout. “You are a nag.”

Her mouth hardens into a line, but her eyes are filled with laughter.
“Harry James Potter! You take that back right this instant.”

I lean forward and swipe my lips against hers, relishing the way she sighs against me.

“Nagging, Witch,” I say again, and before she can reply, I disapparate us both.

The light from the streetlamps has already been stolen by the time we make it to Privet Drive.

“Took you long enough, Pup,” comes the dulcet tones of my Godfather.

“Shove off, Padfoot,” I reply back. “I won’t apologise for needing a moment with my wife.”

It's already second nature to call her that.

I push my way through the crowd of Witches and Wizards, fighting off the sense of nausea at
seeing this many magical folks in Little Winging without it being an emergency.

“Ohhh, look at the big man now!” Sirius continues to tease. “Staking claim of his wife for all to
see.”

Sniggering breaks out among the crowd as I make my way up the walk to Dursley’s front door.

“You’re just jealous that I landed the brightest witch of our age, future Minister of Magic, and you
can’t even get a bird to look at your ugly mug.”

The sniggering turns to outright laughter as I open and push my way into the house.

“Where have you been boy?!”

Vernon’s cry of outrage hits me before I’ve even let go of the handle, and I pull to a stop and let his
anger wash over me before leading my fellows into the house.

It’s a tight fit.

“Dudley came home ages ago,” he screeches, storming into the entryway.

He’s in a burgundy house coat, his moustache twitching like a rat on his face.

He stutters to a stop as Hermione, and the Twins, then Remus and Sirius, and everybody else
follows me into the house.

“Good evening,” Dumbledore says pleasantly, and the red in Vernon’s face grows at the sight of so
many of my lot invading his home.

“Bit tight,” Arthur says. “Perhaps we move this into the living room?”

“Excellent,” Sirius says, pushing past me and looking around at the pictures Petunia has on the
walls.

“Do you need me for this?” I ask, already moving towards the stairs.

“Not at all, Harry,” Dumbledore says jovially. “Go collect your things. We’ll just be introducing
ourselves to your Aunt and Uncle.”

Petunia chooses that moment to walk in behind her husband and gasps in fright, her hands lifting to
pull her housecoat closed.
Right then.

I pull my body from the jostling crowd with a hand on the stair bannister and the other around
Hermione’s wrist, dragging her behind me.

“You two,” I bellow, gesturing for the Twins. “Up here.”

They look slightly put out, not to witness the pandemonium I’m sure is about to take place. I can
still vividly picture Vernon’s face when Dumbledore went off on him when he collected me from
Privet Drive himself.

I have no desire to take part in it this time.

Dudley sticks his head out of his bedroom, opens his mouth to berate me, and then promptly shuts
it with a squeak when he sees Hermione, Fred, and George striding down the hallway behind me.

“Don’t fret, Duddykins. I’m just getting my stuff, and then I’m out of here.”

Dudley, deciding to be brave without any of the adults around, follows us into the bedroom.
Hermione immediately starts to sort my few belongings, using magic to fit them in my trunk the
way she likes them.

“I’m going to tell Mom and Dad you’ve got a girl in your room. You’ll be grounded for the rest of
the summer.”

He tries to sound confident, but I can hear the tremble in his voice.

“Don’t bother,” I say. “Hermione has slept in here every night for the last week. No one has
noticed yet.”

Dudley gasps in shock at the same time the Twins high-five each other.

“Nice,” Fred says. “Wicked,” George agrees.

Hermione barely even blushes this time.

Dudley stutters out his response, and I’m reminded in a visceral way of how young he is right now
and the effort he made in our last go-round to attempt to mend our fences.

In his own way.

“You know, Dudley. I’m almost disappointed. We could have been friends of a sort. In another
lifetime.”

“Friends?” he repeats like the word is foreign on his tongue.

“Yeah,” I agree, nodding my head. “Friends. Too late now, I guess. See you in the next timeline.”

The lid to my trunk slams shut.

“I couldn’t find your schoolbooks, Harry.”

I pivot from Dudley, still gaping over my suggestion we could be friends and face my newfound
wife. The room is empty of my possessions, and it’s disheartening to be reminded of how easily
I’m scrubbed from the home I grew up in.
I run both my hands through my hair, scratching at my scalp.

A candy drops from George’s hand, and I debate for a moment about making him pick it up but
decide to let it ride for old times’ sake. If Dudley is stupid enough to eat a candy left behind by the
twins again, then that’s his own fault.

I grin at them when Fred winks at me.

“They’re in the cupboard under the stairs,” I tell Hermione. “They take them from me at the
beginning of the summer and lock them up.”

She frowns and with a flick of her wand, lifts the trunk into the air.

“After you then, husband,” she jokes.

Dudley spits the candy out of his mouth in shock at what she’s said.

Probably for the best. It looked like a canary toffee to me.

“Follow me, wife,” I banter back, smiling at the playful glee on her face.

I can see the exhaustion pulling at her shoulders, but her effortless beauty still takes my breath
away.

Dudley plasters himself to the wall as we move out of the room, the younger generation of the
Order following me down the stairs. Raised voices hit us the minute we reach the upper landing.

Vernon is yelling about compensation from my lot for all of his troubles.

Swell.

“Is—is that a vent?”

The quiver in Hermione’s voice pulls my attention from the commotion in the sitting room back to
the girl behind me. She inches around my body, getting a clear look at the door to the cupboard
that was my room.

“Oh, yeah.”

I reach forward to flick the gold sliding lock clear, letting the door swing open on its hinges.

“Otherwise, it got too hard for me to breathe. Passed out a time or two. After that, they installed the
vent in the door.”

The Twins, who tower over me at this point, step up to my back, looking over my shoulders.

The camp mattress I slept on is still stretched across the wooden platform. Toys I haven’t thought
of in years line the shelf behind it. My spare set of glasses is now too small for my face are
covered in dust. There’s an old pair of books, a bag of junk deposited and forgotten about.

My school books sit in the middle of the mattress, looking out of place against the rubbish and
disuse of the tiny space.

Anger licks up my spine, making my fingers tingle.

But...
Slowly I turn to Hermione, whose hair, always with a life of its own, is floating around her head.

Magic sparkles from her fingertips, and as one, the Twins take a step back, reaching for their
wands.

“This is where they kept you?” Hemione asks, her voice a cold fury.

It quivers and is so low I barely catch the words, but I feel her hate in the back of my head like a
pulsing ball of fury.

Silence falls across the sitting room.

The Witches and Wizards among us feel her magic as it pours from her in waves.

Dumbledore is the first to flood the entryway, but he’s certainly not the last. The Order shoves
their way through the doorway, feeling the threat in the air. Unaware that it’s radiating from
Hermione.

Wands are in hands up and down the hallway, and they take positions to defend and protect the
Chosen One.

But there’s no protection from the rage on Hermione’s face.

“They kept you locked up in a cupboard.”

It’s not a question this time, but a fact.

“For how long, Harry? How long did they lock you up like a prisoner? Like a slave? Like an
animal only good enough to be kept in a cage?”

I watch with fascination as dawning horror replaces the looks of determination on my friend’s and
family’s faces.

Dumbledore alone knew the full extent of my treatment here.

The others suspected.

Knew, in some shape or form.

But I didn’t share the worst of it. Kept quiet about the beatings and the nights of crying me to
sleep. Didn’t tell the story about my Hogwarts letter being addressed to the cupboard under the
stairs.

Vernon and Petunia squeeze their way through to the front of the chaos, spouting rubbish about his
mistreatment at our hands and disrespecting a man in his own home.

It’s the worst mistake he’s ever made in his life.

Sirius pounces at him, and only Remus, with an arm around his best friend’s throat and the other
around his chest, manages to keep Padfoot’s hands from closing around my Uncle’s beefy neck.

One of them is growling. I couldn’t tell you which.

Petunia screams in fright.

“How long?” Hermione demands again, and I turn my attention back to the tiny witch, who
currently looks twice her size.

I don’t want to answer the question, but she’ll know it if I lie.

Always has been able to tell.

Soul-Bound.

“Always,” I reply honestly. “My Hogwarts letter was addressed to Harry Potter in the cupboard
under the stairs. You saw the locks on the door to the room they gave me when I outgrew the
closet. You heard him banging on the wood. I lock the inside, but they lock the deadbolt every
night. I’ve always been locked away, in one form or another.”

I meet Dumbledore’s eye over her head, and her anger spreads to me like wildfire. I’ve been a
prisoner since the day my parents died.

Hermione twists on her heel, coming to face my mother’s sister.

“You,” she growls, and I grab her around the waist when she lunges for my Aunt.

“All he wanted was love! A family! And you locked him away like a prisoner!”

Hermione screams at her, spit flying from her mouth and her arms outstretched, trying to scratch at
anything she can reach.

“YOU HORRIBLE FUCKING COW!!!” she bellows, and in a burst of magic, glass shatters in the
air, every picture on the wall and vase on display exploding into a million pieces. A dozen shield
charms pop into place, someone slowing the detonation enough that glass hangs unsupported in the
air.

My blood is boiling, and I see red as Hermione’s anger only mounts.

Wind starts to howl through the battlefield the entryway has become, and I know someone is
silently battling Hermione’s determination to wreak havoc on the house.

The Dursleys scream and cover their faces.

For the first time in his life, Vernon acts as the gentleman and attempts to cover Petunia. Dudley is
at the bottom of the stairs and runs up a step or two to avoid the spatter altogether.

“Hermione,” I shout, but she’s too far lost to hear me.

She’s screaming profanities at the top of her lungs, kicking and throwing her body in an attempt to
get free. Hermione’s feelings are singing through me, the clearest I’ve been able to feel yet.

When she gasps for air, I do.

When she screams in rage, I try to pull her back.

“She shouldn’t be this strong,” Remus yells, and I split my attention between the Wizards around
us and the struggling witch in my arms.

“It’s the Bond,” McGonagall all but whispers, her hand covering her mouth and tears streaming
down her face.

“She’s pulling it from Harry.”

Petunia cries out in pain as I snap my head in her direction to see a cut across her cheek, blood
dripping down her face. Another, and another appears, a matching set blooming on Vernon.

With a sinking feeling, I realise that’s exactly what’s happened.

Hermione has taken my anger and twisted it into a weapon.

“You must stop this, Harry,” Dumbledore cries. “Or we will!”

Stop it how ?!

I dig my fingers into Hermione’s arms and whip her around in my grasp, so her front is facing me.

Without another thought, I kiss her, roughly pushing my tongue into her mouth. She screams
against my onslaught, pounding her fists against my chest.

But when I tighten my hand inside her curls and pull, arching her back and tilting her head, her
body goes soft against me.

The terrible wind that was whipping around us slows then dies altogether.

Her arms slide around my back, her nails scraping with such force I’d probably bleed if it weren’t
for the layers of clothing protecting me. She moans against my lips, and I close my eyes as another
wave of power crests over us.

Reminding me of the first kiss. The one that started it all.

She sighs against my touch, a tear slipping down her cheek to land on my lips.

Then Hemione goes limp in my arms, her knees buckling and her hands dropping to her sides.

I breathe in gasps, feeling adrenalin flood my bloodstream now that I’m no longer supported by her
anger.

The Twins rush forward, each eager to assist me with my burden, but I twist her in my arms,
bending low to scoop an arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders.

With a tiny jumble against my chest, I have her firmly in my grip.

Petunia is openly weeping, and Emmaline makes her way over to my trembling relatives, putting
them both to sleep.

Only Dudley remains aware, watching the scene play out with fear from the safety of the stairs.

“That was—” McGonagall starts, but whatever it may or may not have been, she doesn’t finish her
thought. Instead, she moves from behind the Headmaster, running a silent diagnostic on the witch
barely stirring in my arms.

“She’s exhausted,” she tells me unnecessarily. “She’s almost burnt herself out. She needs rest,
Harry. Take her home. We’ll handle this.”

My first name. She must be out of sorts.

“Dobby,” I lift my voice and yell, and Dobby appears at my feet.

“Yes, Master?” He sees Hermione limp in my arms. “Mistress! What’s happened to Harry Potter’s
Mi?”

“She’s just tired, Dobby. Can you take my stuff back to the house? Let Winky know I’m bringing
Hermione to her. She’ll know how to take care of her. Send Winky to get whatever she needs from
Hermione’s folk's place and set it up in my room.”

Dobby gives a quick bow, wringing his hands the whole time, then grabs my trunk and disappears
with it.

I can feel every set of eyes in the house watching me now.

“Fred, there’s a mirror in the bag on my hip. Grab it for me, please?”

Fred hastens to obey, pulling open the zipper as quickly and gently as possible to not disturb the
witch in my arms.

“Give it to Dudley,” I say when it’s in his hands.

Dudley takes it from him from between the slats of the stairs, his eyebrows drawn together in
curiosity but his fingers still trembling.

“It’s part of an enchanted pair,” I tell him. “I’ll have the other half. If you need me for anything,
call me. I’ll get here as quickly as I can.”

“The bag of gold too,” I jerk my head at George, and he reaches into the pouch on my hip and pulls
out the bag of gold from the bank. “Drop it,” I tell him, and he does without question.

It hits the floor and splits, gold spilling in every direction.

“Room and board, for the last fourteen years.”

Ignoring my Aunt and Uncle still on the floor, I hitch Hermione higher in my arms and then make
my way from the kitchen.

My companions’ part for me, and with the Twins following in my wake, I leave the house for the
last time.
Chapter 16
 Harry

As soon as I touch back down in the courtyard in front of Grimmauld Place, the air ripples with the
sounds of apparition.

One, two...seven, eight.

Remus bounds up the steps ahead of me, taking them two at a time and ripping the front door open
before I reach it with Hermione.

“Thanks, Moony,” I sigh, turning my body slightly to get her through the door without knocking
against anything.

She’s awake.

I feel her stirring against me.

Her fingers sink into the fabric of the waistcoat Sirius foisted on me this morning and I haven’t
bothered to remove yet.

But she doesn’t lift her head from where it’s hidden against the crook of my shoulder, and I pray to
every deity I’ve ever heard of that I can get her through the house without further commotion.

The coat rack topples, Tonks’ cry of apology already slipping from her tongue, and I sag in the
hallway.

Mrs Black starts screeching from her portrait. Feet pound from every direction, Molly running
from the kitchen, Ron the upstairs, and Ginny from wherever she ran off to, to pout.

Embarrassment floods into the Bond, and I huff and lift her higher, adjusting my grip where my
hands are starting to cramp. The gloom of the walls only makes the desperation for solitude
pounding through my bloodstream that much worse.

“You can put me down now,” a tiny voice whispers from against my neck.

“Shhh,” I hush her, and continue my stride into the house.

I know logically that the Townhouse is magically expanded inside, but it’s never felt as big as it
does at this moment, when I’m trying to get to the other side unimpeded.

“What happened?!” Mrs Weasley cries, rushing forward with a hand to her mouth and chest.

Arthur cuts her off, bless him.

“She’s had a bout of accidental magic, Molly. She’ll be fine. It just took the wind out of her.”

I give him as grateful a smile as I’m able, sliding past Mr and Mrs Weasley in the hallway. She
immediately falls into place behind me. I can hear her dithering and twisting her fingers in angst.

“Accidental magic? But she’s sixteen! Or near enough. She’s much too old for that.”

Remus jumps in.

“I think the newness of the Bond is still somewhat overwhelming, Molly. It’ll take a little while for
them to master control over it.”

I snort, thankful for the vote of confidence, but not feeling anything remotely like that at the
moment.

I tried to shut the Bond down as soon as I realised what it was doing to her.

We can all agree I failed.

I highly doubt snogging her unconscious is what Dumbledore had in mind when he told me to
make her stop.

“Here,” Mrs Weasley says, moving sideways to hurry in front of me. “We’ve got a bed set up for
her with Ginny,” and she pushes open the door in front and to the left.

I almost stumble over my feet.

I didn’t even notice we were already on the second landing. We walked an entire floor without me
realising it.

I slow to a stop, and the chattering around me drops to nothing as what she’s said penetrates the
fog of my brain.

“Molly,” Remus placates her, then turns his head to the side, eyes searching out an ally. Arthur
hurries over, and I have to hitch Hermione in my arms once again. She mumbles under her breath,
and her weight lightens by half. Her body doesn’t move. She never gives any indication to the
others that she’s awake.

“Winky is already expecting her in our room,” I say.

I start to walk again, but I’m forced to a stop after barely a step.

“Excuse me?” Mrs Weasley hisses, and my shoulders slump in defeat. “I know you aren’t saying
what I think you are.”

My chest sags, and at Hermione’s small nod, I let her legs slip from my arm and help her right
herself on her feet.

Her hair seems limp and sad.

There are bags are under her eyes.

“Winky,” I holler, and she pops in at my knees. “Take care of Hermione please.”

She gives me a tiny nod and a curtsey that would be adorable if I had enough strength left to
appreciate it. I squeeze Hermione’s hand and place it into Winky’s grip. Hermione opens her
mouth to fight me, and the elf disappears with Hermione’s complaint still on her lips.

“Fine,” I say to no one and everyone.

I slide the scabbard from my shoulders, leaning it against the wall. My back is aching, the
combination of exhaustion and Hermione’s weight pulling the muscles tight.

“If you want to do this tonight, fine. Best get it out of the way now, I suppose.”
Blood rushes to Mrs Weasley’s face in anger, and her fists clench at her side.

My feet feel lined in lead.

My stomach is twisting in knots.

I’m a heartbeat away from collapsing. The throbbing pulse of Hermione seems to ebb and flow in
the back of my brain. Is my sudden weakness the Bond trying to even us out?

Will she keep feeling better as I feel worse?

“Now you look here young man,” Mrs Weasley starts, but Sirius cuts her off.

His hands are spread in front of him, beseeching her to understand.

“They’re married, Molly. Bonded and blessed by magic. You can’t expect them to stay in separate
rooms.”

I have no idea how many people are still in the house, listening to details of my life brandied about
for all the world to hear.

I’m too tired to even care.

“They hell I can’t,” she hisses, planting her feet in the middle of the hallway. “I don’t care if
Merlin himself appeared and blessed their union. They’re just children! They don’t know what a
marriage is!”

I’m done with this.

This same fight over and over.

Different people say the same things expecting me to follow blindly. Always with an “I’m sorry,”
afterwards, as their plight that I’m just a child falls on deaf ears to everyone who’s tried to kill me.

“I was never a child.”

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t even think I could if I wanted to.

Hermione stole all the heat I use to keep my blood nice and boiling.

The chilliness of my tone has the same effect, and Mrs Weasley sucks in a gasp of air.

“Voldemort wanted me dead, before I was even born. I was never a child, Mrs Weasley. From
before I could walk, or talk, I’ve been hunted like a wild animal. I didn’t grow up with friends, or
toys, or trips to the zoo for my birthday. I’ve lived in a cage for my entire life. Sometimes in a
castle, but a cage none the less. I wasn’t a child the day we met, and I’m not a child now.”

My scar burns and I rub it absently.

Riddle could always tell when my defences were weakest. He won’t get in this time. With or
without the Horcrux in my head.

Not unless I let him in.

Of that, I’m sure.

Mrs Weasley’s chin is trembling, tears building in her eyes. I step out of her reach when her hands
lift to hug me. I close my own eyes so I don’t have to watch the pain on her face. I don’t have the
energy to deal with anything other than Hermione tonight.

“Because of that—” I continue and have to swallow back the lump in my throat.

“Because I can’t open my eyes without wanting to lash out and break something, the person now
stuck with me for the rest of her life is upstairs suffering. I doubt I can do much to help her, since I
caused the problem. But the one thing I can do is hold her when she sleeps. Since it’s my
nightmares that make it hard for her to sleep to begin with.”

Sirius gives me the smallest of smiles, winking when no one is looking at him.

I go in for the kill.

Slytherin himself would be proud.

“You were the first family I had. But she’s my family now, and as of eleven o’clock this morning,
this house and everything in it became my property. If you don’t like the arrangements as they
stand, you’re welcome to leave.”

Molly whimpers and Arthur looks heartbroken.

I can’t tell if it's because of what I’ve said or how it affected his wife.

But I reach out and rub her arm as I pass her, grabbing the sword on my way, and then find the
stairs leading up to the master suite.

I can still hear them as I slowly climb the steps.

“You heard the prophecy, Molly. The power the Dark Lord knows not.”

Determination makes Sirius sound like a prophet, preaching from his pulpit. Remus picks up his
speech, and their interaction reminds me of how Hermione and I sometimes talk.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Remus says. His voice trembles with excitement. “It’s the Bond, Molly. Love is
something that Voldemort will never understand. Hermione is the power that the Dark Lord knows
not!”

With one last step, I’m out of earshot, and their voices fade away.

I lived in this house off and on for three years and I can’t think of a single time I stepped into this
structure wing.

The first time I lived here, I shared a room with Ron several floors over, and the last, I slept in
Sirius’s room.

We spent most of our time in the kitchen or the family library. It never occurred to me to wander
into the places where the rest of Sirius’s family lived.

Even though I owned it, it was still his house.

Now, it’s mine in every sense of the word.

Sirius made sure of that.

The results of Kreacher’s recent purging are evident everywhere I look. The wallpaper, faded and
bleak, has square outlines every few feet where the paper is brighter than anywhere else. Portraits
and paintings were removed from the plaster, hidden, or just as likely burned to never be seen
again.

The floors have been freshly scrubbed, and the dim and damp hallways have been lit with fresh
torches.

I wonder what it would take to rip down the old-fashioned wallpaper and slap on a nice coat of
paint?

Hermione said it a few days ago.

Sirius isn’t an escaped convict anymore.

Even though this is still the Order’s meeting place, most of what the Order did in the last timeline
has already been rendered moot. They aren’t following me around, and they won’t be hiding
outside the Department of Mysteries. With me as the acknowledged heir of the Potter and Black
bloodlines, it won’t be suspicious to have people in and out of the building any longer.

I could probably shunt the task of modernising the Townhouse onto Molly’s plate and have her
thank me for it.

Despite the long expanse of hallway, there’s only one door at the end. Moony and Padfoot are on
the complete other side of the building.

No surprise there.

I stop and twist on my feet. Huh.

I look down the hallway and back towards the stairs. The house is mirrored. Only instead of a suite
on the other side, it’s broken into two rooms.

All this time, and I never noticed that before.

The rest of the order that lives in the house are scattered in the dozen bedrooms throughout the
remaining floors.

Is Buckbeak still in the attic? Have the dungeons been converted into a space for Remus to
transform?

The list of things I don’t know about the house I own is larger than the things I do.

I grasp the doorknob in my hand but hesitate before I turn it.

I have no idea what kind of state Hermione is in. It may be my room, but I don’t even know if I’m
welcome in it. After all that, I may end up bunking with Ron after all.

I knock instead, the clacking of my knuckles on the wood seeming to echo horribly in the
abandoned hallway.

Winky opens the door at once, a frown marring her face.

“Why you’s knock Master? Tis your room.”

She steps aside and pulls open the door, allowing me space to enter. I don’t move from my spot in
the hallway.

“I didn’t know if Hermione would want to see me,” I admit. “Is she okay?”

“Yes,” Winky says, nodding her head and making her ears flop.

“The mistress was tired. I put her in the bath. It will make her feel better. Come. Winky has the fire
going, and Dobby brought Master and his Mi some food. Mistress hasn’t eaten dinner. It’s no
wonder she felt ill. You’s need to take better care of her, sir. Winky cannot be with you all the
time.”

I goggle at the little elf lecturing me about taking care of Hermione.

Three weeks ago, she never would have had the courage to reprimand me like that.

I suppose it’s a good sign that she feels comfortable enough with us to tell us how she feels.

Without waiting for my response, Winky latches onto my wrist and hauls me bodily into the master
suite, firmly shutting the door behind me.

There’s a beautiful fire roaring in a white marble fireplace and a small round table with two chairs
sitting in front of a floor-to-ceiling window.

A plate of bread, fruit and a pitcher with two goblets rest on the tabletop.

I hope it’s juice and that Dobby hasn’t snuck wine from the kitchens.

On second thought, wine might not go amiss.

A massive bed takes up a quarter of the space, the mahogany four-poster frame seeming to stretch
twenty feet in the air. Black velvet curtains are hanging from the top and pushed open to give a
perfect view of the mattress, and the sheets look like emerald satin.

There are more pillows at the head of the bed than existed in the entire Dursley household.

Two trunks rest at the foot of the bed, and Dobby is quietly moving my clothes from a chest and
through a door that I can only assume leads to a closet.

A matching door is on the other side of the room.

Much to my surprise, while the room is opulent, it’s subdued in a way the rest of the house isn’t. At
first glance, you wouldn’t be able to tell that darkish Wizards of the highest order have lived in this
room for nearly a century.

“Dobby will see you ready for bed, Master,” Winky instructs me, then toddles off to the second
door.

Steam leaves the room when she opens it, and I get a glance of light bouncing off a mirror and the
image of wet curls hanging long over bare shoulders before she closes the door behind her.
 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione

I tried to convince Winky that I didn’t need her supervision to bathe.

She burst into tears.

Which is the only reason I’m in a clawfoot bathtub large enough to fit three grown men with my
eyes closed, letting her massage soap into my hair. She conjured a footstool to stand on, from
where I have no idea. But she’s humming lightly as she scrubs at my scalp, and I don’t want to
admit how wonderful it feels.

I chose to ignore how quickly the tears stopped the moment I agreed to let her help me.

“That feels fantastic, Winky,” I tell her anyway because it does, and she deserves to know it.

But now, her humming has the distinct tone of cockiness behind it, and I’m afraid I’ve just signed
my death warrant.
I’ll never be allowed to bathe alone again.

I feel it in my bones.

“Winky uses a special potion. Mistresses’ hair will be much easier to brush.”

She places a soft finger under my chin and tilts my head back. Water begins to cascade down my
back as she rinses the potions from my hair.

A knock startles me out of my revere, and Harry’s voice comes through the door.

“You okay, Mi?” he asks, and his tone has a hollow quality.

I can’t decide if it’s from the wood separating us or because of what happened at his Aunt and
Uncle's house. The Bond between us is all muddled, somehow. It’s like wading through quicksand,
everything tacky and thick.

“Yeah,” I tell him, lifting my voice so he can hear me through the expansive space that is the
bathroom.

The bathroom, it’s a lot.

White and grey marble from top to bottom.

Double sinks, a separate shower room.

Floor-to-ceiling windows.

There’s a loveseat in one corner and a chair in another. There are fluffy white linens that must be
brand new. Nothing in this house could still be that white.

The entire suite is over the top.

I find it ironic, if I’m being honest, that so much of the house is cast in darkness, but the master
wing will be bathed in light for the majority of the day.

It’s not any more than I’ve come to expect from wealthy pureblood families, but it’s a strange
feeling in my stomach knowing that technically, in the eyes of the law, Harry and I own it now.

We own a lot more than that. The combined portfolio of the Potter-Black estates is expansive, and
the Townhouse is just the tip of the iceberg.

Harry is still standing outside the door.

I feel him there, like an open wound.

The harder he tries to contain his emotions, the more it makes my head hurt.

“You can come in, Harry. I’m decent.”

If you ignore the fact that underneath the foot of bubbles, I’m completely naked, I am.

The door handle twists, and the wood creeps open, if only just a crack.

“I wanted to check on you before I go find a shower,” he says, and I can see his reflection via the
giant mirror that takes up half the wall.
He meets my eye in the glass, then quickly looks down at his feet.

He's finally ditched the waistcoat, and his shirt is completely open, hanging from his shoulders and
untucked from his black jeans.

His belt is unfastened and loose around his hips.

Merlin, that’s an even better look on him than the actual outfit was. The lines of his muscles are
evident from the hard ridges of his abdomen and the tight v of his hips.

I see every scar gracing his body in a new light.

If I tried, I could probably put a memory to every wound. The ones I was there to witness firsthand,
and the ones I weaned from his mind when I saw that fucking cupboard.

“You can come in farther than that,” I try again.

The door opens wider, but Harry doesn’t take another step.

“Honestly, Harry,” I sigh in exasperation. “Last week you were stripping down to your pants in
front of me without a care in the world. Today, you find out that we’re actually married, and you
can’t look me in the eyes when I’m literally covered from the neck down. I didn’t realise you were
such a scaredy cat.”

He meets my eye in the mirror again, and the Gryffindor courage flares behind his glasses.

He enters the room, shutting the door until it’s only a crack.

He doesn’t walk over to me but instead moves to the counter and hoists himself up, so he’s sitting
on the edge with his feet dangling above the floor.

What is it about bare feet that are so sexy?

Maybe it’s the fact that we always see people in shoes. Bare feet seem intimate in a way few other
things can. Even in the tent, he almost always wore socks.

Am I honestly getting turned on by Harry’s feet?

The buzz from earlier must have been stronger than I thought.

Which makes perfect sense because if that’s what Harry feels like all the time, then I don’t know
how his body can possibly keep all the magic thrumming through him contained.

“How are you?” he asks, leaning forward with his hands gripping the countertop.

His posture seems to deflate, the hardness of his shoulders drooping into a soft curve.

I yank my eyes away from the tempting vision Harry presents and focus on his words.

“I’m okay,” I try to assure him. “I promise.”

I don’t think either of us really believes that, but it’s worth a try.

His smile is gentle, the green of his eyes sparkling in the low-lit room.

Winky leaves her perch from behind my back and drapes a fluffy robe over the seat of a wingback
chair in the corner by the windows, then she silently leaves the room, shutting the door gently
behind her.

When Harry meets my eye again, he looks like he’s about to cry.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione. I had no idea I could do that to you.”

I jerk in surprise, the bubbles in the tub floating out and away from where they’ve been
concentrated.

“You didn’t do anything, Harry! It was me that lost control! Or did a blow to the head scramble
your memories? I’m the one that lost my cool.”

I bring my knees up until they poke out of the water and wrap my arms around them.

“I can’t believe I did that. I mean, they deserved it. But—"

Anger rips through me, hot and savage, before disappearing just as quickly.

“Gods, Harry. Is it always like that?”

The power riding through him and the struggle to keep it contained—it left me speechless. No
wonder his temper is always on a hair trigger.

His lips tip up in a half smile.

“You get used to it,” he quietly replies.

“Ugh,” I groan and drop my forehead onto my knees.

“Everyone saw it, Harry. The Headmaster, Professor McGonagall. Half the Wizards there work for
the ministry! Every time I fill out a job application, they’re going to remember that one time I went
mental in Harry Potter's living room.”

Harry laughs at that, full-bodied and throaty. I lift my head to glare at him but can’t seem to do it
when I see the happiness on his face.

“So now they know the real you,” he grins. “Brilliant, but scary.”

“Hardy-har-har,” I snap at him.

I rest my cheek against my knees, trying to think back to seeing that cupboard.

“I don’t even remember what happened, to be honest. Not really. I just remember being so
incredibly enraged. I knew, of course, that they’d hurt you. But I don’t think I understood the true
meaning of it until I saw the vent. It wasn’t even the cupboard. Not really. It was knowing that to
keep you alive, they had to put holes in your cage for you to breathe.”

I look at Harry, and it steals my breath away. How can a boy who was treated so poorly, have
grown into such a man?

He would do anything for the people he loves.

Kill for us, be killed.

He’s suffered inhumanities that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Hell, the first thing he did
when given a second chance was go to his oldest antagonist and offer him help. How did a boy
kept in a cage learn to become such a man as this?

I can’t wrap my head around it.

“I saw the doggy door upstairs,” I say. “I figured they used it to feed you when they locked you in.
But you had a room. A window. They didn’t replace the bars after the Weasley’s yanked them out.
For some reason I always thought of your time with the Muggles in an abstract sort of sense. I
couldn’t imagine the horrors you suffered until I saw them. Now I almost wish I never had.
Because it’s all I can see. You as a toddler, locked and crying in that tiny closet.”

I have seen it now.

I’ve lived it.

Felt it with him.

Only we were barely three, and we didn’t understand why Dudley got all those toys and was
always hugged, and we cried until we passed out.

He almost died that day. Not for the first or the last time.

Harry wondered if we could share memories. The answer to that question is a big fat yes.

I don’t realise I’m crying until Harry is beside me, sitting on his knees on the outside of the tub and
wiping the tears from my cheeks.

The edges of his shirt get wet, the fabric rendered see-through and heavy with water.

“Save your tears, luv. It’s not worth it. They aren’t worth it, and neither am I.”

He swipes his thumbs across my cheeks, and I sigh in pleasure at the feel of his hands on me. Even
in such a platonic way, it makes my blood sing.

"But I am sorry," I insist, trying and failing to ignore the way my skin heats under his touch. "I'm
sorry for the way they treated you and I'm sorry for losing my shit after I've continuously told you
to keep yours together. And I'm even more embarrassed that I don't even remember what happened.
One minute I was seeing you in that cupboard the next I was slumped against your chest."

"Yeah," Harry says, and ugh, his martyrdom complex is really going to get annoying. His
shoulders sag, and my chest aches with his pain. "So, you don't remember them telling us that it
was my fault. Guess you got a little taste of my resentment and ran with it. My bad.”

I shake my head.

“Uh-huh. Nope. Sorry. You can’t take the blame for this one. Maybe you fueled my little flare-up,
but the hatred was all mine. You were right, we should have left them to rot.”

Harry takes my hand in his and links our fingers, my pruney skin looking deformed, where he holds
them between our faces over the water.

“No,” he sighs. “You were right, as usual. Nobody deserves what Voldemort would do to them,
even the Dursley’s. I gave Dudley my mirror. Remind me tomorrow to get the other half from
Sirius. We’ll have to find another way to communicate with people. If we can get another few sets
of those, or some other means. But I gave Dudley mine, in case anything ever happens, and they
need help. I didn’t stick around to discover the end results of Dumbledore’s negotiations. I’ll ask
tomorrow what’s being done for them. But either way, I made the effort.”

He pulls my hand towards him and kisses the inside of my palm before releasing the digits.

“Dudley wasn’t so bad, outside of his parent’s influence.”

“I’m proud of you,” I tell him honestly.

He shrugs, ducking his head, constantly uncomfortable with praise.

“We’ll see if anything comes of it. I’m not sure which way I want it to fall yet.”

I can understand that. There’s a lot of water under that bridge.

Harry takes a lock of my hair, still hanging damp down my back and over my collar bones, and
twirls it in his fingers.

My breathing tightens in my chest, and I have to concentrate, so it doesn’t sound like I’m gasping
at the intimacy of his touch.

He’s been doing it for weeks now, and we didn’t even realise it.

He clears his throat before he speaks.

“I guess it’s my turn to apologise.”

I don’t need to ask what for. His guilt is thick in the air.

“I’m waiting,” I reply in my best lecture voice and fold my lips over my teeth to stop myself from
smiling.

“Do you know what a gluten allergy is?”

What?

I jerk in surprise so hard that the water splashes up the side of the tub.

“No,” I shake my head. “I don’t.”

Harry gives me a tiny smile.

“Me neither. But I have one.”

The silence is heavy between us, even if it’s a comfortable weight. The tub is heated with a charm,
the temperature never dropping below what’s comfortable. I can sit here all night if need be until
he gathers the courage to say what he’s got to say.

Of course, the pile of bubbles is little more than a creamy film at this point, my chest exposed from
mid breasts up.

“At first,” he starts, leaning back on his hands. “He said it like a slip. I told you the bloke was
angry. He was railing at me, about how I was supposed to die in my sleep with my Soul-Mate, ‘
some doll named Granger .”

I blink away the excitement and fear, ignoring the way elephants bounce up and down in my belly.
I fight to keep my face as neutral as possible.

I know I can’t, so I wrap my arms around my knees again.

“I tried to ask right then, but he blew right over me. I was dead, but all he cared about was how it
affected him. Then later, when he was coming up with his abysmal plan, I looked at the file sitting
open on his desk. There it was, in black and white. Hermione Jean Potter-Black, Soul-Mate. Didn’t
you say I even told you about that, our first night back?”

So I remember.

“If we ever figure out how to share memories on purpose, I’ll let you see the entire thing,” he says.

“I’m holding you to that.”

There’s too much flowing through me. Too many feelings. Too many thoughts.

What’s his and what’s mine? I don’t even know anymore. But at the same time, there isn’t nearly
enough. Because I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and he’s not offering it willingly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask when it becomes apparent that he's not going to say anything more.
Harry leans forward and pulls at the back of his neck, shrugging his response.

I can see his heartbeat pick up in the pulse point on his throat.

"I don't know. What was I supposed to say? What even is a Soul-Mate anyways? Do you know the
answer to that yet? Because I still don't. Now, the Soul-Bond thing," he says, and his lips tilt up in
a smile.

"What Ragnok said about us sharing a soul?"

He huffs out a laugh, and his smile splits his face in two. He looks almost giddy, and I feel my own
giddiness rise up in return.

I want to laugh, and I want to cry, and I don't understand either emotion except for the fact that
when Harry looks at me like that…when he stares at me like I hung the moon and the stars?

I know I'll do anything and everything in my power to keep him looking at me like that for the rest
of my life.

No matter how long that is.

"The Soul-Bond I understand. Intrinsically.”

He flattens his hand in the air, and flames burn on his palm.

“Like magic.”

He closes his fist, and the fire vanishes.

“Two halves of a whole?" His grin is otherworldly. His happiness bubbles in my chest, and Merlin
it should be illegal to feel this delighted. "You are everything I’m not,” he says with a smile.

"You’re smart, beautiful, patient."

"I’m not that patient, Harry," I cut him off, and he laughs and grins, and God's, I'm blushing, and I
have no idea why.

My fingers lift to my face, trying to hide my smile, but there’s no controlling it at this point.

"I know you're not. I was trying to be gentlemanly. Between the two of us I have buckets more of
the stuff. Never be a teacher, Mi. You'll make them cry in the first week."

I try to be offended by that.

I should rage against his impertinence. But when he's right, he's right, and Harry is almost always
right.

It's a bit annoying, really.

“But you’ve always been my better half. Always. I’ve heard your voice in the back of my head long
before that kiss, Mi. This sometimes annoying little voice that tries to send me in the right
direction. Whether I listened is an entirely different conversation.”

"Still," I say, and give him a pointed look. "You could have said something. It’s been different this
time, hasn’t it? We’ve been different. We could have figured it out sooner if you would have told
me.”

“Told you what?” he demands, impatience making his voice tight.

“That stupid file said I died in the arms of a Soul-Mate. A girl who I’d basically been halfway in
love with since I was eleven. Who I was pretty sure was in love with my best friend. Then on top of
it, the file was already wrong! Because the only reason I was there to see your name next to mine to
begin with was because I was dead a hundred and fifty years before it said I should be. Why should
I believe anything written inside of it? So yeah, I didn’t say anything to you. If there was a way I
could undo the Soul-Mate thing, I would. In a heartbeat.”

He shoves up from the floor, his shirt billowing behind him as his anxiety propels him to pace the
length of the bathroom.

“But you already know that, don't you, Hermione? You know me better than I know myself. You
know that if there was a way, if I could hide you somewhere and keep you as far from what’s
about to happen as humanly possible, I would. I’d have never let you come with me last time, if I
thought there was even the smallest chance I could have survived as long as I did without you.
Which there wasn’t. So, you came with me on the hunt, and then you died.”

I open my mouth to respond, but Harry does it for me.

“I mentioned Soul-Mates. The night we came back. I’m assuming you went straight to the
library?”

He stops several feet from the tub and glares at me with his eyebrow arched in question. I hate
looking up at him like this. If we’re going to fight, it should be on equal footing. But I can’t exactly
stand up to my full height at the moment.

Or could I…?

“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin as high as I can.

Nakedness would probably win me this fight pretty quick.

He jerks his chin and resumes his pacing.

“Didn’t find anything worthwhile. If you had, you’d have told me.”

He’s right, dammit.

He knows it too.

“So, telling you would have done nothing. Given us something extra to worry about. Made you
think I was going mental. Clouded your judgement. Because how could you possibly pick what
would actually make you happy with a darkness like Harry Potter's Soul-Mate hanging over your
head.”

He stops and turns to me, running his fingers through his hair. It looks wild, and his chest is bare,
that bloody shirt framing it like a picture, and what are we fighting about again?

“I asked the Unspeakables why we weren’t informed of the Soul-Mate Bond. They told me that
notices were sent out hundreds of years ago. For both the Soul-Bonds and Mate-Bonds. But one
day, a Soul-Mate notification was sent out to a Pureblood wife, whose Soul-Mate turned out to be a
squib working in her home.

“It caused problems, as I’m sure you can imagine. She would never have known if they hadn't told
her first. The Ministry stopped with the notifications after that. Now they simply inform the bank
and let them deal with any complications that may arise.”

He falls into a squat with his hands on the rim of the tub and runs his fingers along the line of my
jaw.

I'm very painfully aware that my layer of protection bubbles has long since disappeared.

I may have seen them naked quite a bit, but we made very sure it was not the other way around.

"I wasn’t keeping it from you. I was trying to give you the ability to choose. What would I have
said, Mi? ' By the way, some stranger told me we're Soul-Mates . Would you like to run away and
get married now? ' What would you have said?"

I open my mouth to refute him, then shut it again without saying a word.

I'd have told him he was out of his mind.

But then, I'd have said yes.

Because feeling him beside me? Breathing in his breath from his lips? It became everything the
first time he kissed me.

"Honestly. In the grand scheme of things, it felt…" He hesitates, searching for a word.
"Inconsequential.”

Ouch. That hurts.

“What am I going to do with a Soul-Mate? Especially when I'd just been told that dying and
coming back to life was a hobby of mine. I saw you in the Great Hall, kissed you, because it felt
like a damn good idea given the circumstances, and promptly pushed all thoughts of Soul-Mates
from my mind.

“I didn’t think of it again, even with the—” his voice hitches in his throat, and he sucks in air like
he’s trying not to drown. “—Even with the fact that I can hardly function when I can’t see you. The
thought didn’t filter into my mind until Ragnok told us we were married."

I can see that.

It’s a very Harry thing to do.

Act first and worry about the consequences when he gets to that part. Or forget about them
entirely.

Guess what? We're there.

But the kisses…maybe we've always known.

"What about now?" I prompt, terrified of the answer, even though I can feel his joy singing through
my blood.

"I'm sorry you're stuck with me," he says with a rueful expression. "But I could never be sorry that
I get to spend my life with you. If you’ll have me, that is.”

I bit my bottom lip so hard I taste blood against my tongue to keep from yipping at the happiness I
feel.

“It’s a little late to ask, don’t you think?” I tease him.

“No, it's not. You have a choice in all this, Mi. I—I hate the thought of you stuck with someone
that’s going to cause you so much pain. Do you even want this? Would you want to live with me?
Be with me? Sneaking into my room at night is one thing, but—”

Merlin, I’m tired of this conversation.

I pull the drain to the tub with a pulse of magic and rise from its depths, standing at my full height
with Harry still on his knees.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” he breathes.

His eyes trail from my feet, hidden in the bathtub and up my legs.

Heat flushes his skin as his eyes rake my bare flesh, pausing only for a moment at the point
between my legs before following the trails of water dripping down my curves.

His gaze feels like it’s burning, the echo of desire molten hot in my veins.

“Get my robe for me, would you?” I ask him, and I want to jump and dance and sing that my voice
comes out so perfectly even.

He scatters on the floor, almost toppling over in his rush to get his limbs under him. He sprints a
few feet to the chair and yanks the robe off the cushion, shaking it out and holding it open.

“Help me get out,” I tell him. “I’m afraid I’ll slip.”

I hold my hand out for him, and he grasps it, his fingers trembling where they grip mine.

I lift one leg from the tub, then the other, dropping down several inches from the added height of
the claw foot ceramic. He opens the robe again, and I slip my arms in one at a time, pulling it
around my front and knotting the tie.
 “Shower’s all yours,” I tell him, squealing internally at how his eyes glaze over and his mouth is
hanging open. “I’ll be in our bed.”

I place a hand on his chest, no longer surprised at the heat that radiates from him.

I lift up on my tip toes and place a kiss on his lips, licking across the seam, then leave him standing
in the bathroom, blinking like a moron, long after I’ve left.

I’ll have to remember that for future reference.

Nakedness wins fights, after all.

Chapter End Notes

I'm playing around with a Chenford The Rookie fic.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42043665/chapters/105561981 Even if you don't
follow that ship, drop me a solid and give it a Kudo's, pretty please?!?! Thank You!
 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes

From this point on, we earn that E rating. This is your last warning. It's in the tags, and
if you've read it before, you should be prepared.

I don't want to get comments, or messages, or emails, or last time people even
messaged me on discord with complaints about teenagers having sex lol.
There are some nasty ass fics out there, and I promise this is not that.

Hermione
Harry doesn't sleep well.

I've known that for a while now, but it's different when you share a bed with a person.

He wakes at the smallest provocation, and even without the Horcrux in his head, he's prone to
nightmares. Nightmares that, lucky for me, I've been sharing for weeks without realising it.

At least now that I know why I'm dreaming about myself dying, I might be able to put a stop to it.

I'm always the first one unconscious at night and wake up every morning to the feeling of Harry
watching me.

After yesterday, well, I didn't expect Harry to sleep for a week.

Between the battles of the day and the way it ended? It wasn't conducive to a good night's rest for
one Mr Harry Potter.

Harry Potter-Black…

Lord Harry Potter-Black?

I can already tell this is going to get annoying.

Anyway.

I ate while he was still in the shower.

Dobby kept a plate of food and a bottle of wine under stasis for us.

The wine was exactly what I needed after the day I had. I was already curled up in one of Harry's
shirts, mostly asleep by the time he left the bathroom.

I came to when I felt his lips hit my throat, then drifted off again to the sound of him listing things
he can see, the fingers of his hand running through my hair.

I fully expected to wake up to Harry still sitting up in bed, a book perched open on his lap.

Which is why it's so surprising when instead, I wake up to discover that Harry is completely,
serenely asleep.

His breathing is deep and even and his chest is expanding with every exhale against my back. His
arms are wrapped around me with a knee between each of my own and his prick is poking into my
backside.

And that's...yeah.

I like that.

I like it a lot.

It’s not like it's the first time I’ve felt it. We’ve been sharing a bed off and on for months and I
haven’t slept alone in weeks, minus those three days at my parent’s house.

But this time, he belongs to me. Differently, then, you know, the way he did before.
Just to test, as an experiment only, I rub my bum against Harry's crotch under the guise of getting
more comfortable. His arms tighten around me, and his hips thrust haphazardly against my arse.

"Mi," he grumbles in his sleep and...okay.

I need more of that!

I'm choosing to pretend that my knickers are damp and my hands are shaking because of the
newness of the Bond. That's the only reason I'm doing this. It's affecting my common sense or
something.

It's the only thing that makes sense.

Because in no other universe would I ever, ever put the moves on Harry.

Ever.

Married or not.

Last night was an aberration. I wasn't seducing Harry. I was winning an argument.

This morning, though?

This morning I have no excuse for the way my mouth is watering and how I seem to crave his
touch like an addiction.

Holding my breath and moving as slowly as possible, I turn around in Harry's grip.

My arms are pinned between us now, my hands flat against his chest.

For a moment, I think I've woken him up. He seems to squirm against me, the muscles in his
stomach and pecs twitching under my fingers. But then he huffs against my face before his
breathing resumes its leisurely pace.

He looks so different without his glasses.

He needs to shave.

Stubble coats his jaw and cheeks. Not as much as there'll be in a few years. If he didn't shave daily
in the tent, he'd have a beard before the week was out.

But it's one of the hints of the man he'll become in the boy he is today.

Is his facial hair soft or prickly?

Flicking my eyes over his face to ensure he’s asleep, I close the little distance between us and bring
my lips to his chin.

Soft.

I dart my tongue out and swipe it along his jawline. That feels rough, though, like sandpaper.

Fascinating.

I close my lips and run the soft flesh of my mouth over his cheek.

I laugh through my nose, the air puffing against his face as the prickles tickle my skin.
"What are you doing?"

The unexpected scratchiness of his voice startles me. I jerk in his hold before gathering my wits.
When I look at him, his eyes are cracked, and he's staring down at me from under hooded lids.

"Experimenting," I say.

Throwing all caution to the wind, I toss my leg over his hip, wrap my arms around his chest and
pull our bodies flush.

My eyes roll in the back of my head when his dick glances against my clit. Even with layers of
clothing between us, it's... Everything.

Plus, there are not that many layers.

"Experimenting?" he parrots.

His body is stiff, no pun intended, and it feels like he's all but stopped breathing.

I trail my lips under his jaw and down his throat, dropping kisses as I go. His chin tilts up
automatically, giving me more room.

We may have been snogging, but it was nothing like this!

"Mm-hmm," I say, nodding my head as best as I can from our entwined positions. "For science. I'm
—" What am I doing? What am I doing?! "I'm testing the Bond!" I say with triumph, pleased to be
able to come up with a response.

"For science?" he confirms, and I agree with a little sigh into his throat.

Some of the rigidity flees from his shoulders when I dig my teeth into his neck and suck.

"Merlin, Mi!"

He arches under my touch, and lightning licks up my spine at the sensation.

I feel unbelievably powerful.

I may be the brightest of our age, but Harry is the strongest wizard of our generation.

In several generations.

And he's whimpering from something I've done.

It's intoxicating.

"Blame it on my hormones," I mumble, following the line of his throat to his shoulders. He never
wears a shirt to sleep when he sleeps in his own room.

I wish I'd known that years ago.

"You know, I don't remember my hormones being this out of whack the last time I was fifteen," he
jokes, his voice rough with sleep and pulled tighter than I've ever heard it.

"That's probably because you didn't have a wife sleeping in your arms every night last time," I say,
and he huffs a laugh into the top of my head.
His arms are latched tight around me, but he hasn't so much as twitched a muscle since he woke up
to find me attacking his face.

His hands are open and still, like he's afraid to move.

I rub myself against him, feeling his hard dick twitch against the front of my panties. Then I have to
stop and gasp as the shock of the sensation rips down my limbs. Why does that little glance feel so
much better than my fingers ever did?

I don't understand it at all, and I don't like things I don't understand.

"That—" he says, and a moan slips out quiet and deep from his throat when I slide my tongue
against his chest.

"That probably has something to do with it."

Giving up on any sense of self control, I push him over until he's flat on his back and roll myself on
top of him.

"You should experiment too," I encourage him, rubbing myself against his hard-on. "For science."

"Uhhh."

He moans again, and his eyes close and roll back into his head.

"I wouldn't want you to think—" I can hear him swallow, feel exactly what he wants.

Oh, he doesn't wish me to think anything poorly about him.

But he sure as hell wants.

His chest heaves, and though his hands are on my hips, his fingers are shaking where they rest
against the meat of my upper thighs.

I'm getting dizzy between the fire coursing through my veins and the echo of the burning deep in
his.

Harry's self-control is phenomenal. If only he'd exhort it more often. Like whenever his temper got
the best of him.

It's a bit annoying, if I'm being honest.

Because the one time I want him to lose his senses, he's got them in a tight grip.

Which I understand, I guess, in an obnoxious sort of way. The only thing that makes him slow
down and think in any lifetime is when he's afraid that I'll get hurt.

This has been true ever since we were kids in that bathroom.

I move my hips and rub my centre against his prick, which is settled snugly between my legs, and
his fingers dig into my thighs so hard I'm sure I'll bruise from his grip.

I hope I do.

My body marked by Harry's fingertips? My hips move of their own accord just from thinking about
it.
"Less thinking, more kissing," I demand.

I can hear his brain reasoning through the logic of that.

It's...fascinating.

He doesn't want to pressure me.

He's terrified I'll be angry with him.

Yet, at the same time is desperate to bring his lips to mine. I sit up straight and plant my hands on
his chest before I flex my hips again.

The tops of my thighs are sticky, and my panties are so wet I'd bet money he can feel it through his
pants.

Harry jerks underneath me.

Aaaand there's the end of that particular train of thought.

I should be keeping notes on ways to get what I want. A hundred and fifty years is a long time to
be married to someone.

"Well. You're the brains of this operation," he says. "If you say I should, then who am I to argue?"

Finally!

"Exactly!" I cheer, trying to nod my head and bending to lick his nipples at the same time.

I'm not all-together coordinated, and it would be a lie of the highest order if I claimed to have any
experience with fooling around with a boy.

I flinch when, at the unexpected enthusiasm of his reaction, my teeth scrape against his sensitive
flesh right along with my tongue. Which, from the shot of magic that sparks through me like an
explosion, was more than satisfactory for him!

Merlin, Circe, and Morgana.

Gold sparkles are literally falling around us.

Did I do that? Or did he?

Harry thrusts against me with purpose, and every brain cell I have scatters in a thousand different
directions. He grips my hips and pushes down, and my forehead drops to his chest.

I can't concentrate when his hands are on me like that. When his swollen dick is rubbing circles
into my mound.

His hand sinks into my hair, and his fingers curl in the twisted strands.

I never knew he had an obsession with my hair. Thinking back, though, he played with my hair a
bit in the first timeline too. I’d read with my head on his lap out by the lake, and he’d drag his
fingers through it while playing chess with Ron.

When he closes his fist and pulls on my hair, arching my back and dragging my lips to his, I feel it
like a direct line of fire from my head to my clit.
My internal muscles clench around nothing, and for the first time in my life, I feel what it is to
want.

I understand what it is to need.

To crave something more than I desire oxygen or water or—or—magic!

I need this connection to Harry in the elemental way you need to breathe. Without it, I'll wither
away and die.

When he kisses me?

I think we float off the bed.

His tongue invades my mouth, the same way the clean, sleepy smell of him invades my senses.

It's a full tactical assault.

He’s got no hesitation.

There’s no more fear of the consequences or the weight of our decisions. There's only him, and me,
and the privacy of our warded bedroom. And Merlin does he know how to kiss.

He doesn't overpower me, so much as bend me to his will.

His tongue is like a gentle caress.

His lips pull moans and sounds from my throat that I wasn't aware I was capable of making. He
sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, and with each nip of his teeth and flick of his tongue I gasp
and pant at the sensation.

Already I've lost all my coordination. I’ve forgotten every tip or trick I've ever read about. I rip my
mouth away from his and plant my palms on his chest, grinding my quim against the rock-hard
erection pinned between our bodies.

It's his turn to run his lips down my throat, kissing and sucking every time he stops.

"Merlin, you're so hot," I pant.

I can't look at him anymore.

It's too much.

The sensations pouring into my body is almost incomprehensible. I close my eyes and throw my
head back, feeling the tension build in my spine.

Relishing in the way my legs start to tremble.

Losing the sense of sight helps me focus on what's important. The man underneath me.

"I think I have a fever," he quips right back, pulling the neck of my, of his, shirt down until the
lines of my collarbones are exposed, then running his tongue across the skin.

I gasp in a shaking breath as my nails dig in for purchase.

"Makes sense," I pant. "We're obviously delirious."

Harry latches his teeth onto my neck and nods, and if I had any control left in my body, I'd flee the
room in shame at the way it makes me mewl.

My hair almost covers us, and when I open my eyes again, I see that it's floating.

"Absolutely," he agrees. I can't even really hear him anymore. More feel the words in my head.
"Can't be held responsible for our actions."

Harry sits up with me still on his lap, and I squeal in surprise at the action.

"It's only fair," he says, not at all concerned that I'm holding on to him like it's the only thing
keeping me upright.

Which, to be fair, he is.

He rights me on his lap, his hands on my hips, and his fingers are burning welts into the skin that
isn't covered by panties.

So, most of me.

His cock, seemingly doubled in size from when I saw it last, sits perfectly between my hips, and he
pulls my ass tighter onto his middle, throwing my legs around his waist...and—oh my God…

Then he slips his hands inside my shirt, runs them up my sides, and in one swift move, pulls the
fabric up and off my body

He throws it somewhere, and I—

His hands, callused from his broom and his wand and probably practising with that damn sword,
cup my breasts, and I never understood the obsession with breasts before.

They're for feeding babies.

So not sexy.

But then Harry rubs his thumbs against my nipples, and my hips jerk in response. The air is cool
against the sensitive peaks before hot air encases my nipple a second before Harry's tongue swipes
across it.

The feeling is so overwhelming that I latch onto Harry's head for support.

I pull his hair, and it only turns him on.

The crude sounds of him sucking at my breast cause my hips to twitch and jerk again. Then it's a
never-ending circle. He sucks at me and runs his teeth over my nipple, and my hips flex and my
clit ruts against his straining dick. He lifts my breast in his palm, latching his lips onto the sensitive
skin underneath and I gasp and moan and buck against him.

My motions fuel him, which in turn fuel me.

His fingers pull at my neglected nipple, until his mouth kisses a trail across and takes their place.

My legs are shaking, my hands trembling. I try to say his name, but all that comes out is a breathy
gasp, as fireworks begin exploding low in my belly. My muscles spasm around nothing, and never
has anything felt so good.
"Harry," I moan, I think, as my body jerks and twitches.

The Bond is too much. It's all so overwhelming. Even with my eyes closed I see every quake of my
body. Feel the way his muscles pull taught in response.

"Merlin. Are you—" But he doesn't finish the question.

I'm still flying, having yet come down from the orgasm that ripped through my body, leaving no
nerve ending unbound, before I'm flat on my back and my arms are stretched above me.

I don't even know how it happened.

I strain against the body pinning me. My chest, already inflamed from his enthusiastic attention,
rubs against his muscles, and explosions commence again. Harry slips a hand under my ass and
tilts me up, and my legs wrap around him automatically. It's instinct.

It's magic.

It's too much. Too much, too fast, and not enough, all at the same time.

My head is thrashing on the bed.

I need to escape. I need to breathe. I'm burning from the inside out. I'm coming out of my skin.

Until Harry catches my lips with his, and he groans into my mouth. Gone are the gentle
explorations of a new lover. His hips drag against me; his cloth covered dick sliding through the
mess dripping from between my legs.

I buck against the onslaught. Overwrought but still needing more. So much more.

Everything.

Anything he can give me.

He licks at my tongue like it's a life-giving sustenance. Our teeth clack together, our noses bump. I
open my mouth wider, needing space to breathe, but Harry just uses it as an excuse to thrust
deeper.

His orgasm is building, and it's happening in surround sound.

I can taste it in my mouth, hear his blood rushing in my ears. I feel the pleasure spiking between his
legs before it answers with a throb between mine.

The Bond is singing.

I writhe against his hold, needing to feel him in my arms.

But that only spurs him on. His hips slam against me at an almost inhuman speed. His hand slips
from under my ass, fingers worshipping along my skin, and when that damn thumb grazes against
my nipple, I'm done for.

I cry out as my muscles clench and contract with my second orgasm of the morning.

Pinned beneath him as I am, there's no place to run from the brunt of the invasion. I'm forced to
ride out the wave, to feel every touch against my skin and the brush of Harry's soul against mine.
Or maybe it's our joint soul, finally merging together. Either way, it's devastating, and tears slip
down my cheeks, and my body shatters, and I'm only held together by Harry.

He swallows my cries and stiffens above me, his own release joining mine. It's—

Harry doesn't ride the wave.

He masters it.

He sucks my explosion into himself and cools the burning in my lungs like a warm blanket on a
cold night. His weight, which moments ago felt like it was suffocating me, now covers me like a
shield.

Like a layer of protection between me and the outside world.

And I'm crying, and I don't understand why.

Harry wipes my tears and replaces them with his kisses.

His hair is wild, his eyes crossed because he can't see me without his glasses, and my tears are
replaced with giggles and I'm losing my bleeding mind. Harry laughs through his nose, then
collapses to the side, rolling and pulling me with him.

"Wow," he gasps, and that's appropriate. Ten points to Gryffindor.

"That was..." I try to say, but I'm still not breathing all that well. What can I even say? I'm the one
that started it.

"Unexpected..." Harry supplies, and I start to laugh again.

"I wish I still had my naughty books," I say without thinking. Then I snap my mouth shut, horrified
at what I just said out loud. I cover my mouth with my hand for good measure, but Harry simply
pries it away.

He's staring at me, those startlingly green eyes shining in the sun streaming in from the open
windows.

"Books?" he asks.

Because of course, he's actually listening to me and doesn't mind when I talk about books for
hours. Almost kind of likes it.

Sometimes.

I think.

"Oh yeah," I reply, biting my lip. "Last time, you know, before, I had books on—" I stop,
embarrassment flooding my side of the Bond.

"Oh. This I have to know."

Harry lifts up on his elbow, then rolls over on his hands and knees, holding himself over top of me.

"Books onnnnn...?" he prompts, and I turn my head to the side to hide my blush.

Never mind that all I'm wearing is knickers, and ruined ones at that.
"Sex," I say quietly, and I feel his surprise like an electric shock. "At first it was strictly
educational. You know, those books parents give their children when it's time to have the sex talk
but they're too embarrassed to give it themselves. But then I got curious."

Harry snorts at me.

"Of course, you did. They have books on sex?"

I giggle like a schoolgirl when I finally look at him.

"You have no idea," I say

He grins at me, hair falling forward to partially cover his face.

"I really, really don't," he agrees

"They have how-to manuals, instructional books. Picture books, the Kama Sutra, books that give
you a different sexual position for every day of the year. Tips and tricks on how to please your
witch or wizard. Spells to make things easier, or," and I blush so hard I'm afraid I may have burst a
blood vessel, "harder, as the case may be."

Faster than I can blink, Harry rolls to the side and off the bed entirely.

"Where are you going?" I demand through laughter and shock.

"To take a shower. Merlin knows I need one now. Then we're going shopping. My lady wife
requires books."

I wonder if I could find a book about sex between Bond-Mates. Because call it a hunch, but I don't
think normal sex is supposed to feel like that.
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes

Thank you so much for all of your excellent comments and out of this world support. I
hope you continue to enjoy!
Harry
I still feel like I'm flying by the time I get out of the shower.

I mean, Merlin! Where is Hermione, and who is this goddess that’s taken her place? If this creature
has been hiding inside my prim and proper best friend the entire time?

The next time I see Krum, I'm going to break his fucking face.

Ron’s too.

Especially Ron.

One, because he wanted my girl, and now I find that pisses me off. Two, because he was a fucking
moron who couldn’t land my girl, and that’s just insulting to her.

I didn’t bring clothes with me into the loo.

All the blood in my head was still pooling in my dick, and I wasn’t thinking clearly.

But that means I have to leave the bathroom in nothing but a towel.

Just because she was okay with that earlier doesn’t mean she’s ready for me to be walking around
the bedroom naked.

I’m not sure that I’m ready to walk around the bedroom naked.

Mi made an excellent point about a fifteen-year-old boy’s hormones; mine have been flying at full
mast since she stood up in that bathtub. With rivulets of water dripping from her breasts, and those
fucking curls pulled long and damp, covering her shoulders.

I’m hard again.

Fuck.

I latch the towel around my waist and try to feel her out before I leave.

That little bundle of thoughts and feelings that I associate with Hermione burns in the back of my
brain. It sings with delight and contentment.

It doesn’t help my hard-on in the least.

I’ll just make a run from the bathroom to the closet.

I pull open the door and come to a halt when I take in the scene in front of me.

The bedroom’s been changed in the ten minutes I was in the shower. There are now two bedside
tables on either side of the bed, my old muggle alarm clock plugged in and glowing green. Vases of
flowers sit on each, and a selection of books rests on the side of the bed that Hermione sleeps on.

Eight-thirty

I thought it was later than that.

The trunks are gone, replaced by a couch. Why is there a couch when the bed is right there?

There’s a scarlet rug in front of the banked fire and a container of floo powder on a tiny table off
the hearth’s side.

Hermione is perched in front of a dressing table, a large silver gilded mirror showing her
reflection.

The chair she’s sitting on...well, it’s more like a low-backed throne.

Behind her, Winky stands elevated on a step stool, twisting Hermione’s hair into a complicated
braid trailing down her back.

The vanity is covered with delicate little bottles, a brush, and a hand mirror, which seems pointless
to me.

But I’m not a girl.

Or Winky.

“Not one word Harry Potter,” Hermione hisses, and my chest heaves with silent laughter that I try
to keep contained.

I raise my hands to show I mean no harm, then quickly drop them to the towel when I feel it
loosening.

I take two more steps before I’m pulled to a stop again. I turn in a circle, counting the doors
currently in the room. The main, the bathroom, the closet and... “Is there another door? Or did I not
notice it yesterday?”

“You needed more storage,” Winky replies without taking her eyes from her self-appointed task.
“Winky unwarded the second closet.”

Swell.

“Why do we need more storage?” I ask, then at the glare Hermione shoots me, I shut my mouth,
and make my way across the bedroom.

Dobby hung up all my clothes, which was pointless.

Because I only have enough to last a week without washing, and all of it is going in the trash
anyway.

I grab the jeans I wore yesterday out of the hamper and start opening drawers in the wardrobe until
I find my pants. I see Hermione’s under things first, and it takes all my self-control not to run my
fingers through them and pull some out to look.

Maybe steal a pair.

Since we’re sharing a room, and a bed, and I just came in my fucking pants with her grinding on
my cock, I don’t think that’s going to be an issue.

Hermione’s side of the closet is bursting with clothing. Shoes are lined up on a rack underneath.
How in Merlin’s name did all of Hermione’s belongings make it into Grimmauld Place already?

Crack!

“Dobby brings food, Master,” Dobby yells, then disappears before I even see him.
Winky’s sigh of disapproval is telling. I hear it all the way in the closet.

I cringe in sympathy for the little guy. I wonder if he realises he’ll be reporting to Winky yet?

Because if Hermione is my boss, then Winky is surely his.

I’d rather face Voldemort without my wand then tell Hermione she doesn’t run this rodeo.

Once I have my pants on, I make my way back out into the main chamber.

Winky curtseys, disapproval rife as she glances at my bare legs and boxer briefs, then she too
disappears.

Mi huffs in irritation.

“We’re not in control over them at all, are we?” Hermione asks, examining her reflection in the
mirror.

She’s lovely.

Beautiful.

Breathtaking.

Her hair is braided like a fairytale princess, and I think she has actual flowers woven through the
strands. She’s wearing a yellow sundress that flares around her hips and stops at her knees. I don’t
think I’ve ever seen it before.

She’s blooming.

Literally.

There’s a glow emitting from around her body, like a Lumos on low wattage.

I shake my head to clear it of her buzz.

“Sure, you are. Just tell her what to do.”

“I can’t do that!” Hermione insists in outrage.

“Then I think you’re stuck,” I smile.

“Hmft,” Mi pouts.

I notice she’s still looking at her reflection.

A banging comes at the door as I pull my jeans over my hips.

“OI! Wake up!” Ron yells through the wood, and I roll my eyes.

“Decent?” Hermione asks.

“For Ron? Yeah,” I scoff, zipping up my bottoms. “I’ve seen his prick more times than I can
count.”

“Me too,” she grumbles, and I huff. You can only spend so much time in close quarters before
accidental nudity loses its significance.
She pulls open the door and sticks her tongue out at him, moving aside to let him come in.

“Mom won’t let us eat until the master of the house comes down,” he scoffs, and the look of
disgust on his face tells me what he thinks about that.

He heads straight to the table where Dobby left tea and toast and lifts a piece from the pile.

“I’m starving,” he growls.

“Sorry about that,” I say honestly, pulling a shirt over my head. “How is she this morning?”

“Narked,” he says through a mouth full of food.

“Why?” Hermione asks, and my stomach drops out when I realise I didn’t tell her what I said to
Molly.

Ron chuckles, grinning ear to ear.

“Harry went off on her. Only not like how he usually does it. All screaming and scary, you know?”

Hermione nods at him, encouraging him to go on.

“He gets all low and quiet. Tells Mum that he’s in charge and that you belong to him and that if
she didn’t like it, she could get out of the house. It was wicked.”

That’s not—

I didn’t...

“Harry James Potter-Black!” Hermione snaps, and my head flops back on my neck.

“It wasn’t like that,” I try to assure her. “But I am sorry, Ron, that I upset her so much.”

Ron smirks at me.

“Don’t be. It was awesome. I haven’t seen her that mad at someone who wasn’t one of us in ages.
It was kinda nice to see her yelling at someone else. I thought her head was going to pop off. She
sent us all off to bed, and Dad and Remus trotted her down to the kitchen to ply her with
Firewhiskey. Fred and George pulled out those new extendible ear things they made so we could
have a listen. She’s right mad, Mate. It’s going to take you weeks of sucking up to get back on her
good side.”

I snort through my nose.

Not likely.

“Nope,” I say. “Hermione’s gonna fix it in one go.”

Ron shoots me a disbelieving glance before moving to explore the room. He peeks behind the
curtains and then walks over to the closet.

“Last night Mum was talking about sending the Grangers a letter to tell them that Mione’s been
sneaking into your room at night.”

Hermione chokes and sputters, and I feel the buzz of her panic through the Bond.
I scrunch up my face and shake my head no at her.

It’ll be fine.

I go over to the table and pour a cuppa tea.

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron yells from the loo. “You could swim in this bathtub.”

“I noticed,” I mumble under my breath, and heat fills that link between Mi and me.

I look over towards my wife, who’s watching me with curious eyes. She’s got a set of books in her
hands, one of which I recognize as the Bond-Mate book Ragnok gave her yesterday.

“Did you really tell her I belong to you?” she questions quietly.

“Yes,” I say. I mean, no. But basically. “Sorry,” I apologise.

She smiles at me, coming from around the bed.

“You have nothing to apologise for, Harry. I am yours. The sooner everyone comes to grips with
that the easier this will be for them.”

"Just like that?" I ask her, eyes wide with surprise.

I didn’t expect her to take any of this nearly as well as she has.

Hermione has always fought tooth and nail against destiny and prophecy. I expected screaming and
stomping. I expected her to tell me to bugger off and that no man would tell her what to do.

Hearing her happily refer to herself as my wife and waking up to her legs around my waist has been
disconcerting.

"Just like that," she agrees and a feeling that I have no words for spills into my blood.

Hermione tries to move past me, but I lunge for her, grabbing her around the waist and hauling her
in until her back is against my chest. Her laugh is infectious, the long lines of her throat begging for
attention when she drops her head to my shoulder and giggles with startled amusement.

“Har-ry,” she says, and with my other hand, I tilt her neck and kiss her upside down and sideways.

I kiss her until she moans against my lips and sags against my hold.

“Oi!” Ron yells, coming back into the main room.

He looks away, lifting his hands as if warding off a blow. I can’t help but chuckle at the extreme
reaction.

“I thought we had an agreement. No snogging in front of me!”

“Can’t help it, Mate,” I say, dipping in to kiss her again.

She latches onto my top lip and sucks, and I do the same to her bottom. Gods, I wonder if we could
kick Ron out and spend the rest of the day experimenting . It seems now that I have permission to
kiss her, I’m struggling to stop.

“Besides, you’re in our room. All bets are off here.”

“I wouldn’t be here if you’d hurry up. I’m hungry!”

Yeah, yeah.

I let go of Mi, who sighs at the loss of contact.

If we didn’t have stuff to do today, I’d never leave the room.

I stalk back into the closet, finding only my new boots on the shoe rack.

Where are my shoes? I look in the main room, but they aren’t there either. I don’t know where they
put our trunks. “Dobby!” I holler, and both Dobby, and Winky appear at my summons.

“Where’s my trainers, Dobby?”

Dobby opens his mouth to answer, but at a glare from Winky, puts his hands behind his back and
bows his head in silence. She curtsies at me before she answers, holding out the edges of her baby
doll pink dress.

“They’s been thrown away, Master. They’s disgusting. Wear the Dragonhide boots. Winky made
sure they are ready for yous.”

Ron sniggers through crumbs.

Hermione gloats through the Bond.

She sits on the newly installed couch, slipping on a pair of sandals. Her grin is almost devilish as
she smirks up at me from half-bent over.

I can see right down her dress. Her bra is pink lace.

She’s so lovely she makes my mouth water.

Would it be inappropriate if I asked her to change? Maybe sweats and a jumper? I don’t like that so
many men will be looking at her and thinking the same thing I am.

How beautiful she is.

Not so funny now, is it?

I close my eyes, breathing heavily through my nose. Thank goodness she isn’t reading my thoughts.

Right.

Winky’s gone power mad.

“Dobby, do you think you could go shopping for me? I need trousers and stuff that fit me better.
New trainers, I guess.”

I hope I keep the disgruntlement from my voice.

Winky answers.

Dobby’s shoulders droop.

“Winky will take care of it, Master. Winky will be you’s personal elf. Winky already has a list
from Mrs Weasley about what we’s need for the house. Winky will take care of Master’s list too.
I’ll ensure yous is befitting the head of the family.”

I think back to the suits Draco always wears, even in the middle of summer hols.

“I can’t wear dragonhide and pinstripes all the time, Winky. I need jeans. T-shirts. Clothes I can
duel and practice in.”

“Winky will take care of it,” she says again, a firmness in her voice.

We can go shopping ourselves, Hermione floats through my brain.

I’d rather wear suits.

“Fine,” I give up, and Dobby silently walks into the closet and then returns with the boots in his
grip, handing them to me with a sheepish look on his face.

“Thank you, Winky, for taking care of us. And for breakfast. Though I think we’ll eat our meals
with the others.”

Winky tilts her head in a sign of acknowledgement.

“If yous wish to dine with the family and not alone in your chambers, Winky will speak with the
Mistress about the menus for the week.”

Hermione jerks upright, looking panicked.

“Mrs Weasley will handle all of that,” I rush to tell the little elf. “If you’d like, you can discuss
those matters with her. Molly runs the house. Mi has too many other things to worry about than
what to plan for dinner. Think of her as our house manager.”

I hurry to correct myself at Winky’s poisonous glare.

“Besides you, of course.”

Winky seems to think about it, then gives a final curtsey.

“Winky will discuss the needs of Master Harry’s household with Mrs Weasley then. If you’s don’t
need anything else, Master, Winky has her chores to finish.”

I look at Hermione, who shrugs and stands.

“No, Winky. We’re good. Are you okay Dobby?”

Dobby lifts his head and meets my eye before glancing at Winky and lowering his gaze back to the
floor.

“Dobby is happy to serve, Master,” he says by rote, then winks at me after Winky disappears
before following her away.

“Wow,” Ron says, and I can’t help but agree.

“Think it’ll do any good if we fight her on it?” I ask.

Hermione and Ron both shake their heads no.

“Great. She’s going to dress me like a pureblood, isn’t she?”

“Yup,” Ron says, eating the final piece of toast.

I sit on the loveseat to pull on my boots.

Here I thought Dobby would be the difficult one.

“Back to Molly,” I say. “We’re going to walk into that kitchen, and I want you to go straight to her.
Hug her, tell her what a prat I am and that you already yelled at me for how disrespectful I am.
Then tell her that you need her help with the house. It’s been in disrepair for years and needs
updating. You do want it updated, right?” I confirm.

“I don’t want to listen to Mrs Black screech for the next three years.”

“But do you want to handle it? I mean, do you really care?”

“Not in the slightest,” she confirms.

“Hand Molly a chequebook and tell her to go to town. She’ll be delighted.”

Ron speaks up from the second closet.

“That’s bloody genius, Harry.”

I smile at him when he comes back into the room.

“I thought of it last night. What better way to get her back on our side than to give her a job she’ll
adore that we don’t want to do?”

“She can micromanage construction workers instead of us all day,” Hermione adds, smiling with
pride.

“All you have to do, Mi, is bat your eyes and pucker your lips and she’ll be yours.”

She double-takes, lifting her brow at me.

“Did you just quote the Little Mermaid to me?”

I chuckle when I realise that, yeah, I kind of did.

“Petunia loved that movie,” I say in lieu of an answer.

Ron cuts in.

"Since when is my mum, Molly?"

Hermione laughs wild and free.

"Since he was seventeen and running the Order of The Phoenix. My tongue is probably covered in
sores from catching myself before I called McGonagall, Minerva."

I can assure her that her tongue is covered in nothing but me.

"Don't get too excited," I assure Ron when his eyes glaze over at my supposed power. "A tent,
remember, with no way to communicate with anyone. I promise you, I wasn't leading much."

I walk over to the wall, where the scabbard has been hung on an intricate-looking display shelf.
"Semantics," Hermione waves it away. "Before Dumbledore died he told everyone that they
should take their cues from you. We were on a first name basis with everybody."

There are spots for several additional blades as well. I wonder if I shouldn’t take a longer gander at
what sort of weapons are sitting around in those vaults.

The scabbard disappears as soon as it’s over my shoulders.

“What’s a movie?” Ron moves on to his next question. His head is tilted to the side like a lost
puppy.

“Send Winky to buy a TV and VCR too,” I tell Mi, and she laughs and takes my hand, leading me
into the hallway.

“Am I the only one terrified of this?” Hermione says, looking between Ron and me. “I mean, if
Winky and Mrs Weasley start battling for dominance of the kitchen, it could get ugly, fast.”

Ron pales at the thought, and I actually see him shudder when he shuts the bedroom door.

“That’s, that’s scary it what that is,” he says, and I feel a shudder run down my spine. I’ve seen
Mrs Weasley when she really lets it go.

“Winky may be tiny, but I bet she could give Mum a run for her money.”

“Best not to think about it,” I say.

Ron proceeds to the kitchen.

Everyone is already lounging about.

Sirius and Remus have their heads together at the end of the table. The twins have parchment
spread between them, each of them with a quill.

Ginny is reading a book on Quidditch and barely glances up when we enter the room.

“Finally,” Fred says. “The Master is here,” George joins in, jumping from his chair and bowing at
the waist.

Fred curtsies instead.

“Bugger off,” I tell them, and Remus laughs under his breath.

I walk straight into the kitchen and give Mrs Weasley a one-armed hug. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

She stands there stiff as a board, not making any effort to return the gesture.

Giving up, I grab a seat next to Ron.

“Your spot is at the head, dear,” Molly says tightly, walking to the table behind Kreacher and
floating platters of food. As soon as the plates hit the table, there’s a mad dash for breakfast.

“That’s really not necessary, Mrs Weasley,” I say, hoping I sound sincere.

Hermione takes that moment to enter the room, shooting me an exaggeratedly disdainful glare.

“Honestly, Harry!” she says in a tone that could rival the Queen’s for peevishness.
She walks up to Mrs Weasley, lowering her eyes and holding her hands together in supplication
over her stomach.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs Weasley, for the way Harry treated you last night. I can’t believe he spoke to
you in those tones. After everything you’ve done for him! I’ve given him a right talking to.”

Hermione shoots me a dirty look over her shoulder.

“We’ll have to send my parents away, as you know, for their safety. You’re the only mother I’ll be
able to speak to about these things...”

She pulls Mrs Weasley deeper into the kitchen and lowers her voice, both of them shooting me
looks over their shoulders every few seconds.

“That was inspired, Pup,” Sirius chuckles, and Remus nods in agreement.

“James would be proud,” he adds.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, piling bangers and eggs onto a plate for Mi before
helping myself.

My attention is dragged into the corner when Mrs Weasley pulls Hermione in for a rib-breaking
hug.

Help me... Floats through my mind in Hermione’s panicked tone.

“Come eat before it gets cold, Mi,” I raise my voice and call at her.

Thank you, she sighs.

“Or before Ron eats it all,” Sirius adds.

Ron flips him off.

Hermione finally slides into the chair next to me.

“Do we have any coffee?” she asks, and half the table looks at her askance.

“What?” she demands. “I won’t apologise for enjoying a nice latte every now and then.”

She pours herself a cup of tea, doctoring it and resting it next to her juice.

A comfortable silence falls while everybody eats until Sirius decides to open his fat mouth.

“How’d you sleep, Hermione?”

Mrs Weasley's head snaps up from her plate.

I kick him under the table, and he hisses in pain, bending in half to rub at the wound.

Hermione, used to the chaos around her thanks to Ron and me and the Gryffindor boys she’s
always surrounded by, ignores it with aplomb.

“Good,” she says, lowering her fork and opening one of her books.

“Best night's sleep I’ve had in weeks, to be honest. I haven’t had time to do more than glance
through the Bond-Mate book that Ragnok loaned me, but it looks like physical distance makes a
big difference. Not that we can’t be separated, obviously. But being sequestered from the other
person makes everything more difficult, sleeping included.”

I haven’t even processed everything I learned yesterday, and Hermione is already building
hypotheses.

“Which makes sense. Because how can you rest when half of your soul is somewhere else? I
should have realised something was up that first night I had Winky take me to Privet Drive. I
couldn’t sleep more than an hour at a time since we’d gotten off the train. As soon as I saw Harry
that night, I drifted right off to sleep. But still, sneaking into Harry’s room after midnight and
having Winky bring me back home before six so my parents didn’t find out wasn’t exactly
conducive to a good night’s rest.”

She’s flipping through pages, carefully keeping the book clean and safe.

She doesn’t realise everyone at the table has stopped eating, and is watching her with widened
eyes.

Remus clears his throat in an uncomfortable sort of way, but when I look at him, his face is alight
with an expression I recognize well enough.

The scholar prepping to learn a new subject.

“How did you sleep at Hogwarts, if I may ask?” Remus questions. “Was it easier since you were at
least in the same building?”

Ron answers before Mi can even open her mouth.

“Oh, they slept together every night since they kissed.”

He blushes a fiery red when he realises what he’s said, his ears going scarlet.

“What our dear brother meant to say,” Fred starts when the air gets so thick it becomes hard to
breathe. “Is that Harmony here, took to sleeping on the common room couch together,” George
finishes.

“She snuck into the dorms once or twice, too,” Ron chips in, trying and failing to fix the hole he
dug for himself.

“Harmony?”

Hermione looks at the twins with her face scrunched up in confusion.

“Like it?” Fred asks. “‘ Harry and Hermione ’ is so time-consuming to say,” George says. “Time is
money, after all.” “So, we shortened it.”

Only years of watching them communicate keep me from getting nauseous when they banter back
and forth like that.

Hermione’s face blanks, her surprise tingling up my spine, and then she turns from them without a
word.

“It wasn’t done on purpose,” she tells Remus, picking up their conversation as if it was never
interrupted.

“The first night we fell asleep talking. The second night I couldn’t sleep and went into the common
room and found him there. I will concede that I felt him brooding from my dorm. It’s why I came
down."

"Felt him brooding?" Sirius interrupts with a brow lifted.

Hermione turns to him and beams.

"Yes!" she confirms with enthusiasm. "I didn't really think much of it at the time because—" she
jerks to a stop and her eyes flick to me before she continues. "Well, it had been a stressful couple of
days. But I was in my dorm, and his thoughts were like a jumble in the back of my mind. I had
thought, well, I know him so well, and…" I can see her trying to work it out in her head. Feel her
working it out. "It had been incredibly tense that day, and I suppose I just figured it was a figment
of my imagination, that I knew he was down there pouting because I knew him."

I wasn't pouting.

She shrugs, then takes a sip of tea.

"The third night I fell asleep in the library," she continues.

“I was watching her read,” I pipe up.

“He helped me back to the dorm, and since he can’t go up the girl’s side, he took me up to his
bunk to crash.”

"I was trying to be considerate. Those couches are hard on the back."

Remus is following the conversation with wide eyes, the same expression Hermione wears when
she’s following a lesson in class.

“Fascinating,” he says, then rises from his seat next to Sirius to take the open chair next to
Hermione. “It was as if you were seeking the other out, without realising it.”

“Exactly!” Hermione agrees, excitement zooming through her like electricity.

Sirius picks up the conversation, unhelpful as always.

“You should have seen him when they were apart for those few days after the end of term until
they got the brilliant idea to use the houselves. He looked—I don’t know if unhinged is the right
word, but I can’t think of a better word to describe it. I should have realised then that something
was afoot.”

He leans over the table and drops his voice to little more than a growl. Low enough that Molly
won’t be able to hear him.

“I knew something was up, but by the end there, I just assumed it was because you’d gotten used to
getting your prick wet and were facing a summer without. That’ll do strange things to a bloke.”

Ron chokes on his juice.

“Thanks, Padfoot,” I snark.

“Was it as bad for you?” Remus prompts Mi, hopefully not having heard his other half’s continued
commentary. The werewolf is almost floating from his seat.

“It wasn’t pleasant, I admit. But no, I certainly didn’t have the issues Harry did. I think we can all
agree it’s wrapped up in his PTSD. He’s always struggled to be away from us. Ron and I both. It’s
gotten worse the older we got. And the worse it got, the more he tried to push us away in some
backward logic of protecting us.”

“Hello,” I say, waving my hand. “I’m right here.”

“That makes perfect sense,” Remus agrees, ignoring me. “Take the newly sealed Bond, another go-
round with You-Know-Who, and an almost compulsive need to keep you safe and no wonder he
decompensated when you were apart.”

I bang my head on the table several times, but no one pays attention to me.

Mi pushes her plates away, sets aside her drinks, and turns her entire body to face Remus. They put
their heads together and start flipping through the Bond-Mate book.

“I think you lost your wife, Pup,” Sirius jokes.

“We had a good run,” I say back. “But the heart wants what the heart wants.”

Hermione and Remus don’t even look up.

Shaking my head, I turn my attention to Ron and talk of the Chudley Cannons.

The table has long been cleared when Sirius bangs his knuckles on the wood.

“Plans for the day?” he asks, and Mi pulls her head away from discussing who knows what with
Remus.

“Diagon Alley.”

I’m sure he opens his mouth to object, and I raise my hand to shut him up.

“We’re not looking to go alone, so don’t start in on the lectures. Everyone is welcome to come, so
long as I hit the spots I need to hit. Plus, I’m planning on having Hermione glamour us, so we
won’t have to deal with the ‘Look it’s Harry Potter,’ hassle.”

“We’re in,” the twins say as one.

“Sounds good to me,” Ron agrees.

Ginny shakes her head no and leaves the table.

Hermione watches her go with a glint in her eyes. That’s not a good sign.

“Moony?” I ask, and he looks to Sirius before nodding, a smile wide on his face.

“The full moon isn’t for two weeks. A day in Diagon Alley sounds splendid.”

I look at my wife.

“Ready, then?”

"Shoot," Mi says, wiping her face. "I forgot my bag upstairs."

Hermione doesn’t so much as stand from the table before Winky pops in, holding an embossed
leather satchel in her hands.
"Master left his behind as well," she says politely, placing the waist pack on the table next to me.

"I—," have no idea what to say, and Winky looks up at me with those blinking brown eyes with a
knowing smirk on her face.

"That's scary," Ron breathes.

Agreed.

"Now you know why Crouch fell apart without her," Hermione says, and Winky doubles in size at
the praise.

"Winky does what she can," the elf says snottily, and Remus chokes on his tea.

Mi shoots him a dirty look and then reaches into her bag.

Her hand searches about in a way that's painfully familiar to me. When in the hell did she have the
chance to put an undetectable extension charm on a new purse?

"Kreacher, could you come here for a moment?" Mi muses distractedly. "I wanted to talk to you
about your pay. Might as well do it now. You too Dobby," she says loudly. Dobby cracks in at her
side.

"Pay?" Winky squeaks.

Hermione nods her head succinctly.

"Yes," she insists. Winky’s sigh is audible but not as disrespectful as the one she used on Dobby.

"Very well then," Winky agrees, and you’d think Mi just sentenced her to a week's Detention.

She hands all three elves leather change purses.

"You each have an account with Gringotts. Your pay will be deposited directly inside. Plus, you
can each pull from the Potter-Black household funds for any purchases made for people that live in
the house."

Dobby takes his money bag happily until he sees Winky’s disapproval.

Then he lowers his head. Kreacher just looks confused. Winky reaches for hers like it's a
poisonous snake.

"Do you three know how to read?" Mi asks

“Of course,” Winky answers. “Winky knows how to run a proper household.” The perceived
interpretation being that neither of the other elves do.

“No, Mistress,” Kreacher says in his deep scratchy voice.

“No, Mr Harry Potter’s Mi,” Dobby intones.

Hermione smiles at the elves, and the Weasley boys take turns making sarcastic comments about
her need to rescue the creatures and how she better not turn them off their cooking.

Mi’s nose lifts in the air, but she doesn’t design to comment back.
“That’s alright. Once everyone is settled in, we’ll start weekly lessons. I want you both reading by
the time we go back to Hogwarts.”

“Yous will teach Dobby how to read?” Dobby asks with happiness, his big ears flapping in
excitement.

“I’ll help you learn anything you want to,” she assures him, and I swear I see Winky and Mrs
Weasley both roll their eyes.

“Thank you, Mistress,” Winky says, then curtseys to Hermione. “Winky will ensure that Dobby
and Kreacher can do their duty. Is there anything else we’s can help you with?”

Hermione looks at me, and I shrug.

“Stop bowing and curtseying?” I ask.

Dobby shakes his head no sullenly.

It was worth a shot.

“No, Winky,” Hermione sighs. “You can go.”

Three distinct pops crack in the ensuing silence.

“What has gotten into Winky?” I demand.

“Dominance,” Remus says. “When elves are raised together, the pecking order is pre-established.
The females are usually in charge, but with Kreacher having been born in the house and Dobby
being Harry’s close friend, she’s staking her claim as their leader.”

“Well, she’s certainly got Dobby scared senseless,” Ron says

“Me too,” I confirm, and Sirius and Remus laugh at us.

As soon as we leave the floo for Diagon Alley, the twins break off to do their own thing.

Hermione tries to wrap her arms around our shoulders as she used to when we were younger, but
even three years junior, Ron is already too tall to make that comfortable for her.

She scoffs in irritation, and Ron looks down at her and laughs.

I have a slight urge to hit him, but I ignore it when she links her arms around our middle instead.

“Where to first?” Ron asks, slipping an elbow around Hermione’s waist and swinging her into the
air.

She squeals in laughter, using magic to float slowly back onto the ground.

No one even looks at us.

I can’t think of the last time we walked through Diagon Alley, alone or together, where we didn’t
draw the eyes of every person we passed. I’m never leaving the house with my real face on again.

The anonymity is wonderful.

“The bookstore,” Hermione and I say together.

“Right,” Ron grouses.

All his enthusiasm for the day slips right off his face.

“In Knockturn Alley,” Hermione supplies, and he perks up a little at that.

We come to a halt and wait for Moony and Padfoot to catch up. Mi grabs a paper from her pocket
and slips it into my hands. I, in turn, hand it to Sirius.

“I need a few things from Burgin and Burkes,” I say. “Let’s split up. You guys go there, and we’ll
hit the bookstore.”

Remus frowns, but Sirius takes my list. He raises his eyebrows and looks at me.

“A cabinet, really?”

“Trust me,” I say. I harden my face. “You want it. I’ll show you later.”

Realisation dawns in the softening of his jaw.

“Whatever you say, Pup,” he agrees, pocketing my list.

Remus looks at us suspiciously.

“Why do we have to go to the bookstore?” Ron wines as we start walking again.

He wraps his arm over Hermione’s shoulders, and I link my fingers with hers.

“It’s the summer hols, and we spent most of yesterday going through books. Mione already gave
me a stack to read about battle tactics and stuff.”

I didn’t know that, but he doesn’t seem as put out as he wants to pretend he is, so I don’t comment
on it either.

“You can come with us to Burgin and Burkes,” Sirius offers. “Leave the lovebirds to their
snogging.”

“We aren’t going to be snogging,” Hermione says primly. “We’re going to go buy how-to guides
on sex.”

The others freeze momentarily, their eyes going wide in shock.

Then they burst into laughter, joking that Hermione would have made a good Marauder and how
Lilly had a wicked sense of humour too.

I have to cover my face to keep from laughing at the way they blow her off.

Ron, at least, should know better.

Mi never lies about reading.

“She’s probably looking for books on something boring like watching plants grow,” Ron assures
them when they break off to head into the collector’s store.

Remus stops at the open door, turning to Hermione and me.

“Send a Patronus if you need anything. Come get us when you’re done.”
“We’ll be done before she will,” Ron says from inside the doorway, and Hermione flips him off
even though we can’t see him, so I’m sure he can’t see us. Remus chuckles, then follow Ron and
Sirius into the store.

“After you, wife,” I say, pretending to bow and offering her my elbow.

“Thank you, husband,” Mi laughs, and we make our way arm and arm to the bookstore.
 Chapter 20
Chapter Notes

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this story and all the others I have going, as well as update schedules!

As always, thank you so much for reading and for all of your amazing comments! I try
to answer each and every one, but I'm horribly behind right now. So, if you get a
response three weeks after you comment, sorry lol!

Harry

Merlin!

Hermione is already pulling books from the shelves, glancing at the backs, and flipping through
pages. I scoot into her as close as I can, lowering my voice and looking over her shoulder.
“All of these books are about sex?” I whisper. My eyes widen at the sheer number of volumes.

“Those too,” she says, pointing over my shoulder to a rack of shelves behind me without taking her
eyes from the book in her hands.

“I—”

I have no idea what to say.

“Most bookstores have a small selection,” she continues in her teacher’s voice. “In the back and out
of the eyes of children. But this specific establishment caters to the seedier side of magic. Their
collection is extensive.”

I’d say so.

“How do you know all of this? Did you come here alone last time?” I hiss into her ear. I glance
around the darkened interior, noticing faces hidden behind cloaks as patrons go about their
purchases.

Here we are, in jeans and a sundress.

I should have thought this through better.

At least we don’t look like ourselves. Mi is still short, only with blond hair, blue eyes, and skin as
pale as skim milk.

When people look at me, they’d see a version closer to where I was. Six inches taller with no
glasses. Hermione disillusioned them. She says that I look like a whole other person without them.
I don’t even recognise myself with hair long enough to pull back in a tail and a full beard.

Anger and fear for her safety rip through me, and I clench my fists and breathe through my nose,
trying to get it under control.

“No!” she says in a distracted huff, beginning to form a pile.

“I used their owl service. Last time I had about half Muggle books, half magic. But I don’t see us
getting out to a Waterstones any time soon, do you?”

She’s so freaking casual. I can’t decide whether to kiss her or scream at her.

She’s acting like she’s studying for a test. Like she’s simply researching any other subject she
would in the library at Hogwarts.

"I plan on putting these to good use."

I'm at a loss for what to say.

"Oh come off it," she sighs. "I can read your thoughts, remember. You've imagined quite a bit of
what's in these books with no help from me!"

My past fantasies are being shoved in reverse through my imagination. It makes me dizzy with
how fast blood flow rushes to my dick.

Just go with it .

"What’s BDsM stand for?" I ask, reading a title over her shoulder. BDsM for the submissive Witch.
I scoff at that. Hermione is anything but submissive.

She adds it to her pile.

Then adds the companion edition, The Master's Manual .

"Bondage, Dominance, submission, and Magic," she says conversationally, and I choke on my own
tongue. “In the muggle world, it stands for Bondage, Dominance, submission, and masochism, but
I had this book last time. It stands for magic here."

Bondage? Like, tying people up?

She’s already read it?!

“What about this one, you think?” she asks and hands me a red-bound book titled The Wicked
Witch .

I open the book randomly and come face to face with a witch on her knees and her hand wrapped
around a prick.

I slam it shut so fast that the closest person turns to look at my outburst.

Magical pictures move.

Merlin!

I pry it open again to a different page. In this one, the witch is on her back with her legs spread, the
bloke's head between her thighs.

My eyes skate to Hermione, imagining her spread out on that massive bed, surrounded by green
sheets with my head between her legs. I snap the book shut again, breathing through my nose and
closing my eyes until I’m back under control.

Hermione is lost to the smorgasbord of paper backed offerings in front of her, not paying me any
mind at all.

I drop the book into her rapidly growing pile.

“I know I’m inexperienced in the practical application,” she says, like we’re talking about charms
work instead of...well, sex. “But I’d like to think I have the theory under control.”

I scoff at the embarrassment on her face.

“Like I know what I’m doing?” I ask.

My cheeks flush with heat, awkwardness replacing my desire.

“Well, yeah,” Mi says, giving a quick shake of her head. “I’m still a virgin, Harry. In both
timelines.”

Of that, I had no doubt. The same couldn't be said for her.

“Me too!” I assure her with a sinking feeling in my gut.

“But—” she says, then stops with a dawning realization.

Mother fucker.

My stomach drops. Anger licks up my spine at what I know is going through her head.

Her confusion pulses in her veins.

“Say it.” I demand.

“Ginny,” she whispers. “Ginny said that you’d had sex. A lot of sex.”

Of course, she did.

There’s another person on my shit list.

The fact that she hasn’t said more than two words to us since she heard the news hasn’t passed my
notice either.

“We dated for like a month, Mi. I’m sure Ginny had a shit ton of sex, but it wasn’t with me.”

I know she can feel the truth in my words, but she looks like she’s still trying to puzzle out the
particulars. I run my hand through my hair in frustration, forgetting that it’s pulled into a knot at the
top of my head.

“The first time I kissed a girl she was crying, Mi.”

I don’t mean to sound as sharp as I do.

“It didn’t inspire a lot of confidence. Buggering Ron’s little sister in the back of some broom closet
isn’t how I pictured my first time either.”

Hermione steps into my space, and I put my hand on her hip out of habit.

When it became a habit, I have no idea.

But I can’t stand the idea of her being near enough to touch and not closing the distance. She still
has a book in her arm, plastered to her breasts, but she rests her open palm on my chest.

“But this morning...” she whispers, and just like that, the fire stokes back to life inside me. “This
morning was so good. I came twice, Harry!”

I have to swallow down a groan at her saying it so baldly.

Count on Hermione not to mince words.

I'm envious of how easily she's slipped into this new version of us when I'm completely terrified.

Her skin is so pale with her glamour that her blush is overwhelming. She bites her lip and I have to
kiss her.

I have to.

It’s like a compulsion.

I know she can feel my heart pounding through the thin layer of my shirt.

I cup her cheek in my palm and pull her face back to mine. Force her to meet my eye.
“That was all you, luv. One hundred percent. That was the first time I’d—”

Bugger.

This is embarrassing.

“This morning was the first time I’d held a girl like that. Kissed one like I kissed you.” I hide my
face on her shoulder so she can’t see me as clearly.

“I’m not saying that my hand hasn’t gotten quite the workout since you started sleeping in my bed,
Mi. But I am most assuredly a virgin,” I tell her, and she bursts into awkward giggles.

“Har-ry,” she hisses through laughter, and I bring my mouth to hers, silencing her with my lips.

“It wasn’t because I had more experience than you. It’s because it was with you.”

“The Bonds,” she starts, eyes wide, but I cut her off.

“No,” I say firmly, shaking my head.

“I don’t care about some stupid Bonds. The Bonds didn’t make that happen. We were Bonded last
time too, remember?”

“Only one,” she tries to fight, but I talk over her.

My voice is still quiet, but I don’t let her finish her thought.

Because she’s wrong.

“No,” I insist. “Do you have any idea how many times I had to jerk off in the shower in that tent?”

She makes a choking sound, but I’m past the point of embarrassment.

“Why do you think I was showering two times a day? The only thing that kept this from happening
then was because I knew how you felt about Ron. Or I thought I did, at least.”

“That’s what you get for assuming...” she sasses. "I can't tell you how many dirty dreams I had in
that tent, though admittedly mine involved two blokes and a king sized bed but—"

She shrugs without any shame.

Her admittance is so unexpected I burst into a surprised laugh before I tuck her hair behind her ear.

"Wow," I chuckle. "That—that would have been one way to pass the time. But the point stands.
Bonds or no Bonds, I don’t care. I don’t want you blaming them for anything that happens between
us. It’s not fate, or prophecy, or something that we have no control over. We made this choice. I
choose you. The Bonds make no difference. Stop using them to justify what I feel.”

She looks around the bookstore, seeing that no one is paying us any mind.

She takes a tiny step closer until we’re standing chest to chest.

Or chest to book, as the case may be. Hermione surges up on her toes and kisses me, and
butterflies burst in my gut at the sensation.

“But Harry,” she reiterates.

She’s so close I could kiss her again without moving an inch.

“It does make a difference. Certainly, you see that.”

She lowers her voice even farther, tilting up her chin. Her eyes are bursting with feeling.
Earnestness is pouring from her face.

“I felt some of what you were feeling.”

Merlin, me too.

Thank fuck for that.

For a while there, I couldn't tell if it was her pleasure I was feeling or mine and fuck if that didn't
feel better than her hips.

“If that were common in regular soulmates,” she continues, “I’m sure it would be talked about! It’s
the twin Bonds! It has to be.”

I feel like we’ve gotten off subject here.

“Does that have any bearing on us picking out books on sex?” I ask point-blank.

She quietly huffs.

“No,” she agrees, lightly shaking her head. Her nose rubs against mine at the motion. “I guess not.”

“Did you know the pictures in Magical books move?” I ask, and I’m sure she’s close enough that
she can feel my raging hard-on through my jeans.

“You don’t say?” she taunts me, an evil smile on her face.

Wicked Witch, indeed.

 Chapter 21
Chapter Summary

One minute I'm in Malfoy Manor, the next I'm being yelled at for dying.

Again.

Apparently I'm rather good at it. Honestly, it's not that shocking. How am I supposed
to stay alive when it's three against an army and we're working off of faulty
information? When Mortimer said he was sending me back again, my first response
was anger. Yet another Old Man making decisions for my life.

Until I saw the headful of riotous curls on the other side of Death's hallway.

I don't care what they do to me, but they fucked up when the killed Hermione. The
next time I die, I'm taking Riddle and all his minions with me.

AKA-My take on the Reptile28 Challenge

Chapter Notes

Hi- I'm Keri (Pluvio_Phial here on AO3), and this week I'm posting on behalf of
Amanda, our glorious Motherof4dragons. As many of you might have heard in the
fan-group on FB (https://www.facebook.com/groups/wickedwhispers/), Amanda
suffered a back injury and her posting schedule may be delayed. She asked that I post
this week's MoD update and I've crashed her comments section, too (that was only sort
of with permission).

As always, your readership and comments/kudos are like mana from heaven to any
author, so please make sure to comment, bookmark, subscribe, and post well-wishes
for Amanda's speedy recovery. Much love- and enjoy!
Hermione
I don't know how long we've been in the bookstore before a silver shimmery dog appears before
us.

"I thought I'd let you know that Ollivander’s shop is currently empty," it says in Sirius’ drawing
tone. Then adds, "And Ron says he's hungry."

I roll my eyes at Ron’s never-ending stomach and add the book I was currently looking at into my,
admittedly, massive pile.

I don’t know what we’d need it for off the top of my head, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s no
such thing as too many books.

Especially now that paying for them won’t be a problem.

Though, just to be safe, I make a mental note to never let Harry look over the ledgers for the estate
accounts. I can’t imagine him wanting to, but if he ever asks about it, I’ll have to see how that
whole nakedness ending fights scenario applies to shared nakedness to avoid fights.

We made our way out of what I’ve affectionately started calling the naughty section and started
systematically browsing the rest of the stacks.

I have two floating piles behind me.

One that I’ll put in my purse, unsafe for prying eyes. The other I'll call for Dobby to take back to
the house for us.

Poor guy probably needs a pick me up after Winky has been hounding him all day.

Harry has his own pile floating behind him.

Books on how to curse your weapons—disguised as stories about famous blighted weapons in
history. A book titled Jinxing the Jinxer , and Fifty Shades of Grey, Wand Working for the
Unbiased Wizard .

He found a book that, if not outright illegal, would undoubtedly be frowned upon.

It talks about imbuing inanimate objects with permanent spells.

My first thought was actually about Mr Weasley, and how this book and others like it are probably
solely responsible for his current position in the Ministry.

Misuse of Muggle artefacts indeed.

Harry thought about giving it to the Twins and asking them to help him put a permanent shield
charm into a necklace or hair clip for me.

Or maybe even in one of my house rings.

Or a stinging jinx. He thought that would be particularly funny; watching boys get too close to me
at school and walking away with welts.

Or missing their eyebrows.

I shot him a dirty look, even though he never said it out loud.
It dawned on me that night on the common room couch when he was ranting about dismembering
boys who had wronged me that it was probably in his head and not spoken out loud.

I don’t need him to protect me, thank you very much.

His reputation alone will do a stellar job as soon as we’re back in the castle and everyone hears
what he did to McLaggen on the train.

If they haven’t heard already.

I also grabbed several books that I thought Ron might be interested in. One on dragons, and
another called Dark spells for the Light Practitioner.

My pile includes a for sure illegal tome disguised as a book on make-up charms. Only besides
eyeliner tips, it contains instructions on crafting permanent glamours.

While I’m not positive, I think that I'll be able to use it to, say, tie the spell to Harry’s glasses. In
theory, every different pair of glasses he owns could hold a unique identity.

Never mind the fact that at the moment he only owns one pair.

Although almost useless inside the walls of Hogwarts, those would be very handy on the run and
living in a tent.

I follow Harry up to the counter.

“You know you actually have to pay for all that,” the sour Wizard announces, disdain dripping
from his voice.

“That won’t be a problem,” I say, and pull my bank notes from the purse I swiped from the Potter
vaults yesterday. It’s a soft butter yellow with flowers pressed into the leather. I have a feeling it
was Lilly’s, but I have no confirmation for that.

Sirius didn’t know.

The Wizard grumbles again, starting to ring up the dozens of books Harry and I have between us.

“If you don’t want our money,” Harry says, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me away, “We
can take our business elsewhere.”

“Bah,” the grouch responds, but he stops with the bitching and uses a little more respect when the
total on the register continues to rise.

I turn to Harry and slip my arms around his waist. I don’t know when I became such a toucher.

But I am.

I so, so am.

At least when it comes to Harry. Because Harry is, yeah.... worth touching, for sure.

“I kinda like it when you’re all bossy like that,” I tell him, resting my chin on his chest. “I mean, I
liked it before. You know, before, ” I say, and twitch my head.

Harry smirks at me, and brings his fingers up to my ears, pushing the escaping hair behind them.
“But before you were only bossy when we were fighting. With each other or other people. Now it
sort of oozes out of you.”

Harry scoffs at me, letting his hands rest against my hips.

“My patience isn’t all that great at the moment, in case you haven’t noticed,” he says, and I can’t
help but roll my eyes.

“I wouldn’t say it’s your patience that you're short on,” I tell him. “You handled Mrs Weasley like
a pro this morning. I’d say it’s your bullshite tolerance running low. And who can blame you for
that?"

“Are you going to pay this, or what?” the attendant barks, and I roll my eyes before pulling away
from Harry again. I write him a promissory check, pulling from the Galactic Alliance account.

“Sort these,” I tell Harry, and he immediately steps up to the counter to help me start sorting out
the piles.

The Wizard opens his mouth to complain, but at a glance from Harry, looking years older and
rugged as hell with that beard, he snaps his jaw shut again and starts helping bag up the stacks
we’ve made.

“Dobby,” I say with a little power, and the elf pops in at my knees.

“You called Mistress?” he asks, smiling up at me and bouncing on his toes.

His socks are back, and the Potter jersey is cleaner than brand new.

“Are you doing okay, Dobby?” Harry asks, looking down at his friend. “Winky seemed a little
harsh with you this morning. Do you need me to talk with her?”

The elf’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head in jerky denial.

“Dobby is great, Mr—” Harry waves his hands and shakes his head, and Dobby stumbles over his
words.

“Dobby is great, Master. Winky likes bossing Dobby around, and Dobby likes Winky. Dobby
doesn’t mind if Winky yells at him. Dobby’s going to marry Winky one day.”

Harry chokes on his tongue, laughter pinking his face. He drops into a squat so he’s level with the
little elf.

That was unexpected.

“Does Winky know that?” Harry asks, amusement making his tone rich and deep.

Because I’m going to have to say she doesn’t, unless elves like a little BDsM with their courting
rituals.

“Not yet, Master. That’s why Dobby will let her yell at him. Dobby will take his wages and buy
Winky something pretty. She likes the dresses Mistress gave her, though she not admit it. She's still
thinkings clothes is bad for elves. Dobby will buy her a pair of socks!”

Harry closes his mouth, and his laughter hums through his nose instead. He looks up at me with
shining eyes, and I shake my head at the ridiculousness of it all.

“Maybe before you buy her socks, Dobby, you ask her what sort of things she likes, okay?” I
suggest, and Dobby smiles and nods at me, his floppy ears waving in excitement.

“Did you need Dobby, Mistress?” he asks, and I start at remembering I called him for a reason.

“Will you take these back to the house for me? Just put them in the library. I’ll organise it all
later.”

“As you wish, Mistress,” Dobby says.

He takes the bags of books in his hands and, with a little bow, pops away again.

“Wow,” I say, putting the bags with our special books into my purse. The Wizard behind the desk
chuckles at seeing them disappear inside the leather. The sound catches me wholly off guard.

“Nice extension charm,” he smirks, lifting his chin in my direction.

“Thanks,” I say with a small blush.

Guess all it took for the grump to warm up was to prove to him we belong in Knockturn Alley. I’ll
remember that for next time. Harry drapes his arm around my shoulders and leads me out of the
store.

“Point me,” he whispers, and I look over to see his wand flat in his palm. He shrugs and gives me a
sheepish look. “Just making sure they didn’t go anywhere else.”

“Lazy,” I say in response.

“Pot-kettle much? Mistress of the house for a day and already calling on Dobby to collect your
shopping.”

I elbow him in the stomach, and he grunts at the impact.

“I’ve been his mistress for weeks now. Remember what they told us when you Bonded them? The
elves could tell we had the Mate Bonds then. That’s probably why when you told Winky to be my
elf, she still oathed to you.”

Harry stops dead in the middle of the street, other travelers flowing around us with mumbled
complaints.

“Those little shits,” he hisses, and I can’t say I don’t agree.

“Exactly,” I agree, then start to walk again. Harry falls into step beside me, still with his arm
around my shoulders.

Ron jumps in surprise when we sidle up next to them.

They’re lounging about outside of Ollivander’s shop. Not so close as to gain attention, but close
enough to monitor the door.

“I forgot what you looked like,” Ron grumbled with pink-tipped earlobes, and I chuckle at the
admittance. He, too, is under glamour. While it's evident to everyone who looks that he's still a
Weasley, he doesn't look like our Weasley. He's sporting a beard with long hair, and he looks like a
stockier Bill this way.

“Ready?” Sirius asks.

“As I’ll ever—” Harry starts to say, then stops in the middle of a word.

A woman with bubblegum pink hair is walking this way.

Beside her is a lanky-looking teenager, already a pale imitation of the chubby little boy we met on
the train.

“Neville!”

Harry raises his arms and waves to catch the other boy’s attention.

Nev looks at us and frowns.

Tonks throws back her head and laughs, then leans sideways to whisper in his ear. Realisation
blossoms over his face, and his expression morphs into a smile, laughter soft on his tongue.

When we close the distance between our two groups, I reach out and hug him, catching Neville by
surprise.

He looks like he’s never touched a girl before, which, okay, may actually be true. But he better get
used to it fast.

Because apparently this new incarnation of myself likes to hug.

Or maybe I just know how fragile life is. Neville was one of our best friends. He still is, even if he
doesn’t know it yet.

“Hey, Nev,” Harry says, reaching out and shaking his hand.

“Nice look,” he jokes at us, looking at Harry up and down.

I guess he does look pretty different. Excluding the glamour on his face, Harry’s wearing clothes
that fit, boots laced up to his knees and has a wife dangling from his arm.

Not that Neville knows that yet.

“Thanks,” Harry laughs. “Makes it easier to run errands, that’s for sure.”

“I can only imagine,” Neville says, and judging from the fact that he’s currently being escorted by
an Auror, I’m guessing he understands a lot better today than he would have three weeks ago.

“We’re heading to Ollivander’s, you want to come?”

Why would he invite Neville? Especially with Tonks as his escort.

He was by our side for everything, whispers through my mind. I want him with us from the
beginning this time.

Harry heard my thoughts.

Merlin, that's so frustrating!

I have no idea how this stupid Bond thing works! As soon as we’re done in Diagon Alley, I’m
buying a journal to keep notes.

The lack of information is ridiculous.

Harry’s laughter lights up the inside of my brain.

“Sure!” Neville says, sticking his hands in his pocket. “That okay with you, Tonks?” he asks,
looking at the pink-haired witch beside him.

“My job is to keep you out of trouble today. I don’t see how much trouble you can get into in the
wand shop,” she says with a smile.

Shows what she knows.

Harry speaks up with a grin on his face.

“Don’t speak too soon,” he says with a laugh. Then his expression falls serious. “Whatever happens
in there, keep quiet, okay?”

Neville just nods, used to weird things blossoming around Harry.

“Sure, Cuz,” Tonks agrees, but suspicion pulls her face tight.

“I need you to keep anything you hear in there to yourself,” Harry says seriously. “That includes
speaking to the Ministry and The Order. All of you,” Harry says, turning to the men behind him.

“Our loyalty lies with you, Pup,” Sirius says with a straight face, Remus nodding along beside him.

“Are you ordering me as my head of house to keep your secrets?” Tonks asks, anger and confusion
making her words sharp and her cheeks blush.

“No,” Harry says sincerely. “I’m asking you as my friend, to keep my secrets until I’m ready for
them to be shared.”

Tonks stares at Harry, the tips of her hair turning grey.

Her eyes flick to the men over Harry’s shoulder, then she quickly nods her head.

“Done,” she says, reaching out her hand.

Harry shakes it, then turns to pull open the door.

We quietly fall into line behind him.

Ollivander is already coming out from behind his counter, showing us a welcoming smile. At
Harry’s nod, Sirius locks the front door once we’re all inside, using magic to flip the sign to
closed.

Ollivander’s eyes widen, then dart around his shop, looking for alternate escape routes.

Remove the glamour slides through my head.

With a flick of my wrist, the glamours on Harry, Ron and I drop. Ollivander’s eyes widen even
further, excitement replacing his fear, until he smiles and holds out his hands. If he could feel what
was going on inside of Harry right now, he’d have stuck with his instincts and continued being
afraid.

“Why Mr. Potter!” he cries out, arms wide to welcome us deeper into the shop.

“What an honour. What an honour.”

I cringe internally at the sycophantic way he addresses Harry. It’s just one more sign of how few
people really know the man at my side. Harry hates it when you treat him more than what he is.

Simply a person, trying to do his best.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this day?”

Harry smiles at the man, but it’s tight and fake. I glance around us and notice that quite
subconsciously, or actually, maybe incredibly consciously, everyone in our party has fallen into a
flank at Harry’s back.

I’m the only person still at his side.

The others are lined up behind him. Ron and Neville are on the ends. Sirius is in the middle, and
Remus and Tonks on either side of him.

“It’s Lord Potter-Black now,” Harry says with pride. “I’ve been adopted, and taken the Black
titles.”

The wandmaker's eyes flick over Harry’s shoulders, and he grimaces at the sight of Harry’s
Godfather standing behind him and to his right.

From the corner of my eye I catch Neville standing up a bit straighter.

“Congratulations,” he says, but with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

My eyes glide around the wandmaker's shop, taking in the tilting piles of boxes and shelves dipping
under their weight.

I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia for the last time I was in this store.

Harry speaks up, and I turn my attention back to him.

“I came to speak with you about wands, Mr Ollivander. I find myself in need of one.”

Neville is the only person who reacts. The others don’t so much as twitch, though even I don’t
know exactly why Harry was so determined to talk to Mr Ollivander, outside of that blasted elder
wand.

“Oh?”

He blinks his eyes like a fish, his gaze wandering to the wand strapped to the holster across Harry’s
chest.

“Is there a problem with your wand, Mr. Potter?”

His hands flex at his sides, and his eyes dart towards the exits again.

Harry pulls his wand, shaking it between his finger and thumb.

“Yes,” he says plainly. “But you know that already, don’t you?” Ollivander’s throat bobs as he
swallows back his nervousness and sweat appears on his brow. “Tell me about Priori Incantatem
.”

Sirius’s sharp intake of breath is the only sign that Harry’s question is anything out of the
ordinary.
Ollivander’s lips part in a silent gasp, and he leans forward on his feet.

“You’ve fought him?” he asks in a harsh whisper, taking a step closer, before whatever he sees on
Harry’s feet brings him to a stop.

“Multiple times,” Harry advises, and while that’s technically true, he hasn’t yet fought Voldemort
with the wand in this timeline.

“I’m sure you can imagine how that worked out.”

“The twin cores,” Mr. Ollivander breathes, and excitement lights up his face.

Harry told me once that Mr. Ollivander always gave him the creeps.

I’m starting to understand why.

“Your wand and You-Know-Who's share a core. A phoenix feather, plucked from the same bird at
the same time.

“Because the wands are brothers,” Mr Ollivander continues, his voice firm and sure, “they will not
work properly against each other. If the owners of the wands force the wands to do battle, we see
Priori Incantatem. One of the wands will force the other to regurgitate the spells it has performed.
In reverse. The most recent first, then the one before, et cetera.”

He licks his lips, his hands twitching in front of his body.

He all but looks desperate to get his hands on Harry’s wand.

To pull its secrets from its depths.

“Whose wand won?” Mr. Ollivander asks, and the tension from the men at our back’s spikes to an
uncomfortable degree.

Harry’s heart bursts in his chest.

I clench my fists, letting my nails dig into my palm to keep from reaching for him. He wouldn’t
thank me for the comfort.

Not right now.

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” is all Harry replies, and the wandmaker blanches at the statement.

Harry takes a step forward, leaving us all behind.

Mr. Ollivander seems to shrink in on himself.

“You didn’t think to tell me the implications since I had chosen the twin to Voldemort’s wand?
You remember every wand you’ve ever sold. You told me yourself. As the sole survivor of the
killing curse, delivered to me by the darkest wizard in history, knowledge that I now owned the
wand twin to his would have been good information to have, don’t you think?”

The wand maker pales even further, stuttering over his words.

“Th-the wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. It would have made no difference either way.”

"It's Lord Potter-Black," Neville says with reverence and dammit! I forgot that he holds a title too.
Or will, when his Grandmother passes it to him.

I doubt she'll ever die.

“It made all the difference in the world,” Harry says, “when I watched the image of my dead
parents spew forth from Voldemort’s wand.”

“You saw your parents?” Sirius asks sharply, but Harry pays him no never mind.

I see from the corner of my eye as Tonks and Remus both put a hand on each of Sirius’ wrists to
hold him back from his Godson.

Mr. Ollivander, seemingly at a loss for words, simply bows at the waist, showing Harry a level of
respect that catches us all off guard. Surprise licks up Harry’s spine, but he keeps his face as
smooth as ice.

“As I said, Mr. Ollivander. I require a second wand. Call it a hunch, but I doubt that’ll be the last
time that Voldemort and I trade spells.”

“The wand chooses the wizard,” he says again, rising from his bow. “But I will do what I can.”

He makes as if to move, but when Harry remains standing where he’s at, the old man resumes his
spot in front of him.

“Tell me about a wand's allegiance. Is it possible to use another’s?”

The wandmaker's eyes alight in interest, probably feeling that the danger of Harry’s wrath had
passed. How little true that is. Harry’s rage is bubbling under the surface. It tastes like sulphur in
my mouth, making my fingers tingle.

His hands twitch at his side, and black sparks drip from his wand where he pats it against his thigh.

Harry is seething in controlled fury that he can’t simply walk into Malfoy Manor and cut off
Voldemort’s head with the sword.

By talking to Ollivander he’s giving away knowledge that others don’t yet realise we have.

But we can’t form a plan without getting our questions answered.

Will Voldemort come for Mr. Ollivander again, without having previously seen the twin cores in
action? After all, Wormtail currently has no need for a wand, sitting in a cell in Azkaban.

But he could, and that’s reason enough to fear talking to the pompous man.

We’re stuck in a catch twenty-two, and it’s driving Harry to the edge of violence.

“Certainly, you can use another’s wand. But how well it will work for you remains to be seen. If
you have won the wand's allegiance by taking it from its previous owner, the wand is more likely
to bend to your will and work well. Rather than if you say, swiped it off of your friends bedside
table.”

Harry nods, as if already having known or suspected that answer.

“Even so,” Mr. Ollivander continues. “Some wands are safer than others. Take your wand, for
instance, Mr.—" he stutters horribly, his eyes flicking behind the Nev."—Lord Potter-Black. Even
if I were to somehow win it from you in battle, I would not endeavour to use it as my own. Some
wands are stiff, brittle, and fiercely loyal to their owners. I would not attempt to use your wand, for
all the galleons in the world.”

His voice shakes by the time he finishes, and I know he speaks the truth.

After all, by his own admission, Harry’s wand beat Voldemort’s in a battle for dominance.

If the wand chooses the wizard, and Harry’s wand beat that of the most powerful wizard alive,
what does that say about Harry himself?

It’s obvious from the tremble in the wandmaker's voice that what it says to him is that Harry is not
a person to trifle with.

“Is it necessary to kill the previous owner to take possession of a wand?” Harry asks.

Mr. Ollivander jerks back in surprise.

“What? No. No, I shouldn’t think that it is necessary to kill to earn a wand's allegiance.”

Here it comes.

What Harry’s been building towards.

What he’s been obsessing over, in this timeline, and the last.

“But there are legends, aren’t there?” he prompts, and I can feel his heartbeat echo in my chest.
“Legends about a wand, or wands, that have passed from hand to hand by murder.”

Mr. Ollivander’s head tilts on his neck, and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Just one wand, I think. You can trace its course through history if you try. There
are gaps, naturally, where it vanishes from view. Lost or hidden. But it always resurfaces. It has
certain characteristics that those who are learned in wandlore recognize. There are written accounts
as well, some of them obscure, that I and other wandmakers have made it our business to study.
They have the rings of authenticity.”

I speak up for the first time.

“I’d like to look at those accounts, Mr. Ollivander, if that’s alright with you.”

His eyes flash to me, then back at Harry. At the lift of Harry’s eyebrow, Mr. Ollivander turns to me
and gives a tiny nod.

“Certainly, Ms. Granger. Anything I can do to help.”

I start at hearing my name.

It’s only been a day, and yet the title of Ms. Granger feels bizarre. All it took was an orb for me to
realise I was always meant to be Harry’s wife.

Age fifteen or fifty, it doesn’t really matter.

“Do you think it needs to pass by murder?” Harry asks him.

Mr. Ollivander’s gaze returns to Harry with a contemplative look in his eyes.
“No, Lord Potter-Black. I personally do not feel that the wand needs to pass hands via murder. But
it has a bloody history for sure. That may simply be due to the fact that it is such a desirable object
and arouses such passions in wizards. Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong hands, and an
object of incredible fascination to all of us who study the power of wands.”

Harry nods again, then turns his head to look at me.

I can’t read the expression in his eyes, but I can feel his pain and excitement thrumming in his
blood.

I’ve always been fascinated with the way Harry’s brain works.

Day-to-day topics hold little interest to him.

He finds magical theory boring.

Studying and doing spell work is mundane.

But put a problem in front of him, and his mind can jump leaps and bounds. Using instinct and—
and magic alone, he can put two and two together and come up with five, not needing the missing
one.

It’s what he’s doing now. Taking the pieces of the puzzle only he sees and twists them around until
he comes up with the truth.

Since that kiss, I can almost hear it happening.

“Was Mr. Gregorovitch the last wizard to own the Elder Wand?” Harry asks in a cold tone, and
Ollivander pales, swaying on his feet.

I gasp at Harry’s side, and he looks at me, his face blank and placid.

Harry said nothing about Mr. Gregorovitch.

Ever.

Not in this timeline, or the last. If he thought Gregorovitch had the elder wand, what are we doing
talking to Mr. Ollivander?

“Yes,” Mr. Ollivander says with a hiss. “How would you know that?”

Images burst into my mind.

I stumble on my feet, but before I fall, a steady pair of arms wrap around my waist. I look up and
see Ron staring down at me with concern on his face, his eyes flickering between Harry and me.

I close my eyes and am assaulted with the visions.

The boy from the book on Dumbledore’s life is fleeing through a window, a mischievous smirk on
his face. A grown man, who I can only assume to be Mr. Gregorovitch, screams in anger after the
thieving boy.

An older version of the other wandmaker, laughing in Voldemort’s face, that he is unafraid to die
and that the Elder Wand will never be his.

Is this what Harry felt like when Voldemort pillaged his mind?
“It doesn’t matter,” Harry says, looking at me with a cold concern.

He shrugs his shoulders to rid them of the stress pulling them tight.

I can barely feel his emotions now, though the images still gleam clearly behind my eyes.

Is—is Harry using occlumency?

“It was a rumour,” the pale man says. “Years and years ago. I believe Gregorovitch started it
himself. You can see how good it would be for business, that he was studying and duplicating the
qualities of the Elder Wand. It was hogwash, all of it. There’s no need to look elsewhere for a
wand that would defeat You-Know-Who, Mr Potter-Black.”

Mr. Ollivander continues on this train, but Harry has stopped listening.

He beats his wand on his thigh, the only sound outside of the wandmaker’s assurances that he can
provide Harry with a suitable replacement for his Phoenix Core wand.

If Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand, and it was stolen by Grindelwald, and then Grindelwald was
defeated by Dumbledore...

My knees give out again.

That means Dumbledore, the only man to ever strike fear into Voldemort’s heart, is the Elder
Wand’s current owner.

“You, okay?” Ron whispers into my ear.

If Harry is right, and the snitch held the resurrection stone, Dumbledore owned two of the Deathly
Hallows.

This means Harry owned two as well.

But that’s still years away. Where is the stone today?

I look to Harry on my left.

Harry’s mind has already hopscotched to these answers. He’s simply using Mr. Ollivander to
confirm them.

“Yeah,” I assure him, standing on my own two feet again.

He stares at me long and hard for a moment, then nods his chin sharply, accepting my words at
face value. He doesn’t resume his spot behind us, though. He moves to my other side, taking his
place beside us.

As it should be.

No matter the issues between Ron and me, the one thing I can count on is to have our backs, even
if we aren’t talking at the time.

Harry interrupts Mr. Ollivander’s babbling, and the older man snaps his mouth shut.

“I have only two more questions for you, sir,” Harry says. “Then we’ll let you get on with your
day. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me. I know how busy you are.”
Mr. Ollivander tilts his head in a sign of acknowledgement and respect, never mind the fact that we
locked him in his own store.

“In your vast knowledge of wandlore,” Harry says, and there’s that Slytherin instinct kicking in.

Harry can sweet talk with the best of them when it’s necessary.

Honestly, Voldemort would be proud.

The old fool swells with pleasure under the assumed praise. “Have you ever heard of Soul-Mates,
or Bond-Mates sharing magic? Or sharing a wand?”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from showing an outward reaction.

The wandmaker's eyes go wide, his head jerking back on his neck.

His eyes flick all over, most likely trying to decide who the mated pair is in the seven people in
front of him.

“There are written accounts, yes, of Bond-Mates sharing their magic. The wand chooses the wizard
Lord Potter-Black. But with Bonded-Mates,” and the old Wizard shrugs. “How does the wand tell
one from the other? It would be possible, I believe, to use your Bonded’s wand with ease. At least
in theory,” he adds as an afterthought.

“It has been over four-hundred years since the last pair of Bonded-Mates were recorded. Little is
known anymore what powers Bonded-Mates could wield.”

“We’ll need to see your accounts on that as well,” I say, and recognition flares behind his eyes.

“Of course, Ms. Granger,” he intones, giving me a deeper bow.

“What do you know of the Deathly Hallows?” Harry asks, and Ollivander gives him a blank stare.

“Is this something to do with wandlore?” he asks with confusion in his voice.

“No matter,” Harry says, shaking his head. “I’ll take a look at those wands, now, if you don’t
mind.” Mr. Ollivander stares at Harry long and hard before giving himself a shake.

“Right this way,” he says, gesturing with his hand. “I think I have just the wand for you.”

We’re at the front door an hour later. Tonks’ hand is on the door handle when Harry pulls her to a
stop.

In Harry’s pouch is a twelve-inch hawthorn wand with a dragon heartstring core. In a twist,
surprising no one but Ollivander himself, in my purse rests its twin.

We were told that should we learn to work as a team, it would increase our power tenfold.

What will it do to the Bonds if our wands are Bonded too?

Neville is also leaving with a new wand. The exact same one he purchases in one year’s time in the
other timeline. Thirteen inches of Cherry wood with a unicorn hair core. I have several books in my
purse, most of them handwritten journals, hundreds of years old.

“Hermione,” Harry says, and I turn to face my husband, already knowing what he’s going to say.
“Wipe him.”

With a quick nod of my head, I turn to Mr. Ollivander and give him a grim smile.

His face falls with realisation, the elation of his newfound knowledge bleeding into fear and
despair.

“Obliviate,” I whisper, then clear our visit from his mind. I set him to sleep for the next five
minutes, then follow my husband out the door. When I look behind me, Sirius is re-locking it from
the outside, keeping the sign turned to closed.

“Harry,” Neville breathes, eyes wide and chest panting.

It’s obvious he’s afraid we’re going to do the same to him.

Harry smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Twelve Grimmauld Place,” Harry says. “Tonks knows the location. Nine a.m. Monday morning.
We start training then.”

“Training for what?” Neville asks.

“For what’s to come,” Harry replies with a sad smile. He twists his wand and a folded piece of
paper falls into his open hand.

"Give this to your Gran, then burn it. It's under a Fidelius." Neville's eyes go wide at the
confirmation of what he suspected inside the shop.

Our Bond. Mrs. Longbottom would have already forgotten.

Harry reaches forward and shakes Neville’s hand, who responds in a slow sort of daze. Then he
walks towards the exit of Diagon Alley, the rest of us falling into place behind him.

"Where to next?" Remus asks.

Harry looks at me, entwining our fingers together.

"I don't plan on sleeping alone any time soon. We need to go talk to Hermione’s parents."

Bugger.
 Chapter 22
Chapter Notes

Thank you, as always, for your amazing comments and continued support.

I'm not feeling very loquacious today, but I hope you enjoy.
 Hermione

We popped out of Diagon Alley in order to call my parents and check when they’ll be home today.

It feels so strange to me that it’s only a week into the summer holiday.

Harry and I have been back for two.

But there’s been enough drama shoved into the last sixteen days to last a dozen lifetimes.

Instead of going back inside and eating at the Leaky, we chose a Muggle establishment to lunch in.
We’re all dressed casually enough to blend into Muggle London, despite the cloaks around our
shoulders.

Ron’s eyes were wide with curiosity, having never eaten in a Muggle shop before.

Until he realised the only difference between the sandwich shop we’re in and the pub inside of
Diagon Alley is the plates don’t wash themselves.

The restaurant quickly lost its wow factor.

“Are we sure about the Longbottom boy?” Sirius asks, pulling a long draw from the bottle of stout
sitting beside his plate. “His parents were some of the bravest folks I’ve ever known, but from
what Moony has told me, he’s not exactly quick-witted.”

“Yes, we’re sure,” I say, and Harry lifts one finger, swallowing the food in his mouth.

“He’ll gain in confidence and skill, trust me. He’s been using his father’s wand.”

“Ah,” Remus says, with a knowing nod. “That can make a difference.”

I understand the nostalgia of using the wand that was wielded by his father, but if the wand
chooses the wizard, then Neville probably never earned its allegiance.

Especially as its previous owner is still alive and Nevile didn't win it in battle.

“They’ll come to respect him at the school, as well,” Harry adds. “Even more so now that his
grandmother is the Minister. We want him on our side. I trust him with my life. Or I will, after
we’ve trained him some.”

Ron snorts at that, shoving a chip into his mouth.

“You let an awful lot of information leak in front of Tonks,” Remus prods.

His arms are on the table, and he leans forward over his linked hands, and it reminds me so much
of Remus' teaching that I have to pull back and blink.

Harry shrugs, reaching forward and snatching Sirius’ ale from his hands.

“I trust her, don’t you?”

Remus and Sirius share a look I don’t quite understand before Sirius huffs and snatches the bottle
back from Harry, who’d already brought it to his lips.

“You’re getting cocky, Pup,” Sirius smirks, finishing off the last of the bottle.

Harry simply shrugs before going back to his food.

“On that note,” Remus says, “Nate will be here sometime this weekend. He told me he’d send
word when he hit London so we could go pick him up.”

“Excellent,” Sirius grins, before taking a too-large bite of food.

My nose scrunches, and I have to look away. For all of that pure-blood breeding, sometimes he still
eats like a dog.

“Nate?” Harry asks.

“Nathanial Smythe,” Sirius replies with a mouthful of food. “American. Did a year with us at
Hogwarts as part of an exchange program. Current member of the international JMATTF.”

Excitement bubbles up inside my chest.

This is...wow! We never had outside help last time!

Is this good? Harry asks through the Bond. I start as his unexpected words caress my brain.

Brilliant! I assure him.

“I called him last night,” Remus says. “If you lot want to train, he’s the best one to help you. He’s a
weapons master, including swords. Sirius here has been out of the game a while, and though I went
through Auror training, it’s been a good time since I’ve had a proper duel as well. Neither of us can
teach you how to wield that blade.”

I doubt many people could.

“Seeing that the Ministry has acknowledged the return of You-Know-Who, he was able to swing
an assignment change. He’s here for the duration, ostensibly as a liaison to the MACUSA Auror
department.”

Remus looks Harry in the eye.

“In reality, he’s here to train you. The next time you face You-Know-Who, you won’t be hiding
behind a gravestone.”

“Good,” Harry says, determination coating him like a suit of armour.

“What’s the JMA, MTA or, you know, whatever you said?” Ron asks, and I perk up and raise my
hand before I remember that I don’t really have to do that here.

Remus chuckles and gestures for me to answer Ron anyway.

“It stands for the Joint Magical Anti-Terrorism Task Force. Basically, an elite group of Aurors
from all over the world that work together to bring down dark wizards.”

“They have a tighter scope than that,” Remus says. “If a terrorist group, is suspected of acting with
magical assistance, then the JMATTF steps in and removes the witch or wizards assisting them.”

Harry curls his lip in disdain.

“So basically, they don’t care if Muggles kill each other, just when we do it for them.”

“Sad, but true,” Remus agrees. “History is filled with Muggle conflict. Witches and wizards have
always played their part; to either assist their Muggle neighbours or to put an end to the witches and
wizards egging the Muggles on. But unfortunately, we can’t do more than that. It’s a short leap
between interfering to save lives and taking over altogether. There’s a reason our societies are
separate, and it isn’t about protecting the witch and wizard as most would have you believe. They
need protection from us, not the other way around.”

Sirius nods his head in agreement, and Ron drops his food onto his plate with an uneasy
expression.

“I wonder where this task force was last time?” Harry says, and I pinch him on the leg. His big
fucking mouth is going to get us burned at the stake! Luckily, the men sitting at the table with us
assume he meant when his parents were killed.

Not as in three years from now when Britain had zero help from outside magical communities.

“Not in existence,” Remus says. “But besides that, even this time, the Ministry would have to invite
the task force in by requesting assistance, and that would never happen. Despite having a witch as
formidable as Augusta in charge, the Ministry would never admit they required outside help.”

“Also,” Sirius adds, looking Harry in the eye.

The look says it all.

He knows Harry was complaining about the future, not the past.

“Say the Ministry as we know it were to fall, and You-Know-Who gained control of the
government. Well then, it wouldn’t be a dark wizard wreaking havoc, would it? It would be a
political party setting new laws and regulations. An outside governing body sticking their noses
where they aren’t wanted could be seen as a sign of war.”

“And that,” I say with anger boiling in my gut, a hot echo of the fire-spitting behind Harry’s eyes,
“is exactly how Hitler took over half the world.”

Even Ron knows who Hitler is, and he pushes his plate away, a frown marring his usually smiling
face.

Silence falls on the table as we all lose ourselves to our own thoughts.

Remus clears his throat.

He wipes his face with his napkin, pushing away from the table.

“This has been incredibly eye-opening, but I too have errands to run today. I’m assuming I’m not
needed for the meeting with Hermione’s parents?”

“I wish I wasn’t needed for the meeting with my parents,” I mumble under my breath, and all the
boys at the table laugh. Harry’s laugh is a little flat though. He squeezes my knee under the table,
and I link my fingers with him, resting our entwined hands on my lap.

Remus leans forward and whispers something in Sirius’s ear. He nods, then clasps his hand over
Remus’s, resting on Sirius’s shoulders. With a nod and a wave, Remus makes his way from the
restaurant.

“Has he been given his orders to make nice with the other werewolves yet?” Harry asks in a low
voice.

Sirius nods, pushing his plate away.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Harry says, popping the last bite of his turkey club into his mouth.

“Waste of time, and it breaks Moony’s spirit. There are other ways he can be of help to the Order.
If we’re going to make a change, it starts right here and now. He shouldn’t hide in the shadows.
Fighting Riddle is about acceptance for all, werewolves included.”
Clouds roll behind Sirius’s eyes, and his fingers tap against the glass bottle that held his ale.

“I’ll pass the message along,” he says.

He taps out a senseless rhythm on the glass, and conversation stills between us.

“What about Hagrid and the giants?” he asks. “Should he be recalled as well?”

I look at Harry, a hundred different replies shooting through my mind.

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. “He and Madam Maxine won’t have any luck persuading the
giants to join the side of the light. But Hagrid makes a friend.”

Harry grins at Sirius.

“I wouldn’t want to deprive him of that.”

I can’t help my laugh.

“A friend?” Sirius questions.

“His brother,” Harry smiles. “Brings him back and hides him in the Forbidden Forest. Tries to
teach him English.”

“You mean ropes us into teaching him English!” I say, enjoying the way Ron’s jaw drops in
horror.

Sirius barks out his that abrasive laugh, causing half the heads in the restaurant to turn and look at
him.

“Merlin,” he says, wiping the tears from his face. “That’s classic! Do you succeed?”

I shrug, and when I turn to look at Harry, he’s already staring at me with those sparkling green
eyes.

“He calls Hermione, Hermy,” Harry says playfully, and Ron joins in on the laughter. I throw his
hand back in his lap, crossing my arms over my chest in a snit.

“Did you have to tell them that?” I hiss in Harry’s direction.

“Yes,” he jokes, chuckling along with the other two.

The sound of my cell phone ringing brings an end to my embarrassment.

Bugger.

“Hi Mum,” I say, answering the phone.

“We’re home, darling. You said you’d be back tonight?”

“Yeah,” I agree, and Harry swallows, his throat bobbing with effort. All the blood leaves his face,
and he rubs his fingers across his mouth.

The Bond is buzzing, then stops, then buzzes some more.

He’s trying to block his emotions from me.

Merlin! He’s as nervous as I am!

“I’ll be there in a few minutes, Mum,” I tell her, then hang up the line when she says goodbye.

I place my elbows onto the table, then drop my head to my palms.

“What am I supposed to tell them?” I ask in rhetorical fashion.

Harry answers me anyway.

“Whatever you want. We tell them as much or as little as you want to. If you want to tell them
about the Bonds and the marriage and the war, then we will. If you want me to Imperius them into
joining Doctors Without Borders, then I’ll do that. If you want to stay with your parents this
summer, then you can do that too.”

I bite on my lower lip, tugging on my fingers. Why does facing my parents terrify me, but
remembering teaching a giant English seems fun?

No matter what happens though, I have zero plans of not sleeping in Harry’s bed every night.

If only for my own sanity.

No. For his.

I can’t handle watching myself die over and over again night after night. I didn’t wake up with a
bad dream once yesterday.

“You can use the Imperius?!” Sirius demands.

Harry nods his head and lifts a shoulder.

“I can throw it off entirely too. It doesn’t affect me at all anymore.”

“Blimey,” Ron breathes with awe.

Harry turns to him with a dry expression, his eyebrow tipped up behind his glasses.

“You already knew that, Ron. You watched fake Moody practice on me about a dozen times.”

“Oh yeah...” he says, his face lighting up in realisation.

I shake my head and rise from my seat.

I drop a twenty-pound note onto the table, and we leave our trash where it lies. No one speaks
again until we’re out in the street.

Harry takes my hand in his automatically, and we entwin our fingers. There’s an alley a little way
up, and Sirius points to it as we head in that direction.

“I’m not a very good liar,” I say, and Harry scoffs at my side

“Since when?” he mocks, looking down on me past his chin.

I roll my eyes.

“Fine,” I huff, and push a strand of hair out of my face. “I’m not very good at lying to my parents.
When I obliviated them before, I did it with their backs turned so I didn’t have to see their faces. I
don’t think I can do it again.”

Harry takes my hand and brings it to his lips, placing a kiss on my palm.

“Then you don’t have to do it. Tell them everything, and we’ll go from there. Or tell them nothing.
This is completely up to you.”

Could he be any less helpful?

“We could always move them into Grimmauld,” Sirius suggests. “Even with all the Weasley’s and
Remus, there are still plenty of rooms.”

“We could, yeah. But they can’t protect themselves against magic. What if the house is breached?
Or what if they’re attacked at work or going to and from? It’s just not worth the risk.”

Harry squeezes my hand tighter, and I realise I’m trying to pull on my fingers again. It’s a habit I
lost ages ago, but I guess with age regression comes a few side effects.

Like a nervous twitch that only shows itself now when I’m freaking out over test results.

Or telling my parents I’m married.

“How about we just play it by ear,” Sirius says, his face soft and sympathetic. He throws his arm
around my shoulders. “I’ll help smooth things over with your folks. After all, you are kinda my
daughter-in-law now, right?”

Harry does a double check, staring at his Godfather from over the top of my head.

“Merlin, you adopted me,” he says with shock in his voice.

“Well spotted, Harry,” Ron smirks, looking at his best friend in amusement.

“I just, everything has been going so fast, I haven’t really stopped to consider the ramifications
other than Kreacher doesn’t hate me this time and now I have a second last name. That means
you’re my dad.”

Sirius scrunches up his nose.

“I’m not sure if I’d go that far, Pup.”

Harry shoots Sirius an amused look, pushing up his glasses.

“So, you’ll claim my wife as a daughter but not me as a son?”

Sirius stops in the middle of the sidewalk, in the mouth of the open alley. He cups Harry’s face, his
other hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll claim you as my own, for as long as I’m alive. But you already have a father, Pup. I’ve no
desire to replace him.”

Harry jerks his chin, swallowing the emotion filling behind his eyes. Sirius pulls him into a hug,
and I step away, only to run into Ron’s chest.

He puts his arms out to steady me, linking them around my front, and this is a change too. Ron
from the last time avoided touching me as much as he could.
I guess when you know you stand no chance it takes a lot of the sexual tension out of it. Not to
mention the old knowing we died together in a previous lifetime.

Harry told him to hold the people you love, and Ron has taken to it with aplomb.

I tip my head back to look at him when I hear him sniffle.

“Are you crying?” I ask, and Ron shakes his head at the same time his hand lifts to rub at his nose.
“No,” he huffs.

Boys.

Harry and Sirius separate, and together, we go deeper into the alleyway.

“Does anybody but me know where I live?” I ask.

Everyone shakes their heads no.

I thought as much.

“Okay. One at a time then.”

Since I’m already closest to Ron, I grab his hand, then apparate him into my parent’s backyard.

Ron is walking around the area, examining the pool and the lawn furniture when I arrive with
Harry and Sirius.

“It’s bullocks that you can apparate and I can’t,” he complains, poking at a rose bush.

The roses at Hogwarts will jab back if you try to prune them while they’re awake, and Ron jerks
his hand back in anticipation of a retaliation from the flowers that never comes.

“Then we’ll teach you,” Harry says matter of factly, and I watch him go to our best friend.

I let the glamours fall for a second time today, and my boys glimmer back into their proper forms.
Harry says something too low for me to hear, bumping his shoulder against Ron’s. Ron nods,
huffing his shoulders, before pushing Harry away with a playful shove.

“Wanker,” Harry says.

“Prat,” Ron replies.

Boys.

Sirius rolls his eyes in my direction. I make it as far as the sliding glass door, before I freeze with
my fingers gripping the handle so hard, they’ve gone white.

My heart is thundering out of my chest and my hands are shaking and oh God, what am I supposed
to tell them. ‘Hey guys! Guess what? I’m married and the evilest wizard in the world wants my
husband’s head mounted on his wall as a trophy?’

Yeah. That’ll do wonders.

I let my forehead fall to the glass.

“Why aren’t I obliviating them again?”

Harry runs his fingers down my spine.

“Because it broke something inside of you to do it the first time. I say we explain the Bonds, as
much as we can. We explain about Voldemort, as much as we’re able, then we hide them until it’s
over."

I don’t realise I’ve spoken out loud until Harry answers me.

His voice is beside my ear, and his chin resting on my shoulder. I turn my face to look at him, and
he’s close enough to kiss. He's close enough to run my nose against his and to dart my tongue out
and run it against the seam of his lips.

“You’ll help me?” I ask him in a tiny voice.

“Of course,” he assures me, and I believe him from the bottom of my heart.

Without further ado, I stand up straight and slide the door open.

“Mum!” I yell into the house. “I’m home.”

My Mum comes out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.

She smiles wide when she sees me, and even wider when she sees the trail of boys filing into the
house behind me.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” she says, pulling me into a hug. I breathe in her warmth, letting
it soak into my belly. I’m going to need all the strength I can get.

“Where’s Ginny?” she asks, rising on her tiptoes as if expecting to see her over Sirius’s shoulder.

Probably at home pouting.

Or plotting.

“She decided to stay home,” I tell her honestly. “Our errands wouldn’t have been fun for her.”

“Ah,” my mom says. “Bookstore?”

“Yes,” all three men behind me agree.

Mum jingles in laughter.

Yeah, yeah, I’m a hoot. Let’s make fun of the bookworm. I should tell them it was Harry’s idea to
go to the bookstore, and what we were searching for.

That’ll stop the mocking.

On second thought, I don’t think it would.

“Come on in then,” Mum says. “Anyone hungry?”

Ron opens his mouth to respond, but Harry smacks him upside the head, and he grumbles under his
breath when Harry replies, “No thank you, Ma’am. We just ate.”

Harry gives me a significant look, and I take a bracing breath.

“Actually, Mum. Is Dad around? We have something to talk to you about.”

She gives me a curious glance, and I try to look reassuring, but I think I just look nauseous instead.

Because throwing up feels like a really good idea right now. Harry slips his hand into mine and
squeezes, and my Mum smirks before leading us into the living room.

“Roger,” Mum yells. “Hermione is home. She wants to talk to us.”

No actually, she doesn’t.

She really does not want to talk to you.

But she doesn’t feel like she has a choice in the matter, and so is quietly having a nervous
breakdown in the middle of the living room with everybody watching.

Mum gestures to the couch, and Ron and Harry sit on either side, leaving the middle cushion open
for me.

Sirius takes one of the chairs, leaving the love seat open to my parents.

My dad wanders in with a small smile on his face and drops a kiss to my upturned cheek before
exchanging handshakes with all the men.

Harry’s hands are shaking, and my father gives him a bemused look.

Dad sits down next to Mum, and everyone looks at me expectantly, and my tongue gets stuck to
the roof of my mouth.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” I say, and it’s so true, because I don’t.

Even Mrs Weasley, a pure-blood witch, had trouble grasping the totality of what had happened.

Harry and I are Bonded.

In every way there can be.

Well, almost every way.

But the books in my purse are burning a hole through the leather so yeah, if I get my way we’ll be
Bonded completely pretty damn soon.

Married at fifteen.

That hasn’t been done since the Middle Ages. By the age of the Industrial Revolution women
didn’t marry until their late teens or early twenties.

I could just not tell them. Just skip it all and leave. But I don’t want to do that.

I don’t!

“I—"

They say you don’t realise how precious something is until it’s taken from you. Well, I know how
precious my parents are. But how do I protect them and still keep them in my life? I have to tell
them the truth.
“Don’t get mad, okay, but something happened, and—”

And what?

Ron groans at my side, and yeah, I could have phrased that better. There’s no surer way to make a
parent mad then by starting a confession with the phrase don’t get mad.

“Hermione,” my mother asks with fear in her voice. “What did you do?”

I kissed a boy and I liked it, and now I’m legally and magically his wife.

I open my mouth and shrug, but nothing will come out.

Harry looks at me and I nod. He tries his hand at telling my parents the truth.

“I’m so sorry, Mr and Mrs Granger. It’s my fault. I was stupid and reckless, and now she’s stuck in
this position because of me.”

I hear the pain in his voice, feel how real the words are to him.

He is sorry I’m stuck with him, as he sees it.

He would move mountains, defy the Gods, if he thought he could free me of the burden of being
his wife.

He can’t understand that that’s so far from the truth as to be laughable.

I want to climb into his arms and assure him that I’m exactly where I want to be. I want to be his
wife, more than I’ve ever wanted anything on this earth.

Being a witch included.

But none of that matters right now because there are few things Harry could have said that would
make the situation worse.

That was one of them.

“Hermione Jean Granger,” my father booms. “Are you pregnant?!”

Harry jerks beside me, horror flooding into our Bond, before it snaps closed like a lid on a trunk.

Blood rushes to Ron’s face and he stares at us with a sort of terrified fascination. I smack him with
the back of my hand against his chest.

Hard.

He shakes himself, and rouses from his stupor, looking back at my parents with a cringe.

Sirius lowers his head and covers his mouth. He's hiding his amusement, the right bastard! I can’t
believe they would...

“No!” I exclaim standing up from the couch.

“Absolutely not. How could you ever think that! I’m not that irresponsible! I would never—”

I could scream! I could cry! My own father...I point at him, shoving my finger into my father’s
face until he recoils from fear I’ll poke it out. My hands tremble in his face.
He’s lucky there’s a coffee table between us.

“You know me better than that! Pregnant at fifteen?! Gods!”

I flex my hands at my side, running my now sweaty palms up and down my hips. Harry reaches for
me, and I smack his hand away, too worked up to be coddled.

I step over his legs, moving to the side of the couch.

I turn back to my parents, anger at the accusation making me careless.

“Besides that, as you well know, Mum. I’m on the pill! I have too many plans to have a child so
young. How could I ever be so reckless? So careless? You can’t make a difference in the world
when you’re worried about childcare and breastfeeding! No one would vote for a Minister for
Magic who got knocked up at fifteen!”

Pregnant! I mean, I am married. Is Harry going to want me to get pregnant?

Of course, he will!

I know how bad he’s always wanted a family of his own. But I can’t have children. Not yet. Not
when there’s a war going on.

We saw what it did to Remus, didn’t we?

We saw the terror he felt bringing a child into the middle of a war.

Harry wouldn’t want that.

I’m sure of it.

Not for me, and not for our children.

“What’s the pill?” Ron asks, when my outburst subsides into unintelligent mumbling.

I look up from my arm flailing, watching the conversation with trembling hands and a heaving
chest. This can’t be happening.

“Muggle birth control,” Sirius says. “You take this small pill every day, and it stops you from
getting pregnant.”

I lift my eyes to follow the conversation and watch Ron’s lip turn up in distaste.

“Why would you take a pill every day when you can just do the charm? Or, you know, I know
there’s potions you can take. Like once a month or something. I think?”

It’s like a car crash.

Happening in slow motion. You see it beginning, but no matter how you react, you can’t stop the
impact.

“Do you know how many babies are born every year because they forgot to cast the charm? I’m
probably looking at one right now!”

Ron's eyes go wide at the implication, before his “Oi!” as what Sirius implied finally leaves an
impression.
Harry’s eyes are wide, his jaw is open.

His hands are fisted on his knees. He’s leaning away from the conversation, and his muscles are
coiled to spring, ready to jump and run.

He looks like he’s going to be sick.

“There’s more reasons to take the birth control pill than just to prevent pregnancy,” My mom chips
in and oh God, oh God, OH GOD, is this really happening?

I can’t watch this.

I turn my face up to the ceiling and pray someone kills me again.

Anyone?

I know Bellatrix is in Azkaban, but certainly there’s a rogue Death Eater walking around who’d
like to curry favour by offing Harry’s Potter's best friend.

Wife. That's what I mean.

Harry Potter’s Wife!

I’m pulling at my fingers, and Harry tries to stop me, but I smack his hands away again.

I don’t care if I break them all. Anything is better than this.

“There’s actually several beneficial reasons to take the Muggle option rather than the magic,”
Mum says. “It helps regulate your hormones and prevents acne. It helps with cramping and
controlling your period. It can actually stop your period altogether if you take it continuously and
without a break.”

“Helps with the mood swings too,” my dad says in a conspiratorial way, leaning in and whispering
loudly and Oh My God!

I can’t take it anymore.

I stomp back in front of the couch and stamp my foot in anger.

“I’M NOT PREGNANT!” I shout, throwing my arms open wide. “I’m not pregnant! We’re
married, okay! Harry and I are married and we’re from the future and Gods! Everyone! Please stop
talking!”

I drop onto the couch between Ron and Harry, covering my face with my hands.

Silence falls after my outburst.

Oh God.

Oh Merlin!

I buggered this all to hell.

But I don’t want to lie to them. And I can’t have them thinking I’m pregnant and—

I—
As one my parents explode, but I can’t understand a word they’re saying.

It’s all fuzziness and nonsense.

It’s hopeless, is what it is. Harry was right all along. It would have been better if we’d run. If I’d
never seen them at all.

Because, no matter what, I will have to lose them again, and doing it once was hard enough.

It starts out as a hiccup, a small little bleep.

Then a gasp escapes, and another, until I’m crying so hard I can’t catch my breath.

My chest heaves and my heart breaks and dammit, I should have never come home.

“Hey!” Harry coos at my side. “Hey, hey, hey, luv. It’ll be okay.”

I thought I’d lost them forever, and then I had them back, and now I have to send them away again,
and Merlin, it’s all too much.

Harry hauls me onto his lap. I latch my arms around his neck and sob uncontrollably onto his
shoulders.

“I don’t want to lose them again,” I cry, and Harry tucks his head down next to mine, his forehead
resting in the crook of my neck.

His arms are tight around me, the palm of his hands running soothing circles up and down my
back.

“I thought I’d never see them again, and now I have, and I don’t want to lose them.”

It’s like my new mantra. That's all I can think about.

“I know,” he soothes, his voice low and quiet. “I know, luv. But you don’t have to.”

He cups my face in his hands and lifts my chin until I meet his eye.

“We can do it differently this time. The plan you made is still a good one. Even Dumbledore
agreed. Get them someplace safe and bring them home when the war is over. We can do this
Hermione. I promise you; you won’t lose them this time.”

“Lose us?” my mom asks. “You’ll never lose us, honey.”

“Married?!” my dad demands with heat lacing his voice. His voice sounds higher, and I wonder if
he’s risen from his chair.

“What do you mean when the war is over?” my mom insists, and I’m so very thankful for her and
her analytical mind that I start to cry all over again.

Her voice breaks on the next words. "This time?"

I’m straddling Harry’s lap, in the middle of my parent’s living room, and I don’t even care. Harry
hitches me up higher, so that there’s zero space between us. My cheeks rest on his shoulder, and he
must have pulled the band from my braid because he’s running his fingers through my hair.

The couch dips beside me, and another hand joins Harry’s on my back. Ron gives me a sad smile
when I open my eyes.

It’s always been the three of us against the world.

It’s all so, so peaceful, and it’s around me and inside me and, dammit, it’s that stupid Bond again.

Harry is flooding my senses with his aura of calm and I really kinda hate him for it because I don’t
want to be calm. I want to cry about how fucked up everything is. But Harry has always bent me to
his will, and instead of him gaining some semblance of control over his own excessive emotions
I’m giving him control over mine.

Can we all agree that that’s not going to be good for anyone?!

But at least, for the moment, his certainty that everything will work out is a balm on my mind.

“There are problems we can’t solve, Mi,” Harry coaxes. “This isn’t one of them.”

My breathing hitches when I gasp for air, but the crying slows to a trickle as Harry continues
whispering insignificant nothings into the top of my head.

“Harry’s right,” Ron says. “Between the Order and us, we can make sure your parents are the
safest Muggles in Britain.”

I nod my head and sniffle, then pull Ron into a hug. He and Harry both grunt when our three
bodies collide.

Harry was right. He may be a git, but he’s our git.

"Thank you," I whisper into his neck, and he rubs his hand against my back harder.

“Always, Mione.”

“Are you ready?” Harry asks.

I nod my head yes, and with a little wiggle from either side, squish myself between Harry and Ron.
Ron wraps his arm around my shoulders. Harry holds my hand. I let my head rest in the crook of
his arm.

"Wow," someone whispers. I think it might be my Mum. "Married," she quietly prompts. "From
the future, you say?"

I don't know how, but it’s obvious she, at least, believes.

“Sirius, a little help?" Harry begs.

“I don’t know where to even start, Pup,” Sirius admits with a hand through his hair.

Harry’s sigh is pronounced enough that I feel his chest expand beneath me.

Harry speaks instead.

“I guess it’ll be easier to start from the beginning. Did Hermione ever tell you about my parent’s
death and why I was raised by my mother’s sister?”

“Yes,” my mother breathes, and I lift my head enough that I can look at her fully. Her eyes are on
me, and when I meet her gaze, her entire being crumbles.
“Voldemort is back,” Harry says, and my mother gasps.

“Voldemort is back, and there’s this prophecy, and your daughter is going to save the world.”

Harry pulls the orb from his pouch and reaches across the living room table. My mother lifts it
from his palm, showing it to my dad.

As one, my parents start rapid firing questions

I shut the door to my childhood bedroom, and lean against the wood, a thousand emotions that I
can’t quantify running rampant through my head.

“I’m guessing your room wasn’t always this empty?" Harry asks, and I pull my attention from my
wallowing, and turn to look at my room.

It’s completely bare.

Besides my bed and my desk, Winky left no poster hanging and no drawer unturned. I walk to the
bed and fall heavily onto the edge, unable to support my own weight anymore.

“Wow,” I breathe, unused as I am to the barren look of the room I lived in for eighteen years.
“Winky really went to town, didn’t she?”

“It’s a good thing your parents aren’t the kind to check on your room when you aren’t in it. We’d
have had even more questions to answer.”

He chuckles when he says it, but I can’t tell if the weariness flowing through me is his or my own.

Probably a combination of both.

“You okay?” he asks me, coming to stand in front of me.

Harry tucks my hair behind my ear, then flexes his hand, before shoving both fists into his pockets.

My head twitches at his weird behaviour.

“What?” I ask, curious about the thoughts I can’t read in his head.

“I can’t seem to stop touching you,” he admits, his cheeks pinking.

“I don’t even realise I’m doing it. Then I do realise it and figure it’s too late to stop it this time,
though next time I need to remember to keep my hands to myself. But then three minutes later I’m
touching you again, and I have the same fight on repeat.”

I link my forefingers into his belt loops, jerking him closer, until he stands between my knees.

“Do you hear me complaining?”

Harry digs his hands into my hair, and I let loose an audible sigh as his fingers scrape along my
scalp.

“No,” he says sadly. “But maybe you should.”

My eyes close, the lids too heavy to stay open.

“You should go with your parent’s, Mi. It’s the safest place for you. I’ll come and find you when
it’s all over.”

This.

Again.

McGonagall is currently in our living room with half the order, making plans to hide my parents
away.

Mrs Weasley is in the kitchen, refilling cups of tea and ensuring the cakes and sandwiches don’t
run out.

I was terrified when the overbearing woman appeared in the newly activated floo in my parent’s
living room. But instead of raging about how improper it is for Harry and me to share a room,
she’s done nothing but offer comfort and support to my Mum.

Actually, the way she described Bonded-Mates was really quite lovely. Even my dad was looking
at Harry in a different light by the time she was done.

I’m sure the fight over sleeping arrangements isn’t over, but she’s not making the situation worse,
and for that I’m grateful.

It’ll take a week or so until everything is in order.

False identities will be used for them to volunteer with Doctors Without Borders.

Only this time when I send them away, they'll remember who I am.

I’ve no idea if our cell phones will work wherever my parents end up, so my Dad already put a call
into his business manager to buy a satellite phone for their trip.

I, in turn, sent an owl to Gringotts, to have Ragnok wire funds into my parent’s account. There’s no
sense in them going bankrupt because we’re forcing them away. I don’t want to imagine what two
satellite phones will run them.

At least this way, we’ll be able to stay in touch.

Before the order arrived, we put another fidelius charm on the fact that Harry and I are from the
future. Even if the six of us were captured, they couldn’t gleam it from our minds unless Harry or I
told them.

Harry, however, has spent the entire afternoon trying to convince everyone who would listen that I
should go with my parents.

My parents, naturally, heartily agreed. Until Sirius and Arthur pulled them into the kitchen.

I don’t know what Sirius said to them, but by the time it was over my parents had flipped the script
and agreed with me.

That I belong with Harry.

I'm sure Sirius implying that Harry was liable to go insane and blow up half of London without me
had something to do with it.

“Harry,” I sigh, too tired to even open my eyes. “I swear on magic itself the next time you try to
send me away, I’ll kill you with my bare hands. My place is at your side. Where it’s always been.
Where it always will be. You’re starting to get on my nerves with this repetitive conversation.”

Harry chuckles, and his breath ghosts across the top of my head.

“I’d rather battle Riddle than get on your bad side. I wouldn’t want to face the birds.”

I want to laugh, but I’m just so irritated with the whole thing.

“Then stop trying to keep me safe.”

“I can’t,” he hisses, and this time I feel the words against my skin.

I open my eyes and find him hovering above me.

“The second I saw you in that hallway, curls escaping every direction, I knew I’d scorch the very
earth we walk on if it would keep you safe from harm.”

Butterflies erupt in my belly and my heart beats out of my chest.

“That’s a dangerous way to think,” I whisper, unable to bring any strength into my voice.

“I don’t care,” he breathes, and I barely catch the words.

His hand tightens in my hair, and he bends my neck back further, bringing his face to mine.

His lips are chapped, but his breath is warm where it blows against me. He slides his tongue
against my lips, and I open for him willingly.

I happily let him kiss me.

He’s soft in his explorations. So very gentle as his tongue twists against mine and his everything
assaults my senses.

His scent, masculine and tinged with magic fills my nose.

My heart is pounding out of my chest.

I raise my hands to grip him better, and my palms glide up and under his shirt, slipping against bare
muscles. He hisses against my lips at the contact, his fist tightening in my hair, and I moan at the
sting of the pull.

It sends a spark of, of something, straight to my centre and my muscles clench around emptiness.

Just like that, Harry the sweet is replaced by another being altogether.

His knee finds my bed and he leans into me, pushing me back flat on the mattress and invading my
personal space. His other knee lands between my legs, his arm by my head supporting his weight.
He nips at my mouth, and my lips, and my tongue, until I’m dizzy with the feel of him. I kiss him
back just as hungrily with my hands around his lower back and my nails exploring his flesh.

He still hasn’t shaved, and I’m struck with the hope that when we finally separate, I’ll have a beard
burn on my cheeks.

“Oi!” Ron cries, and the bedroom door slams shut again.

I didn’t even hear it open.

Harry yanks his mouth away but doesn’t go any further than that. He collapses onto the bed on top
of me, eyes closed and chest heaving. He starts to laugh quietly, then within seconds, is bursting at
the seams.

“This is going to become a problem; I can already tell.”

Ron walking in on us? Yeah. A big one.

Us snogging any chance we get? I don’t see much of an issue there at all.
 Chapter 23
Chapter Notes

Sorry I forgot to update yesterday! Thank you for all of your continued support. Your
amazing comments make me coo and tingle, so thank you thank you!!

Angsty Harry is back and I love him!

 Harry

There’s the one side of me that is terrified for Hermione’s safety.

I want to lock her away and lose the key.

I want to potion her with a dreamless drought and send her as far away from me as possible.

I want to obliviate myself from her mind and be damned of the pain it causes me.

Would the Bonds still affect her if she no longer knows who I am?

I could close them, I’m sure. If I tried hard enough.

I feel her, like a fire burning in my chest. Bubbling in the back of my mind.

Every moment I let this go on, it gets stronger.

She gets stronger within me. I should lock my sense of her in that little box in my head and bury it
until she’s lost to me forever.

I could. If I tried hard enough.

I lean against the doorframe of the Grimmauld Place library.

Hermione is set up at a table with a half dozen books open and spread out around her.

She has another half dozen colour coded spiral notebooks, with markers and highlighters and
Muggle instruments of studying that the magical folk in this house have never seen before.

She changed into different clothes when we got back from her parent’s house and is wearing a
baggy t-shirt and a pair of shorts. I don’t think I’ve seen the shirt before.

She has a spot of pink on her nose, probably from the highlighter currently behind her ear and I
know I’ll never be able to do it.

I’ll never be able to send her away.

I can’t imagine a time in my life where I don’t go searching for her in a library somewhere.

I can't remember a time in my life where I haven’t.

That’s the other side. The bastard side. That side wants to crawl inside Hermione and never see
daylight again. That side is winning and terrifies me to pieces.

It isn’t simply winning.

It’s already won.

Is it possible to make a home from a person?

I’ve always thought of a home as a structure with a roof and a foundation.

Hogwarts was my first home.

The Burrow, with its tilted walls and sneaky gnomes, has always been my second. But Hermione
feels like my only home now.

Everything with her parents just made it all so real.

I’m choosing to keep her with me. I could send her away if I really wanted to. I could have sent her
and Ron away last time.

I didn’t.

I chose to keep them with me. I kept her at my side, even after Ron left.

The price for that choice was her death. What price will she pay for my choices this time?

Even now, with all the protections we’ve put in place, I could be signing her death warrant.

But still...

“It’s almost midnight,” I say quietly, not wanting to disturb her work but unwilling to let her push
herself past the point of exhaustion.

I walk further into the room, coming to rest behind her.

I cup her face in my hand and tilt her head backwards to look at me. I wasn’t lying when I said that
I can’t stop touching her. It’s almost painful to be too far away from her for too long.

Hermione will blame it on those blasted Bonds.

I choose to blame it on the fact that she’s beautiful, and mine.

“Are you coming to bed any time soon?”

Most everyone has already gone to sleep, though I left Remus and Sirius talking in the study.
Buckbeak was sent to Hogwarts while we were out, and they'll spend the weekend transforming
the attic into a space for training.

She smiles at me, tired and soft, and I can’t resist leaning over and kissing her.

I don’t care that it’s awkward and I’m upside down.

We’re alone, for once.

The fear of being interrupted is minimal this late at night. I take her lips between my own and run
my tongue across them until she’s sighing into my touch.

I only pull away when I feel her neck getting sore.

I slide out the chair next to her instead.

The Goblin text is in a spot of honour, resting next to one of the tomes she took from Ollivander.

There’s a book on magical Bonds, and what looks like a children’s book of fairy tales.

“Find any of the information you were looking for?” I ask, and her eyes light up in excitement.

“Well,” she starts. “The Twins for sure share a Soul-Bond. If nothing else, I’ve confirmed that.”
That startles me, and I take the notebook already brimming with her neat precise scribbling and
read the section she directs me to.

"The differences between Soul-Bonds and Soul-Mates are profound."

She’s dropped into what I've long thought of as her teaching voice, seemingly forgetting that she's
talking about her and me.

"With Soul-Mates, it's strictly a love match. They are literally made for each other. One half
compliments the other half. But it's more than that. It’s said that you won't reach your true
potential without your soulmate by your side. They don't make you a better person, but you're a
better person because of them, if that makes sense."

I nod because she’s obviously nowhere near done talking.

But it makes perfect sense to me. Hermione has always made me better. In every shape and form.
Even when I was trying to date other people, she had to tell me how to do it.

The thought, somehow, makes me smile.

I think I owe Cho an apology.

"When Soul-Mates fight, it can be extreme. Brutal even. Something about hurting those we love
the most the worst. Anne Boleyn and Henry the VIII were soulmates, and he had her beheaded!"

I bite my tongue at the way the prospect of quarrelling so extreme it ends in the other's death seems
to excite her.

"There's a physical aspect to being Soul-Mates too. Obviously. In the days of arranged marriages,
finding your Soul-Mate after the wedding would nullify the vows because you were almost certain
to stray from your spouse."

I raise my hand, bringing her rambling to a stop.

"Are you trying to tell me there's a compulsion to have sex?" I ask, horrified at the prospect.

Her face goes blank, then morphs into an expression appropriate for the twisting in my gut.

"What?" she shakes her head. "No. NO!" She tries to assure me, waving her hands in denial by her
face. "That's not what I meant at all. I just meant, well..." her cheeks flush a lovely shade of rose,
and she bites at her bottom lip. Mi reaches forward and grabs my wrist, running her open palm up
my arm.

"I only meant that the book said close physical contact with your Soul-Mate can bring you
comfort.”

That much I’d figured out on my own. Every time I touch her, I breathe easier.

“Ah, okay.”

Relief crashes through me like a wave.

I had never thought about Hermione like that , before our first kiss. I made a very conscious, very
painful decision to never think about Hermione like that. I spent countless hours thinking about not
thinking about Mi in that way.
Even after the Soul-Mate Bond was sealed, the thought didn’t occur to me until she rose dripping
wet and naked in front of me.

They did, but I refused to acknowledge them.

Of course, I haven’t thought about anything else since. But I figure I’m allowed now, so it’s okay.
Even with us sharing a bed these past weeks, I’ve tried my damndest to be respectful.

The idea of some compulsion pulling me to her that way makes me sick.

I roughly clear my throat and try to get back on subject.

“Is that where the whole,” I wiggle a finger between her and I, “able to read each other’s thoughts
come from?”

“Nope!” she says, grinning ear to ear. “I haven’t come across one mention of Soul-Mates being
able to read the other's mind. Have a close link? Absolutely. But there are no psychic connections
between Soul-Mates. It’s all emotional and physical.”

I take the book she’s jabbing with a finger and pull it over so I can glance at it. There’s a list of
famous soulmates on the page, and I flip through it with interest.

“That’s a Soul-Bond thing then?” I ask, looking up at her from the pages.

She slowly shakes her head no.

“No again,” she smirks. “Though, soul-Bonds are fascinating. Most of the famous sets of Soul-
Bonds in history are siblings. Three are sets of twins. But! It doesn’t always happen like that. There
was even a recorded trinity Bond between three female best friends. The only of its kind!

"Some, like the goblins, think that souls are reincarnated, and that two people are born sharing the
same soul. Others think that something profound happens to the pair, and that in turn links their
souls. Or maybe they imprint on the other person."

She makes a whatever gesture with her hands.

"Either way, it’s a deep mental Bond. They can, in a sense, share thoughts. But I’ve found no
record of them reading the other's mind. Not one mention of half of a pair pulling memories from
the others.”

I open my mouth, but Hermione powers over me.

“That’s how I’m convinced the Twins have a Bond. I’m going to ask them about it tomorrow.
Their father works at the ministry. I’m sure they have their orb. It’s the only explanation for that
freaky twin talk thing they do.”

Well, she’s got me there.

“Then how can we—”

Hermione cuts me off, a sheen of magic seeming to make her glow.

“We’re not just Soul-Bound. Or Soul-Mates. We’re Bonded Mates!”

She reaches for the book in my hand, flipping pages till the very back then shoving it back in my
grip.
"Read!" she instructs me with energy.

I read.

“ On Bonded Mates, very little knowledge is still in existence. They are considered obsolete in the
modern era. A magic that has been lost to us over the passage of time. What is known, however, is
that to have a Bonded Mate, was to be as one in two bodies. If Soul Bonds are formed when a
single soul is split in two and forced to live its current life searching for its other half, then the
Bonded mate is the pinnacle of joining. Two spirits, whose connection is so profound, they unite
into one being. On their next cycle into life, they will reincarnate as man and woman, and share
every Bond there is known to have; familial, friends, equals, lovers. Like the yin and yang, their
souls are interconnected and interdependent. They are the duality. The light and the dark. The
chaos and the calm. For one cannot exist without the other.”

The chaos and the calm.

Haven't we been saying that for years?

I flip the page, but it’s empty.

Blank.

One paragraph is all there is about a connection that’s changed our lives as we know it.

“This tells us nothing.”

I toss it back onto the table, and Hermione gives me a reproachful glare.

It’s useless. It’s worse than useless. But Hermione is practically bouncing in her seat.

“When was it written?” I ask, thinking about it referencing the ‘modern era.’

She runs her teeth over her top lip this time. Has she always done that? It’s horribly distracting.

“In the late 1800s,” she says, shrugging off my concern.

I lean my elbow on the table, supporting my head with my palm.

“Which of us is the chaos and which of us is the calm?” I ask sarcastically, but Hermione lights up
with enthusiasm.

“Don’t you get it, Harry?! It doesn’t matter. Think back for the last seven years. Every altercation
we’ve ever had. Every confrontation with something scary or evil. Name one situation where we
freaked out at the same time."

What?

I shake my head not understanding.

“I—”

Hermione cuts me off.

"You can’t! Because we didn’t!”

She jumps up from her chair, her excitement too pronounced for her to sit still. She throws her arms
out in wide sweeping arcs, gesturing wildly between her and me.

“I still don’t understand.”

“When you thought Sirius had been taken, I was thinking clearly. When the dementors were killing
us, I fell unconscious, but you got us through it. At Malfoy Manor...”

A shiver runs down my spine.

“You lied through your bloody teeth,” I breathe, “while I stood in that dungeon and screamed my
head off.”

“Youngest Quidditch player in a century,” she says pointing at me.

Then she points at herself.

“You can’t ride a broom,” I finish.

Hermione beams at me. Positively glows.

I feel sick to my stomach.

“I thought you didn’t believe in prophecy?” I ask.

“I didn’t!” she exclaims. “I don’t! But—it’s riveting, Harry. Amazing. No one knows anything
about Bonded-Mates for certainty because it’s so rare. One pair a lifetime. Maybe even the same
pair, reborn over and over again.”

She looks manic; eyes wide and hands twisting.

She’s tugging on her fingers again. She’s glowing, magic softly seeping from her pores.

I feel her consciousness rub against me, almost the same way my Patronus rubbed his antlers
against her. She’s pulsing in her excitement, pacing the small length of the table, and paying me no
mind at all.

I feel like the earth has tilted underneath me. My throat is as dry as a desert.

“They’re talking about souls, Harry! Not bodies or magical Bonds or spells that tie you to another
person, like the House Elf vow. They’re talking about your very being! Souls that are entwined for
all eternity! What if there are no records of their gifts and limitations because there are no
limitations? Imagine what would happen if we just...dropped the walls between us? No guards. No
boundaries. Two souls, joined in every way possible. Twin flames, born over and over, living
separate lives before rejoining to reach ascension.”

I stand up, facing her head on.

She doesn’t pay me any mind, continuing to burst with the perceived possibilities.

“The very idea is horrifying and breathtaking all at the same time,” she rambles. “The ability to
share your consciousness with another person is...But you aren’t really a different person, are you?
You’re me, in reverse. My equal. My—"

“Stop!” I say, my voice cold.

She freezes mid step, her head whipping up to look at me. I run my hands through my hair and pull,
wanting to scream but not able to get it out.

“I don’t—I don’t want to hear anything else.”

I yank my glasses from my face and dig into my eyes with my forefinger and thumb, rubbing at the
headache building there.

“Research the fucking Bonds until your heart is content. But I don’t want to hear a single word
about it.”

She gapes at me, eyes wide and mouth open.

“What? WHY? Why don’t you—"

“It’s bullshit, Hermione!” I yell. “It’s total and complete bullocks! Fate can kiss my ass, okay! How
many times have I died? Have you died? Fate means nothing! Destiny can go fuck itself as far as
I’m concerned. If you’re content to believe that some supernatural Bond made this happen, then
more power to you. But I won’t listen to it. I can’t !”

I slam my fist onto the table.

“It’s just one more person, one more THING, telling me I have no control over my life. A higher
power dictating what happens to me and forcing the decisions I have no choice in making.”

Her hands droop loosely to her sides, and she takes a step closer to me, but I take another back,
keeping our separation equal.

“Don’t you get it? I can close my eyes and see it, Hermione.”

I feel wounded.

I close my eyes and rub at my chest, willing the ache to ease.

“The war over, you, married to Ron. Me, married to Ginny. Half a dozen children between us. All
of us would be working for the ministry in some shape and fashion. You and I, we’d still be best
friends. Our spouses would secretly hate us for it but come to rely on it too. Ginny would have to
call you when I locked myself in the office to brood and Ron would spend half his life bitching to
me about how you work too hard, and he needs more attention. We’d be best friends. But we’d
have separate lives. Sleep in separate beds. If we hadn’t died together this time, that’s exactly what
would have happened.”

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

Her bottom lip is trembling.

She knows I’m right.

I can see it in her eyes.

Feel it in the hopelessness currently coursing through her veins.

“I chose this!” I insist, my hands balled into fists. I smack myself in the chest.

“I did. I. Kissed. You ! Not because someone told me to do it. Not because fate demanded it. But
because I wanted to. Because something horrible happened to us, and the only thing I could think
of was to get as close to you as possible. I followed you into that bathroom when I was eleven,
because even as a stupid kid, the thought of something bad happening to you made me sick to my
stomach. So yeah, I don’t want to hear another fucking word about magic or fate or anything
deciding that I had no choice over who I fell in love with!”

My voice cracks, and I take another step back, needing space to breathe.

Space to rage about the fucking unfairness of it all.

Finally, something good happens to me, and she tells me I didn’t even have a say in it.

“Oh, Harry,” she sighs, and this time when she closes the distance between us, I let her.

She takes my face in her hands and her fingers are shaking.

She clings to me, engulfing me in her tiny frame, and I sag into her embrace, all of the fire melting
out of me.

“I’m so sorry, Harry. That’s not what I meant! That’s not what I meant at all!”

She rubs her hands over my face, making shushing noises like you would use to quiet a crying
baby.

“You heard you had no choice. I heard you chose me, over and over and over again. In every life
you’ve ever lived, you’ve chosen me.”

Choice.

What did I tell Dumbledore?

It was the distinction between being dragged into an arena to do battle or walking into the arena
with your head held high.

The end result is the same, but the path to the destination makes all the difference.

“Where does your choice come into this?” I whisper against her face. “You have to choose too.”

“Harry,” she sighs. She rubs her nose against mine, the softness of her lips brushing against the
prickles on my face. “I chose you years ago. How many different ways do I have to prove that to
you?”

I’m almost crying, and I have no idea why and no clue how to pull it back.

“I know you’ve been using occlumency,” she says softly, catching me off guard. I try to jerk away,
but she holds me tight.

“How?” she asks.

I close my eyes and clear my throat, rubbing my cheek against her face like a cat. Her hair is tucked
up at the base of her head, and I roughly yank out the band wrestling the masses into compliance.

I drop it to the floor, and dig my fingers into the strands, pulling at the curls until they straighten
long and tight before springing from my grip.

What did she want again?

Oh yeah.
“Um. Mortimer taught me,” I say. “Kind of. Or Snape taught me? Or maybe a combination of
Mortimer, and Snape, and finally being free of Riddle's influence. Everything I don’t want people
to know, I lock it into a trunk in my mind, then bury it in a closet and throw away the key.”

“Good to know,” she sasses gently.

“I need you to let it go, Harry. Everything you’ve been trying to keep from me these last few
weeks. Every thought and every feeling you’ve been hiding inside, afraid that you’d scare me
away. Let it go.”

Her hands creep inside my shirt, her palms warm against my back.

I dropped the sword off in the bedroom hours ago.

If I need basilisk venom in our Order and Ministry warded house at midnight, then all hope is lost
already. My wand is on my hip.

I tighten a hand in her hair, arching her back and lengthening her neck. My other hand slips down
her back until it's resting low on her hip. I take a step closer still, until my legs are spread and she’s
practically standing between them.

She wants me to show her what I’m thinking right now? She’s out of her bloody mind.

I want to grab her ass. I know from experience how well it fits in my palm.

“No.”

I’m not even sure if she heard me.

My lips are pressed under her ear, and I run my tongue against the sensitive flesh there. I open my
eyes to watch the goosebumps appear over the expanse of her throat.

“Yes,” she demands with a sigh.

Her head is thrown back.

Her eyes are closed.

How she’s still having cohesive thoughts is beyond me. It must be a girl thing, because I don’t
have enough blood in my head to think properly.

“I thought I was in charge?” she asks.

I shake my head no, then nod, then shrug. All while keeping a bite of her skin between my teeth.
My eyes are twitched up to watch her reactions as I lick and suck my way across her neck.

“I’m in charge of theory,” she persists, and I really ruddy hate her brain sometimes. “You’re in
charge of killing things.”

I laugh at that, my head falling onto her shoulder with amusement.

“Why are you so bloody bossy?” I ask her, and her smile could light up the room.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she replies. "Lower your barriers, Harry."

My head is loose on my shoulders, and I rotate it this way and that, working out the kinks that have
tightened my neck.

I do what she asks and loosen the hold I’ve had on my mind since we were dropped into this
timeline.

A full body shiver runs down her spine and her chin droops forward, as the little bundle I associate
with Hermione bursts with light. She hisses through clenched teeth like it burns.

“Merlin,” she gasps, and that’s probably an understatement.

She sways in my arms, her knees buckling, and I dip to catch her with an arm around her waist and
under her ass.

Without thinking I lift her up, and her legs wrap around me.

“You have a serious attitude problem,” she mumbles between clenched teeth, and I fight a laugh.
She’s limp against my chest, her forehead resting on my shoulder and her arms loose around my
throat.

“And a very dirty imagination.”

The image of that book rises in my mind, and I picture my face pinned between Hermione’s thighs.
Then a hundred, a thousand, different images flash through my head after it.

“Merlin,” she says again. “It’s making me dizzy.”

I’m feeling a smidgen lightheaded myself.

Her mind is like a library, everything organised and in its place. It’s a little nauseating, and a tiny
bit claustrophobic.

Except I'm dizzy with lust, and she's trying to make sense of the scattered wasteland that is my
brain. I walk the two feet to the library table and plop her down on top of it.

She's breathing heavily, sweat breaking out over her skin.

I slide my hands up and under her t-shirt, her skin smooth under my touch. She gasps when my
hands skate up her back.

I give into the temptation of flesh and let my lips wander where they will over her throat.

“I’ve always been fascinated with the way your mind works,” she says, tipping her head back.
"You can jump from A to C skipping B entirely."

She's panting, and her face is screwed up like she's in pain.

But she's not in pain.

She's not in pain at all.

That link between us. The one that gets tighter with every breath I take until I can't tell where I
start, and she begins...it's lighting up like a Christmas tree.

Hermione is almost incandescent with how not in pain she is.

“Hermione,” I whine.
I'm not even embarrassed that I am, in fact, whining.

"I'm assuming this isn't what it felt like when Voldemort scoured your mind?"

I huff out a laugh.

It would be like comparing heaven to hell.

The only similarity is they've both brought me to my knees, but for entirely different reasons. I can
actually feel her riffling around in there like she would a messy closet. Attempting to stack books
and filing shit away.

Her thirst for knowledge is insatiable, but I’m done being her subject for the day.

I capture her lips in a kiss.

It, the Bond, surges between us.

I feel like I do when I'm diving for the snitch. My adrenaline is bursting in my veins, my heartbeat
is pounding out of my chest. Hermione’s eyes snap open, and her pupils are blown dark and wide.

Wild magic flows from our skin, and her hair floats around her head.

The deeper I kiss her, the more the Bond seems to stabilise between us.

Equalise, until we are, as she tried to explain earlier, two halves of a whole. I hear her in my head
like a bird on a foggy morning, her voice singing pure and clear.

I feel her like an extension of myself.

Separate, but interconnected. Linked for all eternity I think she said. I could get used to that. I pull
away just enough to speak, though my lips are still touching hers.

“What were those Bonds that book mentioned again?”

She nods her head, attempting to come up with the answer.

“Familiar,” she says.

Absolutely.

“Always been my family.”

I suck a mark into her throat.

“Friends,” she squeaks.

“The best,” I reply, tugging her closer until she’s barely on the table anymore.

“Equals,” she sighs when I try to suck her breasts into my mouth, despite the layers of clothing
separating us.

“There was one more,” I prompt.

“Lovers,” she pants out between little gasps.

“That’s the one I’m looking for,” I announce.

With a tug of my hands and a stretch of my arms, her shirt is off her head and thrown somewhere
behind me. I run my palms up her sides, taking in the drastic differences in our skin.

She’s so golden and perfect, covered head to toe in freckles, and even now my hands are broken
and rough.

I wonder what the differences will be in ten, twenty, fifty years?

Goose pebbles bloom all over her, and it’s bloody addicting to watch her tremble under my touch.

"Harry," she sighs, and I can’t tell if it’s out loud or in my head. “Let's go upstairs," she suggests. "I
don't want to do this in the middle of the library."

Liar, liar pants on fire.

She so wants to do this in the middle of the library.

I run my teeth over her collarbone, loving the way I can feel it on my own skin. Like a filtered
reflection of the lightning coursing through her nervous system.

Her head falls back on her neck, and her hands dig against my scalp.

“You're telling me you've never had a fantasy about snogging surrounded by books?" I ask.

A vision rises to the surface of Hermione pinned to the bookcases in the restricted section of the
Hogwarts Library. A man with black hair with his face hidden underneath her skirt completes the
picture.

My hands spasm around her ribcage, my fingers digging into her flesh. "Bloody hell, Witch. You're
trying to kill me.”

She playfully shoves me away.

“I changed my mind. Make it stop. Get out of my head.”

Hell no.

I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

We’ve long since passed the point of no return. She wanted no barriers between us. Now she gets
to live with the consequences.

"I like it," I tell her and it's true, and pointless, because I'm sure she can tell it for herself. Just like I
can tell how much it turns her on to feel how hard I am through my jeans.

"Upstairs. Please," she begs.

How can I say no when she asks so prettily?

I kiss her again, and again.

Until all I taste, or smell, or feel is Hermione.

Until she surrounds me and fills every corner of my being. Then I link her arms around my
shoulders and twist her legs around my hips and lift her from the table.
She takes her own weight with the whisper of a spell, then proceeds to nibble on my jaw. I flick my
wrist, and her discarded shirt flies into my open palm. Thirty seconds later I kick open the door to
our room.

I kick it closed as soon as I've passed the threshold.

We fall onto the couch.

The effort to make it the bed is just too much.

It’s too great a distance when there’s a soft surface between me and it. I’m going to have to send
Winky a thank you card, since I’m positive the additional furniture was her doing.

The elf is a bloody genius.

Hermione’s knees hit the cushion at the same time my ass does, and she grinds herself against me
on impact.

I’d groan from the pain if it didn’t feel so bleeding fabulous at the same time.

“Har-ry,” Hermione whines, and her voice is broken and hoarse.

She keeps tugging my lips back to hers, despite the fact that I keep pulling them away to explore
the rest of her body.

I have no idea how to unclasp a bra, and so simply tug the lacy material out of my way before
capturing her nipple with my lips.

She’s so sensitive that every time I run my tongue over and around the peaked mounds, she
twitches and spasms under my touch.

I kiss them like I do her lips.

One at a time.

I draw as much of her breast into my mouth as I can and suck until I feel my teeth imprint and she
writhes and whimpers on top of me.

Her nipples are dark compared to the gold of her flesh, and I’m in love with the varied colours of
her skin. I think it’s fascinating that the skin puckers as her breasts tighten with need.

I can't imagine ever getting tired of this.

“Teach me how to touch you,” I tell her.

She shudders in my arms, then ducks her chin to hide her face.

“What?” she asks, and her voice is trembling. Barely discernible. I like having to look up at her
from this angle.

“Show me how you touch yourself,” I demand. “I know you do it. Make yourself come. I heard
you, once or twice in the tent. When you thought I was asleep or keeping guard outside. I’d pull the
silencing charms down, afraid that you’d need me, and I wouldn’t hear you. Instead, I listened to
you moaning out your pleasure.”

“You bastard,” she hisses, colour blooming on her cheeks in the most fetching manner. I run my
thumb under her mouth and pull at her bottom lip.

“Where’s that Gryffindor courage?” I taunt, and her eyes flash in challenge.

"You know, I really don’t like this cocky confidence thing you've got going on here," she says.
"It’s not a good look on you, at all."

Why is she lying to me when I can taste it on my tongue?

I laugh at that; at the way she smiles up at me.

"Cocky?" I ask. "Try terrified. Every minute of every day I'm terrified of what's going to happen
next. I’m petrified I’m going to screw this up. That's why I need you to show me."

She snorts through her nose, an adorable little sound that makes me smile even wider.

"Could have fooled me," she says.

"Good. It's working then."

Silence falls between us as Hermione nibbles her bottom lip.

She's going to tear it to shreds, and I take my thumb and free it from its torment, before leaning in
and kissing the abused flesh.

"Show me," I say again, whispering against her mouth.

Mi nods her head against me, before stepping out of my arms and off my lap.

She slips her shorts from her hips, letting them pool on the ground at her feet. She reaches her arms
behind her back and suddenly the bra that’s been encasing her breasts slides down her arms, adding
to the pile of her clothing.

"Take off your jeans," she instructs me.

I hasten to obey, almost falling off the couch in my hurry to join her standing. I don't even bother to
remove my belt. I simply unfasten it then let it hang open as I yank my zipper down. My trousers
join her shorts on the floor.

Hermione slips her fingers into the cotton of her knickers and drags her palms down her thighs,
taking the scrap of clothe with them. My eyes are immediately drawn to the curve of her hips and
the downy curls between her legs.

She doesn’t tell me to take my trunks off, so I leave them on.

I’m so hard I’m aching, and I fist my hands to stop from rubbing myself to seek out some relief.

Without waiting for her instructions, I climb over the back of the couch and onto the bed to place
my back to the headboard.

Hermione does the proper thing and walks to the side, but then shocks me when she crawls into my
lap.

She kisses me hotly, thrusting her tongue into my mouth and pulling at my hair. I groan at the
roughness of it, and the way it makes me tingle. My toes are twisting into the mattress as she
forces my body the way she wants it.
When she pulls away, we’re panting, her entire body flushed with heat and nerves.

She turns around in my arms, then scoots into my lap, her ass against my straining prick.

She bites at her bottom lip.

"I’m not simply going to let you watch Harry Potter! If you want to learn, then you need to learn."

Then she takes each of my hands in hers, and places them on her body.

It sounds like a typical Hermione reprimand, and if I ever complain about her teacher-voice again
may Merlin strike me down where I stand.

“My nipples are incredibly sensitive,” she instructs, our joined hands gliding over her breasts.

I’d already figured that out for myself, thanks.

“I don’t know whether that’s common, but sometimes even the lace of my bra is too much.”

Mi shouldn’t have told me that. Now I’m going to spend all of my free time staring at her tits.

She takes my fingers and tugs on her nipples and bloody hell do I like that. Hermione hisses
through her teeth and wiggles her ass against me.

“Do it again,” she whispers, then releases my hands.

I tug on them a second time, before cupping her breasts in my hands and squeezing them in my
palms, plucking at her tits.

“Sweet Morgana,” she breathes, and I add that into the ‘do it as often as I can pile’ that’s rapidly
growing in my head.

My hands wrap with hers again as she glides them down her tiny form.

“My thighs are ticklish,” she says, but I rub my open hands over her soft muscles anyway. There’s
downy hair covering her upper legs, and I bring my fingers right to the apex of her thighs before
holding them there for her guidance.

She places her hands over mine but doesn’t link out fingers.

My heart is thudding out of my chest with how bad I want to touch her, and with fear over doing it
wrong. When she runs my fingers through the curls between her legs, I almost sigh in relief.

The hair is soft and almost as curly as the hair on her head.

What’s surprising though is where the mane on her head is natural and wild, the thatch between her
legs is neat and trimmed.

Hermione releases my hands, and my fingers continue to explore.

Her outer lips are as smooth as the skin on her thighs, and a vision flickers behind my eyes of
Hermione with her foot on a shower stool and her legs spread as she lathers shaving cream between
her legs.

Merlin, Morgana, and Circe.

The woman really is trying to kill me.

I dip my fingers between her folds, and Mi gasps at the contact.

“Is this okay?” I ask her.

It doesn’t matter that I can feel it is. I can sense how much she wants me to touch her. Where she
wants my fingers. How it’s taking all of her considerable willpower not to take my hand and force
my digits between her legs.

I want to hear her say it.

“Yes,” she agrees in a tight voice. “It’s wonderful.”

“You're so wet.”

I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“I'm sorry," she says self consciously.

"Don't be. I like it."

Actually, I think I’m obsessed with it.

Screw Voldemort. From this moment on I’m going to train morning, noon, and night, to see how
slick I can make Hermione’s thighs.

I’m not a complete moron.

I spent six years living in a dorm with other horny teenage boys. I heard stuff. Read the occasional
magazine.

But I never imagined it would feel like this.

The moisture between her legs is almost sticky.

I bring my fingers to my mouth and suck them clean. I run the length of them with my tongue.
Hermione gasps in surprise, but I moan at the tangy taste of it.

I dip my fingers between her legs again and taste it a second time.

On my way for a third sampling, she grabs my hand at the wrist. My fingers end up between her
lower lips, at the tip of her sex.

“This is where I’m most sensitive,” she says, then moves my hand lower an inch. “Here is where
you can enter me.”

I don’t even think before I’m sliding a finger into her entrance. It’s tight and warm and I can feel
the ridges from her muscles inside.

My dick pulses in my trunks, and I close my eyes and breath through my nose to pull myself back
under control.

I trail my fingers all over her sex, feeling the curves and grooves. I wish I could see it better. Next
time I won’t be behind her.
I’m going to be between her legs so I can see everything up close and personal.

She’s so soft and delicate.

And warm.

Heat radiates from her core. I want to make her come. I want to see her face again when she comes
from my fingers. But I want to continue to explore, too.

I pull at the sensitive flesh until it’s tight and taught from her body. I dip my fingers inside then
circle them around her hole. I let the wet digits slide a tiny bit lower, and she twitches and bucks
from my touch.

It’s a struggle not to thrust against her.

Even the sounds she’s making are addicting. Little gasps and soft sighs and high-pitched whines
that make my fingers twirl in tight little circles against her nub at the top of her clit.

I can hear how wet she is between her legs, and every few minutes I suck my fingers back into my
mouth. I want to taste her in the morning.

I want my spit to coat her sex.

Her hips start to rotate as her hands dig into my arms, and I try to find a rhythm she likes.

I bring my free hand from her breast and grip her thigh to pull her wider and she moans so loud I
feel it in my dick.

Then I slip my finger into her quim again.

“I used a spell,” she says softly.

So softly I almost don’t catch it.

“After the Yule Ball. I used a spell so that when I lose my virginity, it won’t hurt. Most of the girls
did. You can go harder. If you want. Finger me harder.”

I fiercely ignore any reference to why she would be worried about her virginity around that time
and instead take her at her word.

She’s right, as usual. I do want to go harder.

I take the leg I’m holding and spread her even wider, so that her knee is propped up by mine. Next
time I do this I’m going to put the vanity mirror in front of us so I can watch.

Hermione whines long and loud and I know she pulled the thought from my mind. Her head drops
back onto my shoulder, and I twist her face backwards and up with my hand until her lips and
entwined with mine.

I give up the fight not to rut against her like a dog in heat.

With two fingers in her quim and two against her clit, I make my wife come on my hand for the
first time.

She clings to me, one arm over her head clutching at my hair.
The other digs her nails into my thigh, and the sting only spurs me on more. Her body arches and
wriggles, until she’s almost sideways in my grasp, my arm supporting her back as I plunge my
fingers in and out of her core.

Her sounds pick up in tandem with my fingers as she reaches a fever pitch.

I feel the tightening of her muscles, and her pleasure invading my mind a heartbeat before she
starts to come. Her entire body quivers as she shatters under my touch. I claim her lips in a kiss, but
it’s uncoordinated and sloppy.

She pants against my face as I lick into her mouth.

Her climax is a thing to behold.

It seems like it takes forever for her body to stop spasming.

Her entire being twitches, her muscles jerk and convulse. If I didn’t know any better, I’d be
worried she’s having a seizure. Except I doubt you can smile as softly as she is, and sigh so
delicately if you were in the middle of a medical emergency.

Every time I try to touch her, she smacks my hand away.

But eventually soft strokes on her thighs gain me entrance to the valley between her legs again.

The mattress beneath us is soaked with her essence. I just want to stare at her, to burn the image
into my memory, of how Hermione looks covered in sweat and her own come.

She’s beautiful.

“Thank you,” she sighs.

Then she literally melts in my hands.

Her eyes drift closed as her body relaxes, and I centre her in the middle of our bed, pulling the
covers up over her shoulders.

She doesn’t even blink.

Her hair is a disaster, so I bundle it up as best I can and twist it into a knot before tucking the ends
under her head.

I place a kiss on her forehead, then her throat, and her breathing never hitches from the deep well
of peace she’s fallen into.

It takes less than thirty seconds in the bathroom before I come all over my own hand.

I’m exhausted, but there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep yet. So, I grab one of the books from the
bedside table that Hermione picked out today and settle onto the bed to read.

One of the naughty books.

I plan on making it my mission in life to witness Hermione coming undone like that as often as
humanly possible.

It’s almost four in the morning before I finally feel like I can drift off. Hermione is tucked in
against me, her hair attempting to suffocate me in her sleep.

I drift into unconsciousness asking the same question I’ve been wondering for hours now.

If we share a soul and if we’re destined to walk the earth together, what happens to the other when
one of us dies?
 Chapter 24
Chapter Notes

As always, thank you!!!!!! Thank you for everything!!

 Harry

For the second day in a row, something other than bad dreams or my alarm clock wakes me up.

Something is fluttering across my stomach, and I can’t place the sensation.

It’s as light as the wings of a snitch against my abdomen.

Energy surges through my body, and a cool calmness comes over my mind.

My hand snaps out before I’ve even opened my eyes, and my fingers tighten around the delicate
bones of a wrist, fragile under my burning grip.

My other hand closes around my wand, which flew from the bedside table the minute my
adrenaline spiked.

It’s pointed in her face before I realise what I’ve done.

Hermione blinks at me with big chocolate eyes, her bottom lip between her teeth.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” she whispers sheepishly.

I lift my chin to look down the line of my body, where Hermione has situated herself against my
legs. She's watching me from under the fullness of her lashes.

The only reason I didn’t wake up when she moved three feet down the bed is that I fell asleep with
her pinned against me anyway.

Her feet are all the way by the foot of the mattress, and she’s propped up on one elbow by my hip.
She’s wearing clothes, of a sort. A lacy bra thingy that unfortunately covers her chest, and a pair of
matching knickers.

It must have been her fingers I felt against my skin.

What she was doing I have no idea.

“Somehow I find that doubtful,” I say, then release my hold on her arm.

She flexes her fingers, and guilt courses through my bloodstream at the red mark I left on her wrist.

"I got up to use the loo, and you were restless when I came back. Twisting and reaching in your
sleep. I thought maybe I could lull you back under," she tells me with a soft voice. "You need more
rest."

I don't know how to break it to her that her head mere inches from my crotch is not conducive to
my going back to sleep.

I want to throw up looking at the outline of my hand on her arm.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

She shakes her head, her hair spilling in riotous curls across her shoulders.

“You didn’t,” she says, though the proof of her lie blooms red and hot in the shape of my fingers on
her wrist and the ache I already feel is beginning to throb. “It’s my own fault anyway. I should
know better than to sneak up on a man with PTSD. Even one I share a bed with.”

What?

“That means nothing to me,” I tell her.

I try to sit up, but with a hard shove on my stomach, she pushes me back down.

“PTSD,” she says, beginning to run her fingers over the hair that disappears into my trunks. “Post-
Traumatic Stress Disorder. Happens after you’ve experienced a traumatic event. Makes you jumpy,
short-tempered. Causes insomnia, among other things.”

Well. I can’t argue with that.

“Which traumatic event caused that; do you think?” I ask conversationally. I stretch until my
fingers find her hair and push it behind her ears so I can see her face clearer.

“Pick one,” she says with a shrug.

“I don’t think it matters much. Point is, I’ll stop scaring you awake.”

Like I'm the one in danger in that scenario.

“I’m not worried about me,” I tell her honestly. “I’m worried about hurting you.”

Guilt makes my tongue feel heavy in my mouth. I try to stare at her face, but my eyes keep
wandering back to the Harry-shaped bruise that's forming on her skin.

“Don’t be,” she mumbles distractedly. “I’m not.”

She should be.

I could kill her before I realise what I’ve done. It’s obvious she’s not concerned. She’s no longer
giving me any attention at all.

Or, at least, not to the fact that for the second time in as many weeks I’ve almost attacked her for
sneaking up on me.

No, she doesn’t seem to care about that at all.

Which is stupid, and irresponsible, and her fingers dip into the waistband of my trunks, and what
now?

"I’ve seen you naked before. As you said, the hazard of a decade-long friendship within the close
confines of sharing a space. But I don't think I've ever seen you like this. So hard and thick."

The way she says it makes my mouth water.

Yeah. That's a good description.

Hard.

Painfully, indescribably hard.

"I’ve never seen you without your pants when your dick was this big.”

She smacks my hip, then rises until she’s on her hands and knees. With a flick of her arm and a
twist of her neck, all of her hair is gathered over one shoulder.

"Lift your hips," she instructs me, and I do as I'm told if for no other reason than I don't think I
currently have the functionality to do otherwise.

Before I can so much as open my mouth to complain she yanks my trunks down my legs and drops
them somewhere on the bed.
Then I’m naked, flat on the bed, with Hermione staring at me with shining eyes.

It feels so different with sunlight streaming in through the cracks in the curtains than it did last
night in a room smothered in darkness. I felt no embarrassment asking for what I wanted last
night.

But maybe that’s because what I wanted had little to do with me.

She’s biting her lip again, and I surge up on the bed to kiss her.

I don’t remember having this obsessive desire to kiss all the time in the last timeline.

I can’t get enough of kissing Hermione.

She glides her tongue against mine, biting at my lip, then when I’m at my most vulnerable, shoves
me back flat on the bed again.

“Hey!” I laugh, watching with anticipation when Hermione climbs over my legs and drops onto her
belly between my knees. “Uhhhhh.”

This is not the way I imagined this. I always thought, hoped, dreamed that I’d be between her
thighs before she was between mine. Then Hermione shoves an image of her mouth around my
cock into my head and I can’t control my moan.

There’s an empty flittering feeling in my stomach and my palms are damp with sweat.

She grips me firmly in her hand and gently pulls down the little remaining foreskin. I sag into the
bed, my eyes rolling up in the back of my head.

My cock twitches in her hands.

“That’s so cool,” she breathes. “It’s like it has a mind of its own.”

I open my eyes and glance down to the witch on her belly in front of me. Her hair is a wild mess,
curls bouncing in every which direction.

She runs a hand through the strands as I watch, pushing it away from her face and gathering it over
her shoulder.

If I lived another two hundred years, I don’t think I’d see a sight as beautiful as Hermione looks
right now. I fist my sheets at my sides to stop myself from reaching for her.

She’s examining my prick with the same facial expression she wears when she comes across a new
spell she can’t wait to try out.

Nervousness, anticipation, excitement, determination.

Her eyes are wide and shiny, and when she licks her lips, I have to force my eyes closed and tilt my
head away.

I can’t watch her, watching me, like that.

As it stands, I’m about two seconds away from embarrassing myself so badly I’d rather be hunting
down Riddle simply for the relief an Avada would bring.

Maybe I could convince Mortimer to wipe this specific memory from my mind before he hits the
reset button again.

Belatedly realising that Hermione was talking to me, I try to respond to her comment.

“That’s, well, actually a pretty accurate description.”

My voice sounds like it’s being shoved through a vice grip, and I roughly clear my throat so that I
can swallow properly.

“What’s wrong? Am I hurting you?”

Her laughter tingles over me like sunshine, but her face is nothing but fake concern. She’s laughing
inside my fucking brain, the witch!

“No,” I squeak, shaking my head vigorously in either direction. “You’re not hurting me.”

“Does it always move on its own like this?”

“Umm...Yeah. Yeah, pretty much.”

“Can you make it move?” she asks, and I can’t help but feel like a science experiment gone wrong.

I tighten my muscles and my dick jerks outwards, almost slapping Hermione in the face.

She squeals in surprise, then throws her head back and laughs, delight making her cheeks glow in
the dim lighting.

I have a direct line of sight down her breasts at this angle, and quickly divert my eyes when I get a
peek of Hermione’s nipples straining for attention against the lace of her top.

Oh, Merlin.

Oh, Circe!

Maybe Hermione has gone to the dark side, and this is her attempt to kill me without making it
look suspicious?

Is it possible to die from a massive hard-on?

“Do it again!” she demands, and her voice is nothing like I’ve ever heard from her before. It’s light
and airy and...playful, almost. Nothing like the studious woman I’ve come to know and love for
the past eight years.

I rise up on my elbows to better watch her reaction.

I do it again, and Mi lets loose another peal of giggles.

Her hair, never one to cooperate, falls forward over her face again, and Mi shoves it away
impatiently. I should hold it for her. I reach for her hair, intending to be a gentleman. It’s the least I
can do since she’s so busy elsewhere.

Then Hermione blows a stream of air across my balls, and I forget everything.

Everything.

My mind blanks and my limbs go slack as my back collapses down onto the mattress.
“Wow. That’s so cool,” Hermione says, and I barely register the words. “Your testicles move all
on their own too! It’s like an ecosystem.”

A what?

I open my mouth to ask her, but then she blows against me again, this time with her lips barely
hovering above me.

You can do this, Harry. Imagine Umbridge. Imagine Voldemort Kissing Umbridge.

Hermione runs her fingers over me, so gently I barely feel it.

But I do feel it, and my prick jumps between my legs and my balls pull tight

Bloody fucking hell.

When something wet and warm licks up my shaft, my brain blanks out entirely.

It feels nothing like when I get myself off.

Her hands are so small and soft, for one. Her touch is delicate and exploratory, and I mumble
"harder," before I can stop myself.

She takes me in a firmer grip, stroking her hand up and down my cock.

“It’s so hard,” she says under her breath, and I strain under the impulse to flip our positions.

I can feel how much she’s enjoying this.

She’s getting a thrill from examining my body and learning all its tricks and quirks.

Hermione’s thirst for knowledge is insatiable, and I’m her latest project.

If she felt exposed last night, she didn’t show it.

But I’ve been on display since I was a baby and feeling her study me, leaves me on edge in a way I
wasn’t expecting. I take the sensation of uncertainty that keeps rising to the surface and shove it
into that trunk in my mind, then throw away the key.

You, okay?

I’ve never been afraid of Hermione before. I don’t plan on starting now.

Hermione looks at me, and I give her a silent nod.

It’s all the confirmation she needs.

Her tongue darts out to taste me, and I swear I see stars behind my eyes. My prick is already
leaking, and she licks up the drop dripping from the tip.

“Salty,” she mumbles with awe, and I swear to Merlin she’s trying to kill me.

I spent a year being tortured, sixteen years sharing my soul with a demon. Certainly, I can last
more than two minutes during my first blow job.

I open my eyes and peek at Hermione, who is studying me with a fierce determination, before she
opens her mouth and latches her lips around my dick. She swirls her tongue around the head,
playing with my foreskin and I melt boneless into the mattress.

My eyes roll back into my head.

My hips spasm against my control, jerking up into touch. She makes a gagging sound around my
cock.

“Sorry,” I gasp, shame and embarrassment making the word harsh.

“Don’t be,” she says, pulling off my dick and looking at me. “I liked it.”

She latches her hand onto one of my hips to hold me steady anyway.

I want to bury my hands in her hair.

I want to throw caution to the wind and fuck into her face until all she can taste smell and see is me.
But I master the impulse and start counting backwards from one hundred.

I will make this last, dammit!

Ninety-Nine.

Ninety-Eight.

Her teeth graze against me, and holy fuck.

All my limbs start to tingle.

My muscles tighten under the strain of holding still, and I feel my orgasm building at the base of
my spine. Her other hand slides softly across my balls as she gives them a gentle tug.

That’s it.

I’m done for.

“You need to,” I pant. “I’m gonna.”

She ups her pace, her hand working my shaft while I swell against the roof of her mouth.

Pride and excitement and happiness bubble up inside her and twists along our link until I can’t tell
her excitement from my own.

It’s an intoxicating jumble, and I fucking love it.

My eyes start to cross.

My back arches on the bed and I dig my fingers into the sheet.

“Hermione, stop!” I beg. “I’m going to come.”

Her voice whispers through my mind.

I know. I can feel it. I’m glad.

She looks at me through her lashes, locking her eyes with mine.

It’s like falling off a cliff.

Soaring to the highest heights on the edge of my broom and plunging back to the ground with the
wind ruffling through my hair while letting go of the handle. My heart is thudding and my stomach
swooping, and Hermione keeps my dick in her mouth until I’m a slobbering whimpering mess.

“Okay,” I say, still trying to catch my breath.

“You can stop now.”

My entire body is trembling, my nerve ending firing off at random intervals.

Mi doesn’t pay me a lick of attention. Her tongue circles my head, and my entire being turns to
molten fire.

“It’s too much!” I beg, reaching to push her away.

“Merlin, Hermione! You win!”

My wife pulls her face away from my crotch, her skin flushed and her face smiling. She climbs up
onto her knees and falls back on her ankles. It’s the first time I realize the knickers she’s wearing
look like shorts.

“That was fun,” she hums.

She runs her thumb over her chin, wiping up a drop of something that escaped her onslaught.

Oh, Merlin.

Mi pushes her hair behind her shoulders.

“There’s a line in the Goblin text that, and I’m paraphrasing, obviously, but it says something
along the lines of there might be a biological and pathological urge to claim your other half. You
know, so that other people know that you are spoken for. I think I understand that need now.”

I snort at that.

Yeah. I’d say I feel claimed.

My chest is heaving.

I feel euphoric.

Exhausted.

I could roll right over and go back to sleep for another five hours. At least. Maybe I’ll leave the bed
sometime tomorrow. Instead, I lunge forward and pounce on her. She squeals with laughter,
pretending to put up a fight.

I flip her over and pin her bum to the bed.

“My turn.”

I attack her lips in a hungry kiss, and I can taste my essence on her tongue.

Bloody Hell, that’s so hot.

Her hands twine in my hair when I pull down the scrap of lace separating me from her tits.
I’ve quickly developed a habit for the feel of them in my mouth. I nip at each of her nipples,
twining my tongue around their peaks.

But I don’t linger there.

I crawl in between her knees and hook my fingers into the edge of her panties. Mi wiggles her hips
and bites her lip. Watching me through blinking lashes.

Yes!

She giggles and tries to shimmy away from me, and I smack her hip like she did mine.

Hermione’s eyes light up and she lifts her hips.

Finally!!

Her happiness is infectious, and I laugh at her delight.

She is just so lovely.

I get my hands halfway down her thighs before a knock sounds on the bedroom door.

I groan at the intrusion. Irritation licks up my spine like a kid licking a lolly.

My head falls to Hermione’s thigh. They jostle under my weight from her smothered giggles. She
pats me on the top of the head, like an owner comforting their pet dog.

I look over my shoulder and yell at the slab of wood.

“I swear to Merlin, Ron! I’m going to hex off your balls and give them to your brothers as potion
ingredients!”

The door creaks open, and the small misshapen head of a house elf pops inside.

Hermione squeaks, then pulls the sheet up and over her head. I crawl out from underneath it, my
face sticking out by the edge of the bed.

Hermione is giggling in embarrassed delight, the tease.

“Tis Dobby, sir,” he says in his squeaky little voice.

He’s looking anywhere but at the bed. I’m going to have to figure out how to ward the bedroom so
the elves can’t come in without permission either.

Winky would probably poison me.

“Mistress Weasley says that breakfast is ready, however she will not allow the others to eat until
the Master arrives. The others are getting,” he swallows, his throat bobbing in agitation, “restless
sir. Dobby offered to go fetch yous.”

“Oh, bloody fucking hell. I’m going to throttle that woman,” I growl.

I crawl out from under the covers and climb to my feet.

Dobby squeaks and turns his back, running his head into the wall.

Dammit all to hell.

“You,” I demand, pointing to the thoroughly debauched witch in our bed.

“Stay here! Do not move a muscle! If your feet even think about touching the hardwoods, I’ll pull
out that book on Bondage and tie you to the bed.”

My wife blushes a fiery red, but the Bond, still open and flowing between us, floods with
excitement.

I close my eyes and turn away, praying my erection goes down before I hit the kitchen.

“You!” I snap, pointing at Dobby. “Tell Molly that the Master is on his way down.”

Dobby nods like a bobble head, popping out of existence.

“Harry,” Mi tries to soothe. "It’s fine. I’m hungry anyway.”

“Then I’ll have food brought upstairs,” I say, stomping into the closet.

I come to a stop at the sheer amount of clothing now dangling from hangers and folded neatly on
shelves. I flit around until I find a pair of low-slung sweatpants, then march back into the bedroom
sans shirt.

Hermione is sitting up in the middle of the bed now, the sheet tugged up under her armpits.

Her hair is glorious, springs of curls shooting out in every direction, the honey colour of the strands
seeming to glow around the almond-tinted freckles scattered across her shoulders.

Bugger, she’s lovely; wild and free, no makeup to hide her face.

I swear every time I look at her, she gains in beauty.

I crawl back onto the mattress, one foot still inches from the floor. She reaches for me, leaning to
meet me halfway.

My kiss is thorough and shameless.

I make her moan against my lips. I lean into the feeling of her nails dig into my back. I want to
forget about everything waiting for me outside of those doors and not come up for air for hours.

Every time I kiss her something tightens in my stomach.

It’s like a lightning storm in my gut.

Maybe it is the Bonds. I don’t know. Magical theory is Mi’s department.

Not mine.

But one kiss is never enough. One kiss turns into two, then three, until I’m bending her back onto
the bed and once again, tasting myself on her tongue. I kiss her, pressing her into the mattress and
running my thumb against her cheek until I get my second moan.

“Do. Not. Move.” I seductively growl against her lips, then crawl back off the bed.

When I fling my hand out my wand flies into my waiting palm. I clasp my fingers around the wood
then shove it into the elastic of my waistband as I yank open the door.
I stride down the hallway, irritation rippling from me in waves.

The occupants of the portraits scatter in my wake, whispering loudly about the temper of the new
mixed-breed Master.

They haven’t seen half of it yet.

All eyes fall on me when I storm into the kitchen and pause to take in the scene.

The entire Weasley clan is here, including Arthur, and Bill to my surprise.

Tonks is there as well, laughing and joking with the twins. Sirius gives me an amused expression,
and Remus looks like he can’t decide whether to laugh or be offended.

Conversation falls away until silence fills the space.

Molly is already stuttering in indignation hiding behind the stove.

“Arthur!” I say with a raised voice.

I stop in front of the Weasley patriarch and wait for him to look at me from around his Daily
Prophet.

His lips are pulled tight around his teeth when he takes in my shirtless chest and messy hair, and he
closes his eyes as if in prayer before he responds.

“Good morning, Harry. Sleep well, did you?”

“I did not,” I snap. “As I’m sure your youngest son has informed you, most nights I sleep like crap.
It doesn’t help when a house elf pops into my room at the arse crack of dawn to tell me my
presence is required.”

“It’s hardly the arse crack of dawn, Pup,” Sirius squeezes out between clenched teeth and
swallowed chortles. His chest is shaking in silent laughter, and snorts escape through his nose.

“Someone else must have woken him up that early,” Bill jokes lightly.

“I wonder who it could be?” one of the twins reply.

Dismissing the comments, I turn my attention back to the ageing red head in front of me.

“I’m going to yell at your wife,” I inform him, already longing to go back upstairs.

Mr Weasley folds up the paper, placing it gently on the table.

“That never ends well for people,” he advises me conversationally. Molly’s sputtering amps up in
sound and tempo, like the beginning salvo of a steam engine.

“I’m not most people,” I assure him, and the snorting and hidden laughter from around the table
gets louder.

“Try not to make her cry then, if you can,” Mr Weasley says. “It’s a little early in the morning to
ply her with Whiskey.”

That's as much of a by your leave as I'm going to get.

I turn on my heel and face the bloody menace, who has removed herself from behind the counter,
prepping for the coming battle.

“I thought we had an arrangement!” I say to her, trying and probably failing to keep my tone even.

“Even before this Bond nonsense and Lord Black bullshit, you, me, and Sirius, we had an
agreement. You’d keep the house running smoothly, because Merlin knows neither Sirius nor I
could do it, and we’d stay out of your way. But none of that involved manipulating me to your
will!"

She opens her mouth to object, but I power on over top of her.

“You can’t have it both ways, Molly! Either I'm the head of this house in which case you can’t
force me from my bed on a Saturday morning when I didn’t even fall asleep until after four. Or I’m
one of your children. In which case, you’d never make the entire family sit at the table starving
while waiting for Ron’s lazy arse to get out of bed! I love you Mrs Weasley. Merlin knows I do.
But I don’t have the tolerance to let you bully me around anymore like you do the rest of your
offspring. So, let's hear it. Let's have it out so I can go back to bed! Am I a lord or a lay-about?"

The elves, who have been hovering around Molly, quickly back away wringing at their hands.

"Now he's done it," one of the twins says. "Shield charms up," the other urges. "She’s gonna
blow!"

Her chest is heaving, her face is red and blotchy.

She sucks in a gasp of air, and I brace myself for the explosion.

"You’re just a child!" she yells and I have to bite my lip to keep from rolling my eyes.

"Do you think I wanted this?!" I yell back, then swallow back my anger.

I take a calming breath and reach for the witch waiting for me upstairs. It feels like I've bathed in
amortentia, so strong is the desire to get back to her.

But she calms me down and makes me take a cleansing breath before I break Molly Weasley’s
spirit.

"Do you think I enjoy the fact that I have to spend my summer holiday's planning to go to war? Do
you think it's fun for me to spend my nights and weekends juggling homework with learning spells
to keep the people I love alive? If you have a suggestion on how to earn back my childhood which
doesn't involve everyone I love dying while I hide and play exploding snap, then I'm all ears."

"I—" she starts, but then says no more.

"You've heard the prophecy, Mrs Weasley. You've seen the proof of the Bonds, carved in wood
since the instant of Hermione's birth. Your family more than most should understand the depth of
Hermione and my connection. If you know of a magic that will break those Bonds, or a spell that
will untwist our bindings, then I’ll thank you for sharing it now. Otherwise, you should just be
relieved it happened to us at fifteen and not when we were twelve."

"So, I’m just supposed to accept that two children, whom I love as my own, are sleeping together
under my roof?” She demands with her hands on her hips! I throw my hands up in exclamation.

“Yes! Finally, you understand!” I shout.

Mrs Weasley takes a startled step back, bringing her hand to her chest.

“Besides, it’s not your roof! It’s mine!"

Molly starts to titter, her protests indistinguishable under her breath.

“You were so helpful yesterday with Mi’s parents,” I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart.
“I thought you finally understood what this meant to us. What it meant to be Bonded-Mates.
What’s changed since then?”

“It was important to their safety,” she insists, tipping up her chin in a stubborn lilt. “It was vital
they realise the connection you share. To understand it wasn’t either of your fault.”

Her voice trails off as her own words seem to register in her ears, but the woman is nothing if not
stubborn.

“I only have your best interests at heart. It’s too much for you both. Too soon!”

I’m exhausted again. Thoroughly and completely depleted. This same fight over and over again is
getting us nowhere. I close my eyes, and I swear I can feel Hermione rub against me like a cat.

“There is absolutely nothing you can do about the Bonds,” I say calmly. “About the Bonds or the
ramifications, those Bonds have caused. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about it. Merlin
knows if there were, I would have undone them the minute they happened. I’d be happy to let you
read Hermione’s research on the subject. I’ve already been forced to listen to it ad nauseam. But
what it boils down to is she is mine and I am hers and that involves sharing a bedroom!”

All the blood in my head feels like it’s about to burst. Blast it all to hell.

The invisible link between us grows shorter and shorter, until Hermione appears in the kitchen
looking daisy fresh and glowing.

Her hair is tied up into a knot on the back of her head. She’s wearing a pair of shorts so tiny as to
be labelled indecent and a t-shirt with the Hogwarts emblem on it.

Little socks that stop at her ankles finish the look.

I’m going to tie her to the damn bed. I swear it on my magic.

“It’s actually fascinating,” she says, walking straight up to me and placing a chaste kiss on my
lips.

I’m so startled at the public display I can only blink at her like an owl. She places a shirt into my
hands before taking a seat at the table.

“I’ve already started keeping a journal. I’m hoping in a few years I can publish a research paper on
the subject.”

A groan slips from my lips at that most unpleasant announcement and I yank my glasses off to rub
at my eyes.

Fabulous.

Fucking great.

Just what I need.

“Did I see a new coffee maker yesterday, Winky?” Mi asks with her foot resting on the chair and
her chin on her knee.

Winky jumps as if scalded, before the elves scurry in different directions, bringing food to the table
and refilling mugs and cups.

Hermione is actually laughing at me in my head. Laughing. Again.

Bloody woman.

I—I can’t handle this. A yawn is ripped from my body, my toes curling and my chest expanding
with much needed oxygen.

Orgasms that amazing really take it out of a guy.

I stomp over to my wife, and, ignoring the dozen people in the kitchen watching us with wide eyes
and devious smirks, tilt her chin up to kiss her properly.

Everyone might as well get used to it now.

According to Hermioine, unless that phantom magic to end the Bonds makes itself available to us,
the need to mark her as mine will be present for the foreseeable future.

“I’m going back to bed,” I announce to anyone who cares to listen. “Wake me up for lunch.”

Then I leave the same way I came in.

Grumpy, horny, and without enough sleep.

Just like that, conversation resumes in the kitchen.

 Chapter 25
Chapter Notes

I think I promised an extra chapter this week? I don't remember lol. #braindamage But
here is an extra anyway!!

Comments make me happy!

 Hermione

Between the time we left the library last night, and when Harry, Ron, and I converged here this
afternoon, someone put an extension charm on the room. It’s twice as big as it was the night
before, and the elves are currently in the process of shelving all the books we brought back with us
from the vaults.

Which is a lot.

Hence the extension charm.

Winky is doing an excellent job directing her boys on how to best organise the new additions into
the existing library, but it doesn’t stop me from glancing over there every few seconds and flexing
my fingers with the need to supervise.

Or better yet, to do it myself.

I have no idea how she managed to find more bookshelves that completely match the existing
setup.

There’s a couch in the library now as well, plus two oversized armchairs. The rickety round table
was replaced with an antique wooden monstrosity and half a dozen matching chairs. The Black
emblem is embossed into each of the armrests.

It screams pureblood superiority. Only Winky could have made the change. Though, Kreacher
looks rather pleased with himself too.

I really think I underestimated the place House Elves hold in our society. They can come and go
anywhere they please, without a second glance. I don’t want to imagine how many times Winky
has popped in and out of our vaults in the last forty-eight hours.

I bet they don't even have to go in the front doors.

The Goblins underestimate the elves’ magic the same way humans do. I doubt that other house
elves have the full autonomy that our elves do, but I’m sure they have free reign of their master’s
households. They come and go as they please, doing what they will in the name of serving their
families.

It’s a weakness in pureblood society I’m sure we can exploit if we put our mind to it. I’ve already
added it to my to-do list.

After destroying Horcruxes, collecting Hallows, learning how to be a wife, and generally saving
the world, that is.

Oh!

And getting Harry into therapy, and maybe a few support groups?

Do they have those?

Been Stalked By A Madman All My Life, Anonymous.

Or maybe Killed a Madman a Dozen Times and He Keeps Coming Back to Life Support Group.
Or maybe a more aptly named Madman and I keep killing each other but none of us will stay dead
counselling.

Actually, I think Harry, Ron, and me need to go to a class called Kicking Your Codependency.

Anyway…

“If this stupid neckless is as dangerous as you say it is, and holds the same evil as that cup did, why
in Merlin’s saggy ball sack are we still holding onto this thing?” Ron demands, poking at the locket
sitting between us on the table.

This afternoon is the first time it’s been the three of us since we left the room of requirement the
day after we were dropped into this timeline.

Sirius and Remus are on their way to pick up their auror friend, Nathanial. Molly and Ginny went
out to do some shopping at Diagon, while the rest of the Weasley boys are back at the Burrow,
getting into trouble while Mum’s back is turned.

Which leaves us to build plans on how to save the British magical community.

“I haven’t decided whether to destroy it now or hang onto them and destroy them all together,” I
answer for the both of us.

Ron looks at me like I’m speaking Parseltongue.

Did I?

Can I?

I add that to my list of Bond experiments to try. Right behind mutual masturbation.

“That makes zero sense,” Ron says, poking at the locket with his wand. “Harry didn’t hesitate to
kill the other one. If kill is even the right word.”

"Harry needed to make a point," I say, referring to his destruction of the Hufflepuff cup.

“Kill is a pretty accurate description,” Harry agrees, moving the necklace out of Ron’s reach.

Harry picks up one of the books on dark magic we swiped from the Black vault and starts flipping
through the pages.

“It may be an inanimate object, but it’s filled with a fragment of Voldemort’s soul. You saw what
happened with the last one. They always put up a fight. It’s as if they can feel when the means of
their destruction is near.”

I reach out and slap Ron’s hand away since he’s still trying to prod the metal. He gives me a dirty
look, shaking out his hand.

What a baby.

I didn’t hit him that hard.

“You actually destroyed this one in the other timeline,” Harry says distractedly, and Ron perks up
at that, sitting straight in his seat.

“I did?” he asks happily.

“Yup!” Harry agrees, grinning at our best friend. “Saved my life too. I was a git who jumped into a
frozen lake wearing the locket. It tried to choke me to death. You pulled my arse out, then
destroyed the locket with the sword.”

Ron’s chest swells in pride.

Well, that’s just unattractive.

“Yes. Very well done. It was especially impressive, seeing as how it was the first time we’d seen
you after you abandoned us for weeks,” I add primly, and Ronald’s shoulders cave in on
themselves.

Better.

“Was that necessary?” Harry smirks at me.

“I thought it was,” I confess. “It’s important we use all the facts available to us, so we don’t repeat
the mistakes of the past.”

Harry opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again, and I preen with the knowledge that I’ve won this
round.

Ron shakes his head, scratching at his scalp.

“Let’s go over it again,” Ron says. “Where are the others located?”

It’s so bizarre.

We’re having the exact same conversations, only in a completely different timeline.

I pull out my purple notebook, cutely labelled Mouldy Voldy, and flip to my page of lists and
possible locations. I pull the blue gel-pen from my ponytail and pop the lid off the top.

“There are six Horcruxes.”

I flip my notebook around and drop it in front of Ron.

“Seven,” Harry interrupts, his green eyes glowing with stubbornness and anger.

Merlin, he's so annoying!

Martyrdom isn’t a good look on him at all.

His fingers rise unconsciously to his forehead, and he runs the tips over his scar.

“You don’t count!” I snap, already beyond irritated with that line of thought.

“I sure as hell do!” he insists. “Weren’t you the one just saying that it’s important to use all the
facts? Well, I had a Horcrux inside my head for most of my life. That’s a fact!

“He only ever intended to make six. We don’t know what the accidental split did to him. Neither
does he! I’m sure he never realised I was a Horcrux. Which means he certainly doesn’t know it
now. His soul is so unstable that a fragment broke off when he wasn’t planning on it! That means
something, Hermione!”

I take a deep breath, pulling back my shoulders.

You can’t hit your husband. You cannot hit your husband.

“I’m not saying it’s not an important detail that his soul is so fragile. I’d be willing to bet he
doesn’t even have a soul anymore. It’s all been broken apart and shoved into little scraps of metal.”

“And flesh and bone,” Harry cuts in.

I close my eyes and breathe.

“Fine.”

I open my eyes and look at Ronald, who's watching us bicker with a wary expression.

“There were seven Horcruxes to start with. The one in Harry, which has been destroyed,” I give
Harry a dirty look. “The cup, the diary, and the snake, which have all been destroyed by Harry.”

“Wait,” Ron throws his arm out, his face scrunched up. “The diary. Do you mean the one that
possessed Ginny in Second Year?”

“The one and the same,” I confirm. “That’s why it was able to take her over. It wasn’t an advanced
spell. It was a fragment of Voldemort’s soul.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron breathes, eyes wide and mouth open.

“Exactly,” I agree.

His eyes flick between Harry and me.

“So, Ginny was possessed by You-Know-Who?” he tries to confirm.

Harry gives him a bemused smile, glancing at Ron from over his book.

“You knew that, Mate. You’ve known that since it happened. It’s how he was able to get her to
open the Chamber.”

“Yeah,” Ron nods his head. “But I just thought it was a wicked bit of dark magic. I didn’t realise it
was really You-Know-Who’s soul!”

I squeeze Ron’s forearm, understanding more than most the shock and horror one feels when you
realise someone you love has been possessed by Voldemort.

"Well, in all fairness, it was a wicked bit of dark magic. Said dark magic just happened to allow
Voldemort to take over Gin for a while. But Harry got him in the end, just like he will this time
too."

I grin at Harry.

He grimaces back.

The Bond flairs with displeasure, and I kinda feel nauseous. But I think it’s coming from him.

Moving on.

I tap my fingers on the table, pulling the boys' attention back to me.

"We have the ring left. The ring was destroyed by Dumbledore in between our fifth and six years.
Though, how he's going to destroy it now that Harry has the sword is a mystery. Plus, since he's
promised to give you private lessons a full year earlier than last time, I think we can assume that
the destruction of the ring isn’t going to happen the same this time around the bend.”

Harry scowls, tossing the book harshly back onto the table and scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Agreed,” Harry grumps. “Add it to the list of shit to do. Especially since Dumbledore almost got
himself killed destroying it last time.”

He shoves up from the table, and starts that brooding, pacing, not at all attractive, and horribly
sexy stomping thing he’s been doing as of late.

I forcefully pull my gaze away from him and the way his new clothes hug his lithe form.

“What?” Ron asks, looking at me for an explanation.

My eyes flick to the elves, still shelving away. Last thing we need is for Harry to lose his cool over
something else he couldn’t control.

I give my head a tiny shake.

“Don’t ask,” I mumble.

I tip my head at Harry and run my finger across my throat. Ron’s eyes go all wide. He nods in
response.

I give my notebook a tiny shake, getting us back on track.

"And we have the locket," I say, pointing to the necklace that's been moved out of Ron’s reach.
"After that, all that's left is Ravenclaw's artefact."

"Which is the one we know nothing about," Ron supplies succinctly.

I pull my binder away from Ron, who’s currently picking at the edges and not bothering to actually
browse over my meticulous notes.

“I plan on asking Luna for advice the first chance I get. She’s in Ravenclaw. Maybe she can give
us a starting point.”

“I still think we need to acknowledge the fact that there’s a big chance that the final Horcrux is at
Hogwarts,” Harry says with his hands linked behind his back. “It was his first home. The castle
played an important role in his life. He tried to go back as a teacher, and the dark arts position has
been cursed ever since. If I were betting money, I’d bet on Hogwarts.”

His certainty that he's correct is eating at me, but even with the strength of his will bearing down
on my psyche through our Bonds, I still disagree.

I attempt to shove his influence off me, and my shoulders twitch in a physical manifestation. I sit
up at my full height, straightening my back and sticking my nose in the air.

“Not this again! When, Harry? When could he have hidden a Horcrux in Hogwarts? It simply
doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re wrong,” he spits out before I’ve even finished.

“I’m right,” I snap back just as quickly.

Harry shoots me an irritated glare, coming to a halt five feet in front of us.

“Why don’t we just search the school?” Ron asks, eyes flicking between Harry and I with his
brows squished in confusion. “We spend ten months a year there. Start in the chamber and work
our way up.”

“Thank you, Ron!” Harry cries, throwing out his arm in a wave. “Finally, some sense.”

I toss my hair over my shoulder, crossing my arms against my chest.

What a laugh.

Ron?

Making sense?

All the stress has gone to Harry’s head. He’s obviously delusional.

“What do you suggest? We stab anything with an eagle logo?” I ask sarcastically. “We’re at school
to study and learn, remember? We can’t spend all of our time searching the nooks and crannies for
an unknown object.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “I can still feel a Horcrux when it’s nearby.” He walks to the table
and picks up the locket, twisting it around in his hands. “Even now, I can feel the evil radiating
from this thing.”

He tightens his fist around the latched locket, the metal the size of an egg.

“It’s pulsing, throbbing with a heartbeat. I’ll know when we get close to another one. I’m sure of
it.”

Harry looks me in the eye, and grins ear to ear.

“Besides. Come on, Mi! ‘We’re supposed to be studying?’ That’s a sorry excuse for not exploring
the castle. I know you’re excited about getting to retake your exams, but you and I will pass our
Owls with our eyes closed this year.”

He jabs this thumb at Ronald.

“We’ll drag this one into all A’s kicking and screaming if needed. We’ve already spent a year
searching for Horcruxes. Now we’ve gained an almost three-year lead on Riddle. That final
Horcrux is in the castle. I’m sure of it.”

“Do we all still fit under the invisibility cloak?” I ask with a smirk.

“I’ll buy another,” he promises, his excitement for a new adventure licking up my spine.

Horcruxes.

Horcruxes...Harry can still feel the Horcruxes.

But he’s never been affected when we’ve destroyed one.

“I think we should destroy the locket,” I say, and both boys’ heads whip to look at me.

"You can still feel when one is near, but destroying one has never affected you. It goes to reason
that our first hypotheses were correct, and Voldemort doesn’t know when one has been destroyed
either. We should destroy them as we go. It’s too big of a risk to let them fester.”

“I agree with ‘Mione,” Ron says vehemently, looking at the locket still gripped tightly in Harry’s
fist. His face has gone a little green, and his lips twist up in displeasure.

“I don’t want that thing around my family.”

You sure?

Harry looks at me, his eyes searching and his phantom touch caressing through my brain.

Stab the bitch I assure him.

Harry drops the locket to the floor and steps away from it, throwing out his open palm.

Ron and I both rise from our seats at the table, taking a giant step back. I’ve seen this particular
party trick before. I don’t need an up-close performance this time.

“Winky, Kreacher, Dobby,” Harry says, never taking his eyes from the locket on the floor. “Please
take cover. Kreacher, today you honour your final promise to your master. We destroy the locket in
Regulus’s name.”

“Thank you, Master,” Kreacher croaks, dropping into a bow so low his nose touches the ground.

Dobby, who is no idiot despite his overly enthusiastic personality, grabs Kreacher by the tea towel
and hauls him behind a bookcase. The elf has known Harry long enough now to realise that if
Harry says duck, you’d better get out of the way.

The sword of Gryffindor comes flying into the library, still in its scabbard, and Harry plucks it
from the air when it gets close enough.

The locket starts to wail, shuddering and hissing from the floor.

“Anyone care to take a whack?” Harry asks jokingly, still staring at the pulsating necklace on the
floor.

“All yours, Mate,” Ron assures him, then takes my wrist in his hand and pulls me a little behind
him.

I roll my eyes at the needless gesture but allow him to partially shield me all the same.

The cup's destruction was a swift one. It didn’t put up much resistance. Maybe it’s because the
locket has been stored around humans and has soaked up some of our emotions. I don’t know. But
even in the last timeline, the locket put up one hell of a fight.

At least, according to Harry.

Open he hisses in parseltongue, and I don’t honestly think that necessary.

Or maybe it is.

I don’t know.

I’ll have to go through the list of Horcruxes and compare how they were all destroyed. I need
Harry to show me the memory of how the one was removed from him.
Get it together, Hermione. You’re rambling in your own head.

A vision of a woman rises from the locket, bare and beautiful and frightening to behold.

I can’t see the front of her face from where I’m straining behind Ron’s giant shoulders, but from
the mass of curls trailing past her back, there’s no doubt that the image can only be of me.

She opens her mouth to speak, but before she gets more than a word out, Harry pulls the sword
from the scabbard, dropping the leather uselessly to the floor, then lifts the blade in a two-handed
grip over his head.

The ringing of him freeing it from its confines chimes in the air.

With a yell that makes my throat hurt, he slams the sword into the locket, and its screams rival his
own.

Harry falls to one knee with the effort, his chest heaving, and his eyes closed tight. Our head
throbs, our scar stings, and my fingers drift to the phantom mark on my forehead before I realise
that Harry has done the same.

Shit.

His eyes open, then go wide as saucers, when he sees me rubbing at the scar I don’t have.

Double shit.

The perimeter sensors we set up at the floo and the front door start to chime, and we jerk like
we’ve been struck by lightning.

Harry yanks the sword from the floor, scrambling across the carpet to put the blade back in its
scabbard. Harry shoves the destroyed Horcrux into his pocket, then trips over his feet in his hurry
to stand while sliding the scabbard across his shoulders, disillusioning the entire thing as he goes.

“Hello the house,” echoes into the library through a magically enhanced voice. Harry brings his
wand to his throat.

“In the library,” he answers.

Bugger. I don’t recognize the voice!

Ron and I hurry to the table, quickly piling books so that the tamest is on top. I accio all my
notebooks and flip them around until my voldy papers are on the bottom and my Bond Mate folder
is on top.

Ron yanks open From the Chessboard to the Battlefield. Battle Tactics for the Defensive Wizard
and falls into a chair.

Harry takes a seat, and I lean backward in mine and toss my feet into his lap. So long as no one
notices the sweat on Ron’s brow and that Harry’s hair is especially untidy, we shouldn’t appear
suspicious to whoever dropped by for a visit.

My eyes widen when I catch the hemline of soft lilac robes before I see the man himself.

Well, there goes that theory.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Harry says in a shocked voice, flipping closed the book he was
pretending to read. “Remus and Sirius have gone out,” he supplies without being asked, rising to
his feet.

The Headmaster has a stack of books in his arms, and his eyes are twinkling in the way they do.
I’m still not convinced he doesn’t do it by magic. “Harry, my boy!” Professor Dumbledore says
with a smile, “What auspicious timing then, as I was hoping to speak with you."

His eyes dart around the room, and half a smile quirks up his lips.

"My, my, we've been having quite the evening I see."

Bugger it all to Merlin!

Any other Wizard on the planet and we could have pulled it off. Dumbledore probably smells it on
us. Whether he knows we were playing with a Horcrux I have no idea.

Does he know?! I demand.

Don't ask, don't tell he shrugs back.

Only he doesn't shrug, but…it doesn't matter.

The old Wizard moves the books to rest in his left hand while holding out his right to Harry.
Harry’s eyes flick to mine, and with a little shove through the Bond, I encourage him to take the
Headmaster’s grip.

"Lady Potter-Black,” Professor Dumbledore addresses me, bending into a tiny bow. “I come
bearing gifts in congratulations of your new union.”

He presents the stack of books in my direction, and I rise from my seat to take them with a pleased
smile.

“Headmaster! Thank you so much, but you shouldn’t have,” I say.

Excitement is already bubbling in my belly, and I flash the elder man a smile before placing them
on the table and immediately searching through them.

“Notice how she doesn’t try to give them back, though,” Harry jokes, and Dumbledore’s chest rises
with laughter.

Prats.

All of them.

Dumbledore asks Ron a question about the Chudley Cannons' chances this season, and I tune out
their voices as I examine my new haul. I stifle my gasp as I recognize more than one of the titles.

Anything good?

I look up at Harry, who has joined Professor Dumbledore on the couch. His eyes flick to me, before
appearing to give his attention back to the conversation.

He gave me Tales of the Beedle the Bard again.

Harry’s shoulders twitch.

We’re working in a new timeline, Harry whispers into my head. We’ll check later if the symbol of
the Hallows is still hidden in its pages .

The next gasp escapes on a hiss, and all three boys turn to look at me.

“ Hogwarts a History, First edition !” I squeal.

I can’t contain my excitement as I clutch the ancient text to my chest. I look over at the men
lounging in the sitting area.

“Headmaster! However, did you find it?”

Harry rises from the couch, coming to my side to look over my shoulder. I know he couldn’t care
less about the book, but I appreciate the support as he squeezes my shoulder and grins at me.

“It was from my personal collection,” Professor Dumbledore says with a smile. “Now it is yours.”

He holds up his hand when I immediately start to protest.

“I’m old, my dear. It gives me great pleasure to know that such a treasure will be cared for and
loved in the same manner as I did for so many years. Perhaps even more than I have. Please, accept
it from me to you.”

Harry squeezes my shoulder, and I swallow back my tears. I have to clear my throat to talk without
crying.

“Thank you,” I choke out, and Harry cups the side of my face, offering me his support and
comfort.

“It’s my favourite book,” I squeak through a watery smile, and the Headmaster beams at me with
happiness.

“Wonderful. Well, I won’t trespass on your time much longer. I just have one more item of
business, then I’ll let you return to your studies.”

The way Professor Dumbledore emphasises the word studies, twiddling his thumbs over his
crossed knees, tells me that he’s well aware that we weren’t studying.

Not really.

But as he proved a few days ago, there is such a thing as plausible deniability.

If only others would follow his suit.

“I’m at your disposal,” Harry says, and I nod in agreement.

“Since the ownership of Number Twelve has passed into your capable hands, I would like to
request your permission to continue using the premises as the headquarters for the Order of the
Phoenix.”

Harry starts at the unexpected question.

“Of course, Sir.” He replies automatically.

“Anything you need,” I assure him.

“Wonderful!” he enthuses, rising to his feet. “Then, if it is convenient for you, we will host a full
meeting on Tuesday night next. Your unexpected change in circumstances, though joyous indeed,
has adjusted some of our priorities.”

“You mean you no longer need your lackeys to spy on me under invisibility cloaks,” Harry says
dryly, and I elbow him as discreetly as I can.

I don’t care how angry he is, he can’t be so disrespectful to a teacher!

Rather than get upset, the Headmaster smirks even wider.

“Quite,” he says. “It’ll be a full debriefing with almost every member of the Order. Except those
that are out of our reach at the moment, such as Hagrid. It’ll be a houseful, but Molly is at her best
with mouths to feed and bellies to fill. I will leave her a note. It should keep her occupied for the
next several days at least.”

Ron’s snort of hilarity isn’t missed by anyone.

He blushes fiercely, the tops of his ears turning pink in embarrassment.

Dumbledore turns his attention to Ronald, who, if possible, blushes even brighter.

“That’s just a good idea, is all I’m saying,” he stutters out. “Keeping Mum busy.”

It’s Harry’s turn to snort.

Dumbledore turns his steady gaze on me.

“If it is acceptable with you, Lady Potter-Black, I would like to announce your Binding to those
that were not with us the other night. Beyond the fact that it is a momentous occasion— when the
time is right, I’m sure all of the Wizarding world will no doubt celebrate in the knowledge that a
pair of Bonded-Mates walk the earth again, and Wizarding Britain can claim them as our own. But,
it is essential that the Order understands the significance of your attachment and what all is at
stake.”

His eyes narrow on Harry, who stands to his fullest height.

His fingers are running insistently up and down the side of my neck, and I’d be willing to bet he
doesn’t even realise that he’s doing it.

“I’m sure it isn’t lost on you, Harry.”

I try to reach out to him through the Bond, but his face is blank, and all I find is a dead space
where his heart and mind should be open to me.

“She’s not a weapon to be used, Dumbledore,” he says in a voice so hard it sends chills up my
spine.

Ron rises from his chair and comes to stand at Harry’s back.

“No,” Professor Dumbledore says, his voice heavy and sincere. “You are right, as usual. She’s not
a weapon. She’s your strength, and we must protect that at every turn. It’s imperative that the
others know about the Bond, so that we all understand what is at risk should Voldemort win.”

Harry is so still; I can’t even be sure he’s breathing.

Except for his fingers, which continue to slowly roll up and down my neck.

I hate being the only one sitting when two of the most powerful men currently alive are having a
staring contest with me in between them, but I’m not at all convinced Harry would let me stand if I
tried.

Instead, I reach my hand up and cover his with mine, halting his trail on my skin.

Dumbledore breaks his stare, turning his eyes to me and smiling softly.

“That will be fine, Headmaster. I have no problem sharing the news with the rest of the Order. It’s
under Fidelius, anyway. It’ll stay safe enough for now.”

It won’t stay a secret forever, no matter what Harry thinks or desires.

I, for one, don’t want it to. I am Harry Potter's Soulmate. It’s a fact I’m rather proud of.

“Fine,” Harry says through clenched teeth. Then his fingers tighten on my neck so quickly it makes
me flinch.

“Will Snape be here?”

I give Harry a bemused expression, and Dumbledore loses his playful smile.

“Of course,” he says with a tilt of his chin. “Professor Snape, Harry, is an integral part of—”

“That man is not welcome in my home,” Harry cuts him off, and Dumbledore jerks in a startled
sort of way, taken aback by the darkness in Harry’s tone.

“Harry,” Dumbledore tries to coax, removing his hands from up the opposite sleeves where they’ve
been resting.

Harry shakes his head, moving out from behind my chair. Ron steps up and takes his place, and I
do not like this at all.

A, that Harry feels like he needs room to move, and B, that Ron just stepped right up as if he was
given an order to guard me.

Which he probably was when I wasn’t around.

C, How pointless is that since Ron can’t even use magic outside of Hogwarts without getting in
trouble?

Boys are just so stupid sometimes! I huff and stand up, but Ron steps in front of me again.

The nerve of them!

“For as long as I’m alive,” Harry growls, “that man will never step foot inside my home. The next
time I see him, I plan on running him through with my sword!”

Professor Dumbledore takes a step back, aghast at the steadiness of Harry’s words.

“Harry! You cannot simply kill the man just because you do not like him. I trust Severus Snape
with my life. With your life, which I hold in much higher regard than my own. He has proven his
dedication to the cause over and over again. I can’t imagine where this is coming from.”
Harry doesn’t so much as move but seems to swell in size and power.

“Then you’re as senile as Fudge thought you were,” Harry says with venom.

“Harry!” I gasp, taking a step forward, but Ron grabs my wrist and holds me back.

He gives his head a violent shake, and I all but hear him begging me not to get in the middle.

“The only cause Snape is dedicated to is his own, and you and Riddle both are too sure of your
own superiority to realise it. He’ll play each of you until a sure winner is apparent; then he’ll
declare his undying devotion to the side that rises victorious. I wouldn’t trust him with the life of a
Blast Ended Skewt, let alone that of my wife. That’s what you’re asking me to do. Put Hermione’s
life in his hands. I won’t do it, Sir.”

Professor Dumbledore’s face is flat, his chin is pointed down. He doesn’t look angry. He almost
looks pitying, and that only stokes the fire burning in Harry’s gut.

“You’re wrong, Harry. I—”

“I know. I know,” Harry cuts him off again. He takes a step closer.

“You trust Snape with your life. Tell me, then, why do you trust a man who spends his time as the
arm candy of our enemy? What lies could Snape possibly have told you that convinced the
smartest and the most powerful Wizard who ever lived he was a person to be trusted.”

The Headmaster almost smiles at that.

Almost.

“My secrets are mine, and mine alone, Harry. Unless you’d like to share yours as well?”

He tilts his head to the side, his eyes roaming over Harry in a cursory fashion.

“Tit for tat, as they say? What secrets are you harbouring, that make you so sure that Severus
Snape is not to be trusted?”

“Harry!” I hiss. “Don’t!”

I lunge for Harry again, both physically and mentally, but Ron grabs me around the waist, and
Harry has a tight grip on his mind.

He takes another step closer.

"One of these days, in the not-so-distant future, you're going to find yourself disarmed and
wounded and begging Snape for help, and he'll kill you without a second thought. He’ll kill you
with hatred and revulsion in his eyes, with as little trouble as whispering a curse. That man will be
the death of you, Headmaster. If you continue down this path with him, he will end your life.”

Triumph flares behind the old man's eyes so swiftly I'm almost convinced it was a trick of the
lights, except that Harry flinches in front of me.

He saw it too.

The Headmaster shakes out his arms, peaceful and smiling, while the rest of us are trembling with
anger and fear. He dips his hands back into the opposite arms of his robes.
“Harry, my boy. I have loved you since the day you were born, but you are your father’s son. Your
own prejudices have blinded you so that you cannot see what is right in front of your nose. Maybe
instead of being concerned with his actions, you should ask yourself why. Because I do trust
Severus Snape with my life. Now more than ever. Instead of righting what you see as my wrongs,
you have proven to me that no matter what, Severus Snape will do whatever it is that needs to be
done to ensure the side of the light rises victorious. Even damning his own soul to hell.”

Nausea roils through my stomach.

Again, I don’t think it’s mine.

Professor Dumbledore pivots on his heel, giving me a small bow.

"Lady Potter-Black. Do enjoy the books. It would please me to hear your thoughts on any of the
tomes that are of interest to you. I shall anxiously await your owl. Mr Weasley, give your mother
my love.”

Without another word to Harry, the Headmaster strides from the library.

Harry stands there a beat or two longer, then he follows the man out, taking the opposite direction
down the hallway.
 Chapter 26
Chapter Notes

Thank you everyone for your continued love and support! Comments make me happy
❤️❤️ Don't forget to join our group for sneak peeks and talk about your favorite
characters!

Harry

I flick my eyes up from the ink container in my hands as Ron pushes open the door to the study,
bringing with him a tray of biscuits and a glass of milk.

“Mi sent you?” I ask as Ron kicks the wood shut with his foot before joining me at the desk.

Ron’s cheeks turn a little pink before giving a small shrug.

“Your girl is right mad. She said I better go talk to you since spousal abuse is illegal in London.”

I scoff at the redhead as he places his snack on the office table and drops into the chair across from
me.

He picks up a biscuit with chocolate chips and dunks it into his milk, his eyes flicking up to watch
me.

I float the corked container of ink sitting on Sirius’s desk, making it do pinwheels and flips in the
air.

“I know,” I say. “I can tell.”

When Ron twerks one of his eyebrows up in question, I tap on my forehead with my finger.

“I can feel her,” I tell him.

“That’s so weird,” he says, shaking his head.

I huff out a tight laugh.

“Yeah. You’re telling me. I’m still getting used to it.”

Ron nods, then shakes his head again.

He’s making me dizzy. The inkwell clatters back to the tabletop, and I quickly right it before it can
burst and spill all over.

“Nah. It’s not that,” Ron says. “You’ve always had this weird brain melding thing. Remember in
Second Year, when you kept bringing her flowers in the hospital wing? Then when you found that
paper in her hand? You knew exactly what she was trying to say all from a page ripped out of a
library book. It’s freaky. I think what’s weird is that it's not all that weird.”

I couldn’t agree with him more.

He shoves the cookie into his mouth, then pushes the plate towards the middle. I pick a biscuit off
the ceramic but drop it back without taking a bite.

“Mione reckons you need to stop biting everyone’s head off,” he says through the squished-up
biscuit. My shoulders tense to fight.

Ron cuts me off before I can respond.

“Before you bite my head off, I think she’s right.”

Fuck.

The tension slides right off my shoulders, landing somewhere roughly around my knees.

“Yeah, she usually is,” I agree, leaning back in Sirius’s office chair.

I have another budding headache, and I dig my fingers into my eye sockets, willing the pain away.

“I forgot!” Ron says, before standing up and digging into his pocket. He tosses a small vial at me,
and I catch it from the air.

“Mione says you’re making her head hurt.”

I hold the tiny pain potion between my forefinger and thumb, biting on my cheek to prevent the
smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

Without a word, I pop off the cork and swallow the abhorrent liquid in one gulp. Immediately the
throbbing behind my eyes begins to ease. I swear I hear the words Thank you whisper through my
mind.

Is it weird that I’m coming to love that?

We probably wouldn’t have died last time, if we’d have been able to read each other’s thoughts.

“So,” Ron starts, and I can hear the hesitation in the way his voice squeaks and quakes. “You lost
the plot a little bit back there.”

I give him a dirty look.

“This is supposed to make me not yell at you?” I question him.

Ron raises both hands in front of him, in the universal sign for peace.

“Look. I’m not trying to pick a fight, okay. But Hermione is downright scary when she’s angry,
and once the shock wore off, she was so narked her hair was floating. You gotta stop going off
half-cocked at people, Mate.”

Not having a better comeback at my disposal, I give Ron the middle finger.

He seems to take that as a good sign.

“Mum always used to say if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all,” he says with a
shrug, and I scoff at the thought of Molly Weasley trying to keep her brood from insulting each
other every few seconds.

“How did that work out for you guys?” I ask with a small smile.

“Not very well,” he confirms with a grin, then eats another biscuit.

We sit in silence for a few moments, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

“I know I buggered it all to hell,” I say, finally meeting Ron’s eye. “I know I did. I’m sorry, okay?
But I’m just so angry, all of the time. I just want to hit someone, until they feel as lousy as I do. The
only thing I care about these days is keeping Hermione alive, and if I don’t get my shite together,
I’m going to be the one that gets her killed.”

I look at the pained look on Ron’s face.

"You too, I guess," I say dryly, and Ron chuckles in amusement. "Again."

Even now, I can feel my impatience zipping along under the surface, just biding its time until
something happens to set me off again and the rage finds an outlet for release.

“I seem to bounce between unimaginable terror and indescribable fury, and neither of those
emotions are doing me any favours. The only time I don’t want to hit something is when I’m with
Hermione, and call it a hunch, but I don’t think she’d tolerate being locked away for the rest of her
life.”

“Probably not,” he frowns.

He takes another bite of his cookie, face closed and introspective. He leans back in his chair and
crosses his legs at his ankles.
“Snape kills Dumbledore, huh?”

I exhale a heavy breath and try to keep my voice even.

“Yeah. End of Sixth Year. Voldemort charged Draco Malfoy with doing it, but when he got his
chance...”

I close my eyes and bring up the memory of that night. Of the terror on Malfoy’s face, and the way
he lowered his wand. I hear the way Dumbledore begs Snape for mercy echo in my ears.

“Draco couldn’t bring himself to do it. He looked scared enough to piss himself if I'm being
honest. Then Snape showed up and killed Dumbledore himself. They fled. A month later, the
ministry fell, and me, you, and Mi were on the run.”

Ron scratches at his cheek, his eyes flicking between me and the plate of biscuits.

“I don’t want to make you mad, and please don’t go off the handle again, but Dumbledore didn’t
seem all that upset about it.”

Unable to keep still with all the frustration coursing through me, I shove up from the chair, and
start to pace the room.

My wand is in my hand, though I don’t remember pulling it.

I flick the wood between my forefinger and thumb, and Ron cringes when it starts to snow.

I clear the spell with a wave of my hand and shove my wand back in its holster.

“I know,” I growl, and dammit it just doesn’t make sense!

“He looked downright chuffed. Which is just daft. Why would Dumbledore be happy Snape kills
him in the future? Dumbledore’s death, well, it was the beginning of the end. Three months after
that, the world was upside down and my face was plastered on wanted signs as Undesirable
Number One.”

Ron sits up straight again.

“What was I then? Undesirable Number Two?” he jokingly asks.

He looks a little green around the gills.

“No,” I tell him with a laugh. “You and your brothers put the ghoul in pyjamas and gave him boils,
then your dad put it out that you had Spattergroit. No one knew you were with us. Hermione took
your spot. They knew she was with me when she didn’t show up for school that year and failed to
register as a muggle-born with the ministry.”

“Register as a muggle-born?” Ron repeats with horror, lacing his voice.

“Yup,” I confirm, hitting the end of the office and turning to pace the other way. “They made all
muggle-borns register, then stripped them of their wands and accused them of stealing their magic
from real witches and wizards.”

“But Dumbledore had no way of knowing that the ministry would fall so soon after his death,” Ron
asserts, sitting on the edge of his seat.

I turn on my heel and scoff at him.

“You’re saying that Dumbledore let Snape kill him. Right?”

Ron shrugs, then nods his head.

“Yeah. Yeah I am.”

Which, I guess could make a fucked up sort of sense. But still...

“Dumbledore is the smartest wizard alive. Sure, he’s just as fallible as the rest of us. He’d be the
first to admit it. But you can’t tell me he didn’t know that he was the only thing standing between
Voldemort and the rest of us.”

My voice rises as my temper flares.

“Dumbledore was the only person Riddle ever feared. The arse may have been trying to kill me
since I was a baby, but he certainly didn’t fear me.”

The thought is almost laughable. I run my fingers over my forehead.

“It was pure dumb luck I survived him as many times as I did. Dumbledore had to know. He had
to,” I insist. “Which means if he let Snape kill him, for whatever fucked up reason it was, he knew
the world would go arse over pear without him. Everything that happened afterwards was all his
fucking fault!”

Instead of agreeing with me, or fighting with me, Ron’s eyes glaze over.

He blinks in a distracted sort of way, and his head lists to the side of his neck.

Whatever he’s seeing, it’s not in the room with us here.

“It’s like in those stupid books Mione keeps making me read,” he says distractedly.

My head jerks in amusement. It’s barely been twenty-four hours and he’s already complaining
about the workload she’s assigned him? I hate to break it to him, but it’s only going to get worse
from here.

Wait until he sees her OWL study schedules.

It’s enough to make a grown man cry.

“She only bought you the books yesterday, Ron,” I laugh. Ron stares at me with a blank face.

“Are you kidding me? She brought me back a whole pile from the Hogwarts library the same day
we all heard the prophecy, along with a note from McGonagall giving me permission to borrow
them over the summer. I’m dreaming about strategy by this point.”

Mi bringing a bewildered Ron a stack of books and informing his fifteen-year-old counterpart that
he’s now our head of tactics is such a her thing to do that it makes my heart feel twice as light.

“You should see the stack of books she gave me,” I commiserate with him. “Not to mention the
pile we brought home from the bookstore. You heard her in the kitchen this morning. She wants to
write a paper on being Bonded-Mates. She already has a list of experiments she wants to try.”

I ignore the way my face heats thinking about the differences between my stacks of books and his.

I'm not ashamed to admit we put quite the dent in that bookstore’s inventory.
Okay, well, I'd be ashamed to tell Ron.

By the end, I was kinda having fun. I have a feeling that this is one subject where Hermione’s
voracious appetite for knowledge is going to come in handy.

I have zero issues feeding into her book habit if the end result is Mi on her knees in front of me
with her hands tied behind her back.

“What kind of experiments?” Ron asks, learning forward with his eyebrows raised.

Just like that, I’ve gone from fury at Dumbledore to fantasising about shagging my new wife.

I shake my head to clear it of the randy thoughts and get my mind back on track.

“You don’t want to know,” I assure him, putting up a hand to forestall the questions still on his
tongue. “Trust me.”

He wrinkles his nose.

“Yeah, okay. Maybe you’re right.”

He wipes his hands on his jeans, then pokes himself in the chest.

“But I’m right about Dumbledore. It’s like a giant game of chess!” Ron says, glancing around the
room.

He spies a sinister-looking chessboard on top of a cabinet in the corner and jumps from his chair.
His motions are slow and careful as he carries the set over to the tabletop. I push all the items on
Sirius’s desk and the plate of biscuits to the side so Ron has space to deposit the board.

We each take a chair again, pulling them closer to the desk.

He picks up two of the white pieces.

“You’re the white king,” he says, jiggling the piece in his hand.

“You’re the most important position, but that also makes you the most vulnerable.”

He places the piece in the middle of the board, keeping his fingers gripped on its head.

“You can move any direction, but you have to take baby steps, as all the other players always have
you in their sights. The king should move as little as possible, directing his team from the safety of
the back, and only expose himself for the final strike.”

He puts the king down and moves the queen to his right hand.

“Dumbledore’s the queen.”

The white queen looks like an angel, with a neck cuff like Queen Elizabeth the First.

“He’s the most powerful player on the board. He can jump around the boxes and make plans in the
background, while keeping you safely ensconced in the castle. But sometimes in chess, sacrifices
must be made.”

Ron places the queen in the middle of the board, then tips it over with his finger.
“Any good player would be willing to surrender his queen, if it kept his king in play.”

I pick up the black king, and stare into its horrible face. The pieces are carved from marble, and the
battle of good versus evil is detailed in the cherubic-like expressions on the white pawns, and the
evil snake-like sneers on the black.

I place the black king in front of the white and knock it to join its other flat on the board.

Disgust licks up my spine.

“Don’t you get it Ron? Even one person sacrificed in the name of saving me is one person too
many!”

Ron picks up the white knight, squeezing it in his fist.

“It’s not about you, Harry.”

His voice isn’t harsh, but his words are clipped and short.

My eyes tighten in frustration. My cheeks puff out with air, before I let it go in a heavy exhale.

Ron runs his hand over his face and tries again.

“I stand by my assessment. You are the white king. But it’s about more than protecting you until
you’re ready to fight him. It’s about stopping You-Know-Who before he gains so many followers
that he becomes unstoppable. It’s going to take all of us to do that. Sacrifices will have to be
made.”

Ron moves the pieces around on the board, until it looks like we’re in the middle of a game.

“I know it feels like everything is resting on your shoulders. I won’t deny that after hearing that
prophecy, a good portion of it is. But that’s what the rest of the players on the board are for. To
take out the opposing team so that only their king is left.”

“So, you’re saying I should worry about killing Voldemort, and say bugger to everything else?” I
ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Ron doesn’t take the bait.

“I’m saying your goal is narrow and specific. To be the final king on the board. Keeping everyone
else alive isn’t your responsibility. We all have our parts to play, even Snape and Dumbledore. I
hate the greasy git just as much as you do, but you’ve done what you can to warn of what’s to
come. The rest is out of your control.”

I stare at the chess set, as Ron moves the pieces here and there.

“Wouldn’t Hermione be the queen, if I’m the white king?” I ask.

“Hermione may be your queen,” Ron replies, without a hint of laughter in his voice. “But she
didn’t start out that way. Hermione is a pawn.”

He picks up a white pawn, and pushes it across the board until it hits the other side.

Like magic, it blossoms into a second queen, different and somehow more beautiful than the first.

“A pawn that just got promoted.”

I sometimes forget that Wizards chess has rules of its own.

“What position are you then?” I ask, feeling my shoulders relax for the first time in hours.

“I’m a knight, of course!” he says with a smirk.

I place my finger on the head of the black king, jostling it to and fro.

“When we have the black king isolated and alone?”

Ron’s grin is positively wicked. He flicks the black king out from under my finger, and it goes
skidding across the board.

“We kill the bastard.”

I’m in the middle of getting my arse kicked in an actual game of chess when the study door opens
for a second time.

“Your lady wife says you’re brooding,” Sirius says as a way of introduction, pushing his way into
the expansive space.

Remus and a stranger in a leather jacket with a flannel shirt tied around his hips follow him into the
room.

“Wife?” the stranger asks with a curious smile.

My face falls when I remember that I’m still not technically fifteen.

Remus shakes his head no in answer to the stranger’s question, and shoots Sirius an exasperated
glare from behind the stranger’s head.

“An expression,” Moony says, then steps in between the man and the desk.

Moony gives me a warm smile, and I feel my face answering him in return.

He opens up his arms to us.

“Nathanial Smythe, may we introduce you to Ronald Weasley, and Lord Harry Potter-Black.
Harry, Ron. Meet Nate. He’s here to help train you.”

“Harry’s our Godson,” Sirius says with pride, stepping aside and allowing me space to rise from
the chair.

He squeezes my shoulder, and I put my hand on top of his, feeling the warmth from his skin radiate
over to me.

“Hi,” I say, reaching out my hand.

Nate takes it in a firm grip, looking me up and down before turning to shake Ron’s hand next.

“So, this is the boy wonder, huh?” Nate asks with a smirk, and Ron snorts through his nose then
coughs to cover it up.

The American Auror has blonde hair pulled back into a knot at the top of his head and is wearing
jeans cuffed at his ankles.
A pair of well-worn dragonhide boots cover his feet, and he’s tan enough to look like he just
stepped out of a movie about California.

“That’d be me,” I agree with a sigh.

Without warning or provocation, he pulls his wand, silently shooting a bevy of spells in my
direction.

Ron shouts in alarm, falling backwards over the chair at his side.

Remus and Sirius both skirt out of the way.

I drop to the floor while pulling my wand, ending on my side with the strongest shield I can cast.

Spells bounce off the barrier in half a dozen different directions, glancing off of knick-knacks and
in one instance, hitting Sirius in the side.

He bursts into barking giggles as a tickle jinx explodes over his skin.

I ignore him.

I kick the chair I was sitting on in Nate’s direction and throw out a matter melter jinx that collides
with the leather. It hits the chair at the same time the chair collides with Nate’s knees, and he grabs
the back out of reflex. As soon as his fingers make contact the leather starts to soften and the man
stumbles forward on his feet.

He’s already starting to laugh when I throw out a body bind that he barely manages to shield in
time.

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles, throwing up his hands. “I concede.”

I climb onto one knee, not lowering my shield.

“I just wanted to see how your reflexes were,” he says through laughter.

Remus flicks his wand, and Sirius stops giggling with a snarl.

He grumbles under his breath as he fixes the chair and the broken lamp that fell from the desk.

Nate reaches out a hand towards me, and I take it with only a moment’s hesitation and allow the
man to haul me to my feet.

“Did I pass?” I question, allowing my irritation to shine through.

I wipe my hands on my pants, cleaning them of the dust from the floor. Then I rub the back of my
head where the hilt of the sword smacked into my skull.

“To get started with? Absolutely. But by the time I’m done with you, that reaction time will feel
like it took ages.”

He smirks with his hands crossed over his chest, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet.

I have a feeling my snapping at people who sneak up on me is not going to get any better.
 Chapter 27
Chapter Notes

Thank you for reading!!! Trigger warning, there be smut ahead.

Hermione
I knew Harry was the centre of our social circle. People are drawn to him for a bevvy of different
reasons. Where Harry leads, others will follow. It’s always been that way.

What I didn’t realise before tonight, however, was that Harry often follows me. Which means even
when I’m studying, I’m surrounded by Harry’s fan club.

I mean, I knew it in an abstract sort of way. In the way, I did my homework in the library, so Harry
would join me because Harry did his homework with me. And often, because it was duh , the
library, there’d be other people with us or other students watching us from a discreet distance.

But it didn’t really become as blindly evident as it did when I looked up from my note-taking in the
Potter-Black tombs (I heard Kreacher refer to the library as such this afternoon, and now it will
forever be in my head) to find half a dozen different Weasleys spread out on various surfaces.

The twins were in a back corner with their heads bent together, whispering fiercely to each other. If
I had to guess, I’d say they’re working on the extendable ears. I saw one of them pull something
stringy and flesh-like from a pocket.

Ron is stretched out on the floor, reading one of the books I bought him yesterday.

He grumbled when I presented him with the gifts, but I didn’t so much as hint he should start
reading them, and he’s already halfway through the first.

Ginny is on the couch, working on her summer essays and shooting Harry and me covert glances
every few minutes.

I can feel her staring at the back of my head still, and it makes me want to change my seat so I’m
facing her instead.

I’m not worried she’d do anything stupid—much.

But Harry isn’t the only one in this house with a hair-trigger temper, and Ginny hasn’t said a word
to me since we announced that we were Bonded-Mates.

Even Bill, who is still hanging around the house for some reason, was lounging in a chair with his
nose in a magazine.

Harry was next to me at the table, pulling interesting spells from a book on advanced defensive
magic Tonks left for him this morning.

As soon as Harry left with Sirius and Remus to show Nate where the training space and the potions
labs are going to be, the others trickled out one by one. The only person who remained is Ginny,
and she hasn’t spoken in hours.

The thing that brought them all together was Harry, and I bet none of them even realised it.

I sit up and stretch with my arms over my head as Harry wanders back through the door. I can tell
from his posture he still has the sword strapped to his back, and by the throbbing in my temples, his
headache is back.

I wonder if he had headaches like this before, and just never complained about it? I always thought
the pain came from the Horcrux, but obviously not. Or maybe it did, and now he’s having
headaches because he’s adjusting to it not being there anymore?

I hate not having the answers.

There’s no way to do a before and after analysis either, unless we die again and let him keep the
Horcrux the next time, and that’s a big fat no.

Harry takes my chin in his hand and leans down over the top of me bringing his mouth to mine, in
what is quickly becoming my favourite way to kiss him. I forget about the crick in my neck and
that Ginny is scarcely any feet away, and how only a few weeks ago Harry was nothing more than
my best friend.

I revel in the way the bond flows and blends between us and in the peace that surges from him
when his lips connect with mine. I could power a dozen patronuses, knowing I make him feel like
that.

“I’m going upstairs,” he says when he finally pulls away.

He cups my face in his hand, running his thumb over my cheekbone.

“Want me to come with you?” I ask, already reaching to pack up my books.

“No,” he says quietly, giving his head a small shake. “You finish here. I need a few minutes.” He
gives me a small smile. “To brood,” he jokes, and I roll my eyes. I pick up my wand and do a
tempus charm, and see it’s only nine o’clock.

“You, okay?”

My brow furrows in concern. Nine is early for us, even on a school night.

“Yeah,” he says, his smile warm and just for me. I’ll talk to you later breathes into my mind, and
his eyes flick over my head to the girl sitting on the couch.

Oh.

That.

Yeah.

“Okay,” I tell him gently, and he leaves without another word.

"Take a headache potion!" I yell as he turns the corner, and he chuckles through my head.

I barely have my book open before her voice grates from the couch.

“Trouble in paradise already?” Ginny snarks, and I flip the cover of my book closed again. I take a
moment to plaster a forgiving smile on my face and take a deep breath or two.

It won’t do for both of us to lose our cools now, will it?

You know, if she had any idea what a pain in the arse Harry really was, she’d thank me for taking
him off her hands. Honestly, he’s intolerable nine times out of ten. Like today with that thing with
the headmaster.

Ginny would have stormed off after him, and they would have duked it out in the hallway and then
where would we all be?

Living in a house destroyed by magic, that’s where.

In reality, I think she owes me.

She’s lucky I’m Harry’s soulmate. That’s the truth of it.

I turn in my chair and face her with a false smile and my hands in my lap.

“No trouble. No paradise. That isn’t the way this works. See, I’m Harry’s Soul-Mate. No more and
no less. That didn’t magically change our connection or make the reality of our situation all
sunshine and roses. Harry is still the impetuous pain in the arse he always was, and I’m still the
same swot I was before our binding. If you have any questions though, I’d be happy to answer
them.”

Ginny scowls at me and shoves her sheet of thick red hair behind her shoulders.

She’s breathtaking in her beauty. It’s easy to understand why boys fall all over themselves for her.
Her looks are as fiery as her personality.

She would look wonderful on Harry’s arm.

She did look wonderful on his arm.

My looks may be plain when compared to Ginny’s radiance, but there’s a reason fate or whatever
picked me over her. I’m sure the hissy fit she’s building up to throw is one of the reasons.

“You knew I liked him!” she spits at me, and even in her anger, she’s beautiful.

“What do you think I did?” I ask her, leaning forward in my chair. “Owled the Bond Department at
the Ministry and requested they post-date a Soul-Bond for us? You’re smarter than that Ginny.
Don’t be so dim.”

Ginny flinches back in anger, and I power forward before she can get any steam gathered in her
chest. “No,” I snap at her. “Don’t say anything else we’d both regret, and you can’t take back.”

I stand at the table and flip through my books until I come to the one on the different types of
bonds. I walk to the couch, then hold the book out for her, waiting for her to take it. She yanks it
from my hands, giving it a scathing look before turning her glare on me.

“You grew up with magic, Ginny. You know, even if I’m happy about it, and don’t get me wrong,
I’m ecstatic I’m Harry’s wife. I’m overjoyed with happiness that he belongs to me .”

If I’m a teensy bit firm with that last statement, I don’t think anyone would hold it against me. I
reach for him through the bond, and his caress is gentle and adoring.

I know I’m smiling like a moron, and I don’t even care.

“Even with all of that,” I tell her, “We didn’t have a say in the matter. Our bonds were
predetermined, aeons before either of us were born. Read the book, Gin. Maybe that’ll help.”

I sit down next to her on the couch.

She looks so young to me, even though I’m barely eighteen months older in this timeline
“I understand you’re sad. I would be too if I found out the boy I had a crush on was promised
somewhere else. But Gin, you’ve only ever had a crush on Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. I’m
in love with Harry, and those two people are as different as night and day. The fact that you
haven’t realised that yet proves it wouldn’t work out between you.”

She says nothing at that, looking forlornly at the book in her hands. I give her arm a squeeze,
before rising from the couch and collecting my stuff from the library table. The books can stay, but
my notes need to come with me. I can’t risk the others finding out about our Horcrux search,
among other things.

Harry is already down to his pyjamas by the time I get into the bedroom. He’s sitting on our bed,
shirtless, with his knee cocked and an arm resting atop it. In his other hand is one of the books that
we bought at the bookstore. He snaps it closed as soon as the door opens, but I catch the title
anyway.

Bewitching your Witch.

Well, that’s all the prompting I need.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he drawls in an almost perfect imitation of Draco’s dry witticism. His
face goes serious much too quickly for my liking, though. He drops his knee to hide the book on
the bed. “I wasn’t expecting you for hours yet.”

I shut the door as gently as I can before making my way over to our table.

I rest a hand on the tabletop, then bend over with the other one and yank my socks from my feet. I
drop them to the floor. My shorts are next, and with a flick of my thumb and a shimmy of my hips,
the fabric is off my legs and resting on top of my socks.

Harry clears his throat as I take two huge fistfuls of shirt and yank it up and over my head. “Merlin,
Hermione!” he says with wide eyes.

I use my chin to point to the book on our bed.

“If this isn’t what you want,” I taunt him, “why are you reading one of the books?”

“I was studying,” he stammers, picking it up and shaking it in his hand. I grasp my fingers onto my
bra, but Harry lurches forward on the bed. “Leave that on,” he whispers, and I look down at the
scrap of pink lace covering my breasts.

“Really?” I ask, confused.

“Yes,” he confirms, and the dark timbre of his voice sends chills down my spine.

I look at the bra again. It’s nothing.

It’s barely anything.

My mum calls these types of bras decorations, as they don’t support your breasts at all. There are
no underwires, no cleavage. Just two triangles of baby doll pink lace that let my nipples show
through.

Oh.

I get it.
A grin stretches over my face.

“Isn’t that why you came to bed so early?” I tease him as I push my knickers down over my hips.
“Unless the house burns down, we won’t be bothered until morning, and I don’t think I’ll be tired
for hours.”

Harry crawls closer to the edge of the bed, flipping his legs off the end and standing.

“I thought I’d have time to myself to get my feet underneath me,” he says, his cheeks flushed but
with a sparkle in his eyes. Everywhere his gaze lands on my body sends a spark of electricity
exploding over me. “After all, not all of us have spent the last several years studying the finer arts
of sex.”

“Theory is overrated,” I assure him, closing the distance between us. “It's when you put a plan into
action that you always run into difficulty. You need to practise, to ensure you have it down right.”

I barely think with the way he’s staring at me.

I can barely breathe.

“In that case,” he growls, and Harry links his arm around my waist, hauling me into his chest.
“There’s a new skill I’d like to perfect,” he whispers against my lips.

I arch my back and push up on my tiptoes to kiss him better, but he dodges my advances and
instead trails his lips along my throat. Goosebumps burst along my flesh, and my nipples tighten
into hardened peaks.

“That’s,” I try to say, but my voice is weak and breathy. “That’s nice,” I croak out, and yeah, it’s
really nice. His tongue darts out to lick at my skin, but as soon as I become adjusted to the feel of
his lips caressing a certain spot, he’s on the move again.

It’s enough to drive a girl to distraction.

“I’m a fast learner,” he mumbles, and you don’t need to tell me twice. If only he’d give this kind of
attention to Transfiguration.

His hand pulls at my hair, and I should reach up to help him, but I think I’ve forgotten how to use
my limbs.

Instead, they rest listlessly against his muscles as he works the tie from my hair one-handed, then
digs his fingers against my scalp.

Lightning shoots from my head all the way down to my clit.

“I love your hair,” he whispers, and why in Merlin’s name would he admit to such blasphemy?

“You’re delusional,” I tell him, and he shakes his head no.

I try to pull his face back up to mine, but Harry’s stronger than me and ignores my pull. My neck is
going to be bruised if he keeps that up, and I don’t know whether the thought upsets me or turns
me on.

I mean, women shouldn’t go around with hickies!

It’s a sign of disrespect, I’m sure. But I adore the way Harry’s tongue is licking at my neck as he
sucks on my skin. His teeth press in just enough, and...
A shiver rips through me, and I shudder in Harry’s arms.

A surge of pleasure slithers over our bond. He likes making me lose my concentration.

Bastard.

I grab his chin and haul his lips to mine, but he barely grazes them before twists his neck the other
way and starts again on my throat. This time on the other side.

I want a kiss, dammit!

Then he nips at a spot across my shoulders, and okay, that feels nice too.

His other hand is on my hip, squeezing and touching as he works his way over my bum. I sense
what he wants from me before he has the chance to voice it. I lift my feet from the ground, and
Harry takes my weight effortlessly with a hand under my arse as I wrap my legs around his waist.

I can feel his dick straining against the inside of his pants. I rub myself against him, and finally,
finally Harry brings his mouth to mine and bites on my bottom lip.

The sting of it is sharp, and I gasp at the unexpected hurt.

But just as quickly, Harry’s tongue darts out to soothe the ache. I pull at his hair to hold him to me
and take the kiss he’s been denying me.

Kissing Harry is fast becoming my favourite thing to do.

He twists on his feet, moving back towards the bed. He releases his hold on me when his knee hits
the mattress, but instead of sliding down like I’m sure he intended, I cling to him like a spider
monkey.

Harry laughs into my mouth, and I take the opportunity to suck on his tongue.

It’s very untoward to be so aggressive, I’m sure. Miss Manners in Witch Weekly magazine would
be appalled. But I can’t help myself.

The closer I get to Harry, the closer I want to be.

Harry collapses onto the mattress, and I huff out a squeak as the weight of him pushes me into the
bedspread. I giggle in surprise at the impact, and Harry bursts into laughter, pulling off his glasses
when they shove into his face in a painful crooked press.

They float on their own over to the bedside table, and I roll my eyes when Harry rises to his knees.

“What are you doing?” I ask him when he picks up a pillow then drops it again.

“Looking for my book,” he says. “I need to use it for reference.”

A snort slips out when I try to cover my laughter, and I bring my hands to my mouth to keep it all
contained. “Yuck it up,” he says.

Harry searches for the book that’s been lost in the covers then flips through the pages until he finds
whatever it was he was looking for. He opens the book wide, then turns it around until I can see the
pictures too.

“I want to try this one,'' he says, and all the blood in my body seems to rush to my face.
My gulp is audible, and all I can think is yes please, but maybe not, because the picture is of a man
on his back and the woman on top of him, and their faces are covering each other's crotches.

You can’t see his face very clearly, but she looks like she’s enjoying herself very much.

“Really?” I ask, and I know my voice is trembling, but honestly, I think I have reason to be
nervous.

“You’re the one who told me that I have to learn by doing. I want to learn how you taste from the
source.”

I try to slow down my heart rate and regulate my breathing, but my eyes gloss over anyway, and
Harry takes that for a yes.

He lifts up on his knees and pushes his sleep pants and trunks off his thighs before flopping back
onto the bed and pulling his trousers one by one off his legs. He drops them somewhere off the
side onto the floor.

I have to clear my throat and close my eyes to get my scattered thoughts back under control. My
mouth is suddenly flooded with moisture, and I make a smacking sound while attempting to right
my equilibrium.

“Why do you want to do that exactly?” I ask him, hoping that he can’t feel the way my tummy is
twisting in anticipation.

“Where do I start?” he asks me, and I swear I swoon when he licks his lips.

“It’s so...” Gah! Is it hot in here? It feels really warm. I tighten my fist at my side, so I don’t fan
myself. “It’s so intimate,” I whisper, and I wish the bed would open me up and swallow me whole.

“Intimate?” he repeats, and he chokes on the word. His eyes go all wide, and his lips twist up in
this evil sort of smile, and a shiver forces its way down my spine that has nothing to do with the
way the room is scorching and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me.

He leans forward so that he’s on his hands and knees, and I fall backwards so that I’m supported by
my elbows underneath him. He crawls over me like a panther, and the image is so visceral I have to
close my eyes and shake my head to clear it from my thoughts.

My eyes snap open when I feel his breath against my chest.

He’s looking up at me through his lashes, and my goodness, Harry is so very pretty.

“What do you call me waking up to you staring at my prick like it was candy, Mi? You can’t have
this both ways. You can’t play the part of the seductress, then refuse to be seduced.”

Without moving my bra out of the way, Harry latches his mouth around my breast. He’s rougher
with the lace blocking his way, and he sucks at me hard enough that his teeth dig in. The flat of his
tongue scrapes against my straining nipple, and it’s just this side of “ow,” I gasp, and he
immediately releases his hold.

“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds rather pleased with himself if I had to put a
label on it. He pulls at the nipple he just abandoned with his fingers while he moves to the other
side to torture me with his lips and teeth, and tongue until my back is arching off the bed, and I
have to tell him to pull away. He moves the lace of my bra to the side this time and examines his
results.
“Did you know there’s an entire chapter in that book dedicated to the proper use of teeth?” he asks
me, and Merlin! I’ve created a monster.

“Uhhh,” is all I reply, since Harry has somehow stolen my vocabulary. It’s just rude of him too, as
I’m usually a walking thesaurus.

“You win,” he mumbles.

I don’t feel like I’ve won. I feel like I’m coming undone. His lips trail gentle kisses over my skin,
moving in a listless pattern over my ribs. “We can try that position next time,” he tells me, and I
nod my head in agreement.

Next time.

Whatever he wants.

His fingers glide between my legs, and I part them automatically.

The last time he was between my thighs, he was unsure with his touches. Tonight, he seems to
know exactly what to do and what parts of me to caress. He dips between my folds, and his thumb
grazes against my nub and his fingers circle me there, and my toes curl into the mattress when he
presses a single finger inside me.

So long as he never stops touching me like that, we can do whatever he wants.

“Can I taste you at least?” he asks, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that.

No. I much prefer doing the exploring than being explored.

Please, Merlin, please. Please, please, please taste me before I lose my mind.

I settle for, “Uh-huh,” in a semi semblance of sounding in control.

It’s amazing how my nerves both double and disappears when he places a butterfly soft kiss on my
hip.

He lowers onto his belly between my legs and continues his torture by tenderness as he runs his
lips up the insides of my thighs. I’m already squirming, and he hasn’t even touched me yet. Not
where it counts at least.

Harry takes his thumbs and spreads my labia, and I think I’m going to die.

The sensation of being studied is devastating. I’ve stared down murderers, gone to battle with
hardened killers, and I’ve never felt as exposed and vulnerable as I do at this moment. The need to
run and flee is almost overpowering. I’m lying crooked on the bed, and there isn’t a pillow to be
had, but I cover my eyes with my forearm and pretend I don’t know what he’s doing.

He kisses me, there, soft and sweet, and it’s...it’s like being touched by a live wire. He flattens his
tongue and licks me from slit to clit, and I moan in a lewd and broken fashion that has his head
lifting to get a better look at my face.

“You are so beautiful,” he tells me, and now I know he’s lost his mind. “I love how bloody wet
you are.”

I wish I never would have begged him to let me into his head because his excitement is crawling
over my skin like a line of ants, and I writhe under his examinations.
His fingers pull on my lips, then his mouth takes their place, and I can’t even breathe at the feeling
of his tongue flicking against the delicate flesh. His arm moves underneath my thigh and wraps
around the top, then he uses his fingers to pull back my hood and why does that simple motion
make everything so much more.

Harry pushes that single finger inside and kisses my clit like he kisses my mouth, all lips and teeth
and tongue. He sucks on the bundle of nerves, and my hands fly to his head to either force him
away or hold him there. I haven’t made up my mind yet.

“Fuck, Mi,” he groans, and when I uncover my eyes and look down the line of my body to see
Harry is fucking the mattress and sweet mother Morgana, I can’t watch that. I feel like I’m on fire.
I feel like I’m melting. Or maybe I’m getting ready to combust.

But it’s not enough.

“More,” I breathe, and Harry bless him, he gives me everything.

He growls against the sensitive flesh, and waves of pleasure flow through my body.

Harry takes my leg and places it over his shoulder, and it’s like he’s opened another portal to
heaven. Or hell. I’m not yet sure. Either way, nerve endings that managed to escape his onslaught
are exposed, and I whimper and whine and cry out at the magic he’s working on my body. He laps
at my pussy, like he’s been in the desert, and it’s the only thing that’ll quench his thirst. He adds a
second finger to the first, and...

I don’t think the noises I’m making are human anymore.

Heat bursts from my belly. I start to convulse on the bed. My orgasm consumes me from the inside
out.

My legs try to close, but Harry holds them open with his shoulders and hand. His palm, covered in
my slick, moves to pin my belly to the bed. His mouth loses some of his aggression, but he doesn’t
pull away.

Instead, he dips his pointed tongue into my hole, and I cry out fresh at the intrusion. My fingers dig
into the bedspread beneath me, my toes into the mattress and Harry’s back. He bathes our bond in
adoration, blowing gently on my swollen sex.

“You’re okay,” Harry soothes against my thigh. He pulls his mouth away before I start to sob, but
tears have already leaked from my eyes. Merlin.

That was...

Harry sits back on his heels, his thumb softly rubbing circles against my pulsing flesh, and I open
my eyes in time to see him make himself come all over my stomach.

Oh, gods.

I’m still twitching like I licker a light socket when he runs his fingers through his own mess.

"Merlin, you look so pretty covered in my cum."

I'm dying.

I'm actually dying.

He swirls the digits through his cum and then drags them between my folds before bringing the
whole thing to his lips.

When his eyes roll back in his head, and a moan slips from deep in his chest, I'm done for.

Only then does he run a hand above me and clean up the wreckage he made of my body.

Without a word, he begins to kiss his way back up my belly.

I realise one thing and one thing only as I come down from the high.

It wasn’t enough.

It’ll never be enough. We could stay in this bed for the rest of our lives, and I’ll never be satisfied.

I can taste myself on his lips when he kisses me, and I understand what Harry meant when he said
he liked the taste. When Harry came in my mouth, it was salty and warm, and while not intolerable,
probably not something I’d come to crave.

Well. But. No.

I love the way I taste transferring from Harry’s tongue to mine. I try to crawl into his mouth and
leach all the flavour from him.

I need more.

I need everything.

Every time I try to reach for him, he moves his hips so he’s just out of my grasp. I wrap my arms
around his back and try to pull him on top of me, but he settles at my side instead of between my
legs.

“I want to make love to you, Harry,” I practically beg.

I can feel what those words do to him. I can taste the effect they have on both his mind and his
body. His hips twitch at my side, and his imagination blossoms with a thousand different ideas.

But Harry shakes his head no, and it makes me want to scream.

Why did I have to be bonded to the only teenage boy in the world with self-control? Damn you evil
people and your years of psychological and physical torture. It’s given Harry an uncanny mastery
of his person.

The next time I see Voldemort, I’m going to kick him in the balls.

Why Harry can’t have this sort of control when his temper is in a dander I have no idea.

“We don’t have to do that tonight," he says.

His voice is so tender as he pushes my hair away from my eyes.

“There’s no rush, luv. We can take our time.”

I disagree completely.

Yes. Yes, we do.

We have to do it.

Right now!

At this very moment, or I'm going to explode. Or implode. I'm going to lose my ever-loving mind.

There’s going to be a Hermione-sized hole in the ceiling where I burst out of my skin if I don't feel
him inside me as soon as humanly possible.

Harry’s stronger than me in every sense of the word. He's physically more powerful. His magical
signature is twice the size of mine. But he's as meek as a newborn puppy when I shove him over
onto his back and pull myself astride him.

He rests his hands lightly on my thighs.

“It’s adorable that you babble in your head in the same way you ramble out loud,” Harry says with
a smile on his face, and oh my fucking God.

He heard all that.

“I hate you,” I pout with a tremble in my voice.

“I love you,” he replies, and my breath shudders when I inhale.

That was unexpected.

“You know that right? I do love you, Hermione. Not just for this.”

I do know that. I’ve always known that. Since I was twelve years old, I knew Harry loved me.

I plant my hands on either side of his head and lean my body across his until I can kiss him. I kiss
him until I can’t breathe anymore, and then I kiss him some more, hoping he can feel how much I
love him too.

Harry latches his hands around my hips and lifts me in the air, and I feel both powerful and
insignificant.

What’s it going to be like in another few years when Harry towers over me, and his chest is twice
as broad? When his hands, rough from handling a broom for hours at a time, can circle my waist
with barely any inches to spare?

The thought is...delicious.

“Are you sure?” he asks again.

His green eyes are so intense with the way they fill with love and concern for me. I already feel
him inside my head, searching out my nooks and crannies for any sign of regret.

He won’t find any.

I want to feel him inside my body too.

I want to be consumed by him.

I want to burn with it.

Instead of answering with my words, I reach between our bodies and take him in my hand. I
whisper the lubrication charm, not that I need it, and bring his dick to my entrance. With trembling
legs and shaking fingers, I lower my body onto his.

I gasp when he enters me, a counterpoint to Harry’s hiss. It’s so, so tight.

I only make it halfway down, before I have to pause to breathe. I might not have to worry about
breaking my hymen, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t overwhelming anyway.

In the most perfect way possible.

“Shhhh,” Harry soothes through his teeth, running his hands up and down my back. My eyes are
shut tight, and I have to pant at the pressure.

“You’re okay,” Harry assures me, and this time it’s a statement instead of a question.

I am okay.

Harry would never hurt me.

Of that, I have no doubt.

“Are you?” I ask through clenched teeth, and I feel Harry nod.

“Mmm, hmmm,” He moans and dammit, I love that sound.

I open my eyes, and the way he looks, staring up at me—he looks at me like I’m everything. He
stares at me like I’m beautiful. He’s chanting it in his head, like it’s his mantra.

She’s so lovely. She’s so beautiful, and I have to close my eyes and shut it out because it’s all too
much to handle at once.

The feeling of fullness is exquisite.

It’s so much, but at the same time, it’s still not enough.

I need more.

He tightens his hands on my back again, and I start the slow descent downwards.

I already know Harry grows another six inches taller in the next three years. He probably wasn’t
done growing when we were sent back in time.

Does that mean his dick is going to get bigger too?

Harry chokes and thrusts, and suddenly my arse is on his thighs and—

“I’m sorry,” he grunts, and he sounds sorry, but his voice is tight in a way I’ve never heard it
before, and his hands are shaking where they touch my flesh. “I heard your thoughts and Merlin,
Hermione. Warn a guy next time!”

His hands flex against my back, and he holds me still against him.

Merlin, he’s so big.

“Merlin you’re so small,” he mimics.

The stretch of it is torture.

Somehow, I didn’t realise he’d go so deep. I feel him everywhere. He’s like velvet over steel, and
every time I try to breathe, I feel his dick inside me. I love it.

His arms wrap around my back so tight I can feel his muscles straining, but I think it’s more to keep
himself still than anything else. His breathing is heavy but even. The muscles in his thighs are
twitching under me.

I can’t see his face where it’s buried against my shoulder blade.

My forearms are flat on the bed beside his head, and I dig my fingers into his hair and pull his face
so I can see it. Bring my lips to his and let him taste the pleasure building in my spine. His tongue
is firm and aggressive as he licks into my mouth.

He pulls away all too soon for my liking.

I start to giggle, and it jostles me on his cock, and I swear I feel it twitch inside me as both of us
moan from the sensation.

Without moving my chest from his, because I really kinda like how trapped I feel, even though I’m
on top, I lift my hips a tiny bit before letting them fall back down.

Oh, sweet Merlin.

Just that little bit is almost too much. I can’t tell if it’s his reaction or mine.

“Yes,” he says in a distracted manner.

It takes me a moment to realise what he’s saying as my blood is thrumming through my veins, and
I squeeze my muscles around his pulsing dick inside me.

I’m drunk. It’s the only explanation. My body is pulled tighter than a drum, and my head lulls
sluggishly on my neck.

Harry takes my chin and turns my head until I’m looking him in the eye.

“I get considerably bigger.”

Then he flexes his dick inside me.

My eyes roll up in the back of my head.

“Can you move?” Harry asks, and it takes much longer than it should for me to gather a response.

“Yes?” I say with uncertainty, and even to my own ears, it sounds more like a question than an
answer.

“Focus, luv,” he instructs me, and I open my eyes and blink.

Harry lets go of my face and grips my hips with both sets of his fingers. His legs rise behind me,
and he lifts me from his lap and lets me glide back down again.

That.

Is.
Everything.

“Yessss,” I say a second time, and this time, it is the answer.

Lava turns molten in my belly, and I lift my hips without his prompting.

Harry places my hands on his chest, taking my weight when he sits me up straighter.

Holy Mother, the angle changes everything. Sparks ignite in places I never even knew existed. He
brings his hands back to my hips and helps me rise again.

The drag of his cock against my walls is everything. The collision of our joining when he bottoms
out inside me is primal. It takes no time at all to find a rhythm we both like. I moan every time I
reach the end of his cock, suddenly bereft of his presence, and Harry grunts every time I bear back
down, desperate to fill me with himself.

Is this what everyone feels like when they have sex with the person they love? Like you can’t tell
where you begin, and they end? I know all the books say it’s supposed to hurt. Even with the spells
to ease the ache. But despite the burn between my legs, I feel like I’m a goddess.

“Hermione,” Harry whimpers, and yes, I know Harry.

YES!

I need it too. I need to touch in every way it’s possible to be connected.

My hair falls in a messy wave around us as I collapse into his arms. His grip is rough to the point of
pain when he fists it in my hair and drags my lips to his, and that only makes it better.

His other hand flattens onto the curve of my ass, holding me how he wants me as he pumps inside
my quim.

I’m so close I’m shaking.

Harry is teetering on the edge.

But if five years of masturbation has taught me anything, it’s that no matter how magical Harry’s
cock might be, I need something on my clit to get to the end of completion.

I wiggle a hand between us, and as soon as my fingers slide against the swollen bud, my nerve
endings start to tingle.

Stars sparkle behind my eyelids.

I give up kissing Harry and settle for breathing his air, my mouth open and panting against his
assault.

Harry is whispering something or chanting it in our heads, and I can’t make out more than the
frantic way in which he begs. Euphoria begins as gently as a hummingbird against my skin before
blooming into a hurricane in my chest. I sob as I surrender to it, and Harry fights it tooth and nail.

“Harry,” I cry against his lips, and he swallows the sound before it can hit the air.

“Not yet,” he pleads as his thrusting takes on a senseless, desperate cadence.

I’m sure his fingertips will be bruised into my skin.

I can’t wait to see it in the mirror.

I smell the magic wafting from him, dark and powerful and strong enough to bathe in.

Then he falls apart beneath me, and I know the true meaning of sharing a soul.

I gasp as I feel it take him, though, in true Harry fashion, he refuses to give in. His orgasm is
blinding, but he rides it like you would a bullet train, holding on for dear life.

He’s gasping for air as a groan is ripped forcefully from his lips.

We are equals and opposites in this as in everything else. Harry goes rigid, whereas I feel boneless
and lax. He’s already mourning the loss of me, while I’m relishing in the sensation of being one.

I feel brilliant, and Harry feels broken with loss.

Loss because everything he loves is taken from him sooner rather than later, and Harry loves me
more than anything.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him and wipe the sweat from his brow.

I’m sure I’m getting heavy by now, but Harry is still inside of me, and the strength of his arms is
brutal. I couldn’t get away even if I wanted to, which is why Harry is holding me so tight.

Not that he realises that.

“I love you,” he murmurs with a quivering voice, and of course, the boy who has never felt loved
would tremble the first time he feels too much of it.

“I love you too,” I assure my husband.

My soulmate.

My other half.

I lean down a smidgen further, so my lips can touch his ear.

My back is starting to cramp, but I’ll sleep draped across his chest like this if it’s what it takes to
bring him comfort.

“I chose this,” I remind him, and he shivers underneath me. “I chose to be with you. I’m not going
anywhere, Harry. Never. I promise.”

He loosens his hold just enough that I can slither down his torso, and he finally slides from my
body. I feel bereft without him. He doesn’t try to change our positions though, so I rest my head on
his chest.

Harry takes a shuddering breath, and I can feel his lungs quake with the inhale.

“I won’t let them take you from me,” he says almost too quietly to hear, but I feel his determination
through the Bond.

He means it more than any thought he’s ever had before.

I almost pity the first person who tries to take me from his side.
Almost.
 Chapter 28
Chapter Notes

Merry Christmas to those that celebrate!! I'm planning on posting three chapters today
as a Christmas present in thanks for every one who is still following along!
Harry
You're brooding , she whispers through my head, like a clear bell on a foggy day. Stop brooding.

Then between one heartbeat and the next, Hermione is asleep in my arms. The weight of her gets
heavier on my chest, and the touch of her mind against mine becomes as light as a feather.

Her heaviness helps me breathe, somehow.

I wasn't expecting it to be like this.

So—overwhelming.

It probably wouldn't have been if it were with Ginny. But with Hermione, everything is so much
more.

I'm still getting used to being so entwined with another person. Her heart rate is faster than mine,
and her thoughts almost too quick to keep up with.

But the fear of losing what I've already come to depend on is all-encompassing. I take a breath,
close my eyes, and try to clear my mind of the dread.

Five things I can see—

Hermione's hair.

Her skin.

Her fingers.

Her lips.

Her nose.

Hermione has always been braver than me.

It should make no surprise she’s braver about this too.

I roll us gently to the side, and she makes a little huffing sound as she gets comfortable with the
tangled sheets as a pillow. Our heads aren't even on the right side of the bed.

My feet are touching the headboard.

I rise up on one elbow and prop my head up with my hand.

Even though it's summer outside, it's chilly in the upper parts of the townhouse, and Hermione’s
skin breaks out in goosebumps. I should cover her with the comforter, but I don't want to impede
my view. I cast a silent warming charm around us, and she lets loose a sigh of contentment.

Mi was right, I am brooding, and this isn't the time or place for it.

Not here, when it's just her and me.

The stakes in the game have escalated with Hermione’s and my Bonds. To borrow Ron's analogy,
the pieces on the chessboard have changed. But there’s nothing I can do about it here, and now, so
I try to push it out of my mind.

The townhouse isn't like Hogwarts.

She’s safe up here with me. Nobody knows about our Bonds yet. Even if Riddle did somehow find
out about Hermione, there's a hell of a lot of people between him and us.

Hermione is safe enough.

I use her stillness to take the opportunity to admire her openly.

I’ve always known she was beautiful. In an intrinsic sort of way.

Like I knew she was brilliant.

It’s simply a part of who she is.

But it’s different now. Before, I wasn’t really allowed to look. Now, she belongs to me. I can look
all I please. I might even go so far as to say it’s my duty as her husband.

I can’t decide if it’s sweet or perverse that even now, though I see how lovely she is, I think about
how stunning she becomes.

Hermione is going to be a force to be reckoned with, and I find that’s sexy as hell.

I bury my nose into the mass of curls falling lopsidedly from the pile on top of her head and inhale
the scent of the conditioner.

I trail my finger down her side and watch the way her body shivers. There’s a smattering of
freckles all over her skin. A scar, under her belly button and to the right, where I know she had her
appendix out when she was six.

I love the way her hips flare wide, before smoothing into the sinch of her waist. I love the dark
pink of her nipples, compared to the golden skin of her breasts. I run my hands over the outside of
her legs, and feel the muscles in her thighs, even though she’s soft and pliable under my touch.

I adore the babydoll pink bra when I had always assumed she’d be a plain cotton girl.

The thatch of hair between her legs is damp and perfect, and with a gentle push of my hands and
maybe a little bit of magic, I have her on her back and her legs spread without waking her up.

Merlin.

Her quim is so soft. So delicate. She’s pink and puffy and hot.

She’s a fucking mess.

The Scourgify charm is one of the first things teenage boys learn. Or so I was told by Dean
Thomas when he walked into the dorm at the wrong time, and I was cleaning up with an old t-shirt.
After Fifth Year all the boys switched to Evanesco.

Vanishing is easier than cleaning.

Why leave the evidence behind when you can wipe it all away with the flick of your wand?

But I was too in my own head, and Mi was trying too hard to pull me out, to think about cleaning
up the aftereffects of our sex.

So instead, my cum is seeping out of her.

I’m sure we have a book on fetishes sitting around here somewhere. I’m going to have to hunt it
down and see if cum fetishes are a thing.

Because if it is, I officially have one.

Hermione makes a whimpering sound when I run my hands up the inside of her thighs. My skin
feels too tight, pulled taught against my bones. I want to plunge inside her and fuck her so hard and
fast that I forget my name.

I want to take my time, to make it last forever.

Slick is pooling between her legs, and I can smell our sex in the air. Taste it on the tip of my
tongue. I never knew that desire had a scent until now.

I run my fingers through her curls and gather our combined fluids on my fingertips. Her aura burns
like a fire in the back of my mind, flaring sharp and hot as she wakes up to my mouth, kissing her
clit.

It’s swollen and thick against my tongue, that little nub that makes up her pleasure centre.

Mi lifts up on an elbow and catches my eyes. Her gaze is penetrating, and I feel her stare deep
inside my gut.

With a hand on her upper inner thigh, I spread her legs and admire the rosy and shiny flesh. Every
shade of cream and pink can be found between her legs.

I dip my fingers between her arse crack, and Hermione makes a shocking sort of choking sound at
the back of her throat, jerking her hips from the bed. Her head falls back on the mattress.

I place a hand on her lower belly to hold her still and drag my fingers through her folds before
pressing into her crest.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

Her voice is high and tight. I accidentally answer her before I can think it through.

"Pushing my cum back inside you," I murmur.

Hermione arches up off the bed, and my name falls brokenly from her lips.

"Har-ry," she whimpers quietly, and that? That's a sound worth living for. It's a sound I plan on
spending the rest of my life pulling from her mouth.

“Can I—?”

The words get stuck in my throat.

Need wraps around my solar plexus, and I can hardly breathe for the want of it.

I feel feverish.

Dizzy.

I feel like someone hit me with a Metelojinx and a storm is brewing inside my chest.

I suck her little bud into my mouth and flick it with my tongue. Mi tries to squish my ears between
her knees, and I push her thighs back down. Instead, she runs her nails over my scalp.

Her reaction is addictive.

She tastes so bloody good.

I attempt to ask again. “Can we—?”

Fuck. My brain is fuzzy. Hermione spreads her legs even wider and grips her fists into the sheets. I
pull my hand from her quim, and my fingers are wet and covered with our combined juices.

I take a moment to suck on the digits, before plunging them back into her snatch.

Her moan is out of this world.

Fuck.

I’m fucking into the mattress, but it doesn’t do a thing to ease the pressure building in my balls.

“Can I lick you again?” I finally get out, and Hermione melts into the bed.

Like me, it takes her a minute to get the words out. She tries to answer me multiple times, but
every time she opens her mouth a moan escapes instead.

“It’s a little late to ask,” she finally says through a weak laugh and a twitching body.

She’s not wrong.

My lips are only inches above her pelvic bone, and my lips are shiny with her cum. I trail my
tongue along her pussy, and Hermione withers under my touch.

It won't take much.

Of that I have no doubt.

Forgoing the fun of exploration I spread her thighs as far as I can and tilt her hips up and off the
mattress. I'm still dripping out of her.

No help for it then.

"Then I'm doing my husbandly duty and cleaning you up. I know how you hate to be untidy."

She's already panting out my name in a rapid staccato.

"Harryharryharryharryharry."

Using my thumbs to hold her open I delve my tongue inside.

Heat and embarrassment floods through her bloodstream.

I ignore the embarrassment and concentrate on the heat. Her moan is almost inhuman when she
bares down on my face with my tongue inside her cunt.

Her body thrashes on the bed, part of her trying to flee my ministrations and the other half ashamed
of how much she loves it.

I twist it this way and that, then push her knees even further back and drag my tongue down her
crack and back up again, collecting any of our cum I might have missed.

Once I'm sure I've got it all I bring my tongue back to her clit and flick it as fast as I can with my
tongue.

Her entire body spasms when she comes. The muscles under my hands tense and relax in rapid
succession. I take a note out of that damn book and don't let her close her legs.

I softly blow on her wet quim until her whimpers die down to sighs and her muscles go weak and
lax.

Her knees droop to the bed.

“Can I have you then?” I ask. “Please?” and her only response is to whimper.

I’ll take that as a yes.

I keep my hand between her legs, twisting my fingers inside her in time to the thundering of my
heart. It takes more effort than it should to climb to my knees.

To kneel between her thighs.

My lips light a trail along her body, sucking and kissing and biting as I go. Every time my teeth
scrape against her sensitive flesh, she makes a noise that almost sounds like a plea.

Molten lava has taken the place of my blood cells, thrumming along in my veins in its place.

Hermione is already shuddering. Her hands claw at my shoulders, pulling me closer to her.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I whisper in her ear.

She links her arms around my neck and forces my face to hers. Her kiss is filthy and deep. She
licks into my mouth, all of her barriers dropped and open.

When I line myself up with her opening, my hands are shaking.

“Please?” I ask again.

I need her like I need oxygen, but I won’t take her without her okay. Even if I can feel it, I want to
hear her say the words.

“Yesss,” she hisses, and I slide into her centre, as easy as if I’ve been doing it for years.

She feels like velvet. Like velvet and heat and home. I rest my forehead on hers, trying to catch my
breath.

“You feel so good around me,” I mumble.

I don’t even know what I’m saying at this point.

I’ve lost all control over my bodily functions. I’m just moving on instinct alone. She plants her feet
and thrusts up to meet me, and I pause on the precipice, trying to pull my scattered thoughts back
under control.

“Let go,” Hermione whispers, and I open my eyes to see her staring at me.
I do.

Magic drips from my pores, and Hermione’s rushes out to meet it. I didn’t even know that a
person's magic could do that.

It’s staggering in its intensity, to feel it lick along our skin.

Our magic is like its own entity, straining to meet its match.

I’m suddenly ravenous, and I thrust into her as if Hermione is the only thing that can fill the void.

Her legs go around my hips. She bucks underneath me, meeting me thrust for thrust. It sets me on
fire. Liquid heat pools in my belly. Her magic rubs against me like a cat, and I groan as her magical
aura merges with mine.

With every joining of our bodies, Hermione moans and sighs, and it only spurs me on. I bury my
head into the mattress. Hide my face in her throat. She lets out a keening wail when I tilt my hips
and fuck her hard, and my hand immediately slips to her side, pinning her to the bed.

The sounds of her breaths and hisses fill my ears.

The slapping of skin against skin echoes in the room. “I’m gonna—” she pants, her breathing
reaching a fever pitch. “I’m gonna...”

Her muscles are trembling beneath me.

Her body is pulled as tight as a wire.

Our skin is slick with sweat and magic. It pools in the small of my back and drips down her brow.
With the twist of my body and the flick of my wrist, I pull her leg up around my shoulder and slip
that much deeper inside her.

The sounds she makes. It's otherworldly.

My pelvis grinds into her pussy, and Hermione bursts apart at the seams.

She’s magnificent in her breaking. Her body becomes weak and pliant underneath me, and her
mind explodes into a kaleidoscope of colour. I’ve never felt anything like it.

My name falls from her lips in a broken cry.

How one person can feel so many different things at once is breathtaking.

It's like chasing a unicorn off the edge of a cliff. Jumping off your broom, and that perfect moment
when your hand circles around the snitch before you're free-falling without a net.

It's absolute bliss for the pounding of a heartbeat. Then I stiffen with her arms around my
shoulders, her legs around my hips, and my cock buried as deep inside her as I can get.

My skin is vibrating. My muscles burn.

Hermione is running her fingers over my shoulders, whispering into my ear. I try to catch my
breath while Mi tells me how good that felt and how much she loves me, and did I know my magic
had a flavour?

I collapse on top of her when my arm gives out and she huffs a painful sounding squeak at the
impact.

“My bad,” I say through barely controlled laughter.

She tries to laugh and instead groans as my weight presses her into the mattress.

“Why are you so heavy?” she grumbles and between her push and my pull we switch positions so
I’m on the bottom and she’s tucked into my side. My heart is thundering out of my chest, and
Hermione’s echoes like a bird.

“I think—I did—-better—that time.”

It comes out in parts, as I’m still huffing with Mi’s head on my shoulder.

“What did I say?” she replies, her own breath still feather light and patchy. “Practice makes
perfect.”

I try to kiss her, but fail, and she collapses into giggles again.

“I need a bath,” Mi says with a small sigh, and I blush horribly knowing that I’m the reason why.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

I drag my eyes over her flushed skin and see the evidence of our sex all over her body, from the
wetness once again dripping from between her legs, to the bites up and down her throat and torso.

I don’t feel all that sorry, to be honest. She looks lovely and debauched, and like she belongs to me.

I run a silent scourgify over her anyway, and Hermione shakes her head.

“That’s not going to cut it,” she laughs quietly. "I need a bath."

She slides to the edge of the bed and slips from the mattress, pulling the sheet around her as she
goes. A chuckle escapes me at the sight of her covered armpits to toes by the green material.

It looks like a weirdly shaped dress.

“Will you take one with me?” she asks in a timid voice.

Hermione holds out her hand. The fire that is my wife thrums in the back of my head and tingles
with nerves and uncertainty.

“Unless you’re afraid to bathe with a girl…?”

Hermione is absolutely fascinating. Wakes me up with her mouth mere inches from my prick
without a second thought, but gets dodgy asking me to join her in the bath.

“Sure,” I reply with a small smile, then follow her into the loo.

Hermione is right, as usual.

Taking a bath is a brilliant idea.

Once we settle into the tub, I let my head fall back on the rim of the claw foot monstrosity and slip
a smidgen further into the water. Mi has her back to my chest, and her head resting on my shoulder.
My fingers trail up and down her arms, leaving little pebbles of gooseflesh where I go.

“You know, I can’t remember the last time I took a bath. Fourth-Year with the egg, probably.”

“So, three years ago or a couple of months, depending on how you measure,” she laughs. “I love
soaking in a bath, the hotter the better.”

The pink tinge to her skin pays truth to that statement, as the steam wafts from the top of the water.

Mi didn’t turn on the overhead lights, and instead conjured her balls of fire so the room is filled
with a soft bluish glow.

It’s so peaceful in here, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

It reminds me of the Forest of Dean.

“You’re a really good kisser,” Mi says out of the blue. “Did I tell you that yet?”

I huff into the top of her head and place a kiss into the wet curls pulled long and lanky.

“Thanks, I guess. It’s not from copious amounts of experience, I assure you. I don’t know how
many times I have to tell you that anything I do right between us is because of you.”

“What?” she says in a teasing tone. “No muggle girls on the side? No secret snogging of Hannah
Abbot in the broom cupboards.”

I shake my head, even though she can’t see me.

“None,” I assure her. “I’ve only kissed two girls before you. Cho and Ginny, and since Cho was
crying at the time, I’m not sure she should really count. There was a muggle girl during the
summer between Fifth and Sixth-year one time, but funny enough, Dumbledore showed up and
cock blocked me.”

Hermione bursts into giggles, the sound infectious and bouncing off the porcelain walls.

“I kissed Seamus once,” I admit to her because I’ve apparently lost all sense of self-preservation.

Mi makes a choking sound and the water in the tub sloshes over the edge when she sits up and
turns to the side to look at me.

“Excuse me?” she says, delight dancing in her eyes.

I fight down the rush of embarrassment that wants to escape, and instead scratch at the scruff on
my face.

“I was thirteen, maybe? He convinced me we needed to practice; in case we ever got the
opportunity to snog a girl.”

She snorts and bites her lips closed, bringing her hand to smother the lower parts of her face.

“You know that Seamus is gay, right?” she asks through controlled giggles. I roll my eyes at her.

“Yes,” I assure her. “I know that...now. I shared a room with him for almost a decade. I didn’t
know it at the time. I’m not sure he did. Maybe it was my kissing that clinched the deal.”

Mi stops trying to hide her giggles, instead laughing full out.

“I wonder how many other boys he got to snog him under the guise of practice?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“I have no idea,” I tell her honestly. Her happiness is delightful, and the fire in my head burns with
it. It’s like my own personal metronome, feeding me a constant flow of information about the
woman in front of me. “Probably a few. He was very convincing.”

“Are you in the closet?” she asks in a playful tone.

I smile at her and run my hands through my half damp hair.

“Not in this lifetime,” I tell her. “We’ll see which body your soul lands in during the next.”

Mi giggles again, then turns back around, settling herself against my chest. I wrap my arms around
her, enjoying the feel of her weight pushing me deeper into the water.

“Your turn,” I prompt, placing my chin on top of her head. “Was Krum a good kisser?”

I try to sound sarcastic, but I’m not sure I pull it off. It’s more of a dry angry sound.

“You really want to talk about this?” she asks, and I shrug my shoulders.

It helps that I don’t have to see her face.

“Fair’s fair,” I tell her. “You know all of mine.”

She makes a noise deep in her throat.

“Ron would be barking if I tried to tell him about kissing Krum,” she says succinctly. There’s no
denying that.

“Yes well, Ron has the emotional range of a teaspoon, remember? It doesn’t bother me,” I assure
her. “Honestly. I can’t exactly kill every guy you’ve ever kissed before, simply because they kissed
you in another timeline.”

Not that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. I feel her roll her eyes.

“Krum was an excellent kisser,” she says in that matter of fact tone she has. “Though, he should be,
as he’s had a bit of practice. You don’t get to be an international quidditch player without kissing
your fair share of girls.”

I’m glad she can’t see me smile.

On it went.

Worst kisses and best kisses.

First crushes and last.

Everything we never talked about because it brought us too close to the line. That invisible one that
we couldn’t acknowledge, but was there nonetheless, that kept us separated between best friends
and something more.

“I’ve never been to the cinema with a boy.”

The water would have long since chilled if it weren’t being kept heated by magic. Hermione
showed me how to wash her hair, and I’m running my fingers through the silky strands as the
detangling potion that Winky gave her drips from the ends of her hair.

“Neither have I,” I say, and Hermione laughs at me.

“You know what I meant!” she jokes, splashing water over her shoulder so it splatters in my face.
“We can go this summer then. I’m sure the Weasley’s would love it.”

“Just what I wanted,” she says dryly. “A group date with Ron.”

I laugh at that.

“You know as well as I do, there’s no way we’re getting out of this house alone. We’d have to stun
and bound the lot of them.”

Hermione sighs, then leans back against my chest.

“I actually enjoyed primary school. I’m still not all that fused about maths, but I really like reading,
and history if you can believe it.”

“You’re joking,” she says with a smile in her voice. “History. Really?”

“Really,” I confirm. “British History is a lot more interesting than the Goblin Wars. Especially
when it’s not taught by a ghost. Dudley and I were in the same grade, but the years where I didn’t
share a class with him were great. I had this one teacher, Mrs. Watson, who used to sneak me
sweets and sandwiches. Even when I moved up to the next grade, she always made sure I had
lunch at least once or twice a week.”

We’ve changed our positions in the tub so that my back is to her front. She took my glasses off and
is running her fingers through my hair as suds drip into my eye. Her anger at my childhood makes
my blood tingle.

“I hate them, Harry. I really, really do.”

She places her chin on my shoulder, and I lean my head sideways, so my cheek is against hers.

“It doesn’t matter, Mi. Not anymore. I never have to go back there again. Dudley wasn’t so bad
after I saved his life.”

She makes a tisking sound, and her arms wrap around my chest.

“If only we’d known about the bonds sooner. If we did, we could have gotten you out last time.
You could have come and lived with my parents and me as early as First-year maybe...” I turn my
body slightly to bring her into my view and place my hand over hers.

“You’re with me now,” I assure her. “That’s all that matters.”

Her legs are wrapped around my hips, her arms draped across my shoulders. My head is against her
chest and my feet are sticking out the other side of the tub. I have no idea how we ended up like
this, but it’s actually not all that uncomfortable. Her fingers keep drawing tiny patterns into my
skin, and I’m trying to guess what it is.

“Did we buy a book on sexual fetishes?”

She jerks with surprise behind me.

“I don’t know. Maybe? Why? Or do I not want to know?” Her voice gets all squishy, like she’s just
seen something disgusting. “I’ve created a monster, I’m sure.”

That’s true.

She has no one to blame but herself.

“I think I’m obsessed with seeing you covered in cum,” I say nonchalantly.

Mi bursts into surprised laughter, and with a shove on my shoulders, dunks me into the water. I
splutter in amusement and outrage as water goes up my nose.

"Are you still having trouble sleeping?"

She's running her fingers across my forehead and down the slope of my nose over and over until
my lids are thick and heavy.

I huff a scoff and bring her palm to my lips.

"You would know best. You tell me? Am I?"

"Yes, well, I was trying to be diplomatic," she says primly. "Would you do me a favour?"

If I weren't so relaxed her tone of voice would worry me.

"Anything, luv. You know that."

"Close your eyes."

"Already there."

"Now pick a colour. Any colour in the world. Do you have it?"

Whiskey bro—

"Not something associated with me," she whispers before I even finish the thought.

Fine then. Green.

"Do you have it?

"Mmmhmmm," I hum my agreement.

"Picture that colour everywhere. It consumes everything. As far as the eye can see. Lighter at the
outside, and darker in the middle, but the color is an abyss, consuming all in its path."

It's hard to do. Harder than you would think. It takes me several minutes until all I'm concentrating
on is the colour green spread out through my mind.

Moss green and forest green and green the colour of a leaf.

I nod, afraid to open my eyes.

"In the centre of your colour is a countdown. Ten, nine, eight, seven…count it slow. Feel the way
the numbers tally down. Feel how your breath evens out as you picture the numbers?"

"Mmmmhmmm."

I can see it in my mind. Big flat-edged numbers, like the countdown on new years eve.

"The next time you have a bad dream, or something makes you mad or you feel out of control, take
a breath, pick a colour, and count."

I open my eyes again when I get to zero and am taken aback by all the colours in the room.

"Better?"

Her fingers never stopped their gentle path down my nose.

"Better," I confirm.

"What book did you pull that out of?" I joke.

"The insomnia section of What to Expect When You're Expecting."

For the second time tonight, I get water up my nose.

“My parents have an old record player with hundreds of albums. They’d play it after dinner, and
my dad would pull my mom into his arms and sway around the living room.”

Mi is sitting on my lap facing me.

I’m cross-legged under her bum, and her ankles are latched behind my back. My toes are so pruney
I’m sure they’re about to fall off.

It’s such a foreign concept to me, parents being in love and happy.

While the Dursley’s spoiled Dudley rotten, they didn’t exactly show each other a lot of attention.

“That sounds wonderful,” I tell her. “The only time I got to listen to music was when we were in
the car, and it was always the stuff that Dudley wanted to hear.”

“The Beatles are my favourite,” she says, twirling her fingers in my hair at the base of my skull.

“The Beatles are everybody’s favourite,” I smile. “Even I know who they are.”

“Mum and Dad told me I can have the player while they’re away. We can go into Muggle London
and pick out a few new records if you want. Something from this decade perhaps.”

I run my thumbs along the outside of her ribs, and she shudders under my touch.

“Whatever you want.”

Anything she wants. It’s the least I can do for her putting up with me.

“I think I want to get my eyes fixed. Charming my glasses to my face before every battle doesn’t
seem very practical. ‘Excuse me, Lord Voldemort, kind sir. Would you mind waiting until I stick
my glasses to my nose?’”
Hermione chuckles, rolling her eyes at me.

“Can they do that magically?”

My chin drops to my chest, and I stare at her with an astonished expression.

“How am I supposed to know? You’re the one who’s supposed to know everything.”

Hermione blushes and dips her chin to the side.

“I’m sure you can, yes.”

She straightens said glasses on my face and runs her hand through my messy hair.

“But I like your glasses, as handsome as you are without them. If we get your eyes fixed, I think
you should keep wearing them anyway. We could switch your lenses with regular glass, and charm
them like Moody’s magical eye. Or like Iron Man’s helmet if you’ve ever read any of the Marvel
comic books. They can read you diagnostic information.”

That sounds just a little bit terrifying.

“I can’t say that I have. Do you read comics?”

She bites her bottom lip and nods, her cheeks flushing hotter than the water around us. But of
course, Hermione reads comic books. Why doesn’t that surprise me?

“I also found a spell in one of those books we got from Knockturn about permanent glamour spells.
I thought we could get you several pairs of glasses, and tie an identity to each pair.”

That’s...

“That’s ingenious, Mi. Brilliant!”

“Your prick is poking me.”

She doesn’t seem to mind it much if the gentle rocking of her hips is any indication. I dig my hands
into her hair, the top layer drying and the ends still trailing in the water.

Her back arches as I tighten my fist into the strands at the base of her neck, and her breasts bob
beautifully in the water.

“You’re naked, on my lap, and I have the hormones of a fifteen-year-old boy. I think you’re going
to have to get used to it. It’s going to be like that for the next fifty years or so.”

Keeping my eyes on her, I lean forward and trail my lips over her collarbone.

She adjusts herself so my cock moves from underneath her bum and springs free between us.

It doesn’t help.

If anything, it makes it worse.

I’m centred between her legs, and I can feel her lower body caressing my dick with every move of
her hips.

“Is that all?” she coos, and if I wasn’t hard before, I’d certainly be hard at the way her voice
slithers over my skin. “Just fifty years? I thought you said we lived until two hundred. Is this your
way of telling me our sex life will be short?”

“Hardly.”

Mi’s eyes are closed, and her head is bowed backwards, exposing a glorious line of her throat.

“I don’t remember how old we were, to be honest. I don’t care either. Pluck the memory from my
mind if you really want to know. I already know too much about our future as far as I’m
concerned. The future can be changed. We’re proof of that. I’m simply hoping that in fifty years or
so, I’ll have better control over my hard-ons,” I say playfully, kissing up and down her neck.

“Oh, I hope you don’t,” Hermione says with a sigh. She rubs herself against me, the water lapping
gently in the tub. It’s not exactly a lubricant, but it’s not unpleasant either. “I rather like the thought
of you getting hard when I walk into a room well into your sixties.”

Her nails scrape down my back, and something wonderful jolts in my stomach.

“You’re in luck then,” I assure her, “because I can’t imagine a time that doesn’t happen.”

“On your belly. On the bed.”

Hermione’s eyes go wide at my words. Water is still dripping from her hair. Her nipples are
peaked from the cool air of the bedroom. I dip my head, and take her breast into my mouth,
walking her backwards towards the bed with my hands on her hips.

With a swish of my hand, the fire roars to life in the hearth. It fills the space with a warm golden
glow.

There’s food sitting under a stasis charm on the table. A mug of wine and two goblets already
filled. The sheets have been changed, the pillows fluffed, and the comforter pulled down.

I need to give the elves a raise.

I suck at the skin around her nipple, nipping it with my teeth until I hear her hiss. Then I move to
another spot, to leave my mark again.

“Wh-what?” she asks, her voice broken and faltering.

“Did I stutter? Is there a Muffliato filling your ears? I want you on your hands and knees. On the
bed. Now.”

Her eyes go dark and stormy. Her magic flares around us, and it envelops me in a cocoon. I swear it
has a yellow tint. I feel it as if it were a physical being.

“Unless you’re finally tired,” I say, and she quickly shakes her head no.

I don’t have any idea what time it is.

“You sleep better when you’re worn out,” she says in an offhand sort of way. “Which means I
sleep better too. Really, it’s only logical for us to go again.”

I smile against her chest; glad she can’t see my face.

“Makes perfect sense,” I agree.

If that’s what she wants to tell herself.

We hit the bed with the thump, and Mi places her hands behind her on the mattress. I latch onto her
hips and give her a lift, practically tossing her into the middle of the bed. Nerves are running
through her; her heart is beating out of her chest.

In stark contrast, this is the most in control I’ve felt all night. Maybe even in weeks. Months.

Hermione...she’s not moving fast enough. I grab her by the hips and flip her around. Her squeal of
surprise lights me up from the inside out. I crawl my way on top of her and settle my legs outside
her thighs. I run my hands up her sides and she shivers under my touch.

“I don’t think I can be gentle,” I whisper against the back of her ear. A full-bodied spasm rips
through her limbs.

Oh, I like that. I dart my tongue out and lick her there, and she bucks against the bedspread.

“I don’t remember asking.”

Her voice is tight and needy. It’s like a kick in the gut. It’s all the permission I need.

I pull off her enough to have space to move. I grab her by the hips and yank her arse in the air. I
can smell the sweet tang of her pussy, and I use my knee to push her legs further apart, to get a
better view.

I get it now. I really do.

I never understood butt stuff, even though some of the boys talked about it like it was the holy
grail.

But seeing Hermione on her knees with her forehead hidden in the mattress; her cheeks spread, and
her arsehole puckered tight. Yeah. I get it.

“Are you just going to stare at me?”

It’s muffled in the pillow, but it echoes in my head. Mi starts to squirm, moving forward and
backward and side to side, trying to disrupt my view.

“Yes,” I answer heatedly, and take her ample arse in my hands and spread her cheeks wider. She
groans into the pillow, then hikes it higher under her chest. It changes the angle of her hips,
making her back flat. Without a word I reach underneath her and yank the pillow out then toss it to
the floor.

She folds in on herself, back arched, elbows and forehead on the mattress.

Mi hisses a word I’ve never heard from her mouth before.

I’m so hard it hurts.

“Let’s see how you like it when I put you on all fours and stare at your arsehole,” she growls
through clenched teeth. “Fair’s fair,” I reply distractedly.

I place my hand on the small of her back, holding her there firmly, then let my fingers trail down
her crack.

Hermione jerks and shudders like I thought she would, but my hand holds her in place. I rub my
thumb over her hole, and sparks burst from her fingertips.

Holy shit.

I think her quim has gotten tighter as the night has gone on.

Logic would dictate the opposite would happen, but no. She’s swollen as tight as a drum. Her
muscles clench around me when I slip two fingers into her core.

“Fuck,” she says on a sigh. Tension is already dancing up and down her middle. The muscles in
her back flex and twitch under my palm. Her fire burns inside me, desperate in a way that’s new
and mine.

Mi shoves herself back on my hand.

“Stop teasing me!” she wines.

I thought I was teasing me.

I suck my fingers clean before grasping her hips, and grasp my cock in my hand. Pushing inside her
is like pushing into a too-small embrace. The sharp bite of pain courses in the bond between us.

I freeze with my hands on her hips.

“Are you okay?”

She slips a little down on the bed, changing the way I enter her.

“Mm-hmm,” she hums.

Her hands fist into the sheets by her head. She turns her face until she’s resting on her cheek. She
pushes back against me, taking my prick the rest of the way inside her quim. The pain is still there,
but it’s mixed and blended until it tastes like bliss against my tongue.

“I thought you weren’t going to be gentle?”

My dick throbs at her words.

I pull back out until only the tip remains, then slam back inside.

Her groan is guttural. She convulses as I watch. I can count all the vertebrae in her spine like this.
See the outline of her ribs.

“Again.”

Has there ever been a sound so beautiful, like that of Hermione asking me to fuck her?

I drive into her pussy until my hips are flush with her arse, and then I push a little bit more. Every
blossom of pain explodes into a fission of pleasure.

Her fire is going to consume me.

The sight of my prick disappearing inside her quim is going to push me over the edge before we
even get started. It’s the best sort of magic trick there is. Every time I pull out my cock it is wetter
than it was before. Thicker. Harder. Then with a shove and a grunt, my dick is lost inside her again.
“Mine,” I growl with every snap of my hips.

“Yours,” she agrees, voice tight and halting.

Mine. Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe. Mine to make come in as many ways as I can imagine.
Mine.

Hermione’s hair is drying in a frizzy mess, and the way it spreads across her shoulders and the
sheets just makes me fuck her harder.

I’m not going to last. All my talk about getting better, and I can’t keep it up for more than a few
minutes before I need to come all over her arse. But I’ll be damned if I get off and she doesn’t. Not
when the feel of her is so bloody delicious.

I slip my hand around the front of her, and find the slick bud I’ve tried so hard to memorize. If the
burst of energy through our connection wasn’t enough to tell me I hit the right stop, her almost
violent tremble would be enough.

I said that I wouldn’t be gentle, but she’s meeting me thrust for thrust, riding me with an almost
single-minded determination to get herself off.

It’s building from her toes. Her magic is pulling at me. Something primal and merciless and purely
instinctual. I release my hold on my power, and let it join hers. Her legs tremble. Her stomach
clenches.

When she comes her magic blasts in all directions, and all I can do is hold on for the ride. I bend
myself around her shoulders, latch my arms around her waist, and feel her heart thunder through
her rib cage, as I let my orgasm take me too.

The fire explodes in a shower of ashes as our combined magics crest and fall. Hermione collapses
underneath me, and this time I manage to move to the side, so I don’t suffocate her with our
weight.

The only sounds are the harshness of our breathing, until someone knocks at the door. “Is
everything okay in there?” Sirius asks, sounding highly amused.

It takes two tries for me to find my voice.

“Dueling,” I bark out harshly. “Go away.”

“We’re fine,” Mi shouts, her voice much steadier than mine.

“I just bet you are,” Sirius laughs, before the silence takes us again.

I do a quick Tempus charm, and see it’s almost three a.m. Sirius and Lupin are on the complete
opposite side of the house.

This means our burst of power probably woke them up.

Damn.

“Add that to your paper, Mi,” I say once my breathing is back under control. “I’m sure that’s
something the academics would want to know.” I try to sit up, but get a look at her legs half
sprawled and the mess we still haven’t cleaned up.

My dick gives a feeble lurch to get back in the game.

Not happening, dude.

I wave my hand over her rump and sadly Hermione is clean as new.

Mi crawls until her head hits the pillows before collapsing onto her side.

“Remind me tomorrow to add wards to the bedroom. Everything we used for the tent, but
permanent.”

She’s asleep before I drag myself beside her.

With a tug of magic, which feels very wobbly to tell you the truth, I pull the blankets up to our
shoulders.

Then I’m asleep too.

 Chapter 29
Chapter Notes

This is chapter TWO of the day. IF you haven't read the first yet, go back a chapter
and do so :) :) <3
Harry
We all assemble in the attic, looking nothing like it did the last time I was up here.

Magic never ceases to amaze me.

Well, magic and money in this case. Money played a big part in the current renovation.

Hermione was grumbling under her breath about it when she signed the checks yesterday.

Something about me getting the (in my opinion) worthless title of Lord Potter-Black, and her
getting all of the responsibilities that came with it.

Like I could pry any of the paperwork involved out of her fingers if I tried.

Mi is of the mind that if she wants something done right, she has to do it herself. I can’t say I
disagree with her assessment of the situation either. There were magical construction workers here
all day Sunday, labouring under the guiding eyes of Moony, Molly, and Mi.

Now the attic looks like a high-priced gym.

All the students in the house, plus Padfoot, Tonks and Moony, are currently standing on the padded
mats in various exercise clothes, waiting for instruction.

Neville got here at seven this morning, Tonks at his side. He brought an overnight bag and a note
from his grandmother, asking if he could stay a few days. Dobby already has him set up with Ron.

Nate is at the front of the throng, with the other adults lounging against the far wall behind him.

“I don’t understand why the rest of us are here for this,” Ron grouches with his arms crossed in
front of his chest. “Not all of us can do magic whenever we please.”

I try and fail, not to feel guilty that not only did I get the girl, but as a side effect, I can now do
magic whenever I please.

"Sorry, Mate," I say sheepishly. Ron just scowls at me.

Nate looks over his shoulder at Remus, who comes to stand next to his friend. Remus places a hand
on Nate's shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

He faces us with his wand in his hand.

“The band for the reasonable restriction of magic has been lifted for this house, and this house
alone.”

Exclamations of excitement and surprise slip from Ron and Ginny’s mouths, but Neville’s lack of
response tells me he already knew that fact. Which is probably why he’s rooming with us now.

Remus continues talking.

“Before you get too excited, at the first sign of pranks or recklessness, we’ll owl the minister and
have the trace put back on the townhouse.”

“You hear that icky Ronnikins?” Fred teases. “One prank and you’ll be writing lines while the rest
of us conquer the wizarding world,” George takes over.
Nate rolls his eyes, and Sirius and Remus share knowing chuckles.

Nate takes a step closer, walking the line between the students and where the adults stand.

"Do you know why they called me instead of using one of your own to train you? Because
Wizarding Britain is about a hundred years behind the current decade and in some ways more than
a thousand. America hasn't had to deal with a terrorist like You-Know-Who in over a century. Even
when Grindelwald was active, he went back to Britain as soon as he was discovered. Why?
Because he knew that America would kick his ass. In America, we fight hard, we fight dirty, and
we fight to win."

Sirius is smirking, and Tonks looks eager to get to the good stuff, bouncing up and down on her
toes.

"I have one job and one job only. To keep you alive until the final battle. Preferably beyond that. If
you do what I say, when I say it, and work harder for me than at anything you've ever done in your
life, maybe you'll survive this war."

It's so quiet you could hear a pin drop as Nate's words resonate around the room.

I never thought I'd survive past the final battle.

But I look at the witch next to me and feel her burning like an electric fire in the back of my mind,
and I know I have to survive.

If for no other reason than for her.

I look down when I feel her fingers trail across the back of my hand.

I won’t let you die again, flitters through my thoughts.

Which of us is supposed to be protecting the other?

“First things first,” Nate says, pointing at me.

I pull my attention back to where it’s supposed to be and off my wife at my side. “The sword, take
it off.”

I double-take at the demand and the no-nonsense tone he takes.

“That’s the sword of Gryffindor, yes?” he asks.

“Yes,” I agree and nod my head, pulling the blade from across my back. Everyone except
Hermione takes a step back, Nate included.

I love the ringing sound it makes.

“Do you know what an amplifier is?” Nate questions, and Hermione’s eyes widen as recognition
floods her bloodstream.

“Of course,” she breathes. “I should have realized.”

She pivots to face me directly, and then walks a tight circle around my frozen form.

“Of course,” she says again.

“Anyone wanna fill the rest of us in?” Fred asks.

“I second that motion,” I pipe up.

Hermione’s hand shoots into the air, and Nate gestures for her to answer.

“An amplifier is a device used to strengthen the power of a signal. In muggle music, they use
amplifiers to make the sound louder. We do the same with magic. Our wands are nothing but an
amplifier.”

Nate pulls a wand out from the holster strapped across his chest. A holster that looks like a
duplicate of mine. A buckled strap across his pecs and leather straps around his shoulders. Only he
has two wands strapped to him, with a third on his hip.

It’s made from a lighter coloured wood than I’ve seen used in Britain, and it’s thinner than its
cousins made by Ollivander as well.

“Each and every one of you can do magic without your wands. You have been since you were
born. Magic is in everything. The air you breathe, the plants in the ground. Every life form that
walks this earth carries some spark of magic. Including squibs and no-majs. Or Muggles, as you
call them. Given a strong enough amplifier, even the most ordinary of no-maj could light up a
room with a lumos.”

“We should try that on your cousin, Harry,” George quips, and I huff out a laugh. Nate continues
with his lecture with a smirk.

“All your wand does is help you focus your magic. Or amplify it. Wands are not the only items
known to have that ability. There have been other objects through history known to act as an
amplifier. That sword is one of them. Even across the pond, it’s legends are known.”

Nate jerks his chin to the side, and Sirius walks up to him, holding a scabbard blade.

A sword with a hilt that looks suspiciously like the one in my hand.

He takes it in his grip.

“I’ll teach you to wield that blade like a master, but until then, you can’t wear it. It doesn’t just
amplify your power. Which it has, by the way. Even with it strapped across your back, you’re
stronger than you should be. You practically burst with it when the sword is in your hand.”

Almost every person in the room snorts, coughs, or laughs, and Fred makes an obscene comment
about how some items are bigger than they appear. I can feel Hermione blush without having to
look at her.

“Is there something I’m missing?” Nate asks shrewdly with an arched brow.

“It’s not the sword,” Sirius says with a heavy layer of paternal pride.

Nate pivots on his heel to face my Godfather.

“What?” he asks.

“Harry’s power,” Sirius says, tilting his chin at me. “It’s not the sword. It’s all him.”

“The sword might be part of it,” Remus says from next to Sirius, conceding Nate's point “But
Harry is probably the strongest Wizard you’ve ever met. You saw that he’s already using wandless
and non-verbal magic, and he doesn’t turn fifteen for another two weeks.”

Nate pivots again to face me with his arms across his chest, still gripping the duplicate sword. I
stand up as straight as I can under his penetrating glare.

“Huh,” he says, then shakes his head.

“Be that as it may, I don’t want you to kill me by accident because you don’t know what you’re
doing, and your dander gets up during a spar. I understand from Moony you keep the sword on you
for a reason, but until I say so, keep it hidden. Wear the duplicate on your back. Let the legend of
‘The Chosen One with the Sword of Gryffindor’ spread to the deepest corners of the earth if that’s
what you want. But until you can manage the flow of power coursing through your body, I don’t
want to get nicked with a blade covered in basilisk venom.”

He has a good point.

Hermione is getting a lot better at directing her thoughts at me—and me, not just catching pieces of
it by chance. I look at her, and she gives a tiny shrug.

We’ll keep the real sword in my bag. Or your pouch. Wear the fake for now.

Nate pulls the duplicate sword from its scabbard and does a few fancy moves with it before
popping it around in his grip and handing it to me hilt first. I hand the real sword to Hermione, who
takes it with both of her hands and tilts its tip first to the ground. I slide the fake sword into the
scabbard across my back while Hermione scabbards the real weapon and walks to the side where
her bag lies.

All eyes are upon her as the entire sword disappears into the depths of her purse.

“You’re going to have to teach me that trick,” Tonks laughs.

Hermione’s cheeks are pink as she comes back to my side.

"Next item of business. Wands. Harry has two, strapped to his chest. How many of you have more
than one wand?”

Only Hermione, Neville and I answer in the affirmitive. Neville does it with a shaking hand, unsure
if it’s the correct answer.

Nate looks to the adults, who all shake their heads no. Our newfound teacher rolls his eyes and
scoffs in disgust.

“You all need a spare. Preferably two or three,” he insists. “You Brit's have a funny relationship
with your wands. You all seem to marry your first. One and done. Almost every American witch or
wizard has a backup. American Aurors have two or three. It’s not an exclusive relationship,
people.”

Nate laughs at a joke only he understands. “Think of your wand like a lover. You have your
favorite, sure, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have others waiting in the wings if the need arises.”

Every boy in the room beside me smirks.

I can’t handle the girl I’ve got.

I don’t need another. Hermione lets out an offended noise and gives me a dirty look. As if I had
anything to do with it.

Tonks mumbles, something I don’t catch, but sounds suspiciously like that’s why you have two
hands, and I don’t want to think about if she’s referring to wand work or using her hands for other
endeavours.

Ginny lets out a noise in the back of her throat, and when I peek at her, she’s got a contemplative
look on her face.

“The truth of the matter is most magical communities outside of Great Britain practice magic with
more than one wand. Or at least their law enforcement does. You don't ride into battle with only
one gun on your hip. By the time we meet tomorrow, I expect every one of you to have an
additional wand.”

He looks at the three battle-hardened duelers behind him.

“ALL of you,” he says in a heavy voice, pointing at the adults.

Hermione raises her hand, and Nate tilts his chin in her direction.

“Speaking of guns,” she starts in that prim and proper tone of hers, and every set of eyes in the
room flick to her. “Has anyone tried to shoot Voldemort with one?”

Silence sits heavy in the air, and Hermione fidgets nervously.

“My father was in the military, and taught me how to shoot,” she says defensively. “It’s something
I’ve been wondering about lately.”

Nate clears his throat.

“It’s a good question,” he says, and her shoulders droop just a bit. “I doubt anyone has thought of
attempting to shoot him. Fighting with a no-maj weapon isn’t something that would occur to many
Wizards. They’d think it beneath them, and that’s going to be the same across the board I’m afraid,
no matter what country you're standing in. That being said, have you ever heard the phrase
`bringing a knife to a gunfight ?’”

The muggle-borns in the room all nod, while the wizard-borns look at each other with confusion
on their faces.

Nate gives a full-body nod as if the breakdown of understanding lies precisely where he expected it
to be.

He turns his attention back to Hermione, answering her original question.

“Bringing a gun to a magical duel would be about the same. I’m not saying it hasn’t been done.
I’m on an international task force which combines both magical and no-maj military personnel.
I’ve been on the shooting range, and am licensed on a bevy of different no-maj weapons. I’ve seen
my fair share of gunfire. But in a battle, you’ll only get a handful of shots off before the witch or
wizard you’re fighting stops the weapon with a spell. If on the off chance your opponent doesn’t
stop your firing, you won’t make it through the first clip before the weapon misfires and stops
working simply from all the magic in the air.”

She breathes only takes one shot to kill him , but I’m not sure I was supposed to hear it that time.

"On top of that," Nate adds, "If you disarm a person carrying a gun and their finger is on the
trigger, the motion of jerking the weapon from them is liable to get you shot."

Hermione raises her hand again, and Ron and the Twins start to snigger until Mi shoots them a
scathing look.

“You don’t need to raise your hand,” Nate laughs, and Hermione looks taken aback at the casual
way he wants to run what she obviously sees as a classroom.

“Will Harry be able to use the sword for magic?” she asks. “I mean like casting spells with it?”

I startle at that, not having yet jumped to that conclusion despite what they’d said earlier about the
sword amplifying my powers.

“Good question,” he says. “And the answer is I have no idea.” Hermione’s shoulders fall.

He takes a deep breath and looks at me.

“Obviously, you can’t do wand work with it. But the stronger a wizard becomes, and the more
knowledgeable their skillset, the less they have to rely on their wands to perform spells. Your
Godfathers were right. You aren’t anywhere near the sword right now, yet you’re strong enough to
power a small building. What you need to do is learn how to harness the power coursing through
you. If even half the stories about you are true...”

He huffs out a breath and shakes his head.

“I have no idea what you’re capable of. I dare say we’ll find out.”

That’s not ominous at all.

His eyes scan the rest of the room, measuring and weighing as he goes. He lifts his voice just a tad
so it carries over all our heads.

“We have seven weeks until you return to Hogwarts, and I plan on working you like dogs every
day until then. Pair off and spread out. Let’s get started.”

The twins move off to the side together, and much to my surprise, Ron and Neville split off
without any hesitation. Tonks joins Ginny and pulls her off to the other edge of the mats. Hermione
and I square off away from the middle of the room.

“Absolutely not,” Nate says, shaking his head and coming to stand beside us. “You two can’t work
together.”

“Excuse me?” I say, confusion and anger tickling at the back of my throat.

He turns his body so that it’s facing outward towards the other sets of duelers.

“We work in teams,” he says, lifting his voice again.

“Just like you never leave the bed without your wand, you never enter a potentially dangerous
situation without backup. From this moment on, every situation is potentially dangerous. You
people are the known associates of Harry Potter, sworn enemy to He Who Must Not Be Named. In
order to keep yourselves alive, assume that everyone outside of this room wants to kill you. You do
not leave the house alone. You do not walk the hallways of Hogwarts alone. You don’t even get up
in the middle of the night to take a piss by yourself. Everything you do, you do in pairs.”

I hope Mi is taking notes cause I’m gonna use that line when we start the DA this year.
Sirius snorts in amusement, but Remus’s expression makes him sober quickly. Lead sinks to the
bottom of my stomach.

Isn’t it everything I’m afraid of?

People will be dying because of me.

Nate faces Hermione and me again.

“I won’t have couples teaming up. I get that she’s your girlfriend or whatever, but I can’t risk you
breaking up in a few weeks and then you not being able to work together. Switch partners.”

Another round of sniggers and murmured comments ripples through our gathered group, and Nate
raises his brow in question.

“Tell him,” Sirius says, with laughter on his face. “He can’t break the charm, and if he does,”
Sirius shrugs. “We’ll kill him.”

Nate looks taken aback.

“Honestly,” Hermione scoffs with irritation.

She crosses her arms and stomps her foot, and she’s just so adorable. I can’t keep my smile
contained.

“Stop encouraging him! He already threatened to kill Cormac McLaggen,” she huffs.

“That git has it coming,” Fred says from across the room.

“Not to mention he promised Dumbledore he was going to kill Professor Snape,” Ron jumps in.

“Seriously, Harry?” Remus asks with exasperation.

“I’m missing something,” Nate interjects, bringing the conversation back to order.

I give Hermione a questioning glance, and she nods in response.

“Hermione isn’t my girlfriend,” I tell Nate.

Butterflies take flight in my stomach.

“We’re Bonded-Mates. Married and bound in magic. I don’t think you need to worry about us
breaking up in a few weeks’ time.”

I didn’t realize how much I love saying that until just this moment.

Hermione is my wife.

Nate’s eyes go wide, and his jaw goes slack. His arms drop listlessly to his sides as all his body
weight shifts backwards.

“No shit?” He demands, with wonder in his voice.

Hermione again walks over to her bag and summons the orb from its confines.

“No shit,” she says with a small smile and hands him the wooden ball.
Nate twists the orb in his hands, running his fingers over it reverently.

“That’s—” he looks between Hermione and me, and I pull her into my side and wrap my arm
around her shoulders.

“Damn,” he says quietly, staring at us like he’s seeing things clearly for the first time.

I wonder if that’s the same expression I wore the first time I kissed her?

He hands the orb back to Mi, who floats it into her purse without ever moving from her spot under
my arm.

“Okay,” he says, gaining his equilibrium and putting his teacher's voice back in place.

“That makes a difference, you’re right. I doubt either of you would work very well without the
other at your back. Your concentration would be on your spouse rather than on your enemy.

"We have a Soul-Mated set of Aurors in New York. They are the biggest badasses you’ve ever
met, but they work together exclusively. It’s not that they can’t work with other people. They do it
when they have no other choice. But they work best as a pair. They were with me on a mission
once and they got separated, and it was one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen. They sliced down
everyone in their paths until they were side by side again.”

Sounds about right.

He claps his hands, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“This is going to be fun,” he says, and his exuberance pulls excitement from Mi and me.

I clear my throat.

“So, if I told you that Mi and I actually got our second wands after our binding was sealed, and
they happen to be a mated set with twin cores...?”

I leave the sentence hanging.

His rocking comes to a halt.

“Bonded Mates with twin cores? Has that ever happened before?”

He turns and looks at Remus, but it’s Mi that answers him.

His head whips back to her when she starts to talk.

“I couldn’t find any record of it, no.” I roll my eyes. Of course, she’d look. “But I plan on writing a
paper on it.”

Nate scratches his head with a far-off look in his eye.

“I’ll put out some feelers on my end too. I won’t give out specifics.”

“You can’t,” I cut him off. “Fidelius.”

“Nice,” he says with a smile. “Good thinking. I’ll just tell people I’m researching a paper about
Bonded-Mates and wand cores. See if anyone knows anything on my side of the pond.”
Mi is beaming at him.

“Thank you!” she says, and Nate drops her a wink.

He claps his hands again.

“Okay. Let’s get started! First things first. You guys need muscle! Push-ups. Drop and give me
fifty!”

Sirius gives a smug grin until Nate walks the five feet over to where Padfoot is lounging with
Remus. Nate swipes his leg between my Godfather's feet and knocks him to the ground, then flips
him over and grips the back of his shirt.

Surprised shock amongst the watchers turns into snorted laughter.

“When I said drop, I meant all of you.” Nate looks around the room. “Do it!”

The rest of us drop to the ground without another word.

Nate is the one looking smug when Sirius grumbles loudly under his breath and then haltingly
begins his push-ups.

We forgo the glamours when we head into Diagon Alley today. The entire Weasley crew is with
us, for one. For another, Mi and Molly have finally bullied me into a haircut, and that would be
fairly difficult if I weren’t wearing my own hair.

Actually, it was more the first training session with Nate that convinced me a trim was in order.

I was drenched afterwards, and my hair was sticking to me all over.

I was planning on just buying a pair of electric clippers and having Ron shave my head.

But when Hermione pulled me aside and explained that she needed something to hold onto, I
quickly changed my mind.

To the barber we went.

“Don’t it ever lie flat?” the lady behind me complains as she runs some hair potion through the
strands still on my head. She unties the smock from around my neck, and I brush some of the fly-
away hairs from my chest.

“No,” I tell her glumly.

“I like it!” Mi says as I climb from the barber’s chair. I run my hands over my hair, and the woman
who cut it smacks my hand away.

I’d already gotten used to my hair skimming the top of my collar, and it feels weird that it’s so short
now. I went from hair I could almost put in a tail to hair that’s all but shaved on the sides. The top
is long, though. Plenty left for Mi to dig her fingers into when my head is between her legs.

“Where to next?” I ask Hermione after she finishes paying.

"No idea, " she says.

She pulls her book from under her armpit as we make our way outside.
Sirius and Remus are leaning against the wall and stand to attention when Mi and I leave the shop.

“The others are already at Ollivander’s,” Remus says. “We thought it best to stay out of the way.”

"Good idea."

Not that I don’t trust Mi’s spell work, but from experience, the more you tempt fate, the more
likely someone is to remember you’ve obliviated them if not the memories you stole.

Hermione is walking with her nose in her book and her fingers twisted with mine when she
stumbles over something on the pavement.

“Watch it, Mr Potter!”

My hands are on Mi’s waist and shoulders, trying to right her on her feet, when the voice of Lucius
Malfoy slithers over my skin. My Godfathers immediately come to stand behind us, and I pull my
shoulders back and palm my wand, my eyes flicking around the immediate area.

They’re alone, or so it seems.

Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy, out for a stroll down the Alley.

All the blood has drained from Draco’s face, and he’s looking at me like he’s seen a ghost.

It’s started, then.

Voldemort is in his home, and my first foray into divination is paying dividends.

Or at least it freaked Malfoy out that I knew Riddle would be lounging on his couch all summer.

Otherwise, he’d be dripping scathing remarks. Instead, he’s rather off his game.

“It’s Lord Potter-Black now,” Mi says through clenched teeth. She takes a deep breath. “Hello, Mr
and Mrs Malfoy.”

Narcissa gives us an assessing look, but Lucius sneers at Hermione as if she spit on his shoe.

He turns to his wife.

“The mudblood spoke to me,” he says, ignoring Mi completely. I open my mouth to smart off at
him, but Hermione digs her nails into my palm. I turn my attention to their son instead.

“Having a good summer, Malfoy?” I ask in a mocking tone.

“Bugger off, Potter,” he hisses, but it lacks his usual flare.

“We have places to be,” Remus says, and Lucius turns his gaze to the men behind me.

“Yes, best toddle along while you still can,” he says, then with his cane in one hand, he takes his
wife's elbow with the other and makes a wide berth around us.

I turn to watch them as they leave, and Draco looks over his shoulder, meeting my eye.

His eyes are almost grey, with storm clouds gathering behind them. He nods his chin, then scurries
to catch up with his parents. It’s an expression I’ve never seen on his face before.

It could almost be construed as acknowledgement.

“We better go,” Remus says again.

I shake myself from my thoughts, and we start down the alley again.

The Weasleys are on their way out of Ollivander’s shop as soon as we get to the door.

“Is there anyone still in the shop with him?” I ask Molly.

She glances at me, then cups my face in her hand and pats my cheek.

“No dear. Did you need anything? I thought you already had a spare wand. And don't you look like
just the proper gentlemen now.”

I smile at the matronly witch, on much better terms now that we’ve each said our peace.

Ron snorts beside her.

“We have gotten them, Molly. I just need one thing. We’ll be right back.”

"M-Molly?"

She gives me a curious look, and I almost kick myself at the slip.

“Mrs Weasley, sorry. Blow to the head this morning.”

I pull open the door and let Hermione lead us in.

"Ron. Nev, you're with me."

They follow me into the shop without a second thought.

“Mr Potter!” Ollivander exclaims. “What a pleasant surprise.”

I turn to my wife and hear Remus sigh in resignation behind us.

“One more time, luv, if you don’t mind.”

Hermione looks at me and smiles.

She pulls her wand from her pocket. The new one.

Ollivander’s eyes go wide.

“Wipe him?”

We don’t need it getting out that the side of the light is arming themselves for battle.

“What? I don’t—” he starts to stutter. We ignore him completely.

“Wipe him,” I confirm.

For the second time in a week, Hermione takes the wandmaker's memories.

My wife is a badass.

Then it starts all over again.

"Mr Ollivander," I say with a smile. "We find ourselves in need of a wand!"
 Chapter 30
Chapter Notes

This is chapter THREE for today, in honor of Christmas. If you have not read the
previous two chapters, go read those before this.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry

Nate didn’t blink twice when I told him I wanted to train again today. Maybe Remus or Padfoot
told him about our time training for the Twi-Wizard tournament.

Hours a day on top of our regular schooling. He just jumped from the dinner table and told me he’d
meet me upstairs in fifteen minutes.

I shouldn’t be surprised to find Ron waiting up there for me. Hands shoved into the pockets of his
sweats.

I am surprised.

He gives me a sheepish smile.

“Someone’s gotta keep your temper under control,” he says, and affection for my best friend fills
my chest to burst.

“Besides, I wanna see you learn how to use that sword.”

I have to swallow before I can find my voice.

“Thanks, Mate.”

Due to our extracurricular activities this afternoon, Ron, Neville, me and Hermione all have three
wands strapped to our bodies.

Hermione is deciding whether we go out of the country to get a fourth.

Three spares, he said.

So far, we only have two.

Hermione likes a backup, of her backup, of her backup.

Nate strolls through the doorway with the other inseparable trio hot on his heels.

Remus is smiling in a way I never saw enough of in the other timeline. Sirius is saying something
obscene I shouldn’t be listening to. Tonks is watching them both with adoration.

Something is going on there, and I’m not sure I want to know what it is.
Nate stalks by us, going to the weapons in the corner of the room.

I don’t know if he brought them all with him or if Sirius and Remus have spent the last several
days collecting them.

But there are swords, knives, staffs and everything in between.

“If you’re going to be in this room, you aren’t simply going to watch. You’re a big strapping lad,
and if your older brothers are any indication, you’ll only get bigger. Like an American linebacker.
Here.”

Nate picks up a wooden sword twice the width of the Sword of Gryffindor and tosses it in Ron’s
direction.

Ron makes a startled sound, his eyes going wide as saucers. It’s either catch it or let it hit him on
the head. He reaches out both hands and attempts to grab the hilt. He bungles the delivery, but
manages to get control over the heft of wood before it hits the ground.

Unbidden, the chorus of Weasley is our King floats through my head.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling.

The American Auror throws a wooden stick at me, and I catch it one-handed.

My palm stings, but I smirk when Ron makes a displeased noise and mumbles something about
bloody seekers under his breath.

Nate comes to stand in front of us, popping up and down on his toes and pulling his hair back on
top of his head.

“Group training in the mornings, weapons training after supper?”

When no one answers, I look behind me to where the other three are standing. Everyone is staring
at me.

Oh. Yeah. This is my show.

“Sounds good to me,” I agree.

“We still need time to study.”

We all turn to look at the doorway.

Hermione, whom I left in the library surrounded by books on healing, her newest obsession,
toddles in with a stack of offensive and defensive spell books floating behind her. She conjures a
bookcase to arrange her haul, then settles a dark blue notebook with a pen and highlighter on the
table that holds a pitcher of water and cups before coming back to stand next to me.

“Come off it,” Ron says, looking at her like she’s lost her mind. “There’s still weeks left of
summer hols. We don’t have to worry about school stuff for ages.”

Hermione huffs at Ron, pushing her hair behind her ears.

“I wasn’t referring to our summer work, though it wouldn’t kill you to spend a little extra time
devoted to your schooling Ronald. There’s more to what we’re trying to accomplish than just
memorizing defensive spells.”
She hardens her eyes at him.

“As you well know,” she says in a tight voice, lifting her brow and giving him a significant look.

“Oh,” Ron replies, his shoulders dropping. “Right.”

He’s going to be as much fun during the Horcrux hunt this time round as he was on the last, I can
tell already.

Hermione faces Nate, who has been watching the play-by-play with an amused expression.

“The two a day practices sound fine to me,” she says. “So long as we have ample time for research
as well.”

Remus or Sirius barks a laugh in the background, and I couldn’t tell you which one it was on the
pain of the Cruciatus curse.

“But,” Ron says, facing Mi directly now. “Don’t you two like, share a brain? Why can’t you do all
the studying, and Harry just, like, I don’t know? Pull it from your mind or something.”

All of the awkward pauses mid-conversation that started happening after Mi and I returned from
the future with a drastically different relationship have vanished.

I couldn’t be happier about it.

But now Ron and Hermione are back to sniping at each other all day long, and it’s already getting
on my nerves.

“It doesn’t work like that, Mate,” I tell him.

Mi’s eyes glass over, and an expression that can only mean trouble for me fills her face. Without a
word, she walks over to the table and flips over her notebook, adding something to her notes.

“Seriously?” I ask. “Another experiment?”

I’ve gotten a look at her ever-growing list of bond tests.

Much to my disappointment, most of her plans don’t involve us naked.

She’s dead serious about publishing a paper on our Bonds.

She looks over her shoulder but isn’t really seeing me. Visions of doubling her reading time dance
in her head, and honestly, it’s making me nauseous.

“It would be fascinating!” she insists. “We already know we can share memories. I saw all those
memories at your Aunt and Uncle’s house when you were thinking about the cupboard. Imagine
how much more we could learn if we could each read a book and have the other person garner the
information.”

She puts the cap on the ballpoint and walks back over to us.

“That would mean I’d have to understand half of what you read. Which I don’t. I have no desire to
either. I thought we had a division of power.” I point to her and then to me. “You’re the brains and
I’m the muscle.”

Ron guffaws beside me.

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try it,” she insists, hands on her hips. “And stop playing dumb.
We both know you’re not. If you didn’t let Ronald drag you into debauchery, your grades could
rival mine.”

I close my eyes as my chin drops to my chest.

“Oi!” Ron exclaims, throwing out his arm.

“He drags me into trouble way more than I drag him! Who was it that suggested we follow the
spiders, huh? It sure as hell wasn’t me! I didn’t ask to be shoved down to the bottom of the lake!
They took me because of Harry! And what about the polyjuice potion! That was all you Hermione!
I don’t do anything! I’m just the bloody sidekick!”

His voice drops an octave.

“Always blaming me for shite when it’s never my fault,” he grumbles and glares at us.

I drag my hand through my hair, the other still gripping the hilt of that damn wooden sword.

“I don’t go looking for trouble, you know. It’s not my fault people keep trying to kill me! Besides,
you guys never complain when it’s me saving your arses!”

I shove Ron on the chest.

“Don’t you dare blame everything on me! I didn’t steal your parent’s car by myself.”

“Which is why we should do the reading experiment,” Mi says with exasperation.

She immediately jumps back into the other conversation, ignoring Ron and me.

I almost growl in frustration.

“It’s not like a Vulcan Mind Meld, Mi! We can’t just merge our brains.”

She tightens her lips, her chest bubbling in the effort to encase her giggles. It trips along our bond,
the fire of her light and happy and full.

“What the hell is a Vulcan?” Ron demands, and Hermione’s uncontained giggles are joined with
Tonks’.

I snort through my nose and pat Ron on the back.

“It’s a Muggle thing, Ron. We’ll head down to Visions Electronics and buy a telly. You’d probably
love Star Trek.”

“Still doesn’t give her the right to blame everything on me,” he sulks.

“They call you three the Golden Trio?” Nate butts into the bickering with an amused chuckle.
"You don’t even seem to like each other.”

Interesting how he doesn't mention the host of illegal activities we accused each other of. I didn’t
realize that term was in use yet, but maybe I mentioned it to Sirius.

We turn to him, shoulders in line and wands in our hands. Ron stands to his full height, and Mi
flings her hair over her shoulder, giving him her scariest glare.
I make sure my voice is steady when I talk.

“We can fuck with each other all day long. You don’t want to see what happens when someone else
tries to fuck with one of us.”

“Those that have lived to tell the tale,” Mi adds.

I’m not sure if we’ve ever killed anyone on purpose.

Yet.

He doesn't need to know that.

Nate’s eyes go wide, and he takes a step back.

“Yeah. Okay,” he says, and Hermione’s amusement dances around me, making me want to smile.

Nate’s face twists in consternation as his gaze flicks between the three of us.

“Why don’t you stretch,” he suggests haltingly before walking over to talk to Remus.

Ron and I look at each other, shrug, and then throw our sticks to the side. I shove my wand back
into the holster across my chest.

Ron stuffs his in a pocket.

Send Winky to buy Ron a few holsters, I tell Hermione.

She stares at him for a moment, eyes trailing from his feet to his at-home haircut.

New trainers, too, she says. New everything, I think. It'll make him happy.

Mi bends over and touches her toes, and I freeze on the spot. She’s changed into some of the
clothes Winky bought us for training, and her arse is positively obscene in the skintight black
material that covers her lower body.

Ron, too, freezes mid-stretch.

My gaze flickers from Mi’s heart-shaped arse on display as she twists this way and that to look at
Ron’s face.

His eyes have glazed over, and his mouth is open in a most unattractive way. His head tilts to the
side, and I swear it’s the same dumb-struck expression he wore when he saw her at the Yule Ball.

I don’t know whether to laugh or hit him.

I backhand him in the gut, his “Oi!” pulling Mi’s gaze to us.

“That’s my wife’s arse you were staring at,” I accuse him.

Ron looks at me with horror in his eyes, and his ears tipped pink. He stutters to reply while the
others snigger behind us.

“S-sorry, Mate. But—” he gives Hermione an incredulous glare. “What in the bloody hell are you
wearing, Mione? Have you gone mental?”

“Honestly,” she huffs with pink cheeks.

“They’re yoga pants! Don’t you dare try to justify your ogling on the way I’m dressed Ronald
Weasley. Men have been blaming their bad behaviour on women for centuries. I won’t tolerate it
from you!”

She shoots us both a dirty look, nose in the air and eyes tight, before bending to the side and pulling
her arms over her head.

“Your wife has lost the plot, Mate,” Ron says in a matter-of-fact tone, ignoring the detail that Mi is
within hitting distance.

When she pulls her wand from the holster strapped to her thigh, he takes a large step back and
hides partially behind me.

Personally, I think that thigh holsters are hotter than yoga pants, but that’s just me. Or maybe it’s
the thigh holster combined with the yoga pants.

Nate taps Mi on the shoulder.

“Go with Sirius and Remus. They’ll work with you tonight.”

She gives him a silent nod, then moves over to my Godfather.

I wall off the bond between us, not wanting to get distracted by what’s happening on the other side
of the room. “Grab your swords,” Nate instructs, and Ron and I scurry to pick them back up from
the floor.

Nate points between us.

“Those are two completely different weapons you’re both holding. While both are blades, they’re
handled in a very different way. The Sword of Gryffindor was designed as a ceremonial blade. Not
to say that it can’t do some damage. I think you’ve learned first-hand that it can. But in a traditional
sense, if it were made by muggles and not goblins, it wouldn’t hold up to taking it into battle. Not
unless you're a Musketeer from seventeenth century Europe.”

“But it was made by magic,” I say.

Nate nods with his hands on his hips. I can hear Mi and the others on the opposite side of the room
and try to phase it out.

“It was, yes, which means it can cut through bone like it was slashing through water. Which is
why you’re holding a stick instead of even the duplicate. That one,” he says, gesturing to the sword
in Ron’s hands, “is a broad sword. Traditionally, you would use the sword in one hand jointly with
a shield in the other. I’ll get you each started, then work with you one on one on the forms specific
to your weapon. Practice together if you want, but realize you will each be learning different
things.”

He stops and then shakes his head.

“If you spar against each other with your own weapons, Harry will either kill you with magic or
Ron will break your wrist with the broadsword. You two don’t spar with weapons unless you’re
using the same kind.”

Ron and I glance at each other, accepting it as fact. I’m no wilting flower, but there’s no denying
that he’s bigger than me and probably stronger too.
Always has been, always will be.

Nate closes the distance between us.

“For you, we need to decide what hand will hold what. You’re right-handed, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Under different circumstances, I’d teach you the art of swordplay, then incorporate magic into its
usage after you had a solid foundation. But we don’t have the time for that with you. Do you have
the Sword of Gryffindor with you?”

I shake my head, then throw my hand out to the side and summon it from my room. “Give me a
second.”

Ron rolls his eyes.

“Show off,” he scoffs.

I smirk at him. “Jealous much?”

“Wanker.”

“Git.”

Someone yells “HEY!” from deeper in the house, and I know that the sword just came whizzing by
them.

A few seconds later, it lands in my open hand.

“Okay, what now?”

Nate shakes his head in exasperation, then crosses his arms.

“I want to see if you can use magic with the sword. Despite all the little wandless things you seem
to do automatically, you still need your wand for the bigger spells, even if you can do them
nonverbally. It’ll be easier to teach you to wield the sword in your left hand, than relearning basic
wand magic with your left. Take the sword into your left hand and cast a shield charm.”

I drop the practice blade and switch the scabbard of the real sword in my right hand, pulling it with
my left.

It feels awkward, like I need to shake out my hand. I hold the blade in front of me, and Nate takes
my hand in his, positioning my body until I’m posed how he wants me.

“This is a traditional fighting stance. There are several we’ll go through as you learn.”

He takes a step back.

“Call a shield. Don’t pull your wand. Use the sword.”

I call up the strongest shield I know, feeling the barrier simmer around me.

The sword seems to swell in my grasp, fitting itself into all the nooks and crevasses the rubies
leave in my palm.
Nate lazily casts a charm at me, then a simple hex, before he snaps his wrist, and a jet of blue light
slaps into my shield so hard it rings like a bell in the air.

I take a step back, my stance faltering under the attack.

But I keep the sword raised, and the shield stays strong.

“Nice!” Nate says approvingly, nodding his head and walking in a circle around me.

“Drop it,” he says, and I let the shield fall. He steps into my personal space again, setting my
stance and positioning my wand hand as well.

“Is this the wand with the twin cores?”

I double-take.

We haven’t told anyone outside of those present with my meeting with Ollivander that my phoenix
wand shares a core with Riddles.

I’ve long stopped believing in coincidences.

Even if I don’t think our destinies are pre-written, and I don’t, you can’t convince me it’s not fate
that the two wands I carry link me forever to the man I despise and the woman I love.

It’s still my first instinct to use my phoenix core wand.

“No,” I tell him, shaking my head.

“Good,” he says, surprising me. “I’ll work with the two of you one on one. History is filled with
examples of twin cores being used in battle and the excessive power they can wield when used as a
team. Like with the sword, I don’t want to risk anyone getting hurt until we have our feet
underneath us.”

That makes sense. But “if we’re working in teams, Ron needs to be with me and Hermione.”

Ron has been watching Nate work with me with eager eyes and jerks at that statement.

I drop my stance and face Nate head-on.

“Where I go, he goes,” I say blandly. “Unless he’s dead or incapacitated, experience has taught me
that I can’t get rid of him. Even when I try.”

Ron grins at me, scratching at the back of his neck.

“He should be part of our team. No matter what situation we get into with the Death Eaters, they’re
going to have one goal in mind. That’s to capture me, so Voldemort can kill me himself. Which
means I will always be singled out in battle. The three of us have worked as a team since almost the
day we met. Ron and Hermione can guard each other’s backs, while I’m dealing with...” My voice
trails off.

Ron grimaces. Hermione tries to comfort me through our connection even though I walled it off.

“Hermione and Ron can guard my back, while I battle Riddle. That’s what it’s going to come down
to in the end. It’s what all of this is working towards. Ron needs to train with me and Hermione.”

Nate stares at me. Measuring my resolve.

“Fine,” he says, agreeing with a small smile. “Who am I to break you up? You're right. It’s about
getting you to the final battle. We’ll use a modified flying wedge when training you together.”

I nod at him and resume my position. I have no idea what that means.

Nate’s leaning on the wooden stick that we’re using as practice swords, with a sickly sympathetic
look on his face that I want to smack off.

“You know, kid. You don’t have to do this.”

I do have to do this.

Voldemort has fifty-plus years of experience on me. He’s learned to tap into magic the rest of us
have never even dreamed of.

Never want to dream of either.

At best, I have a couple of years to learn as much as humanly possible before I face him again.

At worst, well, every minute counts. I’ve done all I can to mess up Riddle’s game plan with the
knowledge I brought back from the future.

For the time being, at least, I need to train.

I have no idea how long we’ve been at this, though.

Hours.

Hermione is sitting on the floor, talking in quiet tones with Remus.

“Again,” I huff, and take the stance Nate taught me an hour ago.

The practice sword is in my left hand, my wand in my right, and I’m trying to duck, lunge, twist,
then fire a stunning spell all while keeping my shield impenetrable. My brain is about to explode.

Nate walks around me, and I ignore the way my muscles shake at holding the stance.

Quicker than I can see with the naked eye, he thrusts the wooden sword in his hand at Ron and
smacks him across the back.

Ron jerks and snarls under his breath, but his hands lift into the air, and he resumes the double-
handed overhead stance he’s supposed to be practicing.

His limbs quake with a minuscule tremble.

"If you want us to find you a magical broadsword then you better well earn it!"

Where would you even look for one? 17th-century Scotland, maybe?

Sirius fires when I'm distracted, and I duck under the spell.

I lunge forward with the sword, jabbing just to the side of Sirius’s middle while casting a
befuddlement jinx.

He moves over a step to avoid the blade, thinking it'll land somewhere else, and the sword tip hits
him square in the stomach.
The shield charm pushes him backwards.

I pull the sword into my chest, blade tip up, and twist on my foot like a dancer, then throw out my
wand and try to stun Remus.

There’s already a barrier raised between them and me.

I stumble backwards when Nate hits my shield with a hex, and Sirius catches me against his chest.

The sword drops from my hand.

The spell doesn’t touch me, though.

“We’re done,” Sirius says, and Nate bends to scoop the wood from the floor.

It’s almost more effort than it’s worth to stop leaning into Sirius’s arms.

“Yep,” Nate agrees. “You’re barely going to be able to move tomorrow as it is, and we’re not
skipping training just because you’re sore. You’re going to need to learn your limits, as well as
when to push past them. You don’t need to go to the extreme tonight.”

“Thank fuck,” Ron sighs from beside us.

Ron drops his sword with a clatter and wilts onto the floor, lying flat on his back with his legs
sprawled.

I want to collapse onto the rubber mat and curl into a ball, but instead, I stand up as straight as I’m
able.

“Limits. Got ya,” I repeat, and Sirius scoffs.

“No, he doesn’t,” he says.

He runs his hand over my head in a fatherly fashion, then makes a grunting noise and wipes his
now sweaty palm off on his pants.

“But stubbornness runs in his blood.”

Hermione moves in front of me and taps me on the forehead.

“Lower your occlumency shields,” she demands.

Our connection comes rushing back in a flood, and I sway again on my feet, four sets of hands
shooting out to catch me.

Mi immediately starts to scribble in her binder and dig around in my mind.

“Are you—” I stop and give my head a shake, but it doesn’t clear it of the sensation of being
ransacked. “Are you taking notes from my memories?” I demand.

She doesn’t even flinch.

“I want it while it’s fresh. Your perspective of training as well as mine.”

Bloody Hell. She’s impossible.

She’s as bad as Voldemort.

Mi pokes me in the chest. “I heard that,” she remarks. “Don’t disparage your wife in your thoughts
when she can read your mind.”

The men in the room all laugh.

“Go to bed,” Remus says, then lowers his hand to haul Ron to his feet. Remus somehow always
seems so feeble to me. I know, intellectually, that he’s not. He’s a bleeding werewolf for Merlin’s
sake. He could probably break most of us in half. But his shabby clothes and flyaway hair always
give him the impression of somehow being weaker than he is.

He yanks Ron so hard Ron almost stumbles on his feet.

“Gladly,” Ron says, then limps towards the door. “If anybody wakes me up before noon
tomorrow, I’ll hex your bollocks off.”

“Training starts at nine,” Nate calls after him. Ron gives him the middle finger over his shoulder.

“On that note,” Nate says, “I think I’ll turn in too. Think there’s anything to snack on in the
kitchen?”

Blimey.

He sounds like Ron.

“Tons,” Mi assures him. “Just don’t let the elves catch you. They’ll make you a three-course meal.
It’s been a while since any of them have worked with a family. They’re out of practice, I think.”

I don’t think that’s what’s going on there, but I’ll leave her to her delusions.

I think the elves realize their mistress has a soft spot for them and have decided to use it to their
advantage to take over the household. Hermione is so against telling Winky what to do that Winky
has all but turned the Potter-Black townhouse into her personal dictatorship. All the while, Mi is
still trying to convince Winky to accept a day off.

I give it until the end of the summer until Winky has Hermione convinced that days off would only
do Winky harm.

“I’ll walk down with you,” Remus says, falling into step beside Nate. He stops and turns to Sirius.
“Are you coming upstairs soon?”

“I’ll be there in a few,” Sirius says with a small smile. “I just want to talk to our Godson for a few
minutes.”

Remus ducks his chin then hurries to catch up with Nate at the doorway.

“Give us a minute, Hermione?” Sirius asks her, and she nods at him.

“Of course,” she tells him. “I’ll see you upstairs Harry. Unless you want to go to the library and
study?”

She’s grinning as she asks it, and doesn’t wait for my answer.

She turns on her heel, that spandex-covered arse just barely showing under her too-big grey t-shirt,
and leaves Sirius and me to it.

“What’s up?” I ask, giving up on not letting my exhaustion show.

With every second that passes, my muscles only get sorer.

“You shook the house last night.”

Blood rushes to my face, and I flinch away from my Godfather's knowing expression. “Sorry about
that,” I mumble. “We didn’t know that could happen.”

“Neither did we,” he smirks. “I don’t even want to know what you were doing when it did. If we
felt it across the house, I can’t imagine what your room looked like afterward.”

Covered in scorch marks with a broken window that Dobby fixed this morning, but I think I’ll keep
that to myself.

I run both hands over my head, still getting used to the shorter hairstyle.

“Well,” I tell him blandly. “I’m sure you’re gonna know anyway, cause Mi spent half the
afternoon making notes about it and Remus is helping her research.”

Sirius looks me in the eye.

“And you think she’s talking to Remus about your sex life?” he asks me.

I open my mouth, then slam it shut again.

“No?”

Because I don’t think she would.

But that’s Mi, my wife.

Hermione, the swot, scholar, know it all, might very well talk to Remus about her sex life if she
thought it to be relevant to the topic at hand. And...

“If she does,” I tell him, “I don’t want to know about it.”

Sirius throws his head back and laughs.

“Remus felt it before I did,” he tells me. “The lycanthropy makes him more susceptible to some
kinds of magic. But I smelled it first.”

Smelled?

He smelled it...

He’s not done talking yet, though, and bloody hell, please make it stop.

“The soundproofing wards held up, so that’s good. But I think it’s safe to say the whole Bonded-
Mate thing has added a little oomph to—”

I raise my fingers to my ears.

“lalalalalalalala. I’m not listening to this!”

Sirius bursts into laughter again, pulling my hands off my head.

“Okay, okay. The point stands.”

He pulls a slip of parchment from his pocket, and I unfold the scrap while he continues to talk.
Unplottable, Protega Maxima, Anti-apparition. The list goes on.

“If you haven’t already re-warded the bedroom, I suggest you give these a try too. It’s already
warded for privacy as the master suite, but I think it’s pretty apparent they didn’t have Bonded-
Mates in mind when they set it up. There’s nothing like being woken up at two in the morning with
a cold nose in my ear telling me my Godson is getting laid.”

I shudder at the image, embarrassment flooding my face.

Wait.

“Do you and Remus share a room?” I ask him, the pieces falling into place.

It’s Sirius’s turn to look uncomfortable.

“Not a lot of people know that, Pup. Keep it to yourself, yeah?”

I’m not really functioning on a higher level at the moment, and I can’t seem to grasp what’s right in
front of my face.

“But?” I stumble.

“Is that alright with you?” Sirius asks, a hardness to his voice.

I shake my head and give him a bemused look.

“Yeah,” I assure him. “It’s brilliant! I mean, yeah but...”

“But what?” my Godfather asks, and it clicks that Nate must know because every time he’s
referred to them, it’s been, Uncles and Godfathers.

Together.

“For how long?” I ask, and Sirius gives me a small smile.

“Hogwarts,” he tells me, and I just can’t wrap my mind around it.

“He has a child with Tonks,” I tell him. Maybe I shouldn’t.

I probably shouldn’t.

But I can’t make it make sense.

“Last time, I meant. After you went through the veil. He and Tonks get married. She was pregnant
when I died.”

Sirius’s face lights up with that knowledge. He positively beams.

“Good,” he says quietly. He pulls me in for a hug. “Thank you for telling me. I—" he swallows
harshly. "I'm so very happy for them.”

Sirius lets me go, then cups my face in his hand. He's positively glowing.

“Keep this between us, yeah?”

He's almost to the door before I call them back.

"Hey, Padfoot?"

Embarrassment rushes through me, but—

"Does it always feel like that?"

"Like what, Pup?"

If my father were still alive I could ask him. Or maybe I'd end up talking to Sirius anyway, too
embarrassed to talk to my dad.

My hands clench at my sides, and I'm almost vibrating with the need to know.

"Like I'm coming out of my skin but still can't get close enough?"

His face morphs into an expression I've never seen before. All of his hard edges are gone to be
replaced with faraway softness and a glow behind his eyes.

"Yeah, Pup. If you're doing it right, with the right person then yeah, it should always feel like that.
We may never get close enough but that doesn’t mean we should stop trying."

"Does it ever get any better?"

He sighs and runs his hand over his head.

"Merlin, I hope not."

Without another word, he leaves me alone in the attic.

She’s not in our bedroom.

I reach the end of the hallway, and the feel of her pulls me downwards instead of onto the other
landing heading towards our wing. I see Remus going the opposite direction on the stairwell, and
he stops to chat as we pass.

“He’s waiting for you,” I tell him when he grasps me on the shoulder.

“So is she,” he answers and gives me a knowing smile.

Hermione is in the kitchen, leaning up against the table.

“What are you doing down here?”

She looks over her shoulder, bent partially at the waist, as she scribbles in that notebook that’s
permanently attached to her fingers these days.

“Making notes for Remus. I want to get the potions lab up and running tomorrow. The full moon is
in nine days. If I can talk with Professor Snape at the Order meeting, I can have a batch of
Wolfsbane brewing by Thursday. We’ve got two full moons left until we go back to Hogwarts.
Even if Remus can’t brew it himself, I can do it for him. I’m sure I can think of a way to get it from
Hogwarts to the townhouse during the school year too. Maybe the vanishing cabinet.”

If we get the vanishing cabinet working. And I really don’t like the idea of Snape talking with my
wife. Even for Remus's sake.
“Will he let you brew it for him?” I ask her, knowing his dislike for asking for help.

“I don’t plan on giving him a choice,” she admonishes smartly.

I close the distance between us, all thoughts of my aching muscles and disgustingly sweaty clothes
forgotten. I curve my body around hers, so my front is in line with the bend of her spine. I push her
hair off her neck and over the front of her shoulder.

Her arse is warm in my hands, the slick thinness of the material hardly any barrier at all between
my palms and her flesh.

“Ron was right,” I whisper, pulling her earlobe between my teeth. “These pants are obscene. I’m
going to burn the lot of them in the fire.”

Mi pushes back against me and tilts her head to present me with a clearer line of her throat.

“You’ll do no such thing Harry Potter! They’re by far the most comfortable thing I own.”

Her hand comes up and grasps the back of my head, holding my lips against her neck. The sweat
from her earlier workout has dried on her skin, giving her a sweet and tangy flavour.

“I thought you were tired,” she says through gasps and sighs as I trail my lips up and down the
back of her throat.

“I’m exhausted. Can barely stand upright.”

The shirt she’s wearing is much too big for her, and it’s easy to slip it from her shoulder.
Underneath, she’s wearing a sports bra. A garment I was introduced to this morning with pointed
tones and huffy expressions.

“I can tell,” she says distractedly.

It’s not supposed to be sexy.

The sports bra.

It’s supposed to keep women’s breasts in place while they exercise. But its elastic straps are criss-
crossed over her shoulder blades, and almost her entire back is showing, and I’ve already decided
whether it’s supposed to be sexy or not, I really really like it on her.

Like, alot.

“We should go to sleep then,” Mi encourages. She rubs her arse against my crotch, feeling my
erection through the thin layer of our clothing. “Since you’re so tired.”

Bed.

Kitchen table.

Both seem like good options as far as I can tell.

“I’d have to be dead to be too tired for this, and even then, experience tells me probably not. After
all, I’ve been dead before. I still managed to get you into my arms.”

Hermione snorts through her nose.

"Laaame," she accuses, then it turns into a moan pulled from the depths of her throat when I
wiggle my hand down the front of her depravedly tight trousers.

Merlin, she’s already wet down there. My fingers slip through her folds, finding her center like a
seeker finds the snitch.

“Har-ry,” she sighs and bucks against my hand. That’s all it takes.

I flip her around in my arms and plop her on top of the kitchen table.

Her mouth is intoxicating. One kiss turns to two, then turns to four, until she’s sucking on my
tongue, and wedging my trunks down over my bum.

“Up, up, up,” I chant, pushing my hands up her sides and dragging her shirt as I go. Her arms lift
above her head, and I yank the worthless cloth over her head and drop it onto the floor.

Mi’s legs go around me. Her hands pull on my hair. I lift her into the air with one hand, working
her yoga whatever’s over her hips with the other.

“OI! Dammit Harry! Not on the fucking kitchen table!”

Hermione squeals into my mouth, her hands yanking fistfuls of my hair as she jumps from the
sound of the intrusion.

I haul my trunks back over my arse, and look over my shoulder at my blushing best friend.

Ron has turned his back to us, his hands lifted over his eyes.

Though he’s still just barely in the threshold, I can hear him grumbling and complaining from all
the way across the room. I scoop Mi’s shirt off of the floor, and bite my lip to stop my laughter
when she yanks it down around her head, inside out and backward.

She flings her mass of curls behind her shoulder and grabs her books from the tabletop.

“I assure you Ronald, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

She makes it all the way to the doorway before she turns around and scowls at us.

“I expect you both to be in bed promptly,” she snaps at us. “We have a very busy day tomorrow.”
With that she storms out of the room.

I chuckle under my breath as I feel her moving farther away from us. Her lust is undeniable, her
irritation at being caught in a compromising position just as strong. Ron scratches at his chest as he
watches her go.

“Do you really like being bossed around by her?”

Images of her naked on our bed fly into my mind. Remembering the way she taught me how to
touch her.

“Mate,” I smack him on the back. “You have no idea.”

I make my way over to the refrigerator, and yank on the handle.

“Butterbeer?” I ask, holding one out to him.

 “Please,” he says with enthusiasm. “Think we can get Dobby to make us a couple of sandwiches?
I’m right starved.”

I can feel Hermione's pique in the back of my head.

But on the other hand, I am rather hungry.

“Dobby?”

The little elf appears with a smile.

“Yes, Master?”

“Ron and I need some food if you don’t mind please.”

Dobby snaps his fingers, and a plate of sandwiches and crisps appears.

I drop to a squat in front of him, looking him in the eye and offering him a high five. Instead, he
hugs me so hard I almost fall on my bum.

“Don’t tell Mi,” I beg.

He grins at us and pops away again.

We sit in silence, shoving our faces until Ron finally breaks the quiet.

He looks me in the eyes, his ears going pink.

He takes a swig of his Butterbeer, and I get the feeling it’s for liquid courage.

“Those pants, though, Harry. Blimey.”

I can’t even be mad about it. I tilt my bottle in his direction, and Ron taps his against mine.

“You’re telling me. Thank Merlin for yoga, whatever that may be.”

Chapter End Notes

I understand the Tonks/Remus/Sirius pairing is triggering to some. Nowhere does it

state that Sirius and Tonks are physically involved. Just that Remus is in a relationship
with them both, or will be, or that in canon, Remus has a child with Tonks. I know
some of you don't like it, but sorry....shrug.
 Chapter 31
Chapter Notes

This is my favorite chapter. Don't ask me why, it just is lol. I hope you enjoy it too!

Remember, there were 3 chapters last week. If you haven't read those first, I
recommend you do so <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Hermione
I gather the day's construction workers in the kitchen under the guise of dinner before we see them
out, then modify their memories, so they don't realize they were working for Harry Potter.

It's probably unnecessary, but some of Harry's paranoia has rubbed off on me.

Which, of course, it has.

As Ronald so indelicately said, we basically share a brain.

I'm only scheduling small projects one at a time and using a different company for each job, and
never do they get a look at Harry.

If, for some reason, he needed to walk into a space where the workers were located, I told him to
disillusion first.

Sirius and I ward the entire house every morning. Except for a direct line to the remodelled areas,
the kitchen, and the straightest path to the front door.

Harry's ascension to the head of the joint families is common knowledge, as is the Order of the
Phoenix. We're not hiding in the shadows this time around.

There's no Fidelius on the house.

Nothing outside of the standard wards that you'd find on any magical dwelling. Any wizard could
walk up to our home as easily as you could the Malfoy's palatial estate.

But I'd rather be safe than sorry.

Kreacher leads the befuddled workers from the kitchen as Mad-Eye comes stomping in.

"Granger," Moody growls, magical eye swirling in his head. "Nice potions lab."

"It's Potter-Black now," I tell him automatically, then start when I hear myself speak.

Two weeks ago, I was pouting about losing my last name, and now I'm correcting people to my
married name automatically.

How in Merlin did that happen?

"Right," he says gruffly before he pulls out a chair at the kitchen table. "How many people are we
expecting tonight?"

"Almost everyone," Mrs Weasley answers, dropping a plate of food down in front of him.

Moody pokes at it with the knife he pulls from his hip and gives it a cautious sniff before yanking
off a bite with his teeth.

Dobby appears in the kitchen, and Mrs Weasley hurries over to him, handing the elf a platter of
treats while looking harassed. He disappears without a word, and Kreacher takes his place, where
he grabs two of the kitchen chairs before popping away.

"I'm heading upstairs, Mrs Weasley," I tell the flustered witch. "Do you need help with anything
else before I go?"
With close to fifty people in the house tonight, we're holding the meeting in the attic.

Since the renovation, it's by far the most open space.

The boys have been helping the elves move mats and drag in couches all afternoon, so we'd have
enough seating for everyone. Nate made them move the furniture without magic, though, as our
second training session is being lost tonight in place of the meeting.

The guys all skittered off to separate bathrooms to shower and clean up when the first order
members arrived. I think all three fifth years converged in mine, which is why I'm out here doing
last-minute errands instead of helping Harry shower.

Mrs Weasley turns in a circle, handing off flagons of butterbeer as Dobby reappears.

"Um, what?"

She finally looks my way. "No, dear," she says, walking over and fluffing my hair. "Your place is
upstairs. You are the Lady of the House after all."

Her voice only tightens a smidgen when she says it.

There was another throw down this afternoon between Harry and Mrs Weasley, only this time all of
the Hogwarts aged Weasley crew got in on the action. Unsurprising to anyone, Mrs Weasley is
steadfastly against her children being involved in the Order. I get the feeling the only reason we
didn't see her fury over all the training this summer was because Professor Dumbledore intervened
in private.

But learning to defend yourself is quite different than being involved in planning to fight.

It wasn't until Neville, timid and scared of Molly's wrath, spoke up and said that not only does his
grandmother expect him to participate in tonight's meeting, but she'd also like an owl after we're
done with a report, that the Weasley matriarch gave up the fight.

Upon hearing that, Mrs Weasley stormed out of the kitchen, surrendering her will to dissent.

The only caveat to the decree was Ginny, who will be spending the meeting in her room, probably
envisioning horrible ways to kill and torture us all. I plan on filling her in first thing tomorrow.
Fourteen or forty, her bat-bogey hex is nothing to sneeze at.

"Where is Mr Potter?" Professor McGonagall asks. "I was under the impression he'd be at the
meeting tonight."

I glance around the attic, now bursting with people. Even Percy is here, chatting with his father and
a group of ministry employees. It’s amazing what one or two little changes can bring.

Okay, well not all that little.

"I don't know. I—" Harry is always commenting how he knows where I'm at when we're apart—
always saying he can feel me coming. I refuse to let him have a more substantial mastery over our
connection than I do. I close my eyes and reach out through our bond. It's almost like an aura.

Fascinating.

"On the stairs," I say, knowing I'm right but not exactly knowing how. I open my eyes. "He's on his
way here."
As soon as I finish the words, the guys appear in the doorway.

"That's a nifty trick to have," the Professor says dryly, glancing between us.

"Mm-hmm," I agree without looking at her.

I only have eyes for my boys.

Harry comes in first, followed by Ron and Neville, then the Twins, hot on their heels. Every single
one of them is strapped head to toe with weapons and wands. I don't often get to see them from this
vantage point.

Usually, I'm right there beside them.

The lot of them cut an imposing figure.

Neville is shedding baby fat like it's an Olympic sport. He's almost as tall as Ron and not half bad-
looking to boot.

Actually, he's very pretty, but I'm taken and it's rude to point.

He's dressed the nicest of the group, blue slacks, and a button-down with a silver waistcoat. The
clothing expected of a pure-blood Lord and the Minister's grandson. There's even a second
waistcoat thingy open over the first.

It's terribly attractive.

Even though he's only had it a week, the new wand has made a world of difference in him.

He stands up taller and walks with a firmer step. He isn't the same boy he was before. I'm not at all
convinced his grandmother didn't tell him how close he came to wearing Harry's scar.

Knowing your fate could have switched with another can have a drastic effect on a person.

His wands are the most concealed.

But not really.

He wears one on each wrist, partly hidden by cuffs rolled up his forearms, and a holster that slips
onto his belt at the small of his back.

I'd bet twenty galleons that Winky dressed him. She forced a haircut on him this morning.

Ron has already grown about an inch this summer. Winky went shopping for him too, clothing
appropriate for a Lord's Bannerman. There will be no more hand me downs for the youngest
Weasley son.

Not if Winky has anything to say about it.

Which she does, because she's basically the Dark Queen we all report to.

High quality and respecible, but nothing too flashy as to upstage his lord. He's in a white short
sleeved button down, untucked with fitted jeans and ankle boots.

There's nothing particularly intimidating about Ron tonight.

Unless you count the matching wand holsters strapped to his forearms bare for all to see and the
newly added knife that's latched to his calf. Nate passed it to him the first thing this morning and
told him to wear it until he feels naked without it.

I have no idea where his third wand is hidden.

If they had a sword for him outside of the magically weighted wooden one, he'd be wearing that
too

But take the nonchalance he shows while well-armed, along with his already towering size, and the
combination leaves an impression.

Not to mention the way the shirt strains against his chest.

The girls at Hogwarts are going to have fun next year.

Since I was killed with a knife in the last timeline, well, let's just say I have mixed emotions about
my boys learning to use those blades.

The twins are smirking and glaring in those horribly gaudy suits they prefer, daring anyone to
complain about their inclusion in the Order. Their matching holsters are on their hips.

A wand on either side.

Bill and Charlie cross the threshold last, and it's easy to see why so many men and women alike
find the eldest Weasleys desirable.

Unlike their younger brothers, who more or less dress like muggles, both men look like Wizarding
bad-asses.

They have long hair, earrings, and tattoos peeking out from under their collars. One has their
holster strapped to their leg, the other across their shoulders. Charlie easily has fifty pounds of
muscle on Bill, but Bill doesn't look any less imposing because of it.

And Harry...Merlin.

Harry.

He looks like a cross between James Bond and Indiana Jones.

Black Dragonhide boots. Snug black jeans. Grey, tucked-in dress shirt tight enough to see the
definition of his shoulders. Winky ran that hair potion the lady from the salon gave him over his
head, and though his hair still seems rather wild, now it looks like he did it on purpose.

His father's pouch is strapped to his thigh, and the Sword is between his shoulder blades.

It's the real one this time, not the duplicate.

Now that Nate has pointed it out to me, it's easy to tell the difference.

Harry always shines with magic, but there's an edge to it when he's carrying the Sword. Like he's
wearing an invisible sign that says fuck with me at your own peril.

Two wands cover his chest.

A third, the true spare, sits on his thigh with his father's pouch.
We're going to France next weekend to get another backup with Sirius and the boys.

The conversation doesn't stop when he enters the room, but it certainly takes on a new tempo.

Sirius might be a Gryffindor, but he's still a pure-blood at heart. Harry, well, there's more than one
reason why the sorting hat wanted to put him into Slytherin. He can scheme with the best of them
when he puts his mind to it.

Sirius told Harry that if he wanted to be a part of the conversation and not simply be the topic at
hand, he needs to look like he deserves to be here.

He isn't their leader yet. Time to flex but not to overpower.

That has never been one of Harry’s strong suits.

He's an all or nothing kind of guy. It's hard for him to show restraint on the best of days.

Somehow, the plainness of his clothing packs a harder punch than Sirius's velvet jacket does. He
looks well put together, but like he isn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

Professor McGonagall's voice penetrates through my staring.

"I'll leave you to it, Ms. Granger. You obviously have other things on your mind."

"It's Potter-Black," I say distractedly.

If Professor McGonagall responds, I don't hear her.

Harry walks straight to me and slips his arm around my waist, pulling me close to his body.

He leans his cheek against my face, whispering against my ear.

"Winky got to you too, huh?" he asks, and what?

"I don't understand the question," I say, and I don't.

Because outside of this morning and helping her set up just a little bit ago and her brushing out my
hair, I've managed to escape the elf entirely, and that in and of itself is an accomplishment. She
doesn't think highly of the Lady of the House stomping around in sweats and told me, pointedly,
when she braided my hair before bed.

Winky wants to give me etiquette lessons, which thank you, no.

But she said it's only fair since I'm asking them to better themselves through the classes I've set up
for them. She thinks I should set an example by improving myself and learning to be the Lady of a
great house.

I hate that she makes sense.

And I hate that I'm being manipulated by an elf, and I can't do anything about it because it's
precisely what I've been telling her to do.

To stand up for what she wants and her rights as a magical being.

Only, what she wants is to turn me into Pansy Parkinson.

Harry's eyes graze me up and down, his face filling with an expression I've come to know
intimately as of late.

"You look beautiful, Mi. But we match in case you couldn't tell."

Oh?

We do?

I glance down the line of our bodies, my hair falling in front of my face. Oh.

We do.

Harry pushes my hair behind my ears.

Now that I think about it, Winky did pick out my clothes.

Black chunky boots. Tight light grey trousers that stop at my ankles. I mean tight. A basic red tee
that matches the Gryffindor colour exactly that stops an inch below my belt, and a black cardigan
that's big enough to be Harry's.

She used a potion in my hair, and now my curls are sleek and wavy instead of tight and crazy.

I have a wand on one thigh and two on the other.

"Have I told you how much I love those thigh holsters?" he whispers in my ear.

No, he hasn't.

But now he's imagining me riding him wearing nothing but the holsters, and dammit, Harry, I need
to concentrate tonight, not think about naughty things.

"You've attracted an audience, Pup," Sirius says, coming up and wrapping his arms around our
shoulders.

It looks like a fatherly embrace.

I'm sure it is.

He loves Harry more than anything.

But he's also blocking the view of half of the attic now, and even spending most of his adult life in
Azkaban hasn't lowered his sense of how to work a room.

"Spine straight," he whispers. "Shoulders back."

Harry stands up a smidgen taller, his arms dropping from around my waist. Neville and Ron
immediately mimic him.

I bite my lip to hide my smile.

Last time, Harry led by a combination of authority dropped in his lap and because they all knew he
was The Chosen One.

This time, he's going to have to earn it.

"We saved you the couch in the corner." Sirius lowers his arms, shoving his hands into the pockets
of his coat. "Everyone is almost here. We're just waiting for Dumbledore to get started."

Harry's eyes scan the crowd, and I know immediately when he sees Professor Snape heading our
way. Anger licks up his spine, but he doesn't do anything more than growl.

Professor Snape is missing his usual robes but is still clothed head to toe in black. It feels like
we've stepped into close contact with a dementor.

If dementors had faces.

"I didn't realize it was now our habit to allow children into the Order."

Harry's hands tighten into fists, but Sirius speaks up before Harry can reply.

"I didn't realize it was now our habit to allow dirty, lying, backstabbing, gits into the Order, so
we're even."

Thank goodness Professor Dumbledore's arrival interrupts the impending bickering. His eyes zero
in on us, and I bet the Headmaster is thinking the same thing I am. Separate them quickly before
Snape and Harry start to duel.

"Come on, Harry," I say and link my fingers with his.

He hesitates for just a moment, and I'm afraid he's going to pick a fight before we even get started,
but he finally relents and follows me to the side.

Our couch is off in the corner and pressed up against a wall. Harry won't sit in public unless no one
can sneak up behind him.

That's a lesson we learned the hard way.

It's situated so we can see the room's entirety but aren't in the middle of it.

I can see why Sirius saved this for us.

The focus will be on Professor Dumbledore, who is sitting at the front with his head bowed talking
to Professor McGonagall, but we'll be able to see everyone.

I take a spot on the sofa, Ron sits next to me without comment, Neville next to him.

They look the picture of casual indifference.

Ron is back against the cushions with his arm stretched out behind me. Nev has his legs crossed
with an ankle on the other knee. His arm is stretched out the other way.

Each can easily reach their wands, and the peek of ankle shows Neville, too, is wearing a knife.

The theme of our lessons with Nate have been self-defense, and defense of Harry. I doubt you'll see
Harry without one or both of them at his side for the considerable future.

Harry stands beside the couch, then props one-legged on the armrest.

It offers him a spot to lean against but allows him to be taller than the rest and gives him a vantage
point to take in the meeting.

"Are you sure you're okay to tell the others about our bonding?" Harry asks, leaning down to
whisper.

He pushes my hair behind my ears, and the fact that he despises the plan to announce our marriage
yet still can't seem to stop touching me is not lost on me at all.

I hate that I have become that girl.

The girl that squeals when the boy looks at her and sneaks around the castle, or in our case our
home, and accidentally on purpose bumps into the boy she likes.

Of course, the boy I like happens to be my husband, and he can literally feel me coming, so it's no
secret when I loiter outside a room, but the point stands.

And the fact is yes, I very much want to tell everyone about our bond. I want to shout it from our
rooftop.

"I'm sure," I tell him. "You need to hurry up and be sure too. Because no matter what you want, we
aren't going to be able to keep this a secret forever. You can take baby steps, though. The Order
first, then maybe Luna later."

Harry chuckles under his breath and runs his thumb along my chin.

"Definitely, Luna. She probably already knows."

"Probably," I agree.

Dumbledore starting the introductions pulls my attention.

"Thank you all for joining us tonight. We have several announcements before we jump into the
meat of things. First off, we have a visitor with us from MACUSA, Nathanial Smythe.”

Nate gives a little wave from where he's sitting on one of the kitchen chairs next to Remus. "More
than that, please," Dumbledore encourages him.

Nate rolls his eyes and stands, his Americanness painfully obvious.

Though, ironically, he's dressed like a punk version of the eldest Weasleys. Charlie eyes him up
and down, and oh my goodness, Nate is flirting with him in front of everyone!

He wiggles his eyebrows in Charlie’s direction, and the redhead smiles back.

"Hi," the American says with that stupid little wave again.

"I'm Nate. I'm on loan from the Joint Magical Anti-Terrorism Task Force. I'm here as a liaison for
MACUSA, and more specifically, to help train the new generation. We've already started defensive
magic and weapons training, and I can assure you that if and when the time comes for them to
fight, they'll be able to handle themselves."

Nate goes to sit down, but Kingsley speaks instead.

"So, you're who we have to blame for the excessive show of force tonight," he accuses in that dark
and slow voice of his. "Our children aren't allowed to use magic outside of the classroom, and we
certainly don't encourage them to carry multiple wands."

Harry sits up straighter on the arm of the chair, but Nate doesn't hesitate to give as good as he gets.
"I am, and you're welcome. These children aren't children. They're training for war. If you think
their ages are going to keep them safe, then I recommend you check out Harry Potter's scar. Not
just the one on his forehead. He's covered in them, all gifted to him by some Dark Wizard or
another. Now I understand why they asked for me instead of doing it in-house.”

My eyes roam over the assembled people to gauge their reactions, and Molly looks almost sick.
But others wear expressions of weariness, and still, more are nodding their heads, murmuring in
quiet tones.

"What happens when word gets out to You-Know-Who we're assembling to fight him and arming
ourselves thus?"

Before my nerves can overwhelm me, I rise from my seat and answer his questions, both asked and
unasked.

Wife of the Chosen One.

I have a part to play here as well.

"We only visited Ollivander, and I wiped his memory afterward. Beyond that, though, I took the
memory of the wands we purchased completely out of his psyche, so he doesn't even remember
making them, let alone that they've been sold. But, rest assured, we have plans to visit other
wandmakers so that no one gets suspicious, and we'll do the same with them as well. The only way
Voldemort will know that Lord Harry Potter-Black is arming himself for battle is if he's told by
someone in this room."

That was Neville, or probably Augusta. Remind them of who you are as often as possible.

I fist my hands at my side to keep from pulling at my fingers and tilt my chin as high as I'm able,
daring anyone to complain.

Nate winks at me before retaking his seat and lounging like he's in a bar instead of a meeting with
some of the most powerful wizards in Britain.

Charlie Weasley licks his lips.

"That," Kingsley drawls slowly, pulling my gaze back to him, "is highly illegal."

"Nicely done, Granger," Mad-Eye says from the back. "Oh, excuse me, Potter-Black," he corrects.

Every eye in the room, and it feels like half of Britain too, suddenly jerks to stare at me. I sit down
so fast I almost land in Ron's lap. The tosser's chin is tucked into his chest to keep his laughter
contained.

Professor Dumbledore stands.

"On that auspicious note, we have an announcement. The most important thing we'll hear tonight.
Maybe the most significant of our lifetimes. Some of you know already."

A low hum breaks out along the crowd.

Things like "Wait till you hear the news," and "It's under a Fidelius," fill the air around us.

Professor Dumbledore rises from his chair and holds his hand out in our direction, giving Harry
that Grandfatherly smile.
"The orb please, Harry, if you'd be so kind."

Do you have it? I ask the man beside me.

I left it on the shelf with the other Sword.

"Sorry," Harry says sheepishly, a light blush brightening his colouring. "I didn't realize we'd need
it."

Harry holds out his arm.

"It's on its way."

He doesn't say the spell out loud. I can't remember the last time that he has.

But, nonetheless, I feel the tug on his magic and sense the orb barreling down.

Oohs and exclamations of surprise erupt when the orb sails into the attic and lands deftly in Harry's
palm.

"That trick never gets old," says twin one. "A classic," jokes twin two.

"Did he just do that wandlessly?"

"Non-verbal too," somebody adds.

"He's in Gryffindor," Professor McGonagall needlessly announces, heavy with a gleam of pride in
her voice.

Even from this angle, I can see Professor Snape roll his eyes.

As far as shows of magic go, Harry couldn't have done it better. It was deceptively simple, but took
quite a bit of oomph and it was plainly effective.

They'd have all heard about his display with the charm at the tournament.

While his usage there wasn't non-verbal, it was strong enough to call his broom to him from the
other side of the castle grounds.

That's a considerable distance.

Watching him flex his magic so unobtrusively and so up close and personal just now was probably
more impressive to those in attendance than his surviving Voldemort.

Maybe.

Harry runs his thumb over our names engraved in the wood, and I can feel his affection for me
bleeding through the bond.

He smiles at me softly, like it's a secret just for me. He leans down gently and places his lips
against mine, and I want to hit him.

To push him away and tell him this isn't the place.

But every day, I feel more and more for this man, and what's one little platonic kiss in front of
friends?
He cups my face in his hand, then rises to his feet and stands beside the couch. Without his asking,
I lift to stand at his side.

It's where I belong, after all, and what kind of wife would I be if I let him face the firing squad
without me?

"As Dumbledore mentioned, some of you already know. For those that don't..." he takes a
fortifying breath, and I shove everything I'm feeling through the bond.

Happiness and excitement and determination, and—not fear, but something like it's little sister.

Harry better get used to talking about it because as soon as we are back in the castle, I plan on
staking my claim for everyone to see.

Emmeline Vance is bouncing up and down on her chair in excitement.

Fear bubbles in Harry's belly.

Every eye is on him.

"If it were up to me, I wouldn't bestow this information to another living soul. But Dumbledore and
Hermione have convinced me it's knowledge that I need to share. I'm trying to learn that I don't
have to take on the world on my own. So, I tell you this, and ask you to help me protect her."

I can protect myself, thank you very much.

But I know that would fall on deaf ears. Harry stares at me, and it's so much. It's almost too full. I
can feel everything he doesn't say through our bond.

See it shining behind his eyes.

The orb floats in front of him, raised for all to see.

It's tiny, but every person in the room seems to hold their breath. Harry twists his finger in a circle,
and the orb rotates over our heads so everyone can read the inscription in the wood.

"Bonded in a loo in 1991 when we were fighting off a troll. Mated as I entered the third task, just
barely a month ago. May I introduce you to my wife?

"Bound and blessed by magic, Lady Hermione Jean Potter-Black."

Time seems to freeze for a moment.

I get the strangest feeling of déjà vu, like when I twist the knob on the time turner, and for a
fraction of a moment, I dangle between here and there.

Then the explosion happens.

I tip overfilled with laughter and into Harry's arms, and he holds the back of my head and buries his
face in my hair. The orb is snatched by greedy fingers and passed along from stranger to friend as
every person tries to look.

Professor Snape is staring at us with the closest thing to shock I've ever seen on his face.

It's disconcerting and somehow makes me feel vulnerable for him.

I've never seen his emotions so bare.

I turn my attention back to Harry, who is almost floating in my hug.

Professor Dumbledore lifts his arms and clears his throat, but only a fraction of eyes turns towards
him. The rest are laughing with each other or gazing at us greedily.

The Deputy Headmistress pulls on the Headmaster's sleeve with a smile, and he throws his hands
out in surrender before resuming his chair.

"I don't know," Harry says with a smile in answer to one of the dozens of questions that I can't even
understand anymore. "You know more than we did!" and "Hermione wants to write a book."

That right there is why he's my soulmate.

Because any other man would go mental when you told them you were planning on publishing a
paper about the intricacies of your relationship and the literal sparks from your sex life.

Harry is already encouraging people to buy the book whenever it comes out.

It's almost fifteen minutes before the questions die down enough for the Headmaster to continue.

This time, when he rises to his feet, the room falls into an excitable hush. Harry settles me into the
couch before resuming his spot on the armrest.

"Their final binding was sealed not an hour before Voldemort returned to his body," Dumbledore
announces, and a gasp can be heard from the gathered crowd. "You don't need to be a seer to
realize the significance of that timing. If that isn't a sign that we're going to win this war, then I
don't know what is."

I lift my hand to Harry's, and he links our fingers together on his lap.

"We, as the Order of the Phoenix, have two jobs now. To defeat Voldemort and rid Britain of his
tyranny once and for all, and—"

"—to protect my wife," Harry interrupts, and I swear to Merlin I'm—blood rushes to my face, and I
yank my fingers from his grip and smack him with the back of my hand.

"His wife can take care of herself," I say too loudly, and laughter breaks out amongst our audience
again.

Professor Dumbledore joins them, Harry gives me dirty glares.

Ron and Neville chuckle and I elbow Ron in the stomach until he stops and elbows Neville.

"The house is filled with Aurors, and I'm married to the Boy Who Lived," I snark loudly. "I think
I'm as safe as I'm going to get. Let's talk about something important, shall we? Perhaps a certain
dark wizard recently returned from the dead?"

Laughter breaks out again, but Dumbledore settles everybody down. "Very well, Severus?"

As Professor Snape rises to his feet, the bond between Harry and I tappers out until it's almost
undetectable. I pivot my body to look at him, but Harry is staring at the potions master as if he's
trying to read his mind.

Maybe he is.
"The Dark Lord is..." the Professor hesitates, picking an appropriate word.

He pushes his arms up his opposite sleeves, a tell if I've ever seen one.

"Unstable, to put it blandly. The loss of his familiar on the night of his resurrection, combined with
the capture of both Pettigrew and Barty Crouch Jr was a significant blow. Excluding the fact that
he did, in fact, regain his body, very little went as planned for him that night."

Harry is occluding as hard as I've ever felt him.

Slivers of his thoughts, tangled and twisted in knots, are slipping through to me, but little more
than that.

"He intended to kill the Potter boy, therefore cementing his power for all to see, then slip back into
the shadows with two spies at Hogwarts. The fact that Potter lived to tell the tale and took two of
his most loyal supporters with him has left the Dark Lord extremely disquieted."

"I'm good at that," Harry says sarcastically. "Being annoying. Messing up people's plans."

"Indeed," Professor Snape sneers. "Few know that as well as I do. Despite your best efforts,
though, not everything is about you."

He pauses to gauge how well his barb hits before going on.

"The Dark Lord has three aims to reach. One, is to grow his followers. All the old guard has
returned. He's living in the Malfoy Manor, accepting gifts and supplication for their abandonment."

Well, that's not a big surprise there, is it?

"While every day, more people arrive to throw themselves at his mercy and to promise their
undying loyalty, there aren't as many witches and wizards as he would like. It would seem, now
that he's been forced onto the front page of the paper, people are slower to offer their support."

I start at that announcement.

That...is not what I expected.

I glance at Harry again, but he's shut me completely out.

I can't even read his face. We don't read the paper much anymore. A habit from living in the tent.
We really had no idea that the Ministry’s acceptance of Voldemort's return would have made this
big of an impression.

"The Dark Lord intended to have Barty Crouch slip back into the Auror department and begin the
work of converting followers to his side, either through blackmail or the Imperius. But now that
route is lost to him too."

Mad-Eye speaks up from here he's leaning against his staff along the back wall.

"Speaking of the Imperius, has anybody thought to see whether the boy wasn't under the curse? It
would be a nice lookout if we welcomed an undercover Death Eater into our folds as a hero."

What?

How dare they!

"He's immune to the Imperius," I say haughtily, rising from my seat.

Harry grasps my hand and yanks me back down.

"Not to mention we share a soul! I'm fairly certain I'd notice if my husband were under the
Imperius!"

"It doesn't matter, Mi," he whispers, and excuse me, but yes, it does! Do they have any idea what
Harry has been through? I swear!

"Surely she jests, Albus."

Aberforth leans forward on his chair, incredulity bare on his face.

"Try it yourself," Dumbledore offers. "I'm sure the Aurors amongst us would look the other way in
the spirit of this little experiment. Harry, do you mind?"

Harry blushes slightly.

"Just don't make me wet myself if I can't throw it off in time," he jokes, and everyone laughs with
him.

Aberforth rises from his seat and weaves between the furniture until he's in front of Harry. Nerves
bubble in my belly, and I clasp my fingers in my lap, trying not to pull at the digits.

Will I feel it when the curse takes him?

Will it affect me too?

"Imperius," Aberforth intones, and Harry's eyes glaze over.

Horrendous pressure pushes down on me, and my body caves inwards until Harry snaps our
connection at the root. I shudder violently at the intrusion and again at the way it was ripped away.
Harry drops his hand to my shoulder, trailing his fingers up my neck.

He shakes his head forcibly, then physically shrugs away the curse, his shoulders rotating front
and back.

"It's been a while since someone hit me with it," Harry says carelessly, looking Aberforth in the
eye. "It takes a few seconds to push it off."

"I'll be damned," someone whispers, and I'd bet money it was Nate.

"Are you under the Imperius, Harry?" Professor Dumbledore asks lightly.

Harry shakes his head.

"No, Dumbledore. I'm not."

Names, instead of honorifics. Harry is the highest ranking person in the room.

Again, insisted upon by Nev. I guess in theory, Neville would rank right beside Harry.

Aberforth mumbles harshly under his breath while making his way back to his chair.

"What other secrets about the boy have you been hiding, Albus?"
I don't recognize the voice, and I don't appreciate his tone, either. Harry latches his hands around
the back of my neck, digging his fingers into my skin. It keeps me in place and kinda makes me
wanna swoon and smack him away at the same time.

I wait for Harry to mouth off at whoever it is, but Professor McGonagall does it instead.

"I wasn't aware it was his duty to keep you informed about the skills of Lord Potter-Black, Elphias.
Would you also care to know his Transfiguration scores? Passable, for sure, but could be
Outstanding if he put some effort into it."

Ron and Neville chuckle beside me, and Harry bites his lip.

"Sorry, Professor. I promise I'll study harder next term."

"If we've finished stroking Potter's ego," Professor Snape says snidely, and I'm really getting tired
of that tone. While I disagree with Harry's uncontrollable anger, Snape could undoubtedly show us
a little more respect.

"It's Potter-Black, Professor," I say sweetly. "Lord Potter-Black."

Professor Snape snaps his mouth closed but doesn't deign to respond. He turns to glance at the
Headmaster, who gives him a tiny nod.

"The Dark Lord is after a weapon," Snape says. "One hidden in the Department of Mysteries. It
consumes him. He believes it's the key to his victory. Since almost his first night back, he's been
trying to find a way inside."

"We must keep it from him at all costs," the Headmaster adds. "To that extent, I've arranged for a
guard duty to be set up inside the ministry. Voldemort will do whatever he can to get his hands on
it. We must do the same to keep it from his grasp."

My heart speeds up in my chest, a little spurt of adrenalin kicking through my blood.

There was really no way to prepare for this. We couldn't decide how to handle it until we knew
what the others would do.

Would they still try to guard the prophecy now that Harry knows about it?

Apparently, the answer is yes.

Harry looks at me as if searching for the answer. I nod my head fast and small and bite my lip to
keep quiet.

It has to be done.

I know Harry wants to work alone, but some things we can't keep to ourselves, and we can't let the
Order waste the manpower guarding something that no longer exists. Harry doesn't stand up,
doesn't move a muscle, but I feel his magic swell before he opens his mouth.

"A weapon? Or the prophecy?" he says, and his voice is low and calm.

All eyes snap to him, and Dumbledore's gaze becomes penetrative.

"What prophecy?" Kingsley demands, leaning on the edge of his chair.

Professor Dumbledore's eyes flare, and his posture becomes tight and intimidating. Snape scowls
outright. My eyes scan the crowd, and the division of surprise and calm goes straight down the
middle.

Even including the Weasleys, there's a split of redheads who had already heard the prophecy that
day in the Headmaster's office to those that are now staring at Harry in wonder.

So, half the Order knew that there was a prophecy, and the others guarded the Department of
Mysteries on faith alone.

Unfathomable.

I'd never go into a situation so blind. Harry would never let me. If he had information, I knew it
shortly thereafter. It never occurred to him to keep secrets from us.

Though, not to sound too egotistical, Harry couldn't have done half of what he'd done without us
either.

Harry doesn't move from his perch on the arm of the couch.

He doesn't make himself more of a spectacle, but his voice carries loud enough to be heard by
all.l0

"Because if it's a weapon he's after, then I apologize for interrupting. But if it's the prophecy that
he's after, I've already ensured that he'll never get his hands on it. It shattered into a thousand
pieces on the Hall of Prophecies floor."

"When?" Professor Dumbledore demands, the word a puff of air but somehow frightening for all
that.

"The first opportunity I had," Harry says, choosing not to elaborate further.

Professor Dumbledore rises to his feet, and an uncomfortable stillness settles around the room.

Harry still doesn't stand.

His arm slips from the couch to rest on my shoulders, and his fingers trail up and down the side of
my neck.

Is he trying to comfort himself or me?

"You knew about this?" Professor Dumbledore asks, turning to look at Sirius.

Sirius ducks his head in a sign of respect before adding, "Yes, I did," at the end.

"You didn't think to tell me?" Dumbledore says in a cool tone.

Sirius rises to his feet now, tugging on the sleeves of his jacket.

"My apologies, Albus, but my loyalty lies first with Harry—as my Godson, my adopted child, my
Head of House, and The Chosen One."

Sirius looks around the room, making eye contact with the others as he goes. He raises his voice,
"Just as all of our loyalty should lie with the Boy Who Lived."

Harry groans inside my head. His posture stays perfectly still, though.
Kingsley stands, staring straight at Harry.

"The only people who can remove a prophecy are the people of whom the prophecy is about. On
pain of madness and death, boy. Madness, and death. You're telling us you destroyed a prophecy
that Voldemort thinks to use as a weapon? You touched it?"

Harry still doesn't stand.

It's giving me anxiety.

How can he just sit there when everyone is staring at him? I pull my fingers in my lap until Ron
slips his hand in mine. I squeeze his fingers as hard as I can, my nails digging into his skin.

Harry nods, once and sharp.

"Which means the prophecy was about you and You-Know-Who. What did it say?" Kingsley
demands, and every person in the room holds their breath.

My husband only shakes his head.

"You've heard of a self-fulfilling prophecy, I assume? That's all the vision was. Rubbish that
Voldemort himself invoked fifteen years ago. It's already done enough damage to last us multiple
lifetimes. I won't let it hurt anyone else. Suffice to say, there is no fear that Voldemort will ever
hear it."

Emmaline Vance speaks up, earnestness filling her voice.

"But if it would give us an advantage in defeating You-Know-Who?" she insists, leaning forward
beseechingly on the edge of her chair.

Harry glances towards Professor Dumbledore, who gives him a cool stare. You've made your bed,
it seems to say. Now you get to lie in it. The Headmaster lowers himself into his chair, crossing his
legs at the knees.

Harry finally stands up.

Kingsley immediately sits back down, giving Harry the floor.

Every eye is on him. There's so much tension in the room it makes me want to vomit.

"It doesn't," Harry says firmly, running his hands through his hair. "He thinks he's invincible. He
wouldn't lower himself to believe otherwise. He thinks the prophecy would give him the
knowledge on how to defeat me."

The air is pulled so thick, I can barely get a breath in.

"Not the other way around. It didn't do that either," he says.

Remus rises from his chair, placing his hand on Sirius's shoulder. Sirius gives him a grateful smile
before resuming his seat.

"There's a reason why only those to whom the prophecy is about are able to touch their spheres,"
Remus provides. "It's not for us to know what the vision said. It's served its purpose, and now it is
forever out of You-Know-Who's grasp. Let's move on to other business."

Snape clears his throat, bringing the attention of the room back to him.
"The point remains. The Dark Lord has made it his mission to get into the Department of Mysteries
—by whatever means possible."

Harry doesn't sit down and instead turns his entire body to face Snape and Dumbledore.

"If I were playing lapdog to a dark lord, I'd let him continue to dwell on the prophecy," Harry says,
offering his opinion for the first time all night. "Let him stew on it for the next two months, or the
next two years if that's how long it takes him, while we build our defences."

"The Dark Lord will find it suspicious, Potter, that the Order is not trying to impede him."

His tone is dripping disdain for what he sees as Harry's stupidity, but Harry isn't done yet.

"Will he though? I don't think he would. If there is one thing in the world Voldemort is secure in,
it's his own superiority. The lack of conflict will prove you are loyal to him and haven't shared
your knowledge of his desire for the prophecy with Dumbledore while also showing him how inept
we are at discovering his plans. In the meanwhile, he wastes however long he wastes attempting to
discover knowledge that no longer exists."

Snape is slow in his response.

"That is...plausible," he concedes, and you can tell it cost him dearly to say it.

"How do you know this?" Kingsley asks Harry. I can't decide if Kingsley sounds impressed or
suspicious. "How do you know any of this?"

Harry pivots again, facing the stalwart Auror.

"I've faced Voldemort more than any other person alive, Dumbledore excluded," he says. "Maybe
even more than Dumbledore. I don't know how many times they went head-to-head. I imagine not
often, afraid of Dumbledore as he is. Voldemort..."

He runs both hands through his hair, his frustration palpable even to those that don't share his soul.

"Voldemort is brilliant. But he knows it too, and that's his weakness. That, and he likes the sound
of his own voice."

A scattering of laughter breaks out but silences just as fast.

Harry has started pacing, his hands behind his back, two steps in either direction. Ron pulls me into
the crook of his shoulder, protecting me perhaps from something we can't see.

Harry's building explosion.

"I've lost count of how many times Voldemort has tried to kill me. Four? Five? Six? He's brilliant,
but he's blind. He tried to possess me once, and it caused him physical pain. Because he couldn't
understand a mind that wasn't obsessed with power and a heart that was filled with love."

Harry opens his side of the bond just a little bit, and my stomach swoops at the surge of affection
from him.

"He's utterly convinced that he's always the smartest person in a room."

Harry stops and points at Professor Snape.

"He keeps a potions master as his right hand, but not because he couldn't brew himself, and better
too, or so he thinks. But why should he lower himself to something so menial when he has
someone else to do it for him? He wouldn't consider it a trap when things go his way because, in
his mind, he's smarter than all of us, and victory is only what he deserves."

This is why people follow Harry.

It doesn't matter that he's one of the youngest in the Order. Every eye is drawn to him as he works
through an unseen problem in front of us. My eyes wander around the room, and people are sitting
on the edge of their seats, leaning in to get closer.

Their jaws are slack, and their eyes are wide, and this isn't what Harry wanted.

Not really.

He wanted to be a part of the conversation, not the topic. But I suppose when you're prophesied to
destroy the world's evilest Wizard, you don't have much of a choice.

"You've defeated him half a dozen times?"

It's Tonks that asks the question, and the awe in her voice makes me uncomfortable.

"No," Harry laughs, an empty hollow sound. "I've never defeated Voldemort. With luck and the
help of friends, I've survived him," he shrugs his shoulders. "Most of the time."

People chuckle at that, but it's the least funny thing I've ever heard.

"There's a big difference between the two."

He finally stops his pacing and looks Dumbledore in the eye.

"But we're connected, he and I. When you've been through what we have together, it leaves a mark.
As I said, he tried to possess me once. To steal my body and consume my soul. He failed. My soul
belonged to another. But luckily for us, Voldemort isn't as smart as he thinks he is, and I'm not as
dumb as I look. I dug around in his brain, some, while I was in there."

Professor Dumbledore smiles at Harry, and it's the most genuine expression I've ever seen on the
man.

Harry looks at Kingsley.

"That's how I know all that."

Harry sits back down on his perch beside me, and I lean from Ron's shoulder into Harry's hip. They
wrap their arms around me together, and I sigh into their embrace. Harry was right before we
started.

I'm ready for it to be over.

"You think you survived He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named five or six times by luck?" Dedalus Diggle
challenges.

Much to my shock, it's Ron that answers the rhetorical question.

"Yeah, Mate. A bit," he says. "You should have seen him when he was eleven. Not much to write
home about. Bit squiggly around the edges, to be honest."
"You fought off You-Know-Who when you were eleven ?!!"

Dedalus sounds like he's on the verge of passing out.

Harry barely nods.

"Every year since I rejoined the Wizarding World."

Which, when you put it like that, maybe Dumbledore knew what he was doing, after all, keeping
him secluded with the muggles.

"Congratulations, you didn't kill anyone!"

Ron smiles when he says it, his eyes twinkling with amusement and mirth. He plops lightly into
one of the chairs in our bedroom while Harry sprawls heavily onto the couch.

"Yeah, well, it was a close thing." Harry grunts and his headache is bleeding through the bond he's
opened back up.

I'm scribbling furiously in my notebook, trying to ensure I don't forget any details from tonight.

"That's not behaviour we should be encouraging, Ronald," I say absentmindedly. "Or rather, we
shouldn't have to congratulate him on not killing people."

Harry huffs in a half-aborted laugh.

I bite on the end of my pen, thinking about what to say.

“Out with it,” he demands.

Oh yeah. Mind reading.

I slide my notebook closed as Ron flicks his gaze between us.

“You gave away a lot of information tonight.”

Harry shakes his head.

“No, I didn’t. Not really. By the time we died, everyone knew about the prophecy, if not what was
in it. They’re already running The Chosen One stories in the prophet anyway. No one but us knows
for sure what the prophecy said. Everything else is just speculation.”

“Okay,” I concede the point because it doesn’t matter anyway.

Tonight really only had one purpose for us. To gather information, and to make the Order members
see him as a force to be reckoned with.

We did both of those in spades.

Ron leans forward with his arms on his knees, looking between Harry and me.

“Am I the only one that feels uncomfortable about Snape describing You-Know-Who as unhinged?
Because I thought he was already mental. So, if he’s getting worse, then I don’t see that ending
well for us. You don’t think it could have anything to do with the Horcruxes do you?”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Harry admits. “Last time he regained his body he was only
missing one. Now he only has two left. But I think we can count on Voldemort’s superiority
complex to keep their destruction hidden, at least for now. He probably doesn’t realize anything is
different. I doubt he could feel his soul to begin with, let alone half a dozen pieces of it stretched
out along Great Britain. If he realizes his, for lack of a better word, psyche is different now than
before he lost his body, I’m sure he’ll chalk it up to thirteen years as a phantom and losing his best
supporters. Or maybe losing that snake.”

Ron looks doubtful, but doesn’t say anything else.

“Speaking of supporters,” Harry adds, pushing up from the couch. “Azkaban.”

Ron makes a painful expression, eyes tight and lips curled, but then he nods his head. “Azkaban,”
he agrees.

“The Order can do what they want, so long as they stay out of our way. But if Voldemort is having
difficulty swaying people to his side, then he’s going to break into Azkaban sooner rather than
later. We need to come up with a way to either stop that from happening, or break into it first.
Personally, I vote for breaking in. I owe Bellatrix a favour. But no matter what, she cannot be
allowed to re-join her master. He’s twice as strong with her at his side.”

Ron hesitates for a moment, then asks, “Any plans on how to do that?”

Harry smirks at him, and that smile can be nothing good.

It’s his let's follow the spiders smile, and Ronald pales in its presence.

“You tell me, Ron. Move the pieces on the chessboard.”

Examples of the inspiration for our main group's outfits!

Chapter End Notes

I plan on spending the week updating stories, so I apologize ahead of time if you get
bombarded with emails lol.
 Chapter 32
Chapter Notes

Thank you Happily for reminding me to post!!!

 Hermione

I’m not quite sure what wakes me up. From the way the morning sunlight filters in through the
window, it’s still barely daybreak.

Harry is wrapped around me, his knee between my thighs and his arm under the pillow we share.

But I can tell from the way he breathes and the drowsy touch of his mind against mine that he’s
been awake for a while.

Then I feel his thumb strumming lightly against my nipple.

Ah.

So that’s what woke me up.

I sigh into his gentle contact, settling myself against him. His prick is thick against my backside,
and his hips start to lazily thrust against my arse. I sink back into the mattress, content to let him
touch me.

It’s too much effort to keep my eyes open anyway.

It’s nowhere near time for our alarm to go off, and I am positively knackered. I don’t understand
how Harry is even functioning.

Sirius gave Harry, Neville, and Ron custom knives yesterday morning as early birthday presents for
Harry and Neville’s birthday next week.

Each is engraved with their names and their house.

Nate then proceeded to spend an ungodly amount of time teaching them how to stab each other.

I’m still not sure if I was disgusted by the enthusiastic manner in which they took to close-quarters
combat or jealous that I didn’t get a knife too.

Maybe both.

But Nate is trying to shove a year’s worth of special forces training into six weeks’ worth of
summer and pretty soon it’s going to catch up with Harry.

Ron is eating twice as much as usual because of all the calories they’re burning. Neville has taken
to practising wand movements at the kitchen table. Despite how hard Harry is pushing himself
physically, the insomnia is still there.

Harry can only go so long being kept awake by Pepper Up potions and adrenalin.

He needs sleep. Real sleep.

Yet here he is awake with the birds and his hand up the bottom of my nightshirt. I open my eyes for
a moment and peek down.
Okay. Well, it’s his shirt.

Or, one of his Hogwarts jumpers to be specific. It’s horribly comfortable to sleep in though, the
jersey knit soft against my skin.

I hadn’t intended to fall asleep wearing it, but I don’t actually remember falling asleep last night,
which means I probably tuckered out while reading and Harry put me in bed himself.

How he got the rest of my clothing off but kept the jumper on will have to remain a mystery.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” I mumble, trying to rouse myself to turn and face him. I don’t
even have the energy to do that.

“Shhhh,” he says against my ear. “I am asleep. So are you.”

Oh.

That’s good.

Because I really don’t think I have the coordination for whatever he has in mind.

My hair is braided back, or was before bed. By now it’s only half contained, I’m sure. But Harry
tucks my plait over my shoulder, and his lips find my throat.

He’s soft and slow and lazy in his explorations.

He sucks my earlobe between his teeth, and I never thought I’d like that, but I do and yes please,
thank you very much, please do that some more.

His face is scratchy from lack of shaving, and it’s a pleasure-pain sort of situation when his lips
trail over my shoulder and his chin scrapes against the sensitive flesh.

This may be the best way to wake up ever.

Another sigh slips from my lips, as his fingers circle my nipple.

“I love it when you make that sound.”

And I love everything he does to make that sound happen.

His hand slides from my breast as he dips his fingers into my knickers.

“I don’t understand how you’re always so wet,” he whispers into the skin of my neck.

Umm, because we’re always doing this.

Or thinking about it.

Or remembering it from the night before. And you're always walking being so, so...so Harry, and
yes, I bet that makes all the girls wet.

“I thought you were supposed to be sleeping?” I say instead.

His fingers glide between my folds, rubbing in soft circles over my clit. His pace is so sedate, it’s
driving me insane.

“I am. This whole thing has been a dream. Nothing this good ever happens to me.”
That’s just not fair. He says stuff like that all the time and he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He
breaks my heart and heals it again all in the same breath.

The arm that was under our pillow pops out around my neck, and that hand begins to massage my
breasts, in counterpoint to the one that’s down my knickers.

It’s lovely.

“Can I...?”

He leaves the question hanging. But images of what he wants to do trip along our bond like a rock
skipping across the water. A touch here and a bounce there until the entire picture sinks into the
depth of our connection.

I nod my head, my smile as lazy as his touch.

“If this were a dream you wouldn’t have to ask.”

He almost always asks.

Harry gently smacks my clit and bloody hell! Electric sparks shoot down my extremities, and my
knees pull up automatically to protect my core.

Ohhhhh, but yes. Do that again.

“Why are you being so bratty?” he asks in a playful tone, nipping at my throat.

He slips his hand from between my legs and starts working my knickers over my hips. Only his
fingers are covered in my slick, and he’s spreading it all over my skin. He manages to get one half
of my knickers down far enough for me to slip my leg through the hole, then he leaves them there
pinned around my knee on the bed.

“Being woken up before the sun fully rises tends to bring it out in me,” I tell him. “I’ll make it up
to you. Maybe later I’ll show you the charm for flexibility.”

Harry all but stops breathing, his fingers digging into my hip.

“Excuse me?” he asks in a deep and rumbly voice.

“A charm. To make you more flexible. I haven’t tried it before. I don’t know if I can do it
wandless...”

I don’t even finish the word before Harry’s hand snaps out and his wand flies into his palm. He
passes it to me with a wicked smile and flashing emerald eyes.

I pluck his wand from his fingers and drop it onto the bed.

“Next time, I said. I’m too tired for acrobatics this morning. I’m supposedly sleeping, remember?”
Harry huffs against my neck, then lifts my leg over his thigh.

“You’re growing quite the list of I.O.U’s, luv.”

It's a tab I'm more than happy to pay.

He enters me with his fingers.

My arm reaches backwards, and I run my hand into his hair, giving it a tug.

He nibbles his way over my shoulder and up my throat and licks along my jaw. Greediness floods
through my body, and I’m already panting even though Harry is barely moving.

I should have tried that stupid charm anyway. My body is twisted and bent and arched, and the pull
on my muscles is exquisite.

“Merlin, Harry. Stop teasing me.”

His lips graze along mine, but he doesn’t kiss me properly and it makes me want to cry in
frustration. I yank on his hair harder, and the breath of his chuckles ghost across my face. His
tongue darts out and glides between my lips.

But he won’t kiss me.

Not how I want him to.

I groan when his fingers leave me dripping and desperate.

With a pull on his pants, his prick springs free. Just like with my knickers, he doesn’t take them all
the way off. Simply moves them enough to get the job done.

But Harry doesn’t get the job done. He isn’t in any hurry this morning.

He’s content to make me writhe and beg, and it’s really not very nice of him.

He grasps himself and slides the tip between my legs, gathering my moisture on his cock.

“Please, Harry,” I whine and why isn’t he inside me yet?

“Because I love listening to you babble inside my head. It’s so much better than when you yell at
me.”

I’m married to a tosser. A wanker. A foul, loathsome, evil little—

I gasp when he enters me with no warning.

He presses himself between my flesh and it’s everything I needed and more. The slide and drag of
his cock against my walls. The way he wraps his arms around my body and holds me to his heart.

Finally, desperately he kisses me, and the way his tongue twists and tangles with mine makes me
want to melt on the spot.

It’s languorous and sinful, the way he thrusts cleverly inside me.

His mind is unguarded and bare, and the thoughts that flow through our bond are positively
luscious. And the little sounds of pleasure he makes feel just as good as the feel of him sliding in
and out of my quim.

It’s peaceful, as we lose ourselves to each other. Harry’s hand slips down between my legs, and he
touches himself where he disappears inside me.

“Merlin, Harry.”

My voice is raspy and desperate, and I clench down around his dick with each painfully perfect
stroke. Even in this position, I can hear the sloppy wetness of our bodies joining together.

Harry says my name, but I have no idea if it was in my head or if he whimpered it out loud.

His pace speeds up against his wishes with his arm tightening against my chest. His fingers skim
my clit in tight tiny circles and I start to come undone. He rests his head against my shoulder, and
the pants and grunts that puff against my back set my soul on fire.

His magic strains against its confines until I can taste it on my tongue and see it in the air. If magic
had a colour, Harry’s would be blue.

It swirls and merges with mine, dipping into all the crevasses between us. I feel his magic like a
physical touch and it lights me up from the inside out.

When my fingers start to tingle, I know it's our magic trying to find an outlet.

Every nerve ending in my body is singing.

Harry pulls me down on top of him, spreading my legs and holding me close and I come apart in
his grasp. It’s like surrendering to a riptide and holding your breath while it pulls you under.

Terrifying, sure.

But if you know you'll survive, it's well worth the ride.

Harry’s orgasm takes him with a groan.

Will there ever come a time when he doesn't fight it every step of the way? He spills himself inside
me and it feels like he’s been petrified when he freezes at his apex.

The only sound is the harsh gasping of his breath, then the thundering of our hearts as they race to
see who can beat faster.

I’m panting and covered in sweat and still somehow wearing his jumper.

Harry’s magic has me wrapped up tight like a warm blanket in front of the fire.

“Best dream ever,” Harry puffs, his muscles finally relaxing.

He slips my leg back over his hip, which I really should thank him for as my thigh was starting to
cramp. He tucks my breasts back into his jumper, though most of the buttons have come undone.

Then while I’m still trying to come to terms with how wonderful I feel, Harry pulls the blanket
back over our chests, and promptly falls asleep. With his dick still inside me.

Well.

That’s just rude.

I’m perfectly awake now and Harry is sound asleep.

I wiggle my hips, and Harry slides free, his body soft against my back.

I make a mental note to talk to Harry about common courtesy and manners, then listen to the even
deepness of his breathing. I try to pull away, to go use the loo and clean myself up, but Harry
whimpers when I attempt to sit up. I run my hand over my thighs and clean the mess we left
behind, then feel around on the bed until I locate Harry’s wand.

It’s the phoenix core.

It still works for me perfectly.

“Expecto Patronum,” I whisper.

I’m frozen cold when a doe appears instead of my otter.

I—What?

I shake my head to clear it, and watch as the doe grazes contentedly at the side of the bed. My
Patronus changed. Harry’s didn’t. I’ve seen his stag several times in this timeline.

Why is it always the woman is who forced to change?

It’s so patriarchal.

Tonks’ changed when Sirius died, and Remus pushed her away. But I haven’t been through that
sort of emotional upheaval. Unless you count dying...

Aaaaand coming back as Harry’s soulmate.

Yeah. Okay. I get it.

Harry is my happy thought. He always has been.

The Doe walks around the room, stopping to examine as she goes. She seems to be pulled towards
the shelf with the swords.

Harry’s magic is probably calling to her.

She’s very pretty. I’ll give her that.

“Come here, beautiful,” I coo, and the Doe walks back towards me.

“Harry is going to miss the first session today. He finally fell asleep. Come see us after lunch.”

I send the Doe off to wake Ronald, then settle back against Harry’s chest with a book.

Maybe one of these days we'll be able to sleep at the same time.
 Chapter 33
Chapter Notes

Comments make me hhhaaaaaaapppyyyyyy!

This is another one of my fav chapters!

Harry

The sound of the doorbell echoes through the house, and Hermione pauses in our duelling, a slip of
a smile etched upon her face.

“Hear that?” she asks, her face turned up beatifically.

Sirius saddles over to the corner and wipes a towel over his head, mopping up the sweat. We’ve
been working with Nate on synchronising attacks with the twin cores.

Sirius got to play Death Eater. His chest is heaving in exertion, and I smirk at him when he sees me
staring out of the corner of my eye.

My Godfather gives me the bird.

He’s lucky Mi doesn’t catch him.

Nate puts his head back and crows in laughter.

“No,” I say curiously, turning my attention back to my wife. I don’t hear anything now that the bell
ringing has stopped.

“Exactly!” Hermione breathes. “No screaming, no stains of dishonour, no insults to you and ours.
Sweet, beautiful, silence.”

I drop my chin to my chest and laugh, then toss my arm around her shoulders and pull her into my
side. She turns her face up to me expectantly, and I place a kiss on her forehead, still chuckling at
her enthusiasm.

Remus sticks his head into the training room.

“Snape is here,” he says, leaning against the door frame.

“What does Snivillis want from me this time?” Sirius asks his sneer overly pronounced.

Remus shakes his head.

“He’s not here for you.”

Hermione perks up.

“Is he here to help me with potions? He said he’d owl to set up a time.”

I scowl at the thought of Mi having anything to do with that wanker, but as usual, she’s right.

If I’m learning to kill people, she should learn how to keep me alive. Snape provides all the healing
potions for the castle. He’s really the only one who can help her.

Though I don't know why she needs help. She got the Wolfsbane brewing just fine on her own. By
the time he comes to his transformation, Remus will be a harmless wolf.

“Not you either,” Mooney says. “He’s asking for Harry.”

“Harry?” Hermione demands, turning her attention to Remus. “Whatever for?”

I feel more than see Nate come to attention on the training mat, his back rigid and ready to fight.

Remus shrugs, his hand reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck.

“He wouldn’t say. But he did request we hurry up about it. He hasn’t got all day to lounge around,
unlike some of us.”

I roll my eyes at the intended insult, already at the end of my patience, and I haven’t even spoken
with the greasy git yet.

“Lead the way, Moony,” I say, gesturing with my hand for him to proceed with us.

Sirius walks up to my side, handing me the duplicate sword, and I slip it into the scabbard across
my back. Nate steps up behind us, pulling his hair out of its tail and gathering up the stray bits
before redoing the knot.
Remus leads us into the kitchen, where most of the Weasleys are gathered around the table. Neville
is spending the afternoon outside with Winky attempting to breathe life back into the garden.
Molly is hovering by the stove, a kettle of water on to boil.

Snape is standing by the door, black robes around his feet, his sneer prominent, and his nose
upturned.

Does he ever wear anything besides black?

“You bellowed, Snape,” I say, as I follow Remus and Sirius into the kitchen.

Remus and Sirius both take positions at my flank, with Mi at my left side. Her wand is bare in her
hands. Nate leans against the back wall.

“That’s Professor Snape to you,” he declares, his hands up the opposite side of his sleeves.

“On September first. Until then, you’re a guest in my ancestral home. What do you want?”

I can hear Sirius sniggering behind me.

“Draco requests an audience.”

The sniggering drops off like a leaky faucet being stoppered.

My spine straightens immediately, a spike of energy zinging through my limbs. I feel Mi’s
excitement beside me, for all, she doesn’t move a muscle.

“Where is he? Does he need medical attention?”

Snape seems to hesitate, weighing his words before he responds.

I can tell the answer pains him to admit.

“He’ll be suffering the aftereffects of the Cruciatus for several days to come, but otherwise he is
hale and whole. I wish you to know, Potter, that everything that has befallen him, can be laid at
your feet. He—“

Snape takes a breath, his eyes closing as if he’s in pain.

“He acted impetuously in the Dark Lord's presence. Draco—“ Again, Snape seems to gather
himself before continuing. “Spoke, in a manner that displeased his Lord, about subjects he had no
right questioning.”

I tighten my fists at my sides and pray to Merlin that Snape can’t see the flinch in my eyes. I know
what it’s like to be on the other side of Riddle’s Cruciatus.

It isn’t a pleasant experience.

So, Draco asked about the Department of Mysteries or why Riddle is obsessed with a fifteen-year-
old boy.

Good for him.

I just hope it didn’t cause him any lasting damage.

Snape looks me in the eye, and all I can see is the burning hate behind them. But whether it’s
strictly for me today, or I’m sharing the spot of honour with his Dark Lord, I couldn’t be sure.

“He wishes to plead sanctuary. The idea you so moronically put into his head.”

Ron shoves up from the table, practically vibrating in rage.

“You want to let another snake into headquarters? It’s a trick, obviously, Harry. You let Malfoy in
here and you’ll be bowing before You-Know-Who by dinnertime.”

“Ronald,” Hermione hisses, as the other Weasley’s start to make their displeasure known.

I raise my hand beside me, and the kitchen falls silent again.

“Where is he?” I ask, worried about an unarmed and exposed Draco sitting in the square out front.
“You didn’t leave him in the Manor, did you? Or sitting outside on the stoop?” Snape’s look of
disgust is only mounting.

“Waiting to be summoned.”

I lift my brow in question, wanting more information than that.

“I hadn’t realised the Wizarding community had another Lord gathering followers. He is safe, Lord
Potter,” Snape replies with a mocking bow. “That’s all you need to know.”

“It’s Potter-Black,” my wife hisses, and Merlin, I’ve never loved her more.

“Go get him,” I demand to Snape, and lift my flattened hand again when another round of protest
breaks from the gathered crowd.

“As my liege commands.”

His voice drips with venom.

With a glance that would kill me, if he had that capability, Snape strides from the room, his robes
billowing behind him.

As soon as he’s out of sight, the protests begin.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, Harry? You can’t let Malfoy in here. He’ll betray
us the first chance he gets. He’s a Slytherin for fuck’s sake!”

Mrs Weasley hisses at her son, but Ron is too bent out of shape to pay her any mind.

“You told me to tell you when you’re being mental. Well, you’re being mental as fuck, aren’t
you!?” Ron barks at me.

“Go grab Neville,” I tell him, ignoring the way his face pinks and his fists tighten. “I want him at
my back.”

He doesn’t move.

I turn to face my Godfather, Remus at his side.

Their faces are both grim, though Sirius, with his knowledge of what we’ve told him, looks at least
somewhat eager at the turn of events.
“This is quicker than I was expecting,” I say and watch as the words settle over Remus's face.

“When?” Sirius asks.

“Next summer. Maybe.”

Malfoy is turning from Riddle a year sooner than I was expecting and almost three years before he
started showing hesitation the last time.

Remus blanches, somehow following the conversation despite the missing pieces.

“Call the other Order Members,” I request. “Tell them what’s happened. Get as many here as
possible.”

“I’ll send a Patronus to Dumbledore,” Remus says, already pulling his wand.

They turn as one to send their messages.

I watch until their retreating backs disappear down the way.

I face my best friend, his anger burning the tips of his ears red.

“Look. If we don’t like what he has to say, we’ll obliviate him and send him on his way. But I’m
not leaving one person in the hands of Voldemort if it’s within my power to prevent it. Especially,
Draco. He could be an ally for us if you could get over your prejudice.”

Ron looks a heartbeat from exploding and storms past us out of the kitchen, shoving the chairs
roughly out of his way as he goes.

The Twins, however, look contemplative, turning to each other and sharing thoughts probably in
the same way Hermione and I can.

“Tea, Harry? Hermione dear?” Molly asks, and I startle at the compassion in her voice.

Hermione nods to Mrs Weasley, going to the other side of the kitchen to help prepare us each a
cuppa. I'll hand it to her. The woman knows when to put up a fight and when to make things as
easy as possible. The last thing I need is a narked off Molly as well as Ron.

The chaos of Grimmauld Place buzzes around us.

Despite its massive size, the kitchen is always thrumming in activity. The sounds of the Floo
whooshes to life, and I turn to welcome the newest members of our party.

Tonks appears, promptly tripping over her own feet.

“Wotcher, Harry,” she grins at me, her bubblegum pink hair slicked back from her head in a poof.

“I thought you were assigned to guard Neville,” I ask her without preamble. “Why weren’t you
already here?”

She lifts her eyebrow, and I blush slightly at my sharp tone.

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. "Ignore that. You don't report to me. I'm just nervous."

She winks at me instead of answering. I watch her eyes slide to Remus and hide my smile in my
dwindling cup of tea. Sirius winks in my direction before welcoming the witch into their
conversation.

Moody arrives next, shaking ash from his cloak.

“Are they here yet?” he demands, his blue eye swivelling to take in the expanse of the house.

“Not yet,” Remus says, leaning back against the wall.

“Are we sure this isn’t some trap?” Moody asks, his paranoia justified this time.

“Yes,” I say, standing up and turning to face him, leaning back with my hands against the table.

I push my glasses up my nose, unsure how to admit what I did.

“Before school let out but after I battled Voldemort, I cornered Draco in the hallway. I told him—”

I don’t want to admit what I told him. I want to stay out of Order business as much as I’m able.

I’m concerned about Riddle. The others can deal with everything else.

If I admit I told Draco about Riddle’s obsession with the Department of Mysteries before I was
supposed to know about it, that’s just going to open up more questions I don’t want to answer.

“Let’s just say I rattled his cage. I told him that when the time came he was ready to free himself
from Voldemort’s service to come to me, and I’d offer him refuge. I have to confess; however, I
wasn’t expecting it to happen this quickly. Something awful had to have happened, for Draco to
seek me out before barely a month has passed.”

Just about three weeks.

The doorbell rings and Molly takes a deep breath before scurrying out of the kitchen, heading for
the front door.

“This room is too cramped,” Moody decides. “The parlour. Move.”

As one we head into the parlour, the Aurors taking up positions of defence in corners, the Weasley
boys palming their wands and falling into ranks at my back. Ron stands shoulder to shoulder with
Neville, right behind me. Hermione takes her place at my side, in the middle of the room, waiting
for our guests to appear.

“This is a stupid idea,” Ron grumbles loudly.

I almost fall over in surprise when Neville replies before I can.

“I’d rather have Malfoy here where I can see him than have him planning something behind my
back.”

Ron shuts up with a scowl after that.

Mrs Weasley appears first, wringing her hands in front of her. She walks over to the corner with
Ginny and Remus.

Snape’s presence is like a thundercloud. Stormy despite the calm of the ocean.

Draco trails his Godfather, his skin as pale and wan as I’ve ever seen. His hands have a small
tremble, and the veins in his throat stand out in stark contrast with the thinness of his flesh.
He’s dressed in head to toe black; dress shirt, slacks, wing-tipped shoes.

It does nothing to help his pallor.

Snape glides to the side and back, allowing Draco to step in front of me.

Draco’s eyes skim the observers to his plight, and his hands tighten at his sides.

"How, Potter?" Draco demands, his eyes wild for all that he’s attempting to give his best Pure
Blood facade. "How could you possibly have known?"

Internally, I sag in relief that Draco doesn't repeat what I told him before the summer hols. There
are only four people in this room who know for sure what happened to Hermione and me, and I
intend to keep it that way. I know the others suspect something...hell, Remus has all but asked
outright.

But only Ron and Sirius know for sure, and I'm not eager to field a host of questions about my
knowledge of the future.

"What did he ask you to do?"

“You mean beyond his repulsive obsession with a boy half his size?”

I smirk at hearing my words from June parroted back at me. “Yeah, other than that.”

He hesitates for only a moment before he answers.

"Rape Daphne Greengrass."

I've never heard his voice so flat.

Gasps echo in the parlour. Molly reaches for Ginny, holding her only daughter tight to her chest.
Ginny doesn't put up a fight but turns, so her eyes never leave Draco.

"Her father refused to take the mark. The Dark Lord gifted her to me as a thank you for our
family’s allegiance. He hung her father in our drawing-room, then gave me a silver leash ending
with a collar around her throat."

Hermione’s hand latches onto mine, her nails digging into my skin.

The older members move as one, rescue plans for an unknown Slytherin daughter already being
bandied about.

That didn't happen last time, Hermione breathes into my mind.

I know, Luv, I reply, then shut our link, determined not to let her see my fear.

"Where are they now?"

My free hand flexes at my side, needing a sword or wand to feel complete. Either would suffice.

Draco's entire being spasms, and I lurch forward with my arms out in case he starts to fall. He
gathers himself quickly, rising to his already considerable height.

He steps away from my offered help, determined to stand on his own. My eyes flick to Snape over
his shoulder to find that he, too, had his hands out, ready to support his fallen Godson.
He's wearing a look I've only seen once before. The night he killed Dumbledore. Revulsion and
hatred fill the lines of his face as he listens to his Godson's tale.

Snape is risking his life simply by being here.

How far would he go to save the only facsimile of a family he has?

How far did he go?

Hermione is affecting my brain. Snape is evil. That’s the end.

I concentrate on Draco again.

"While the Dark Lord was busy amusing himself with my torture, my mother got both Greengrass
girls away. They're halfway to America by now. Their father is dead. Probably still hanging in the
drawing-room."

As a reminder of what happens when you tell the Dark Lord no. Seems to be the place Voldemort
likes to do his killing.

“Your mother, is she—?"

He interrupts me before I finish the question.

“My mother holds no love for the Dark Lord. She enjoys the rape and torture of children even less.
She’ll do what she must, to keep us alive. No more, no less.”

“But is she safe?” I ask him, suddenly insanely worried about a woman I don’t know.

“As safe as she can be, with the Dark Lord living in her home,” Snape answers from behind him.

Relief crashes through me so fiercely my legs go weak. A picture of Narcissa rises to the forefront
of my mind. Pale and afraid, willing to do anything to keep her son safe. My mother did the same,
even if they did it in different ways.

There's a challenge in Draco’s glare. In the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his brow. We've
never gotten along, not in this life or the last.

But somehow, I feel like one way or the other, we would have found our way to this moment
eventually. Me needing him on my side, and him needing me to save him.

Save them.

What would have happened if we hadn't died on his drawing-room floor? Would Draco have
helped us escape?

After all, he'd already betrayed his Dark Lord.

"Can you defeat him?" he asks me boldly, and I feel weighed, measured, and found distinctly
lacking.

I try not to show my doubt.

"He hasn't killed me yet," I reply, the most honest thing I can think of to say. "Not one that's stuck
anyway. And it certainly isn't for lack of trying on his part. What I can promise you is that I'll do
everything in my power to end him. But if I don't, well, everyone in this room will be dead anyway,
so at least you won't suffer long."

Sirius barks out a laugh at that.

Moody grumbles under his breath, his blue eye whirring non-stop in his head. Molly whimpers.

Draco nods, somehow buoyed by my pessimistic words.

"It’ll be easy enough to verify his story, Pup," Sirius supplies from behind me, "but that still doesn't
mean we can trust him."

Without another word, Draco falls to his knees. He bows his head, his eyes closed in supplication.

“I request the sanctuary of my kin, Cousin, to shelter me from the cold, to warm me at his hearth,
and to protect me from harm from those who would wrong me.”

I feel Sirius step up behind me, placing his hand on my shoulder.

He gives it a squeeze, and I take it for confirmation that I’m supposed to answer. Sirius is his
family, however obscure that link may be. But Sirius forfeited his right to inheritance, raising me
in his stead.

The acceptance of Draco’s plea falls to me.

I offer you the sanctuary of your kin...

The answering reply flows from Hermione’s mind and slips from between my lips.

“I offer you the sanctuary of your kin,” I say haltingly, the words heavy with power. “I will shelter
you with my roof, feed you from my table, and defend you from those that would offer you harm.”

Draco looks at me from under his lashes. I know the rest without Hermione’s prompting.

“If I shall fail in my task, and violence does befall you, I promise to avenge your death.”

Draco lifts his hand, and a dozen wands raise in his direction. Draco looks nowhere but at me as he
places his wand to cover his heart.

“I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, hereby swear my fealty and loyalty to Harry James Potter-Black, Heir of
House Potter, Heir of House Black, Heir of Godric Gryffindor, until such time the Dark Lord,”
Draco seems to get stuck on the words and roughly clears his throat. “Until Tom Riddle, Lord
Voldemort has been defeated. Or until my death, whichever comes before.”

A stream of magic pours from his wand and weaves around me like a snake, curling from my feet
upwards. Its touch is warm and comforting, and I feel the power of the vow settle into my bones
like a weight I can touch.

Hermione gasps in shock and awe, her surprise echoed by every person present.

I have to clear my throat before I can respond.

“I accept your vow and welcome your fealty to the house of your foremothers.”

The tension in the parlour is so thick I can see it shimmer around us. The world itself seems to hold
its breath while someone thinks of what to say.
“Bloody Hell,” Ron breaks the silence, and the room takes a collective gulp of air. Ron pushes out
from behind us.

"Like hell if Malfoy is going to one-up me."

He pivots on his foot, facing me directly, before dropping to his knees beside Draco.

"Ron, don't," I cry out, but it’s too late.

He lifts his wand and repeats the vow.

"I, Ronald Bilius Weasley, do hereby swear my fealty and loyalty to Lady Hermione Jean Potter-
Black,” Hermione sighs in resignation beside me, “and Harry James Potter-Black; Heir of House
Potter, Heir of House Black, Heir of Godric Gryffindor, until such time as Lord Voldemort has been
defeated. Or until my death, whichever comes before.”

He stutters over the word Voldemort, but it makes no difference to the vow. The magic dips and
circles us in determined energy until it too settles under our skin.

The look he gives Draco is pure loathing, but Draco only rolls his eyes in disgust before climbing to
his feet.

"I trust that will satisfy, Potter?" Draco asks with his usual disdain back in his voice.

His eyes flick between Hermione and me, noticing the matching signet rings on our fingers for the
first time.

A look of calculation passes over his face, gone as quickly as it arrived. The need to run him
through with my sword to keep Hermione safe almost brings me to my knees. I turn to the elder
members of the order, who all concur with varying nodding shrugs.

"Yeah,” I agree. “That'll do it.”

The tension in the room doesn’t dissipate but instead seems to shift. Now that Draco is with us, no
matter how unpleasant his joining may be to some, we have other worries to concern ourselves
about.

Moody asks the first question.

“How will they explain your absence to Voldemort?”

Snape steps into the middle of the circle.

“Timing and luck were on Draco’s side. Daphne’s disappearance wasn’t noticed until Draco’s was.
Draco is young and foolish. He allowed the Greengrass girl to lead him astray. His mother is
bereft, for fear that he is lost to them forever. The Dark Lord was amused that Draco allowed his
prick to make such a rash decision. After all, other, more worthy women could have been provided
for young Mr Malfoy to bed.”

Draco looks a heartbeat away from throwing up.

He sways on his feet again.

Sirius is not the only man in the room suddenly growling like a dog. Snape turns his nose up in
disgust, for once appearing to agree with those around him.
“Indeed. Word has gone out to all our Lord’s followers that if Draco is found, he is to be brought
home immediately. However, I do not believe the Dark Lord is overly concerned about Draco’s
absence. I have been given orders to notify the Malfoy residence if Draco appears at school this
year, and to teach him the error of his ways in whichever means I see fit.”

If we play this right and Snape does his part, hopefully, Riddle won’t be worried about Draco until
he doesn’t appear on the train at the end of the next school year. With it being OWL year, most
students will stay at the castle during the hols anyway.

“Do they expect him to go back to Hogwarts?” Tonks asks, surprise clear on her face. Snape turns
to address the Auror.

“Honestly, I do not think the Dark Lord cares one way or another about young Malfoy’s
whereabouts. If Draco is with his family, then he is a means to force Lucius into compliance. If
Draco is not with his family, then Draco’s absence can be used as a form of torture and
punishment. It is not until his allegiance to the Order is revealed that...”

Snape hesitates, and we all know what will happen if Voldemort finds out Draco is here. The
torture and murder of his parents.

“...That complications will ensue.”

“He won’t find out from us,” Remus says firmly, the others agreeing in turn.

The image of Draco in that bathroom at Hogwarts flares behind my eyes. Sobbing, hands gripping
the sink like it was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

The only comfort to be had, that of a ghost.

No comfort at all.

The life of every person he loves, held in ransom against him.

“Did you need us for anything else, Potter?”

I’m pulled from my ruminations by the deep roughness of Moody’s voice. He’s moved into the
middle of the circle surrounding Draco, the other participants to the impromptu oath-taking
scattering in different directions to go back to their previous activities.

“No,” I tell him, reaching out to shake his hand.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice. I didn’t want to make any decisions without the Order
being aware.”

“You did good, boy,” he says, then leans forward and lowers his voice. “What did you say to him
that made him fear you more than Voldemort?”

I shrug, the heaviness of the sword a steadying presence against my back. Draco is in the corner,
quietly speaking with Snape. Our eyes meet in the middle, and he dips his chin at me, before
turning his attention back to the Potions professor.

“Nothing,” I say, looking Moody in the eye. “He’s not afraid of me, he’s afraid of dying. He’d have
gotten here on his own eventually. Draco was raised by bad people, but he isn’t a bad person. Not
completely. You heard him. His mother just wants to survive. All I did was offer him a different
path to salvation.”
“Pft,” Moody grunts, then leads the others away until only the younger generation remains.

“This’ll be fun,” the twins say in unison, grinning ear to ear.

“Leave off him you two,” I order them.

Draco looks distinctly uneasy, like a snake alone in the lion’s den.

"I want you back on the mats in ten minutes," Nate yells as he follows the others out.

“Right then,” Fred says, “We’ve work to do,” George continues, “After,” they say together, then
drop to a single knee.

“Bloody hell, not you too,” I moan, but it does little to stop their progress. A third and fourth vow,
spoken in synchronous, settles against my skin. As one, the twins rise, then with a solute to me and
a horrifying smirk in Draco’s direction, disappear from the parlour.

I pivot on my feet to face Neville, who had already raised his wand. I shove my finger in his face.

"Not a word, Neville, " I snarl. “Not one word.”

He hurries to nod at me, throat bobbing, but there’s a determined gleam in his eye that I really don't
like.

“Malfoy,” Ron sneers, trying and failing to intimate Draco standing five feet away from us.

“Weasel,” Draco replies, having regained some of his colour, now that it’s just the six of us in the
room. He gives a mocking bow in Ginny’s direction.

“Weaselette.”

Ginny is perched on a tabletop in the corner, content to watch the play-by-play.

“Loooongbottom. Enjoying your time in the spotlight?”

Neville growls deep in his chest, resting his hands on each of his forearms. Caressing his wands in
their holsters. Draco is a heartbeat from learning in a painful way what we’ve been doing all
summer.

“We’re on the same team now guys,” Hermione admonishes them. “Try not to kill each other.”

She squeezes my hand.

“Dobby,” Hermione calls, and the little elf appears before her. Draco does a double-take at his
former house-elf wearing a miniaturized Potter jersey appearing at Hermione’s summons. “Are you
busy, Dobby?”

Dobby bows to her, his nose touching the carpet.

“No, mistress. Dobby has been in the library, completing this week’s assignments. Did you need
something, mistress?”

Hermione beams at him, pride for Dobby’s progress in his learning flush on her face.

“If you don’t mind, Dobby, could you get a room prepared for Draco?” Dobby looks over his
shoulder, shrinking away when he sees Malfoy standing behind him.
“M-Master Draco is going to be living with Dobby’s Master and Mistress?” the tiny elf squeaks,
moving to cower behind Hermione’s leg.

Hermione shoots Draco a dirty look, condemning him in silence for Dobby’s sudden fear.

Draco rolls his eyes but drops down into a squat.

“It’s good to see you again, Dobby. I apologize for the way my father treated you, but I promise,
you have no reason to fear me. Missy misses you terribly; I told her if I ever saw you again, I’d
pass along that message.”

“You’s not be taking orders from your father anymore?” Dobby asks, peeking his head out from
behind Hermione’s knees.

“No, Dobby. That’s why I am here.” Draco makes a face like something tastes sour in his mouth
before he says, “Harry helped free me, just like he did you.”

“That’s right!” Dobby agrees, moving out from behind Hermione and gaining enthusiasm for his
subject. “Dobby is a free elf!” He jabs himself in his chest. “Dobby serves his Master and Mistress
because he loves them, not because he is forced. Harry Potter is the defender of House Elves!
Harry Potter is a great Wizard, as is his ‘Mi!”

Without another word, Dobby pops away, seemingly to ready a room for Draco’s use.

Ron sniggers under his breath, and Draco swats invisible dust from his pants, before rising to his
full height.

“His ‘Mi?” Draco asks in a drawling tone.

“That would be me,” Hermione sighs, a blush filling her cheeks.

I press a kiss on her forehead.

“Defender of House Elves, muggles, and pure-bloods alike, eh Potter?" he snarks sarcastically, and
I can’t help but smile in response.

“Something like that,” I say.

Uncomfortable silence settles in the space between us.

It’s awkward.

Very, very awkward.

“So, Potter. Married to the mudblood? Whatcha do, knock her up?”

Suddenly, everything feels normal once again.

Hermione stiffens next to me. Ron growls, his fists tightening in anger. Neville steps up to
Hermione’s side, both wands in his fists.

Then he looks me in the eye.

Hermione isn't the only one who's scary.

Do it, he seems to say.

With pleasure.

I tilt my head in Draco’s direction, and Ron eats the five feet between them in two steps, pulls
back, and buries his clenched fist in Draco’s gut.

Draco collapses to the ground in a groan, and Ron steps on his back before storming from the
room. Malfoy squeaks at the impact, his lungs forcefully expelling air even though it doesn’t look
like he’s sucking any back in yet. His face is turning an alarming shade of red, his mouth flopping
open like a fish.

Ginny follows Ron, stepping over Malfoy’s prone form.

“Really, Ronald,” Hermione lectures, following the other two out of the room. “Was that
necessary?”

The words are right, but the tone is all wrong for one of Hermione’s patented reprimands.

Neville kicks Malfoy, but stumbles over his own feet in his rush to follow Hermione out the door.
Luckily Malfoy is too busy suffocating to harass Neville for his clumsiness.

I squat on the floor next to Draco, watching as air finally eases past his diaphragm and oxygen
floods his bloodstream.

"It's Potter-Black," I say casually. "Lord Potter-Black. We're not married. We're Bonded-Mates."

His eyes widen, his head pulling back to see me through the tears of oxygen deprivation dripping
down his cheeks.

From the look on his face, Malfoy’s pureblood education left him privy to the importance of that
announcement. He gasps and coughs, his body desperate to resume its normal functions.

“That information doesn’t leave this house. Swear it,” I growl.

“I swear on my magic,” he squeezes out between clenched teeth.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am, but it feels good in a secret dark corner of my heart to
see him squirming on the floor.

Old habits die hard and all that.

I pat Draco on the cheek.

“Good. Now. We can do this one of two ways, Malfoy. One, we try to ignore each other for
however long this takes. You can stay out of our way, and we’ll stay out of yours. But that’s going
to get old pretty damn fast.”

Draco swallows audibly, his throat bobbing with the effort.

“Option two, you join us, for real. You’re second in our year, behind Hermione. You’re smart,
resourceful. A decent dueler, from what I remember. I’m sure Mi would enjoy someone to talk to
besides Remus who understands more than half of what she says without her needing to stop and
explain it in little words for us. Join us, train with us, and when the time comes, fight with us. The
choice is yours.”

I pull the blade from my back.

It’s not the real sword.

Of course, Malfoy doesn’t know that.

“But if I ever hear that foul word out of your mouth again, I will cut out your tongue.”

Draco scowls at me but nods his agreement.

Dobby pops back into the room and grins at the sight of his former master cowering before his
current lord.

“Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix,” I say and leave him to Dobby’s care.
 Chapter 34
Chapter Notes

Thank you so much for your continued support!!! Comments make me happy :)
 Hermione

So much to do, so little time.

Winky has secretly been expanding the table in our bedroom as my piles of notes and research
continue getting wider and wider.

There’s the medicinal pile, where I’m trying to memorize as many healing spells and potions as
possible.

The Horcrux pile, because everything else we do is pointless unless we can find that final piece of
Voldemort’s soul.

There’s the Bond-Mate pile, and that’s growing at a rate that frankly should be concerning.

The table also includes Harry’s stack of war books. As well as his notes with so-called proof that
the final Horcrux is simply lounging around at the school waiting for us to stumble upon it.

Ron’s mountain of planning and tactical theory has a home on it also.

Not to mention the rolled-up scrolls of Azkaban’s blueprints, Hogwarts blueprints, and the
blueprints for the Ministry of Magic.

I’m still not sure how Tonks pulled that off and why she didn’t question when I asked for them.

That doesn’t even include the bookshelves in our secondary closet that have turned into our
personal library, holding our private collection.

Winky advised me just this morning that the spare closet is actually a nighttime nursery whenever
the need arrives. She scared me so much I think I may start taking the potion on top of the pill. I’m
not battling Death Eaters nine months pregnant thank you very much. Nor do I have any desire to
live in a tent that way either.

The boy’s barge into the bedroom as loud as two teenagers can, Harry discussing the new shield
spell they learned tonight that manifests an actual shield for Ron to hold, and Ron complaining that
he can’t wait to accidentally on purpose hit Malfoy with the practice sword and could they maybe
get a sandwich before his stomach eats itself?

Crookshanks scurries out of our bedroom, rubbing up against Harry’s ankle as he goes. My cat has
learned the hard way since we moved into the Townhouse that he doesn’t want to be stuck in the
bedroom with us at night. I keep meaning to research if there’s a way we can add a magical kitty
door without voiding the wards.

“Maybe we should start you on nutritional potions, Ronald. You can toss back a vial or two and
collect all the calories you need that way.”

Ron gives me a horrified expression as he drops into the chair across from me.

“I knew you were a hard woman, Mione, but I didn’t realize you were cruel.”

Harry bends over me and brings his lips to mine, and I kiss him quickly before turning back to Ron.
Both guys are still sweaty, having come straight from the training room in the attic.

Since I don’t have a sword to practice with, I’ve ditched the second training sessions to work on
studying instead.

“I’m only trying to help,” I assure him, struggling to contain my smile. “Since you’re always so
hungry, I thought the potion would help you from wasting all that time eating.”
Ron looks like I asked him to keep a Blast-Ended Skrewt as a house pet.

“That’s cruel and unusual punishment is what that is.”

Ron shakes his head, pulling the book on dementors into his lap.

I chuckle under my breath.

“Flip you for the shower?” Harry says, yanking his shirt off over his head.

Dobby appears beside the table and, giving me a sheepish little smile, drops a plate of ham and
cheese sarnies and crisps onto the wood before popping away again.

Ron immediately shoves a bit into his mouth, moaning in pleasure at the sensation.

“Ioam gouhd. Ooo go,” he garbles through a full mouth, waving off Harry’s offer to flip for the
loo. Flecks of bread fly from between his lips, and it’s like a car crash.

It's horrible, and barbaric, yet I can’t seem to turn away.

“Okay,” Harry laughs, then heads into the closet to grab a clean set of clothes. “If you’re serious
about those potions though, Mi, I’ll take ‘em.”

I jerk around in my chair, roughly pulling my gaze from the disgusting view of Ron shovelling
food into his face and stare at my husband instead.

He looks good wearing just the track pants, the elastic of his trunks showing over the top of the
trousers. Then he shucks them both, neither boy giving a care in the world that one of them is
starkers.

His muscles are already growing from all of the work with that sword...

Ron is here.

Ron is here.

You cannot shag your husband with your best friend in the room. Harry laughs inside my head, and
I smack him away internally.

I yank my eyes away as he ruffles through the hamper for this morning's towel to tie around his
hips. Winky would have his hide if she saw that.

“I was actually just trying to send Ronald round the bin, but yeah, I can get them for you no
problem. Why though? You aren’t actually going to stop eating, are you? I was kidding about
that.”

He heads into the loo and gets the shower started before stepping into the doorway and leaning
against the frame.

“No, I’m not going to stop eating. But Ron isn’t the only one feeling a little puckish lately, and I
figure a decade of malnutrition would only be helped with some of those orange replenishing
potions you keep around. Don’t act like you haven’t slipped me one or two in the past.”

“I—” have no idea what to say, because if you’d had asked me twenty minutes ago if Harry knew I
spiked his pumpkin juice with a nutrition potion for the first month or so after every summer hols,
I would have sworn on Crookshanks life that he had no idea.
Harry laughs at me, full-bodied and happy, before going back into the loo and cracking the door.

“Caught ya, huh?” Ron says with a knowing smile.

I—I...He probably pulled it from my mind, the wanker.

Defend and deflect.

“What have I told you about asking the elves to do things for you?”

His face falls into a pitiful pout.

“Come off it, Mione. They love it. It’s rude not to let them help. I’m only doing what you want me
to, making sure they’re happy.”

“That’s not—” I stutter in irritation. “You know—” I don’t understand how S.P.E.W has turned
into Ron giving me lessons in elvish etiquette. I open a book at random and slam it on the table.

“Honestly, Ronald!” I huff, and pointedly ignore him when he smiles around his sandwich.

Harry joins us ten minutes later, his hair only dried with a towel and his glasses crooked on his
nose.

“We should talk about your birthday,” Ron says, using any excuse he can think of to stop reading
about Dementors. Or specifically, how to sneak by them without being noticed.

Hint, we still have no idea.

“No, we shouldn’t. I really couldn’t care less,” Harry drones. “We have more important things to
worry about.”

We’re having a joint party for both Harry and Neville on Friday with Mrs Longbottom in
attendance.

She wanted Neville to come home for a few days, but he told her there'll be plenty of birthdays
after we defeat Voldemort. He’d rather stay here with us and learn. Harry practically glowed with
pride.

I feel sorry for Mrs Longbottom, though.

She’s already lost her children to this war. Now she’s sent her grandson off to train to fight in their
stead. Like we’re in the Middle Ages instead of the twentieth century and every family has to
sacrifice their oldest son to the cause. For as proud as Mrs Longbottom must be of him, she must be
terrified as well.

“Come on, Harry,” I plead. “You’ve got to want something for your birthday.”

“You naked and tied to the bed,” Harry answers without taking his eyes from the book in his hands.

Was—did he just say that out loud? Or was that in my head? ‘Cause, he didn’t even blink when he
said that.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” Ron shouts, shoving up from the table and covering his ears with his
hands. “I can’t hear that sort of shite!”

Out loud then.

“Harry James Potter-Black!” I scold while trying to hold in my giggles.

Harry finally raises his eyes from his book, his eyebrow lifted and a bland look on his face.

“Look, you have no one to blame but yourself. The thought of tying someone up never would have
occurred to me if you hadn't shown me that book.”

“You can’t say things like that in front of Ron!” I hiss at him, the blood rushing to my face.

“You have BOOKS!” Ron bellows, his eyes going wide then quickly flicking around the piles
stacked six high on our table. Then his voice gets so low I can barely hear him as leans in close to
Harry.

“You have books?” he asks again just a smidgen too earnestly for my liking.

“I’ve created a monster,” I say for the hundredth time.

Now there’s going to be two of them.

Harry looks up at Ron, who seems to be not so inconspicuously looking for said books around our
bedroom.

“Of course, we have books. Look who I’m married to. In the second closet,” Harry tells him,
pointing over his shoulder. “Help yourself. But leave the one on BDsM, I’m still reading that one.”

Ronald almost chokes on his tongue, mumbling under his breath about people being mental and
barking up the wrong tree. Then he pushes his chair out from behind him and marches smartly over
to the secondary closet.

He disappears for a moment, his “bloody hell,” carrying faintly into the bedroom.

He reappears with a stack of books in his hands and storms from our bedroom without another
word.

Fabulous.

He’s sharing a room with Neville.

Oh Merlin! What happens if Draco wanders into their room...?

I slink down in my chair, shame flushing my skin pink.

Well then.

That’s one way to cut the study session short.

Harry tosses his book onto the table and faces me instead.

“If you don’t like it, you know, this monster you’ve created, you could always obliviate it from my
mind. It’s not like I’d know the difference.”

Harry lifts slightly from his seat, both of his hands gripping the arms of my chair. He crowds over
top of me, pushing into my personal space until I’m forced to lean back in my seat to look at him.

“Where would the fun be in that?” I ask him. “Unless you meant it would be fun for me as I get to
show it to you for the first time again. Knowledge is power. Even when it comes to sex.”
Maybe especially when it comes to sex.

Though, I never realized what a quick learner Harry was when he was interested in the subject.

I had always assumed his accelerated learning of DADA was some combination of necessity and
enjoyment, but now I’m starting to think he’s just that fast a learner when he puts his mind to it.

Theory still escapes him, but he’s a deft hand at practical application.

“I’m cashing in one of those I.O.U’s,” he whispers, his lips hovering over mine.

“Which one is that?”

We’ve tallied so many, back and forth over the last several years that I can’t even keep track at this
point.

A book sails from his bedside, disguised as 5th year Transfiguration and lands deftly into his
hands.

He kisses me once, twice, and pulls away when I try to deepen the kiss into something more. I’m
utterly embarrassed with the way I whine when he removes his lips from mine. Instead, he flips the
book to the appropriate page and holds it open for me to see.

This again.

"But whyyy?" I pout, looking at the incredibly graphic picture of the witch sitting on the bloke’s
face. Sure, she looks like she’s enjoying herself, but I just can’t get over how...personal that
position is.

What if I’m too heavy? What if he suffocates?

Imagine Mortimer’s expression when Harry ends up dead again because I smothered him with my
quim.

I can’t do it. I can’t.

“Stop babbling. You weigh like eight stone tops, and if I had to die, you sitting on my face would
be the way to go.”

“Stop reading my mind!”

I try to push him away, but he crowds me until I can barely breathe without inhaling his scent.
Harry takes the book from my hands and drops it on the floor.

I look from it, to him with horrified eyes.

“Hey! You can’t just treat a book like—” I’m rudely cut off when Harry brings his lips to mine,
silencing my outburst. He shucks his hands up the side of my shirt, and with a swift yank on the
material has it up and over my head before I can even blink.

“Let’s make a deal,” he says, hauling me to my feet and deftly walking me backwards. It’s hard to
kiss and walk at the same time, but I give it my best shot.

“What?” I ask distractedly, when his hands find the buckle of my jeans and work the zipper down.

His fingers slide into my knickers, and I stumble when he twirls his digits around my clit.
“We can take turns. I pick something from a book, and then you can pick something from a book.
We’ll just methodically work our way through them, like we would any other research material.”

That’s a low blow, even for Harry. He knows how much I love research.

“What’s in it for me?” I ask, using my feet to finish pulling my jeans the rest of the way off and
leaving them on the floor. My knickers are next, and it takes a moment for me to realize that I’m
wholly starkers and Harry still has all his clothes on.

“You can take notes,” he says as I help him pull his shirt up over his head, “and add it to your
paper,” he mumbles against my lips.

He’s only wearing sleep trousers, and they fall to the floor in a heap.

Merlin.

He’s hard as a rock inside his trunks, the fabric tented between his hips and the muscles in his
thighs flexing to an obscene degree when he squats slightly to pick me up.

I don't know why he even bothered to put them on.

I wrap my legs around his hips and let him take me to our bed.

“And all the orgasms you can handle,” he adds as if research for my Bond-Mate paper wasn’t
enough to seal the deal.

He drops me on the mattress, then quickly shoves his pants down his legs before climbing up after
me.

“Tit for tat?” I confirm. “I can pick anything I want?”

Smugness surges along our bond, as Harry realizes he’s won.

“Luv, you can tie me to the bed and stick a bow on my arse for my birthday if it’ll get you to sit on
my face tonight.”

Well.

There’s an offer a girl can’t refuse.

“Yeah, okay?” I quiver.

My entire body flushes with embarrassment and desire. My heart is beating like a hummingbird’s
wings when Harry lays down in the middle of the bed and reaches out his hands for me.

Merlin.

I crawl on my knees over to his head and with shaking limbs fling one of my legs over to the other
side of his shoulders.

“Shit!” I squeal when Harry surges up to grab my hips and yank me down on top of him.

I flop against his torso with zero coordination, barely keeping myself from face planting into his
crotch.

“Harry!”
Harry’s hands are running up and down my thighs, the bond pulsing with excitement and
determination.

He runs his fingers up my back, sending goosebumps over my extremities. I think he’s trying to
calm me down, but all he’s doing is hyping himself up.

“You can lie on me, Hermione. It’s fine. You’re fine. Merlin, you look so good like this.”

I don’t even have a chance to respond before his arms are up and around my hips and his hands are
pulling my arse cheeks apart.

“Gah!” I say inarticulately when his tongue licks a stripe up the middle of my quim, stopping
somewhere along my bum.

His fingers pull my slit wide and already it sounds wet and lewd when he laps against my flesh.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I hate cussing, and Harry has reduced me into a vulgar heathen.

I grasp the base of his cock and leverage myself up on one hand so my mouth is level with his tip. I
try to latch my mouth around him, but he buries his fingers into my quim, and I end up missing his
dick altogether.

Instead, I land a haphazard openmouthed kiss along his shaft, and Harry thrusts up into my hand.

We stay like that for a time, me dropping open mouth kisses up and down his dick while Harry
teases my entrance, circling his fingers and barely pushing in before pulling out to start the taunt
again.

I freeze when I realize I’m thrusting back against his face, and —

“Fuck!” I cry out when Harry smacks my arse, the sound of it loud and shocking in the near silence
of our room.

My fingertips start to tingle, and I work my hand up and down his length again, attempting to put it
in my mouth.

The best I can do are kitty kat licks across the top of his head.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” he says with a smile.

His mouth is against my quim when he talks, and the vibrations do wonders against my pussy lips.

“Would you—” Another wave of pleasure rolls through me, making my toes curl. “Would you lay
off me for just a moment, please, so I can concentrate?”

“Uh-uh,” he hums with his lips around my clit and my head droops onto his thigh, my nose an inch
away from his testicles. I dart out my tongue and lick at those instead, and Harry’s lazy thrusting
into my hand picks up speed.

He wraps his arms completely around my waist and hauls my crotch onto his face, so I feel his
every breath pulse against me.

“Slow down,” I beg, or at least I think I do. I can’t be sure of anything at this point.
The muscles in my belly are coiled tight. The nerves at the base of my spine are radiating in a
thousand different directions. He shakes his head like a dog between my legs, flicking his tongue
this way and that.

Harry smacks my arse again, the other cheek this time, and who the hell is this man underneath
me? I open my mouth to yell at him, but he smacks my arse a third time, and rather than yell I sort
of moan pathetically into his pubic hair.

The fingers on one hand, are pumping in and out of my pussy, the rhythm determined and intense.

The other is circling the tight rim of my arse. I’m going to die and Harry is going to die because
I’m gonna kill him when I die prone across his chest and face.

“Harry, I’m—”

“Uh-huh,” he moans again, and a single finger slips past that first ring of muscle on my forbidden
hole.

Harry flicks his tongue against my clit faster than I thought possible, and I come undone on top of
him.

My orgasm doesn’t simply happen, but consumes me from the inside out.

Every neuron in my body spasms in a painful wave leaving devastation in their wake. My muscles
clench where he’s penetrating me, and I pull him that much deeper inside my body.

“Oh God, Harry,” I cry out, bucking against his tongue.

He pulls his fingers from my person and pins me to his face to lap at me while I ride out the flood.
I collapse entirely on top of him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he begins jerking his hips
into the loose facsimile of a fist I have wrapped around his dick.

I’m twitching and jerking and whimpering against him, but now it’s from over-sensitivity and not
simply overwhelming pleasure. I lift my knee from beside his ear and almost sag in relief when he
lets me go. I’m on my back beside him no longer than a heartbeat, though, before he’s settling
himself between my knees.

My second orgasm, just an echo compared to the first, starts the minute he fills me with his prick.

Honestly, I can’t tell if it’s my second or his first. Maybe both.

He thrusts for less than a minute, his pace fast and brutal, before his hips stagger and his back
arches, and he drops his forehead to mine, emptying himself inside of me. He collapses to the side
and pulls me into his arms.

My chest is still heaving as I recover my breath.

“Do you have a colour bow in mind?” I ask him, still listening to our merged heartbeats thundering
away in my ears, “because I’m going to take you up on that whole tying you to the bed thing for
your birthday.”

Harry chuckles under his breath, his eyes closed, and his smile relaxed.

“Anything other than pink,” he says playfully.

Looks like I need to go shopping before Friday.

 Chapter 35
Chapter Notes

Sorry it's a little late today. Enjoy!

 Hermione

Harry and I come to a stop when we enter the kitchen to find Kingsley and two young Wizards I
don’t recognize.

“Morning,” Harry says hesitantly.

Harry tilts his head in Ron’s direction, barely more than a twitch.

Despite rolling his eyes at him, Ron picks up his plate and moves to the head of the table.

I love being able to feel Harry’s emotions because you’d never be able to tell the relief he feels at
not being stuck as the centre of attention just by looking at him.

His disquiet floods into me like the Thames, but on the outside, Harry doesn’t even twitch. He
slides into Ron’s abandoned spot, and I take the only remaining seat across the table from him.

Notice with the addition of two unknowns Harry’s back is to the wall…again.

This kitchen, it’s pretty big.

And the table was designed for sixteen people without magic, yet this morning every seat is taken.
It didn’t really occur to me until right this moment that we’re collecting houseguests like my gran
collected tea cosies.

Even Draco is at the table, though I’m pretty sure that’s because Mrs Weasley told him that if he
didn’t eat with us then he didn’t eat at all.

How very Beauty and the Beast of her.

With Draco here, even though he hasn’t stepped foot into the attic yet, it makes our sparring
uneven, so I was thinking about popping down to the Burrow and making the walk to Luna’s house
to ask if she wanted to spend the rest of the holiday with us too.

What makes it even weirder is somehow, I’ve started thinking of the townhouse as my house in the
last few weeks.

The place I share with Harry, and really, it’s too early in the day for these types of emotional
revelations.

Crookshanks rubs against my legs, and I lean down to pet him absentmindedly.

He’s spent most of his time exploring the house since we brought him from my folks’ place the
other day. "Happy Birthday, Nev," I say, and the other Gryffindor grins at me around a bite of
sausage.

"Thanks!" he says with glee.

“Did we miss an Order meeting or something?” Harry asks when the chatter fails to pick up around
us. We're expecting people tonight for the party, but that’s still hours away yet.

“Not exactly,” Sirius says, and I can’t read his tone of voice.

“We had the morning off,” Kingsley advises us, his expression utterly bland. He moves his outer
robes to the side to display not just one wand—but two.

“We thought we’d see what all the fuss was about,” says one of the two strangers with a very
unconvincing smile. “Training with the Chosen One.”

Mockery drips from his voice, and his eyes gleam with malice.

I open my mouth to tell them to go to hell, but Harry beats me to it.

“We won’t go easy on you,” Harry says, and all three Aurors give him a challenging glare. “Bring
it, little boy,” one of the unknown Aurors says with a smirk

Harry’s responding smile makes my blood run cold.

Bloody fucking hell.

Draco is hovering in the background.

He doesn’t announce himself when he enters the training room.

That would be against his nature.

Draco only does things that give him an advantage.

I have no idea how long he was there before I saw him lurking in the doorway, but not quite in the
frame itself. He could have been in the hallway for half an hour listening to us grunt and snark.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye for at least five minutes before Harry finally called him
out.

“You’re welcome to join, Malfoy,” Harry offers, leaning heavily on the wooden sword balanced on
its tip at his side. Harry isn’t precisely gasping for air, but he’s undoubtedly breathing harder than
average.

Draco takes one step inside the door, then promptly leans up against the wall. “No thanks, Potter. I
think I’ll watch you get your arse kicked instead.”

Harry was already advanced for his age at fifteen. Now, with three years of additional practice and
how Nate has brought the sword into his duelling technique, Harry is nothing short of magnificent
to watch.

Hence, why we have three Aurors on the other side of the room prepping to go mano-a-mano. I
can’t wait to see Draco’s expression. He’s going to pee his pants when he sees Harry fight.

Four days Draco has been with us now.

Four long days.

On day three, he found his way to the library.

I didn’t say anything to him, but handed him a book on advanced potion making for medicinal use.
He took the chair across from me and opened the book to page one.

When he left only to return a few minutes later with quill and parchment, I wordlessly reached into
my bag and pulled out one of the Muggle spiral notebooks we bought for note-taking, handing him
the green covered pad of paper and a pen.

“Easier than a quill,” I told him, flipping open my current notebook, which was already half-filled.

I slid the Bic pen across the paper, letting him see the way it works. He stared at it, and me, for so
long I started to tense, waiting for the impending explosion or insult.

Instead, he mumbled, “Thanks,” so quietly I barely heard it. Without another word, he flipped the
lined paper to page one and began to take notes.

I left him there at almost midnight when Harry came to collect me for bed.

Frankly, I was pleasantly surprised Harry allowed me to be alone with him. He’s gone a little
caveman since that binding sealed us together. But later that night, when we lay entangled in the
dark, I thanked Harry in hushed tones for letting me fend for myself. He told me I’d already
pummeled Draco once. He knew I would punch him again if it came down to it.

True right I will.

Plus, there’s that vow to take into consideration. I’m pretty sure harming me would invalidate it.
Then we’d have a dead Malfoy scion on our hands, and that wouldn’t be good for anybody. Draco
left his notes and the book in the library, and I peeked at them on the way to the attic this morning.

Thank Merlin he never took to Riddle’s ideology as fully as he pretends he did, even in the past
timeline. His mind is...brilliant. I can see why Snape thinks so highly of him, even if they hadn’t
been connected since Draco’s birth. One day, thirty years from now, some random student is going
to find one of Draco’s potions textbooks in a cupboard and jump to the top of their year in that
subject.

He slinks around the house as quietly as a snake, observing and gathering data. Unlike Ron and
Neville’s fears, I don’t have any worries about Draco betraying us.

No.

He’s here for the duration. I’ve seen what becomes of him if he strays. So has he, through Harry’s
warnings.

But Draco is a planner by nature. Admittedly, while his personality is intolerable, it’s one of the
things I can appreciate about him. Even though he came of his own free will, with (in my opinion
at least) probable heavy encouragement from Professor Snape, he’s been thrust into unknown
territory. I understand the need to strategize before making a decision.

No. After all is said and done, four days feels about right to me. Harry finds the entire thing
hilarious.

Personally, I think Harry is just eager to get Draco on the training mat, so he has an excuse to
rough him up a bit. Ron is practically salivating at the thought. Draco is welcome to lean against
the wall and watch for now, but Nate won’t let him stay that way for long, and neither will my
boys.
Nate steps into the middle of the room, calling the assembled people to order. He puts his fists on
his hips and turns to look at the smirking Aurors.

“Are you here to train or duel?”

There’s a gleam in the younger Auror’s eyes I really don’t like.

I’m going to wipe them before they leave, I think. Make them think they spent the morning picking
flobberworms.

“If I said train?” Kingsley prompts.

“Then I would assign you each with a team of duelers to teach them what you know. They need to
learn different fighting styles. So long as you don’t undo any of the progress we’ve made, I think
this would be a great opportunity for everyone.”

Kingsley nods at that.

“And if we said duel?” the other asks.

I still don’t remember their names.

“Then I’d stand out of the way and let you at it. They still need to learn different fighting styles,
and some of them learn better by doing rather than watching.”

By some of them, he means Harry.

Harry has always been a trial by fire kinda guy.

“I think we should do both. The duelling won’t take very long. We fight till he gives in, then we
can show him what he did wrong,” one of the strangers says with a smirk.

Nate is smirking too.

He pivots on his heel to look at me.

“Do you have the phoenix tears?” he asks.

Professor Dumbledore passed me a vial the other night after the meeting. ‘ Just in case’ he said
with a wink. Just in case Harry accidentally nicks someone with that sword is what he meant.

If Harry draws blood with the Sword of Gryffindor, it isn’t going to be by mistake.

I nod my head and summon my bag.

“Essence of Dittany too. Plus, the regular array of pain potions and skelegro, blood replenishing,
etc. Just in case.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?” stranger boy asks, his face becoming drawn.

Nate looks him in the eye, and I can see why he was chosen for the task force. He has a no-
nonsense way of dealing with things that make people on the other side of his bland and snarky
smile take a step back in caution.

No wonder we like him so much.

“If you’re duelling, yes. No permanent disfigurement. No fights to the death. But the Death Eaters
aren’t going to pull their punches. I don’t want any of you to either. We’ve been doing two a day
practices for weeks now. It’s a good time to introduce another element.”

Kingsley, who has already discarded his outer robes, flexes his neck left and right.

“We work and train in teams,” Nate tells the Aurors, “but because we all know the main reason for
this visit is to see what Harry is made of, I’ll let him decide.”

He turns and looks at Harry.

“Single person combat, or...?”

“Teams,” Harry says without hesitation. “If we’re going to simulate a real attack, Ron and
Hermione are always at my side.”

Draco’s scoff is so loud I bet it hurt his throat. Ron’s chest seems to double in size.

Teams were a good answer.

Perfect even.

Because if Harry had said he’d duel the Aurors alone and left me on the outside to watch him play
without me, we’d have had our first fight as a married couple, and it would not have ended well for
him.

“Unless you don’t think you can handle three underage Wizards all by yourself?” Harry taunts.

He’s insufferable. He really is.

Kingsley crows with laughter, delight rich on his face.

“This is going to be fun,” he croons, and Harry grins right back.

I’m already regretting this.

Nate claps his hands together then rubs them in excitement.

“Get the real sword,” Nate instructs Harry.

“I’ll get it,” Ron offers.

“Meet us in the backyard, Ron. I have a feeling we’ll need more space to move.”

Ron gives a nod of acknowledgement and jogs from the attic.

We changed the wards when we were adjusting them the other day, so Ron is the only one who
can enter without an invitation.

I’d like to think he’s learned his lesson about walking into rooms without knocking when Harry
and I are alone inside them.

“What sword?” the obviously stupid stranger says as if he’s just now realizing Harry’s been
wearing a sword strapped to his back.

I still haven’t caught his name.

From now on, it’s Stupid.

“You’re training him to fight with the Sword of Gryffindor?” Kingsley asks, and there’s a look on
his face, something, that I can’t really read, and I’m not sure I like it one bit.

“Yes,” Harry answers in Nate’s place. “I need all the advantages I can get, and it’s come to me
twice when I’ve required it. Once I simply asked for it, and it appeared. Dropped into my hands by
Fawkes of all things. Hogwarts can have it back when another Gryffindor needs it more than me.
Call it a hunch, but I doubt that’s going to happen anytime soon.”

Kingsley’s eyes take on a considering glint.

“Let’s move,” Nate says, and we all head towards the attic door, making our way to the garden.

Remus and Sirius grab all our first aid, then shrink the table and bring it with us.

The back garden is large and magically enhanced. Sirius said he and his brother used to fly their
brooms out here when I’m positive the neighbour’s yard isn’t wider than five square.

Everyone is getting set up when Ron reappears slightly out of breath and hands Harry the sword,
grip first. He pulls the fake sword from the scabbard on Harry’s back while Harry tightens his
hand around the real sword’s hilt.

Ron swings it here and there, its weight in his hand half of what he’s used to before he sits it on the
table with our first aid and refreshments.

One of these days, Ron is going to carry a broadsword across his back. Together, they’d be the
scariest Auror team on the planet: the Chosen One and his Lieutenant.

But not today.

Today it’s just Harry and his blade.

Harry and the Sword of Gryffindor have some sort of connection.

I can’t explain it.

Neither can he.

But when Harry grips the sword in his hand, they sort of meld until you can’t see where Harry’s
power stops and the sword’s power begins. Astonishingly, he’s picked up the ability to wield it far
faster than any of us expected.

He’ll practice an hour or two on the duplicate, then pick up the original, and his magic will be
almost perfect.

“You aren’t really a kid at all, are you?” Kingsley asks, walking around Harry in a slow circle.
Harry moves his head to follow Kingsley’s progress but doesn’t rotate his body.

“No,” Harry answers honestly. “I’m not.”

If the guests in our garden didn’t know that yet, well, they’re all about to get a first-hand
demonstration.

Ron pulls both of his wands from their holsters and takes his spot behind and to the right of Harry.
I do the same, and take my place behind and to the left.

If we were surrounded, this would allow us to each cover our own corner while guarding each
other’s backs.

“Everyone get behind a shield,” Sirius demands. “I don’t want any trips to St. Mungos because a
rogue hex hit someone in the face.”

One by one, shields go up around the spectators to protect them from whatever is about to happen.
My heart is thudding out of my chest, and my hands are getting sweaty.

I don’t think they’ll try to kill us.

Kingsley won’t, at least.

But the others?

Since he was eighteen months old, people have looked at Harry as someone to be worshipped, or
challenged. It would be more than worthy of a pint at the pub to come in with witnesses who
claimed that you beat Harry Potter in a duel.

And if one of them happens to be a Death Eater and we just don’t know it yet...

Harry looks over his shoulder at me.

Stop thinking so much. It’s the three of us against the three of them. When have we ever lost when
it was the three of us together?

Ummm, when we died? Seriously Harry! Don’t ask stupid questions!

Plus, Ron’s skills are not anywhere near what they were the last time I fought people off with Ron
and Harry at my back.

Harry faces front again, rotating his shoulders.

The Aurors bow, never lowering their eyes. We return the gesture, my stomach filling with
butterflies.

Stop fretting, luv, he thinks. This’ll be fun.

Harry is bouncing on his toes. Ron’s excitement is catching.

I shake my head to clear it of Harry’s thoughts of fun and almost lower my wands in exasperation.
That’s when they choose to strike, and Harry’s calm flows through me like the Draught of Peace.

Shields erect around us.

Physical incarnations blooming red and gold with roaring lions on the front. They ring when the
first spell hits them.

“Shit,” Ron hisses, the impact making his bones rattle.

“You said not to pull our punches,” Stupid says, grinning ear to ear.

The second curse shatters the shields completely. Red crashes with blue mid-air, and purple sparks
explode around us as Harry’s spell hits one of theirs.
The Aurors concentrate on Harry, assuming correctly that he’s the strongest dueler between us
three. But they ignore Ron and me at their peril, and I hit one right between the eyes with a jelly-
legged jinx.

Harry pelts them with the big guns, spears and knives, and snakes made of fire, while Ron and I
shower them with childhood prank jinxes that wiggle through their defenses.

I smack Stupid One in the gut with a tickle jinx, and he falls to his knees, grabbing his belly until
his partner ends the charm. Ron cries out a Steleus, and Stupid Two bursts out into sneezes.

Kingsley circles his wand above his head then slams it into the ground, causing the earth to shatter
and quake beneath us. Harry leaps over the cracking landscape, lunging forward with the sword.

They weren’t expecting it, and they scramble away like bowling pins before they remember that
Harry isn’t the only one with magic at his fingertips.

Harry is lifted into the air and thrown back to land at my feet.

He’s laughing inside my head as he slides on the ground and shoots a stunner under their shields.

The water from the pitcher on the table rises into the air and multiplies, surging towards us in a
torrent. I transfigure the wave to feathers, and Harry pushes them back the way they came,
attacking our attackers’ pointy end first.

They manage to block all but one, which embeds itself in Stupid’s arm.

He cries out in pain, then throws the crushed feather to the ground.

Kingsley shoots a ball of raw energy that his fellow Auror explodes in a shower of shards. He lifts
his arms above his head and claps his hands together, shoving them in our direction.

Razor sharp energy blasts our way.

Ron jumps in front of me, that new shield spell he’s been so proud of thrumming to life in his
hands. He grins at me over his shoulder, then tenses and collapses to the side as a Petrificus
Totalus takes him, still with the grin on his face.

Harry throws his hand out to the side and shoves a frozen Ron out of the field of battle. I see from
the corner of my eye as Remus and Sirius snap him up and casts a finite on him. They grab his
shoulders when he tries to re-enter the fray. He’s tucked safely behind their shield charm.

“One down,” Stupid hollers, “Two to go.”

Every rock resting inside the garden shoots into the air like a mass of bullets, firing in our
direction. Harry closes his hand into a fist and yanks his hand in towards his body. It pulls me into
his chest while he thrusts the sword into the air. The sword shields us from the sky while I shield
us from the edges.

Harry’s enjoyment dances along my nerve endings. It makes my stomach flip and my fingers
tingle.

While rocks and sticks slap smartly against our barrier, Harry tilts my chin back with the tip of his
wand and kisses me for all that I’m worth. I moan at the addicting sensation, the adrenalin, and
excitement pumping through our mixed blood. Before I’ve got my wits about me, Harry spins me
away and uses the sword and wand together to throw out multiple stunners at once.
His face is alight with happiness. Sweat is dripping off his brow. I’m too busy watching Harry to
pay attention to myself.

I cry out in pain when the curse slashes against my side, then fall to the ground, holding the now
torn skin of my flank together. The expression of surprise on Stupid’s face is undoubtedly a match
for mine.

Hermione! Harry screams in my head.

The entire garden freezes.

Harry takes one look at me, and his fear and anger surge through the bond. It consumes me until
I’m dizzy and nauseous and can’t tell my vision from his.

The garden itself splits in two, as double sight gives me both my perspective from the ground and
Harry’s bearing down upon his enemies.

I’m okay, I try to tell him. Finish it.

Then I’m back in my own head again and what I see is a horrifying sight to behold.

The whole thing took less than a second.

Harry seems to suck all the oxygen from the yard. He takes a breath, and his power inhales with
him. The light around him dims like a black hole consuming everything in its wake.

I feel Ron slide to the ground beside me, his hands over mine, his body shielding me from the
impending detonation. I stretch my back, so I can still see around his form.

I am NOT missing this!

Harry explodes.

Magic surges from him in every direction.

Stupid and the other unknown Auror collapse to the ground in a painful heap, their meagre powers
no match for Harry’s strength.

But Kingsley summons a silver barrier and buckles down behind it. His body pushes back a foot or
two, but he manages to stay on his feet.

Harry takes three steps forward, cold determination in his eyes, lifting the sword in front of him.
He blocks a shot of purple, yellow, blue, before twisting backwards on his toes, swinging the
Sword of Gryffindor in a glorious arc, and slicing Kingsley’s shield in two. With his next step, his
wand is at Kingsley’s throat.

“Yield,” Harry says in a demanding tone of voice. His chest is heaving with exertion. Kingsley
drops his wand, hands open in surrender.

“I yield,” he confirms in his deep and soothing timbre.

Harry drops both sword and wand to the ground and pivots to the side.

The other occupants in the garden, who had been watching the duel with a sort of horrified
fascination on their faces, slowly come alive again.
“Shit,” Nate says harshly, taking in the blood rapidly seeping between my fingers.

Harry ignores him.

He calls the Essence of Dittany to him, dropping to his knees beside me. Ron starts mumbling
under his breath, but Harry gives him no attention. Nate skids to a stop beside us, his hands filled
with every first aid potion available.

“What the...?”

Nate twists on his feet, examining the grass.

I twist my head around on my neck, following Nate’s eyes on the ground. There’s a perfect circle
around me. Scorch marks cover the grass in a thousand different directions, but not a single spark
danced over the line where my invisible bubble held.

A bubble I did not create. I know for a fact that Ronald couldn’t have done it.

I look at the circle again, hissing when I pull on the wound in my side.

That is a neat trick, and I have no idea how Harry pulled it off.

I wonder if even he does, or if it was one of those strange fantastical things that seem to happen
only around Harry Potter.

Harry grabs the bottom of my shirt and rips it like its tissue paper so the wound over my hip is
exposed.

It’s ten inches maybe, and deeper than I thought.

“Somebody help me with this!” Harry demands in a panic, and Nate gently pushes Harry to the
side.

Ron grips my fingers in his, offering me support. Now that my adrenaline is leaving, I’m starting to
feel the sting. Remus drops down beside us and brings a pain potion to my lips.

“She’s fine, Harry. It’s just a scratch,” Remus tries to comfort him. Harry runs his fingers over my
head, pushing my hair to the side. “It barely even stings,” I assure him with a smile.

Or a grimace.

Okay. It’s a little more than a sting. More like a burning fire where my kidney should be, but Harry
doesn’t need to know that. Bugger.

My hands are shaking, and my vision goes white as Nate and Remus poke at the wound.

Then suddenly, all the pain is gone, and Harry sways on his knees.

“Bloody hell, that hurts!” he swears.

That bleeding, annoying, self-sacrificing...he closes off the bond.

“Harry James Potter-Black!” I demand, trying to sit up as Nate drips the dittany on my wound.
“You give me back my pain right this instant!”

Remus shoves me back down and holds me there with a palm on my forehead.
Harry shakes his head, and you can actually see him push the physical pain away. Like when he
described his occlumency to me, he shoves the pain into a box and forgets that it’s even there.

Another skill he learned after years of systematic abuse.

Abuse that didn’t stop when he came to Hogwarts.

Suddenly I’m furious with Dumbledore.

“I have a higher pain tolerance than you,” he insists with eyes tightened in agony. He climbs to his
feet and searches the onlookers, heading straight for the kid that hit me.

Harry grasps the front of his robes and shakes him until the poor bloke looks like he may pee
himself. It’s horribly ironic, since Harry is probably seven inches shorter and three stone lighter
than him.

“What did you hit her with, you daft prick?” Harry growls.

“A-A cutting hex,” he stammers, looking to Kingsley for help.

“What happened to no maiming huh?” Harry demands, a hand wrapping around Stupid’s neck.

“How was I supposed to know she wouldn’t block it?” he squeezes out between weakening
breaths.

“Harry,” I hiss at him, but he ignores me completely, instead slowly strangling the life out of the
poor idiot Auror.

Kingsley takes a calming breath before closing the distance and peeling Harry’s fingers from the
young Auror’s throat.

“Why don’t you guy’s head back to the ministry? Your shift starts soon anyway.”

Stupid practically jumps on the spot and runs coughing back towards the house, Tweedle dumb
following him in a rush. Kingsley chuckles under his breath, his calm finally bleeding into Harry’s
demeanour.

Harry shoves his hands through his hair, all of his earlier enthusiasm depleted.

“Don’t let them go,” I yell. “I want to wipe them first.”

Kingsley laughs outright now, shaking his head in exasperation. He flips his wand and his fellow
Aurors drop on the spot, snoring in a peaceful slumber.

“You know that’s still illegal,” he tells me, and all I can do is shrug.

Harry rubs at his side where the wound is almost closed over my hip and comes to hover over me.

“That feels better guys, thanks. But she’s still a little lightheaded. Give her one of the replenishing
potions too.”

Oh, it feels better, does it?

It’s not like it’s my body or anything. Stupid, overprotective, annoying, patronizing...

“Stop being so damn bossy,” I snap at Harry.

Harry runs his fingers through my hair, not bothering to respond.

“We should get you guys some armour,” Nate says conversationally as he magically heals my
wound.

“Absolutely,” Sirius agrees. “It’ll be too expensive to kit out the entire Order, but the main forces
definitely need some.”

Mrs Weasley pops into my frame of vision, wringing her hands in front of her.

“Refreshments, dear?” she asks, looking towards Harry for instruction. “Maybe a nice spot of tea?”

Has the world gone mad around me?

Because when I crawled out of bed this morning, ending up bleeding in the garden while half the
Order talked pell-mell around me wasn’t on my list of things to do.

Harry bites his lips together, his chest heaving in silent laughter.

“Bloody hell,” Draco breathes from outside the circle and I look up from my spot on the ground.
He takes a tentative step closer, examining the chaos left over from our duel.

“What in the bleeding hell was that?” he demands, his eyes wide and his hands trembling. “When
in Merlin’s left saggy tit did you lot learn to fight like maniacs?”

His face, it’s everything I thought it’d be and more.

It’s better even than when I punched him.

And I’m bleeding on the ground and too worked up to appreciate it now—such a waste of a
perfectly good reveal.

Or was bleeding.

I think that’s pretty much stopped. I try to sit up again, only to have Remus put more pressure on
my forehead. I smack his hand away, and he smiles at me fondly.

“That,” Kingsley replies, grinning like he just won first prize in a science fair instead of having his
ass handed to him by a teenager, “is what happens when a Mate falls in battle, and her partner is
one of the strongest Wizards alive. You have excellent control, Potter. I really thought you’d kill us
there.”

I can’t contain my scoff.

I mean, honestly. If Harry were going to kill you, he would have. He was never out of control. Not
really.

I don’t think so anyway.

“Remember that, Malfoy,” Ron growls, still on his knees beside me, “the next time you get the
bright idea to betray us. I’d be happy to hide your body after Harry gets through with you.”

Draco scoffs in disgust; his lips turned up in a sneer.

“I can’t betray him Weasel, or are you too dim to understand the finer points of a Vow of Fealty?
I’m at his mercy until the stupid oaf releases me.”
Ron starts to growl deep in his chest, shooting to his feet. Harry starts to laugh, taking off his
glasses and rubbing at his nose. Remus and Sirius each grab one of my hands and haul me to my
feet.

Sirius pushes my hair off of my face, then wraps his arm around my shoulder, dropping a kiss on
my forehead.

“Nice job, Pup,” he whispers into my hair before passing me to his Godson.

“You okay, baby?” Harry whispers into my ear.

Ummm, baby? That is a horribly demeaning term and why do I like it so much?

“Yeah,” I say back shakily, watching as Ron and Draco get nose to nose.

Ron is screaming about purebloods shagging their grandmothers, and Draco asks how Ron likes
sleeping in a pen.

The twins pass knuts back and forth as each win points in their unknown scoring system, over bets
made who knows when.

"Ronald realizes that he's a pureblood too, doesn't he?" I ask conversationally.

“Ron doesn’t realize anything that would equate him as equal with the Malfoys.” Harry drops a
kiss onto the top of my head. “I think it’s time we took a day off, what do you think?”

I tilt my face to watch him, and he stares at me from under his lashes, ignoring the chaos erupting
in the garden.

"A day off?" I repeat dumbly. "No training? No studying. No trying to take over the Wizarding
world."

"None," he agrees with a soft smile. “I’m actually rather tired of blowing thing up so be honest,” he
says with a shrug. “I could use a break. After all, it is my birthday tomorrow.”

"What did you have in mind?"

His eyes flick to the others before giving his attention back to me.

"I'm assuming I can't keep you in bed all day to help you recuperate?"

I bite my bottom lip, and Harry pulls it out with his thumb.

"No. You may not. I’m already healed and it will barely even scar."

"Fine then. What do you want to do?" He asks me softly.

I tilt my face to watch him, and he stares at me from under his lashes, ignoring the chaos erupting
in the garden.

“I’ve still never been to the cinema with a boy,” I say thoughtfully, thinking about our conversation
in the bath.

“Draco needs a second wand too,” he says by way of agreement.

He bends his neck and kisses me, uncaring of the audience, pausing to watch.
“You wipe the morons,” he says. “Make them think they stunned each other. I’ll talk to everyone
else.”

Harry runs his fingers through my hair, before I peel away from his side. I squat next to the
sleeping Aurors while Harry wades back into the fight.

“I think that’s enough for one day,” he says as I watch him from the corner of my eye. “Everybody
get dressed in Muggle clothing. We’re going into London.” Harry points before Draco even
finishes opening his mouth to complain. “Malfoy, you’re coming if I have to Imperius you to make
it happen. Molly, you too. I’ll meet you in the kitchen in half an hour.”

He turns to face Kingsley.

“That was fun,” Kingsley tells him, and the smile returns to Harry’s face.

They start walking in my direction. I wake the Aurors from their slumber and watch with
amusement as they climb to their feet.

“Yeah, it was.” Then his face hardens into a scowl. “Just tell your friends next time not to hurt my
fucking wife.”

Kingsley gives him a sharp nod.

“Same time next week?” he asks, offering his hand to Harry.

Harry shakes it with enthusiasm. He grins at Kingsley ear to ear.

“Looking forward to it, Sir,” he says.

Harry links my fingers with his and then pulls me from the garden.
 Chapter 36
Chapter Notes

Sorry I missed last week. I've not been in a great headspace. But depression and self-
pity is an ugly, ugly look on me, so I've decided I'm not going to wallow in it.

Do me a favor and leave a comment if you enjoy this chapter? Please and thank you.
It'll make me smile.
 Harry

“You have got to be kidding me!”

Ron’s exclamation brings all eyes towards him, then all eyes towards the front of the kitchen where
Ron is staring.

Draco has appeared in all his pure blood finest. Black trousers, black shirt, black tie, black sports
coat, black socks, and a silver serpent tie clip. He snaps his arms out in front of him, settling the
coat across his back, and silver cuff links appear around his wrists.

Bloody...

“Jeans, Malfoy,” I say, gesturing around the room.

Molly is in a patterned dress that, while not exactly muggle, doesn’t scream wizard either.
Everyone else is wearing variations of muggle clothing.

“Or short trousers. Something that won’t make the entire London Underground stop and take a
picture of you.”

“Why would we be going underground, Potter? And what in Merlin’s left saggy tit would make
you think I own jeans?”

His words, they’re everything you’d expect from a pureblood scion. But his voice trembles and
pulls in such a way that makes me feel a little sorry for him. He’s never been forced from his
comfort zone before. Over the last few days, we’ve done nothing but to him.

Ginny is sniggering into her tea, nudging Mi with her elbow.

Hermione picks up a biscuit and tosses it at my head.

We should take Draco to the mall. Help him pick out some more appropriate clothing.

No.

Hell no.

I didn’t even do my own shopping. I made the elves do it for me. Which means I’m kitted out in
jeans and a t-shirt that probably cost more than a hundred quid each. I didn’t look at the receipts for
a reason.

The point still stands.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I give her a dry look.

I’m so not, she says, eyes flicking to Draco. Hermione is bouncing up and down on her chair, her
fingers twiddling in her lap. He’ll hate it. It’ll be so much fun.

Merlin’s bloody…

“Change of plans,” I announce, placing my hand on the table and shoving up from my chair.
“Apparently, we’re going shopping.”

I look around the room and do a quick tally in my head. The twins, Ginny, Nev, Ron, Mi, and
Draco. Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Nate, Molly, and Bill, who showed up saying he took today off and
switched it for Sunday to celebrate with me and Nev.

Thirteen witches and wizards, only two of which grew up with Muggles.

Fabulous.

“How many people have been to a mall before?” I ask.

Mi, Tonks, and Nate raise their hands.

“Maybe once, before Azkaban,” Sirius shrugs.

“Not you Remus?” I ask since I know his mother was a muggle-born.

Remus shakes his head.

“I grew up in a small wizarding village. I’ve never been.”

“This is going to be a security nightmare,” Nate says.

“What’s a mall?” Ron asks, and Hermione rolls her eyes.

I hand Nate my cell phone, and he runs his thumb over the front.

“If we get separated, call Mi. The number is programmed in. She’ll have her phone with her.”

“Can we see that?” Fred asks, and Nate hands it over to him. Fred and George immediately start to
press buttons.

“Do you even know how to get to a mall from here?” Nate asks me.

“Not a clue,” I tell him, shaking my head.

“I do,” Hermione assures us, pulling her purse across her chest and tucking her hair behind her
ears. She’s back in one of those sundresses I never knew she wore, and Winky braided her hair
away from her face. She looks lovely sitting next to Gin, who in comparison looks wan and pale to
me. “We can get to Brent Cross from here by a quick ride on the tube.”

“What’s a tube?” Nev questions.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Nate says again.

“I concur,” says Remus.

Sirius throws his arm over Remus’s shoulder, pulling the taller man down with a playful yank that
forces him to stutter on his feet.

“Oh, you lot, live a little,” Sirius encourages. “I have it on good authority I don’t die today, and I
for one would love to get out of this house. Besides, name one Death Eater who frequents the
middle of Muggle London.”

“I thought we agreed Harry wouldn’t leave the house without a glamour in place,” Remus tries to
argue. “But with so many people leaving the Townhouse, even if we glamoured Harry, the enemy
would take one look at the rest of us and realize Harry was there. We’d have to glamour everyone.”

“Sometimes hiding in plain sight is the best disguise there is!” Sirius argues.

“What’s a mall?” Ron asks again, not caring about the arguments going on around us.

I finally speak up.

“Honestly, guys. I understand your point about the security risk. There may be hundreds, or
thousands of people there. But I think Sirius is right. No one is going to be looking for us in a
muggle shopping centre. On top of that, it would be...” not very Slytherin of him for one. “Brash,
for Voldemort to make such a rash move so early in his campaign. Malfoy?”

The stuck up prick turns to me with a questioning gaze.

“You spent the last month kissing his lordship's ass. Odds that he’s already working on how to
grab me since his last attempt failed?”

Draco seems to stand a bit taller, having been asked for his opinion.

“Small,” he concedes after a pause. “Your most recent escape was glossed over. While I did
overhear him railing at my father, your entire presence in the graveyard was downgraded so as not
to appear like you’d bested him once again. He let you go, to spread the tale of his resurrection and
might.”

I scoff and roll my eyes. Of course, he’d say that. I face Nate and Remus again, still quietly
bickering with Sirius and, surprisingly, Tonks. “I’m not in charge of security or whatnot, but I
wouldn’t bring Hermione out in public if I thought it was a risk to her,” I say honestly.

“And what are the rest of us,” Draco complains. “Chopped liver?”

Remus sighs in surrender, pulling on his coat.

“Have you noted his ever-increasing concern for your safety in your research notes?” Remus
inquires placidly of Hermione.

Mi sighs in exasperation, rising from her seat.

“Yes,” she sighs in irritation.

“Are we doing this then?” Sirius says, flinging his hair out of his eyes.

“I suppose we are,” Remus says reluctantly.

Much to my confusion, Mi leaps up from the table and walks to Draco’s side, slinking her arm
around his elbow.

“Potter!” he demands in a panic, looking at where their bodies are linked with abject horror in his
eyes. “She’s touching me. Why is your wife touching me? Make it stop.”

I open my mouth to say just that, and Hermione tightens her eyes and glowers at me in an
expression I recognize well to mean, “Proceed at your own peril.”

I shove my hands in my pockets and try not to flinch.

“Why are you telling me? If you want her to stop, ask her.”

Draco looks like he’s doing his best to pretend the entire situation isn’t happening.

“She’s your wife. Control her.”

Ron and I both burst into laughter, Ron so hard he has to sit back down. Hermione digs her nails
into Draco’s arm, and he squeals in surprised pain, trying and failing to peel her fingers from his
forearm.

Ron wipes tears from his face, happiness alight over his features.

“I didn’t know you were that funny, Malfoy. Or that stupid. I thought self-preservation was
something Slytherins were good at.” Ron shakes his head. “Tell Mione what to do...” he mumbles
through laughter.

Ginny, never one to let an opportunity to meddle pass her by, jumps from her chair and takes
Draco’s other side.

Draco glances between the Muggle-born on one arm and a Weasley on the other and looks like he
may be sick.

“I should have stayed with the Dark Lord,” he grumbles, his face tight with pain. “Certainly, being
his whipping boy would be better than this.”

He tries one more time to use his best sneer to scare off Hermione.

“Why are you tormenting me?” he asks plaintively.

Hermione gives him a sad little smile.

“Because I’ve seen what you become otherwise, Malfoy. Trust me when I tell you, this is
preferable to that.”

Draco’s face falls into agitation, and he doesn’t say another word.

“I’ve never seen so much stuff in one spot in all my life.”

I glance up from browsing a rack of t-shirts to see Ron looking around the men’s section of Mark
and Spencer with wide eyes and greedy fingers.

We split up after the first hour or so of walking the shops. Tonks, Remus, Bill, and the twins have
gone in search of ‘something fun to do.’ I’m counting on Remus to keep them from too much
trouble.

The rest of us are in our sixth clothing shop of the day, trying to find something suitable for his
highness that he would deem worthy of covering his pompous arse.
Unsurprisingly, Mrs Weasley has taken to the idea of reclothing Draco with enthusiasm, and has
helped Gin drop a few items into her own pile as well.

Draco unfortunately, has only gotten surlier as the day has gone on.

“I want to go back!” Draco demands, pulling at his tie around his throat. “I would never lower
myself to dress like a muggle anyway.”

I shove my hands in my pocket to keep from punching him, and take in a calming breath.

“What is your problem, Malfoy? If the girls are bothering you that much, just tell them. I’m sure
they’ll leave you alone. There’s lots of stuff for them to look at for themselves.”

Blood rushes to Draco’s face and he looks around our immediate vicinity before taking a step
closer and leering into my personal space. His voice is so dark I barely make out what he’s saying.

“I can’t pay for any of this, Potter! I'm hiding from the Dark Lord. I can’t exactly march into
Gringotts and pull out a bag of galleons, can I?”

Oh.

The thought honestly hadn’t occurred to me, and I feel like a prat.

Because money isn’t something I’ve worried about since I first met Hagrid. While I didn’t have
access to my bank vaults while with the Dursleys, I always knew it was there if I needed it.

Draco is cut off from more than just his parents and his home.

He’s been stripped of his entire place in society.

I take another step closer and lower my voice, hating the fact that I’m forced to look up at him.

“I took a vow the same as you, Draco. To feed you from my table and to warm you from my
hearth. I’d assumed clothing falls into that promise as well. We’re stuck with each other, whether
we like it or not. Let Mi and Gin help you pick out clothes that won’t make people think you’re
some sort of movie star. If it’ll make you feel better, we can keep a tally of what she spends. But
it’s not a big deal.”

“I don’t understand why you insist on going through with this farce!” he hisses in embarrassed
anger.

I shove my fingers through my hair and let my hand glide down my chest, feeling the comfort of
my disillusioned wands against my palm.

We’re not exactly demanding attention, but people are still starting to stare.

I poke him in the chest.

“We’re trying to help you, you stupid ponce. I thought you of all people would understand the need
for a little anonymity. Drop your stuck-up pureblood trappings for an afternoon and learn to have a
little fun.”

“And why would you do that, Potter? Why in Merlin are you so intent on helping me?”

I honestly have no idea.

“Because now, until the foreseeable future, you’re as trapped as I am.”

“No. Absolutely not. I will not wear those shoes, Granger. It’s leather or nothing. Preferably
dragonhide.”

Hermione shakes a pair of black Converse High-tops in Draco’s face, so close to his nose that he’s
forced to lean backwards to avoid getting hit.

“You’re all about being fashion forward, Malfoy. These are as top of the line as they get. Look at
the price if that’s what’ll take to convince you. They’re one of the most expensive pairs here!”

She’s already got a blue pair for me and a red set for Ron.

Twice she’s popped into an alcove to call for Winky and send our bags back home. This is not
what I had in mind when I suggested we take a day off.

Neville and Ron’s eyes have long since glazed over, and Neville has taken to sitting on the floor in
whatever section we get dragged to and pulling open a muggle book on gardening he purchased
earlier in the day.

Draco seems to consider it, eyes flicking between the shoes and the tag on the box. Then...

“But they have a star on it, Granger,” he whines, his face scrunched up in pain. “I can’t wear
something so gauche as a star.”

“I’ll throw in that hideous shirt you wanted,” Mi bargains.

“I want the boots too,” Draco counters, pointing to a pair of mid-calf combat boots that would take
fifteen minutes at least to lace up. “Deal!” she says happily.

I have zero notion as to why it’s so important for Hermione to get Draco into a pair of Chucks.

I’m going to take a picture and use it for blackmail, she says into my head.

I grin at her ear to ear.

Which is how Draco walks out of the fitting room yanking off tags and wearing black jeans, black
Converse, and a white Jurassic Park t-shirt.

“Like it?” he asks, sticking his chest out a little. “I didn’t realize muggle’s had dragon parks,” he
says, looking down at his shirt.

“It’s a dinosaur, moron,” Ron hisses, disgust at Draco’s glee, turning his face sour.

“We should get Draco a haircut!” Ginny says enthusiastically, reaching up and touching his hair.
Draco smacks her hand away with enough force that I can hear the impact from here.

“Touch my hair and I’ll curse you into Oblivion,” he says with a menacing growl.

I stand with Sirius buying the movie tickets while Hermione leads everybody else inside to check
out the consignment stands.

“We need thirteen for Batman Forever,” I tell the clerk, whose eyes widen slightly at the number of
tickets we’re requesting.
“You sure?” she says in a bored voice, openly eying my Godfather.

I’m not, to be honest.

I’m not at all sure how Molly is going to handle a movie theatre, especially a movie like Batman.
The most entertainment she’s used to is the Wizarding Wireless.

“Actually,” I say instead. “Can you tell me how many seats have already been sold for the next
showing?”

Now she looks me up and down, before hitting the buttons on the keypad in front of her.

“It’s still thirty minutes until the next showing. We’ve only sold four, so far.”

I pull my wallet from my pocket, grabbing the card linked to the Galactic Alliance account.

“We’ll take the rest then,” I tell her, pushing the card through the hole in the glass.

She stares at me like I just told her I'm Batman.

“Really, Pup?” Sirius asks. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to...” whoo-hoo he whistles, patting his
disillusioned wand on his hip.

“Have you met, Hermione?” I ask him. “What would she say when we told her we confunded the
clerk, and the cinema lost out on an entire theatre of revenue?”

Realization dawns behind his eyes.

“Yeah, okay,” he tells me, before turning to the bemused clerk. “You heard him. Charge the lot.”

He leans his elbows on the counter behind him while we wait for the clerk to run the card.

“We’ll just confund the other patrons to change their showing to another time,” I tell him, and he
gives me an evil smile.

The clerk pushes the receipt and the credit card back through the hole, and I sign the slip without
bothering to look at the charge.

It’s chaos when we get inside.

Neville and the Twins are loading up on candy, grabbing two or three of each as Mrs Weasley
swiftly removes them from her children’s grasp and places them back on the shelves. Ron is
ordering nachos and popcorn and requesting tastes of every fizzy drink available.

Tonks is egging Ron on, and encouraging him to try the ICEE machines instead.

Draco is trying and failing to keep his aloof persona in place, while his eyes skip from poster to
garish lights to the hideous patterned fabric covering the floor.

Even Gin is lost to the excitement.

Nate and Bill are watching the madness ensue, not bothering to stop it, but not offering to
participate either. Mi, well, she’s just trying to stop people from looking at us like we're a religious
cult who’s taken their followers out of the basement for the first time.
Her quote, not mine.

“Are the children giving you trouble, dear?” I ask in a mocking tone.

Mi huffs and shoves a stray lock of hair behind her ears.

“Not. Funny. Harry.”

I wrap my arm around her shoulders, and she sort of deflates against my side, her head resting on
my shoulder.

“This is not what I had in mind when I said I wanted a date at the cinema.”

I drop a kiss onto her forehead.

“Shall we corral them to the register?”

“It’ll be easier to just buy two or three of everything at this point,” she sighs, before jumping back
into the battle and scolding Ron about shoving popcorn into his mouth without paying for it first.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Molly asks, surprising me with her swearing.

“Brilliant is what that was,” the twins say together.

“I think I got sick twice,” Remus complains, looking properly nauseous.

“Granger, did you say we could watch that at the house? Something about a telly?” Draco has long
since given up his attempt of being above it all and spent half the movie screaming at the screen.

“I want a Batmobile. Where can I get a Batmobile?” Ron asks rhetorically.

“You can’t even drive Ron, what would you do with a car?” Gin says with irritation.

“Does anyone else think that Harry reminds them a little of Batman?” Neville asks, and I groan as
conversation picks up in earnest about the similarities between the caped crusader and me.

“Actually, the orphaned billionaire superhero is a common trope in all forms of visual media.
Books, graphic novels, tv-shows, movies. Everybody loves a story about the everyday man who
secretly saves the world. The little guy coming from behind to win the girl. That sort of thing.”

I try to step on Hermione’s toes, but she reads it in my head, and steps daintily out of my way.

“Potter certainly has the little part down,” Draco sneers.

“Funny,” I say dryly, taking Hermione’s hand.

Mrs Weasley calls us all to order, standing outside in front of the cinema.

“As much fun as this has been, we’ve got to be getting back. People will start arriving for the party
soon.”

“Can’t we skip the party?” I whine.

“Would you like to tell the Minister why her grandson wasn’t there to greet her when she arrived at
your home?” Molly asks pointedly.
Neville visibly shudders.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head. “Right then. Which way is the Tube?”

Because if I’ve learned one thing during this whole dead and re-do situation, it’s that Augusta
Longbottom is one scary woman.

Which means we have a party to attend.

 Chapter 37
Chapter Notes

This is a long one. Sorry I'm a day late. I made quite a bit of changes to this from the
original. Hope you like it.

All of your comments last time really made my day. I hope you take a moment to
comment on this chapter too..

Edit...3 days late. Shit lol. Dementia has stolen my sense of time lol.
Hermione
I can tell something is different the moment we enter the training room.

Moody and Kingsley both are here, for one.

There’s no way that’s a coincidence.

Neither was here for breakfast and whenever one of the Order members stops by to chat, they
always share a meal with us. Molly and Winky have practically made it a house rule.

Then there’s the fact that all conversation stops as soon as we enter the attic. All seven adults are
standing in the middle of the space and turn as one to watch us enter. Moody and Kingsley are
already missing their outer robes.

I freeze upon seeing the way they stare at me. It’s calculating. Unfeeling. Dangerous. Butterflies
erupt in my stomach, and Harry stops against my back, his hands resting gently on my hips.

Trouble?

Is there? I can’t tell yet. Probably. My instinct for trouble has been honed to a precise point, thanks
mainly to the men beside me.

Unknown.

He places a soft kiss on the back of my neck, then gives me a gentle shove to start moving again.

“This is unexpected,” Harry says, his voice pleasant despite the wariness I feel in his bones. It’s his
wariness because I’m not wary. I’m twitchy.

Very, very twitchy.

“Nate said we were always welcome to stop in and train,” Kingsley says in his deep and soothing
timbre. “We thought we’d take him up on the offer.”

“Happy birthday, by the way,” Moody says grumpily. “To both of you.”

“Thanks,” Nev and Harry say as one.

I don’t like it, I tell Harry while stretching out my legs. This doesn’t bode well.

Harry says nothing; he just reaches down and touches his toes. But the pulse of comfort he sends
through our Bond loosens some of the knots that have twisted in my belly.

“Right,” Nate says, clapping his hands together.

So much for that. Now the knots have twisted and kinked. That was not a regular ‘right.’

The twins aren’t here today, having been guilted into spending the day at the Ministry shadowing
their father. I feel sorry for Arthur. I don’t know what Molly was thinking. No good is going to
come from that.

“Draco, you’re with Red and Neville. Tonks will take you through your paces. Everyone else is
with me.”

This means it’s me, Ron, and Harry against every Order member here.

“Break is over. We have four weeks left. It’s time to work.”

A shiver of anticipation runs down my spine.

This doesn’t bode well at all.

“Again!” Moody barks out.

Repetition is the key to learning magic. I get that. I get that on a deeply spiritual level. While there
are some things, you just know intrinsically, like Harry and Parseltongue, repetition and practice
are essential for most branches of magic.

Call it a hunch, though, but I don’t believe many magical folks practice the torture/training they’re
putting us through right now.

I’ve been in a lot of fights at this point in my life. Way more than the others in this room realize.
While I know without a doubt there’s a physicality to duelling with wands, I’ve never seen Witches
and Wizards move as much as they’re forcing us to manoeuvre around the training room.

We’re being punished, and I’m not exactly sure why.

We dip and dodge and slip to the floor, only to pop back up and swerve sideways and front again.
All while half a dozen different spells are shooting at us from half a dozen different directions
without a break in their onslaught.

It started as a coordinated exercise. It’s deteriorated into the three of us simply struggling to stay on
our feet. I’m going to need a Pepper-Up potion at lunch. My thighs are already trembling.

I miss a block, and a stinging jinx slaps me in the middle of my back, causing me to arch and cry
out. I stumble on my feet, and Harry grips me around the wrist and pulls me stuttering behind him.

I have no idea who tagged me, but Harry is glaring at them all anyway.

“I thought you’d be better than this by now,” Moody growls, slamming his walking stick into the
ground.

“This is why you lost last week,” Kingsley adds, stalking around the three of us where we heave
and gasp in air. The sounds of the other’s training have trickled to silence as all eyes turn to watch
our berating. “Because you aren’t taking it seriously. Stop protecting your wife and fight us.”

A spell shoots out from who knows where, and Ron blocks it with that physical shield charm. But
the shield is so weak it disintegrates from the impact. Ron’s face has reached a dangerous shade of
red, his ears almost leaking steam.

“We didn’t lose last week,” Ron snaps, but his tone makes it sound like a childish rebuttal coming
from his lips. “Harry kicked your arse.”

Every senior Order member in the room laughs and chuckles, and it’s a dark and evil sound.

Kingsley steps into Ron’s personal space, and I instinctively reach to tug him closer. Ron may be
big for his age. He’ll be big for anybody’s age pretty soon. But Kingsley’s presence takes up twice
as much as Ronald’s.

I don’t understand what’s happening.

“No, boy. He didn’t. Last week you were given instructions to duel as if your life depended on it,
and you screwed around with juvenile antics until your recklessness got someone hurt. Only then
did Harry buckle down to business.” Kingsley twists his head on his neck, staring Harry straight in
the eye, though he speaks to Ronald. “By that time, you or Hermione could both have been dead.”

Harry has blocked off his side of the Bond. That’s never a good sign. If he doesn’t want me to
know what he’s feeling, then what he’s feeling is liable to get us into deep shite.

Their eyes...every set of them keeps flicking to me.

There’s something there.

Something we’re not getting. Harry sees it, too and takes a step to the side, partially blocking my
view.

Ron, ever Harry’s shadow, mimics Harry’s movement and hides me entirely behind them. I poke
them both in the middle of the back with my wands and shove a smidgen of power into it until Ron
squeaks and moves enough that I can see between them again.

The Order members glance at each other, and Moody jerks his chin in a rough nod.

Remus joins the Aurors; his face is closed off and hard. Sirius stands beside him, and his
expression is the only one that isn’t hewn with determination. He looks almost sad, his gaze
flicking away from Harry.

My stomach drops out between my knees. I may not have the best interpersonal skills, but I
recognize that face. Sirius doesn’t agree with what’s about to happen, but he’s not going to stop it
either.

“All of this is for you, Harry,” Remus says, gesturing around the room.

“Half of Wizarding Britain has put their lives on hold to prepare for an upcoming war, all based
solely on your word. Half of those people have dedicated themselves to you as their leader. To
ensure that you defeat You-Know-Who.”

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but I touch him lightly on the shoulder, and he snaps his mouth
closed again. The strain in his body not to lash out and yell is unfathomable. I can feel his muscles
trembling with the need to act.

His breathing picks up, and his chest expands and collapses in rapid succession, but it’s the only
outward indication he lets show what Remus says has bothered him. Kingsley walks the perimeter,
tapping his wand against his thigh.

“Yet you can’t win a backyard romp against people not trying to kill you,” he says. “What’s going
to happen when there are real stakes on the line? The only time you took our fight seriously was
when Hermione was in danger. Is that what it’s going to take to get you to pay attention?”

“I am not a weakness,” I spit through gritted teeth. “I can take care of myself.”

“You’ve made your point,” Harry says tightly. I don’t know if he’s speaking to them or me.

“Have we?” Nate replies. “Because I’m not sure we did. You could have won last week, but you
didn’t. Because you only got serious when Hermione was in danger. You each acted alone, instead
of as a unit. I thought you two fighting together was going to be our secret weapon. Why else
would the Chosen One have a Bonded Mate? After that duel, I’m not so sure anymore.”

Sirius takes up the lesson.

“Everyone in this room knows you’re special, Harry. But it’s not because of your magical strength.
Every one of us is disposable. Hermione included. Everyone but you.”

Harry’s face blanches, then flushes with renewed anger. Nate takes a step forward with his hands
open, trying to calm Harry down.

But it’s Harry’s worst fear, isn’t it? Everybody he loves dying and leaving him alone.

“You-Know-Who wants to kill you himself. He needs to, in order to prove once and for all that you
aren’t better than him. Which means unless you’re facing him directly, your enemies won’t be
trying to kill you.” He points to me. “They’ll be trying to kill her. They’ll be trying to kill all of us.
You will always have an advantage over them on the battlefield. You need to learn to use it. With
Hermione at your side? There should never be any reason for you to lose a fight. Ever.”

“You have to trust that your partners will handle themselves,” Remus says. Harry shakes his head,
his hands flexing at his sides.

“Using your logic, if they don’t want to kill me, then the safest thing for us both is to put myself
between them and her. If you think I don’t know what the stakes are, then you haven’t been paying
attention. But that monster has taken everything from me I’ve ever cared about. I won’t let him
take her too.”

Remus shakes his head.

“No, Harry. The safest place for you both is for her to be at your side. For you to use your Bond
and your power to push your advantage and make an impact. Instead, all you did was fuck around,
then lost it when she got hurt,” Remus says bluntly. “If you can’t concentrate with her beside you,
then she can’t join you on the battlefield.”

I hate them talking about me like I’m not even here.

Without warning, Kingsley grabs me and yanks me hard against his chest, holding a knife to my
throat. Harry and Ron whip around to face us, molten rage on Harry’s face. Ron growls under his
breath.

Fear fights my anger for dominance. The last time someone held me in this position, I died. I
swallow back my need to scream, instead making a pathetic whimpering sound. Kingsley won’t
hurt me. Kingsley won’t hurt me!

Harry lunges, and Ron holds him back. Ron whispers in Harry’s ear, and I hear it as if his lips were
against my own.

“It’s a test, Harry. They won’t hurt her.”

Yes. It’s a test.

Just because my mind knows that doesn’t stop my physical response, though. I lock my knees so
they won’t buckle, and breathe in through my nose, so I don’t throw up on my feet.

“Is this what’ll take on the battlefield? Will it take a knife to your wife’s throat to get you to pay
attention? Or will you abandon us all to die, if it’s a choice between saving her, or ending him?”

Fury trickles through our Bond, doused in a simmering stillness.

I understand the purpose of the older Aurors’ presence now.

They’re trying to prove a point. I get that. What I don’t know yet is what that point is.

They learned a lesson last week. They can’t have it both ways. The Aurors teased and taunted
Harry before and during our mock battle, and then when Ron and I fell because of our playfulness,
everyone involved paid the price. The Order can’t treat us like children and then expect us to
behave like warriors.

It seems like they’ve finally chosen their path. They expect the Chosen One to lead. Now we get to
confirm it’s our intention to do so.

“It doesn’t have to be an either/or situation, boy,” Moody says, stomping around with his staff and
peg-leg. “But you’re too stupid to understand that. Do we need to gift her to the Dark Lord to
ensure we have your attention?”

Harry is trembling from head to toe. His eyes flash a brilliant green in warning, and I know—like I
know how to breathe—that Harry is about to rescue me and hurt everyone in his path to do so. I
give my head a tiny shake no.

His lip turns up in a snarl.

As quietly as I can, I drop my second wand.

Harry grasps the sword’s grip in his hand, and without thinking, I mirror his actions, straightening
my arm and flexing my fist. The metal is rough against his callouses. I don’t have calluses from
working with a sword for hours a day. My palms are smooth when I tighten my fingers around the
hilt, and the metal bites deeply into my flesh.

We are one, he and I. Taking the sword from his hand is as easy as breathing. Even with the space
of two meters between us. Which might be the point they were trying to make.

I close my eyes and rip down Harry’s side of the Bond, pushing my way into his mind. I expect
him to flinch away from the intrusion like he did every time Voldemort ransacked his thoughts.
Instead, he welcomes me into his memories with open arms. I show him what I’m searching for,
and he brings the images to the forefront of his mind. I consume his knowledge greedily—weeks of
training flow into my consciousness. My muscles burn with the echoes of punishment and skill
they did not earn themselves.

Wizards rely too much on their magic. I’ve been saying it for years.

I fall into a half-squat in front of Kingsley, catching him off guard.

His blade jabs into my chin, but I ignore the sharp stab of pain. Ignore the trickle of blood that
drips down my throat.

I drop my hip behind his knee and sweep my foot behind him, knocking him off his feet. He finally
shoots a binding jinx, then a freezing hex, then a spell I don’t recognize at all, but we’re both still
falling to the ground, and I’m much too close for him to aim properly, and he manages to miss me
completely.

His back hits the mat with a painful thump, followed by the crack of his head.

I allow my momentum to pull me after him, but I was expecting the movement, where he was not.
There’s a reason we’ve been training in hand-to-hand combat. In case your enemy gets close
enough to hit, we need to instinctively respond. Kingsley groans in pain as my knee lands in the
middle of his sternum, and I bring the Sword of Gryffindor across his throat.
I don’t cut him, though it would serve him right if I did. It’s the duplicate anyway, so it wouldn’t
cause any lasting harm. But my blood is rushing so loud in my ears, and my adrenaline is pumping
so hard that I move the sword away an inch to stop slitting his throat on accident.

My wand is on his forehead, and I honestly don’t remember doing it. Harry hasn’t moved a muscle.
Every eye in the room is on me. Blood from my neck drips…plop, plop…onto Kingsley’s chest.

“That was impressive!” Moody growls. “That’s what we want to see! The two of you working as
one. Like you were born to be.”

“Excellent," Nate says. "I’ll get you a knife too, Hermione. The next time someone has a weapon
to your throat I want you to stab them in the thigh. See, Harry! See what you can accomplish
together?”

But Harry isn’t here anymore.

No.

Harry is in the drawing room in Malfoy Manor, watching them slide a knife across my throat.
Another drop of my blood lands to spread across Kingsley.

“Hermione!” Harry screams, and all movement stops.

Speaking stops.

Every single person seems to stop breathing. Black sparks are shooting from his wand, and like
I’ve only seen once before, he takes in a gasp and sucks in all the magic around him.

I drop my wand and the sword and rush to stop the destruction of the entire house.

“Harry. Harry. HARRY!” I yell with my arms out and hands open, trying to calm the storm rising
inside him. He jerks back when I touch him, coiled and ready to spring, until my hands cup his
face, and he blinks back into awareness.

“Hermione?” he says again, only this time it’s a broken question laced with tears and confusion.

“Ron!” I beg, and he drops his weapons and jumps over a still-prone Kingsley.

I can feel every eye watching us with horror on their faces, but I don’t have any concern left for
anyone other than Harry.

Ron reaches out his hands, afraid of what will happen if he touches his friend, but Harry takes his
choice from him and grips the front of his shirt.

“It’s us, Mate,” Ron croons. “We’re not there, okay? We’re right here. We’re with you.”

Ron looks at me like a little lost boy, unable and unknowing what to do.

“Shhhhh,” I cup Harry’s face.

“I can’t stop seeing it,” his voice breaks with desperation. “Over and over again. You’re dead,” he
whimpers. “You’re both dead.”

“Open your eyes. Look at me!” I snap, and his eyes fly open out of reflex more than anything.
“Look around the room. We’re in the attic. We aren’t there. Ron is right beside you. We’re in
Grimmauld Place.”
His chest is heaving so hard that he sounds like a horse. The green of his eyes has been completely
stolen by blown pupils, surrounded by shocking white.

“Feel my heart, Harry,” and I drag his hand over my chest. “It’s beating, right? Tell me it’s
beating.”

“I-i-its b-beating,” he stutters out

“Am I dead?”

His head shakes frantically from side to side. Tigers with blood-dripping claws chew at my insides
as I try to bring Harry back to the present. I can taste my heart in my throat. Ron looks like he’s a
heartbeat from being sick.

“No. I’m not. I’m alive, and I’m right beside you. What about Ron?”

Without warning, I reach out and yank Ron until together, we’re all that Harry can see.

“Ron?” he begs.

Ron grabs the back of Harry’s head and pulls them together, Harry huffing against his chest. Like
you’d comfort a crying child.

Or your brother.

Harry’s gasps are still shuddering, but his breathing is finally evening out.

“Five things you can see, Harry. List them out for me.”

“You.”

He doesn’t even open his eyes.

“Ron.”

Still doesn’t.

“Look around, baby. More than us.”

He lifts his face, and his gaze lands on the worst possible person for him to see.

“Draco,” he whines like a broken animal.

“No!” I grab his chin and force him to meet my eye. “Not Draco. It wasn’t Draco’s fault. Draco
was a prisoner.”

Like an echo from before, I can hear Draco gasp in the background.

“Like us.”

“Not anymore, Harry,” I shake my head. “You freed him, just like you swore you would. None of
us are there anymore. Who else is here?”

He looks around the room again.

“Mad Eye.”
He almost sounds hopeful.

“There we go. One more, baby.”

He glances between face and object, all stone-still with shock and inanimatecy.

“The table.”

I almost sigh that he’s fixed on a physical object rather than a living, breathing person.

“There we go,” I rub his face. “There we go. Four things you can feel?”

“You,” he says again.

He hauls Ron even closer and almost collapses between us, forcing Ron to take most of his weight.

“Ron.”

Ron whispers in his ear, but it’s so soft I can’t make out the words.

“The mats.”

I dig my toes into the rubber several times so he can hear the sound it makes.

“My wand.”

It’s still in his hand, almost broken in half by the strength of his grip.

“Perfect. We didn’t have our wands, did we? We’re not there.”

“They, they took them. Mine was gone. HE broke it.”

“They can’t take anything from you again, baby. Nothing. Not your wand, or Ron, or me. What
else? Three things you can hear.”

“You,” he says again, to no one’s surprise.

“Ron.”

His head is still wedged under Ron’s chin. The sound of Ron breathing is probably filling his ears,
which can only be a good thing considering the situation.

“Sirius is growling.”

The part dog huffs out a wet and painful noise.

“Two you can smell?”

“You.”

I can’t—I can’t be the only thing that keeps him in the here and now. Not when I’m so
instrumental in what pulls him back to the future that’s yet to come.

“Ron.” Again. “He doesn’t smell like a tent,” he adds, and Ron barks out a laugh, wiping the back
of his hand across his face. “Blade oil,” he adds unasked, and I almost weep because that was
something we for sure weren’t around in the Manor House.
“Something you can taste?”

He kisses me. He kisses me like that first kiss. Like he could crawl inside my soul and wrap it
around him like a warm blanket. He doesn’t release Ron to do it, and so I’m tangled up between
them like some sort of perverted game of twister.

He breaks away gasping again, but this time, I hope, it’s for a completely different reason.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“We’re here, Mate,” Ron mumbles as softly as I am. “Nothing has happened, and nothing is going
to.”

I can’t tell if we’re all shaking or if Harry is trembling enough to jostle all of us.

“I’m gonna—” he mumbles. Skittering on weak knees with Ron by his side, they flee the training
area.

I collapse in half with my hands on my knees, feeling the adrenaline surge out of me at a pace that
makes me want to follow the boys out and go find a toilet to puke in. It still takes me a minute to
get my breathing under control, but I’m not gasping and shuddering and blind with panic like Harry
was.

Draco, naturally, is the first to break the silence.

“What the fuck what that?”

I wipe the tears from my face and turn to face the rest of the room.

“That,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Is what happens when you press one of the most
powerful magical users known to man past his point of control. You’re right. If you want Harry to
defeat Voldemort, give me to the madman as a gift. But I promise you, none of us will be alive to
reap the spoils of victory.”

Now they all look afraid. They’re sharing covert glances that aren’t so covert, rethinking every
choice they’ve made in making Harry the leader of this rebellion.

“We fight every day, for hours a day. Harry knows what’s at risk,” I try, but if anything, it makes it
worse.

I take a shuddering breath and pretend my hands aren’t shaking.

“It was the knife,” I try to explain. “The knife to my throat. Take me at my word; that wouldn’t
have happened without the blade. It—” what can I even say? “We—a—” I rub my thumb and
middle finger at my eyes, then drag my heel up my forehead. Unbidden, my hand runs against my
throat, squeezing the unblemished skin.

Blemished.

My hand pulls away streaked with blood. I lock my knees so I don't collapse.

“We had a bad experience, where I was held at knifepoint—” the harder I try to keep my voice
even, the more it shakes and quivers. Nate meets my eye, and dawning recognition blooms across
his face. “Across my throat—I can’t explain it any more than that.”

I just have to hope they take me at my word, and that the rumours of our various exploits are
enough to stop them from asking the unanswerable question.

When did I have a knife to my throat?

Nate is a professional soldier. He’s seen a panic attack before.

“Which is why you won’t learn how to play with knives,” he says knowingly. I almost vomit.
“While Ron and Harry are almost obsessive about it.”

I give a sharp nod.

“We won’t do it again, Hermione. I had no idea—”

I shake it away and pull my shoulders back.

“How could you? I don’t think even he knew it was going to happen. I certainly didn’t.”

Kingsley rises to his feet, one knee at a time, eyes boring into me like he can delve into the answers
of the world from my soul.

“No knives,” he says in that deep gravelly voice.

“No knives,” I agree.

But I can see it building, in the back of his mind, that Wizards, especially ones like Harry, need to
learn to overcome their weaknesses. I can see it like an ember from a spark, taking root and
wanting to burn.

I turn to leave but stop and face the crowd one more time. I forgot how many people bore witness
to Harry's meltdown.

That’s just what we need, Draco and Ginny being privy to Harry’s PTSD. I refuse to look his way,
but I can feel Malfoy’s eyes bearing down on me. I trust Draco as far as that vow will keep him
loyal. Maybe a little more than that after the last few days. But Draco is a hoarder of information,
and the fact that Harry was hysterical because my mortality was brought into question isn’t
information I want him to have.

Especially when it was evident to everyone that Draco had a role in the scene that just played out,
even if no one but us understood how.

Draco is going to want answers, sooner rather than later. And he, for one, won't be satisfied with a
side-step away.

“I realize the point you were trying to make, and I agree with it. But I’m warning you now, the
next person who puts a blade to my throat will die. No warning. No apologies. Zero hesitations.
Harry doesn’t have many weaknesses, but you just pressed the trigger on a bomb that you don’t
want to see go off.”

Without another word, I turn and flee the attic, searching for my husband.

There's still blood sliding down my throat.

It’s not hard to find him. The Bond is still wide and flowing, and Ron is leaning against the wall
outside the loo. Harry’s emotions are a jumbled mess. It’s enough to give me motion sickness.
“I think he’s getting ill,” Ron says grimly, pushing up from the wall. Choking sounds escape under
the bathroom door, and my nose squishes up in sympathy.

“I’ve got it,” I tell Ron, squeezing his shoulder as I walk by him to knock on the bathroom door.
“Thank you,” I whisper.

Ron pauses, jerks his head in a shaky acknowledgement, and then heads back the way we came.
“I’ll tell them to give you ten, but then we’ll start again.”

Somehow, Ron became the strongest of us.

I take a deep, calming breath to build my defenses for whatevers to come and quickly seal the
wound under my chin, wiping away the drying blood. Then I knock on the wood.

“It’s me, Harry. I’m coming in.”

I ease open the door only wide enough to squeeze my body through, then push it shut behind me
again, turning the lock on the handle.

What I find knocks all the wind from my lungs, making my knees buckle.

Harry isn’t getting sick.

He’s laughing.

He’s sitting on the toilet lid, hands over his mouth, glasses on the counter, with tears streaming
down his face.

I throw up a privacy ward and Muffliato, just to ensure that no one outside can hear what is
obviously Harry’s mental breakdown.

“What the hell is your problem?” I demand with a stomp of my foot.

“Can’t you just imagine it?” He hisses through guffaws. “Stabbing Bellatrix in her thigh as she
tries to slit your throat. It would be a race to see which wickedly terrifying witch can kill the other
first.”

I don’t see anything funny about that, to be honest. Not a damn thing. Actually, I think I may be
sick thinking about it.

“You’ve gone mental,” I say with wide eyes.

He wipes the moisture from his face, finally getting his chuckling under control.

“Maybe,” he agrees. “Some would say I’ve never been all that put together, to begin with.”

He rises from his perch, and I try to turn to leave the room, and Harry grasps me around the wrist
and jerks me forcefully against his chest.

“Are yfalugb” I attempt to speak, but it comes out all garbled when he pins my face between his
hands and brings his lips to mine. He shoves his tongue between my lips and tangles it with my
own. It’s like his tongue is fucking my mouth.

I return his kiss as fiercely as I can. The rage and fear left over from earlier easily melts into lust.
Immediately my fingertips start to tingle.
He’s angry, mad, and possessive. He walks me back until my bum hits the counter, then grunts into
my mouth at the impact. His lips trail over my jaw, my chin, and I take the opportunity to try to get
a word in otherwise.

“Harry. We can’t. Ron is—”

He cuts me off again. He digs his fingers into my hair and grasps it in his hand before yanking my
neck, so my back arches and a moan slips between my lips.

“Shut up,” he growls, and okay then.

I make a mental note to be mad at him later and let everything else go. He covers my mouth with
his before I can think of a reply anyway. I tangle my hands into his hair, still damp from our earlier
workout and his panic attack and pull until he hisses against my lips.

Without another word, he brings his hands to my hips and wedges his fingers into my yoga pants,
shoving both trousers and knickers harshly down my thighs. He stops several inches over my
knees, effectively trapping my legs in place. His fingers are shaking. His skin is hot to the touch.
So hot it feels like he leaves a trail of fire everywhere he touches.

His fingers slip between my folds, movements jerky and sharp.

“Merlin, you’re always so wet,” he trembles.

Harry rips my shirt off my body and drops it to the floor, then roughly cups my breasts through my
bra. His touch is all commanding and the need that courses from him are an assault on my senses.

He yanks the elastic of my sports bra down to expose my nipples and dips his head to take one in
his mouth. His teeth are sharp, and his mouth is warm, and his tongue feels like electricity coursing
through my veins when he nips at me with his teeth then licks the burn away.

I’m going to be covered with his marks by the time he’s done.

With his hands on my hips, he flips me around, and I clumsily throw my hands out to find
something to steady me. It’s a good thing I cast the privacy charms because everything on the
counter clatters to the ground as Harry shoves me prostrate against the marble.

He doesn’t remove his trousers. Just shoves them out of the way enough to free himself from his
pants. There’s no hesitation. No gentleness or care. With one quick thrust, he sheaths himself to the
hilt, stretching and filling me with no preparation.

We both groan at the feeling of our bodies merging in sync with our souls. “Hang on,” he whispers,
then pulls out and rams back in.

I grip the side of the counter so hard my fingers go white.

His pace is brutal and punishing. Our magic fills the tiny space, stretching and then whining when
it hits the wall and has no place further to go. Can magic whine? Ours is. I can hear it in my head
and feel it in my bones. A high-pitched wail at the stark volatility of our joining. It’s almost
suffocating with the weight of magic in the air.

Harry reaches forward and wraps his hand around my neck, pulling me up, so I’m flat against his
chest. He’s shallower this way, but with every drag and push of his prick, it strokes against that
magic spot inside me.
My vision whites out when he pinches my nipple harshly between his fingers and pulls. “Look at
you,” he whispers into my ear. “Open your eyes and look.”

It’s hard to open my eyes. It’s hard to focus on anything other than Harry and the way he makes me
feel. But I manage to pry them open a slit, then they go wide, and my knees buckle when I see our
reflection in the mirror. We look wild. Clothes in disarray, hair a mess, Harry with his hand still
wrapped around my throat and the other covering my breast.

There are red burns on my skin. Teeth marks. I look a mess. I love it. So does he. “Good girl,” he
growls, and Merlin! I like that. I like that a lot.

I whimper as green eyes meet brown in the reflection of the mirror.

“Such a lovely fucking witch. You’re mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” I pant and try to nod, but the motion puts a strain on my throat, and the room tilts as I lose
what little oxygen I have.

"No one will take you from me. Ever again. Say it."

"Never," I grunt.

The combination of it all tips me over the edge. That ball of tension and pressure at the base of my
spine explodes across my limbs. Harry pins my hip in a vice grip and holds me at the angle he
wants me as he falls apart behind me. His hips start to stutter, and he latches his teeth onto my
shoulder and bites as his orgasm consumes him. It’s too much.

Everything.

It’s too much, and I come a second time. The air pressure in the tiny room can’t handle it, and my
ears pop, and the picture over the toilet falls to the ground as our orgasms cause magic to burst
from us in a physical release.

The whole thing probably lasted less than two minutes.

His breath is hot against my back as his head rests between my shoulder blades. I reach my arms up
behind me and run my fingers over the top of his head. I twist them in his hair, and when he tilts
his head to the side and lays his cheek on my back, I run my fingers over the side of his face.

His arms are latched so tight around me that I’m liable to get dizzy from oxygen deprivation.

It takes another minute or two before we catch our breath enough to speak again.

“Feel better?” I ask conversationally.

My voice is shaky.

“Yeah,” he says, and I think he tries to feel ashamed but can’t really make it all the way there.
“Sorry,” he adds halfheartedly.

“No, you’re not.”

He grins at me wickedly in the reflection over my shoulder.

“No, I’m not.”

He slips from my body, and like I always do, I immediately mourn the loss of him. He puts himself
back into his trousers, then runs his hands between my legs as has become his habit. I don’t hear
the spell, but I feel the cleaning charm warm against my flesh as he cleans me up, and then helps
pull my leggings around my hips.

I force my bra back into place as Harry hands me my shirt from the floor with a sheepish
expression.

“Better?” I ask again.

“Yeah,” he says, and I feel it in my chest—the way he’s settled, content.

He almost feels like a lion, curled around my heart and purring as he drifts off to sleep. He pulls
my hair from my tail, already half collapsed, and runs his fingers through it.

“I guess we should start practising with this Bond then, huh,” he says with resignation.

I tilt my head sideways for a kiss, and he obliges me quickly and swiftly.

“Lead the way,” I say. “It sounds like we’ll have quite the audience to help us figure it out.”

“You guys realize that the bathroom isn’t warded, right?” Sirius says as soon as we walk back
through the door. Ron is in the corner working with Nev, but stops and makes his way towards us
with a nod in our direction.

I blush horribly, but Harry just gives his Godfather a blank stare. So much for pretending the last
half-hour never happened.

“The privacy spells held,” Harry says.

“That does nothing for the burst of magic that shook the house, Pup,” Sirius says with a smirk.

“Jealous?”

It’s Remus’s turn to blush an embarrassing pink and he turns his back to pretend to be busy
elsewhere while Sirius throws his head back and laughs.

“Incredibly,” Sirius admits.

I try to deny the accusation, but all that comes out are embarrassed stutters.

“Who says we were having sex?” Harry asks, even though he basically already admitted it.

Sirius taps himself on his nose.

“Someone Avada me please?” I beg and bury my face in Harry’s chest. It jostles under me as he
laughs, and he brings his hand to the back of my head and wraps an arm around my waist.

“Sorry,” he whispers into my hair.

“No, you’re not,” I mumble into his shirt.

“No, I’m not,” he agrees.

“You wanted us to use the Bond. That’s what happens when we let the magic flow between us,”
Harry says.

“Good,” Nate says, clapping his hands in what I’ve started to think of as his signature move. “If
that’s what it feels like during sex, then I can’t wait to see what it looks like unleashed in a duel.”

The other Order members rally around, everyone choosing not to comment on Harry's dash from
the attic and what caused it, thank goodness.

Nate gives Harry his direct attention, and I can read the apology in his eyes.

“I’m sorry we triggered you," he says, and means it. "But didn’t you see what she did back there?
She's never used the sword before, yet she called it to her like it was her own, and then brandished
it with a skill she was never taught. Kingsley is one of the most badass Aurors in Britain, and she
knocked him on his ass, Harry. With a skill that YOU gave her. How did you do that, anyway?”

Harry shrugs and tugs at the back of his neck. He swallows thickly, pushing away the terror that
tries to claim him once again and focuses on the task on hand. Which is…I don’t know, actually.
Using the Bond in battle?

“I’m not really sure, so be honest. The magic of the sword, " he shrugs. "It’s pledged to come to
any Griffyndor in need. She needed it, I wanted her to kill the bastard that dared lay hands on her.”

I cringe at the brutal honesty of his words, but it seems to satisfy the older wizards surrounding us.
Kingsley snorts in amusement.

Something is still niggling at me though.

“What brought this on?” I ask. “It wasn’t just because of the duel last Friday. Those Aurors were
goofing off as much as we were.”

The air suddenly becomes stale. My throat closes up as apprehension climbs up my spine.

“Tell him,” Sirius barks and Moody stares at Sirius long and hard before turning to look at Harry.
His expression is dark and grim. He stomps his staff, shuffling his feet in agitation.

“Brent Cross Shopping Centre was destroyed yesterday. Muggles claim it was a gas leak.”

“A gas leak?” Harry repeats with a tight voice. My stomach drops out, landing somewhere around
my knees.

“Muggles don’t know what magic feels like. Looked like a series of blasting hexes to me. It was at
night, there were only a few casualties, but the premises are still smouldering.”

It’s started then.

“Someone saw us.”

Harry’s voice is dead. Empty. Guilt is eating him from the inside out.

“Honestly, I don’t think so," Remus says. Moody continues. "Or not you at least. They wouldn’t
have waited two days if you had been spotted. Intelligence thinks someone saw the Weasleys.
Blood traitors cavorting with muggles, so Voldemort sent a message.”

That makes sense.

Harry takes a shaking breath, and I feel the weight of the latest loss settle onto his shoulders. The
attack wasn’t his fault, but he’ll think it was anyway.

The room around us seems to fall away until it’s just Harry and me alone. His hands are filled with
the tools of a warrior, and I can feel the battle going on inside him. It’s not a fight where a sword or
wand will help. It’s a war he has to fight alone.

I cup his cheek in my palm, and his eyes close as he leans into my embrace, his breath leaving him
in a rush. The fact that he’s willing to show his vulnerability so openly proves how deeply the
thought of us really fighting together, fighting with the magic of our connection behind us, has
affected him.

It’s one thing to know it’s what we’ve always done in the past. We've always fought side by side.
But it’s different now. The stakes have changed, and nobody knows it better than us.

Power the Dark Lord knows not.

If we're right, then I am the power the Dark Lord knows not. Harry isn’t the only one who's
terrified.

I understand now what they're trying to accomplish here. As much as it hurts, they have a point.

Not about last week. They treated our duel like a game as much as we did. But they are right about
Harry's reaction to me getting injured. In the grand scheme of things, with magic at our fingertips, it
was little more than a scratch. Harry did overreact. This means he better get it together because I
will not be kept home, like the little woman, while Harry goes off to war!

They must read my thoughts on my face.

"Harry is the best hope we have, Hermione," Remus says in a gentle tone. "Even Dumbledore
admits it. We can't risk losing him, and he's too afraid to lose you to focus on the task at hand. If he
can’t fight with you there, then you can’t be there."

Excuse me?

Anger bubbles to the surface in my belly and tries to burst out through my ribcage.

"You think he doesn't know that?" I say in a quiet voice. Harry's simmering rage is blending with
the anger burning inside my chest, and it's overtaking my common sense. "You think he doesn't
realize the entire Wizarding World and beyond, currently rests on his shoulders?"

It’s Harry’s turn to try to reign me back before I scream in Remus’s face. I close my eyes and take
a breath, feeling a fantom hand slide down my spine in a soothing touch.

"If you don't realize the burdens Harry carries are the only thing he thinks about day in and day
out, then you can get the fuck out of my house,” I hiss with venum. “He doesn't sleep at night,
because every time he closes his eyes, he sees the horrors of what will happen to us all if he fails.
The murdering of muggles and the torture of purebloods who wish they would simply be killed,
just to end their pain and suffering. We know what our responsibilities are."

Sirius winks, fighting back his smile.

“But if you think there's even one iota of a possibility that he's fighting without me at his back,
you're even stupider than you look."

Harry finally speaks.

"I'm sorry we didn't take the last duel as seriously as we should have. And I'm sorry about…"
Harry's voice tumbles off before he lifts his chin and meets them stare for stare. "Earlier," he
concedes. "You have my promise that next time I'll try to kill you properly. But I won't apologize
for protecting my wife. You can all go to hell if that's what you're waiting for."

Nate runs his hand jerkily through his hair and rips the band from his tail when his fingers get
stuck.

"We don't want you to apologize for it. We want you to realize that you don't need to protect her!
Look what she did to Kingsley, all by herself! Jointly? You could be nearly unstoppable! But you
have to work together.”

Nate slaps the back of his hand against his other palm, trying to emphasize his point. He shoves a
finger in our direction.

"I could see it the minute you opened your Bond and started to communicate last week. After that,
you took down all three Aurors by yourself."

I never noticed before the way Nate seems to talk with his hands. They tell a story the same way
his lips do, moving and swaying and emphasizing his words. He throws his hands up in front of his
chest, showing Harry his palms as if he's a tamer calming a wild animal.

"I know some of that was instinctual. It was because you saw her hurt and needed to end the fight
as quickly as possible that you were able to assert your power as you did. But imagine if you fought
with that coordination and mindset every time, Harry? From the beginning of a fight and not
simply to end one. Ron is great at following your lead. But you have to lead. You have to use all of
the resources available to you, and that includes Hermione. You have to stop trying to protect her at
all costs, because the costs are too high. You froze when she went down. In a real fight, that would
have gotten you killed."

Remus steps closer to us, earnestness bare on his face.

"Hermione is always talking about testing the limits of your Bond, Harry. From what you've just
shown us, there are no limits. She pulled the knowledge of how to use that sword straight from
your head. Imagine what you both could accomplish if you could do that at will, instead of just in
times of stress. Then imagine how you could twist it to your advantage in the middle of a battle.
You could each be on separate sides and see the entire field."

He lands the killing blow.

"It's a twisted logic, I know, but you can't worry about Hermione on the front line, because if you
stop to check on her when she falls, then You Will Die, and all will be lost. If you die, then so will
she. It's as simple as that. Trust your Bond to keep her safe, and she'll do the same for you."

Trust.

Such a simple word with almost unbearable consequences. I don't think there's a thing in the world,
me and maybe Ron excluded, that Harry trusts explicitly. Not even me. Especially not me. Because
he doesn't trust me to keep myself safe. Not when the stakes are so high.

"I don't know if I can do that," Harry says with a shaking voice.

"Then we practice until you can," Sirius says sincerely.

The older Order members stare at us with contemplative looks, but I only have eyes for Harry.
Every emotion he has is zipping across his face, and it doesn't take a magical link to know what's
going through his mind.

How is he supposed to ignore the fact that fighting at his side means I might die when he's already
seen me dead? It plays into his greatest fear, losing the people he loves because of something he
did. Or didn't do, as the case may be.

“Your Lady Wife needs a weapon," Nate breaks the tension with a grin.

I start at the unexpected announcement, seeing my surprised expression mirrored on Harry's face.

“Ummm, okay.”

But I swear if this is another pureblood asking my husband to control me, or even worse, asking his
permission, I'm going to poke Nate in the eye with my wand.

"What are you telling me?" Harry replies. "She doesn't need my approval."

“Good answer, Harry,” I say.

Ron snorts in amusement.

"The sword was fun and all," I tell them honestly, "but I don't much fancy carrying one around."

Nate smirks at me with his hands on his hips.

"Have you ever seen a magical quarterstaff?"

I jump when someone slides up behind me.

"If Granger gets a weapon, I want one too."

Malfoy.

“Oooh," Nate bounces on his toes. "I think blondie should take the staff, we'll give Lady Potter a
set of fighting batons," he thinks out loud, almost vibrating with excitement. Ron chuckles as
Malfoy snarls at the perceived insult. "What about you, Red? Neville?”

Gin shakes her head in refusal. “I’m good with the wands, thanks.”

Neville, who was gifted new forearm sheaths that hold both wand and blade in each as well as
matching Fairbairn-Sykes, pulls them from their holsters. He flips one in his hand and boy, is he
gonna get a girlfriend this year!

“I like the double knives to be honest,” he says sheepishly.

"Fair enough.”

Remus steps up, one of the muggle notebooks and a Bic pen that more and more of the wizards
have taken to using flipped to a clean page in his hands.

“Tonks take everyone else into the backyard, Ron included. You two," he says, pointing to Harry
and me, "time to see what that bond can do.”

“It’s raining,” I interrupt them, confused as to why they’d go outside.

“It’ll do them good to practice in challenging elements. They won’t always be fighting in a climate-
controlled well lit building.”

Don’t I know it.

Remus points to us.

“Grab two practice swords. Let’s get started.”

It’s been a long day. We learned that when someone tried to Imperius me, Harry could push it off.
When Remus confounded Harry, it almost took me down too. Sirius offered to knock Harry out and
see if I could rouse him, but Harry politely declined that little experiment. We’ll wait until the need
arises.

Harry certainly has more control over our connection than I do, and it bothers me to no end.

I can read a book, and Harry can recite it out loud. That’s going to make Owl testing lots of fun, I
can tell.

“I don’t understand how he got these questions wrong!” I complain, looking at the page of
arithmancy equations Harry filled out an hour ago. Remus and I are spread out in the library, going
over a day’s worth of notes and experiments.

“I suspect it’s like any subject a person learns. There are those you excel at and those you don’t.”

I move onto another page, and it’s the same with these equations too. He got most of them right,
but not all of them. I can answer them in my head without having to write them down on paper. But
even with access to my knowledge, Harry struggled with the math.

Remus is still making observations in his notebook.

“But you couldn’t handle the sword as well as he could, even though you pulled the skill from his
memories. It makes sense to me, Hermione. Equals, but not the same. Two sides of a whole. Just
because he knows what you know in theory, doesn’t mean he processes it the same way you do.”

I tap my pen on the table, thinking it out in my head.

“But our personalities have already started to merge, at least a little. I’m much quicker to anger
lately.”

Remus puts his pen down, removes his reading glasses from his face, and turns to me with a smile.

“I’m not sure I agree with that, Hermione. From what I remember, you’ve always had a sharp
tongue and temper.”

Heat floods my face, but I refuse to look away. That’s...not exactly inaccurate.

“Well, Harry is taking on some of me as well. He reads much more now than before our Bond!”

The werewolf leans back in his chair, taking to the friendly philosophical argument.

“But does he? Or do you notice it more since you are together one hundred per cent of the time?
Harry is a very goal-orientated person, much like yourself. Only often, your goals were good
grades, and Harry’s goals involved mystery and adventures. But I remember clearly how hard he
worked to learn to defeat the Dementors, years before the average witch or wizard typically learns
the Patronus Charm. That included a copious amount of reading, and you weren’t Bonded Mates
then.

“I think we need to take intent into the equation as well. Harry has no desire to do well with
arithmancy. So, he didn’t do as well as he could. You have no desire to learn the sword, and
therefore didn’t respond as precisely and cleanly as Harry does.”

“I’ll concede the point,” I tell him with a little bow of my head.

Kings Cross Station filters through my mind.

“Kings Cross,” I tell Remus, and he searches through our piles before pulling the chart we’ve
created to the front.

“That’s a considerable distance,” Remus says.

Harry and Sirius are apparating to different points in London, checking to see how far the Bond
reaches. We haven’t hit a limit yet.

“It’s not as clear as if he were sitting right next to me, but...” I close my eyes and try to see through
Harry’s. It’s gotten easier as the day has gone on. They’re passing through crowds of Muggles,
several of which give the boys interested double-takes.

I pull out of his head with a scoff of irritation. Even doing nothing they’re the centre of attention.

“I can still see through his eyes.”

Remus makes another note.

The dizziness and feeling of double vision have lessened the more we try this, but I still get a
queasy feeling of wrongness every time I pull away from his sight. I think the fact that we’re not in
the same room has made a huge difference.

“I’m starting to wonder if there’s not a limit,” Remus says thoughtfully.

My pen is tap, tap, taping on the tabletop.

“I read a small anecdote from the Goblin text from the 1300s, I think? For this specific couple,
their Bond was sealed as he was boarding a ship to make his fortune. Literally, they were on the
dock when they kissed. According to the Goblins, she was able to communicate with him while he
was at sea to gain his opinion on a house she was planning to purchase as their home. But that was
the only reference to a long-distance separation in all the texts I’ve read. I gather it’s quite
uncommon to be separated from your Mate.”

My mobile rings and Remus answers it. Sirius has the other.

I tune Remus out and try to concentrate on Harry instead. He’s muddled, I guess. Like static on a
telly. One instant he’s as clear as a bell ringing, the next it’s like looking through water.

You, okay? He asks me, and a tiny smile pulls at my lips.

Yeah. You?

Hungry.

I feel his stomach rumble, and laugh as it echoes inside mine.

Come home. We can do more tomorrow.

I hesitate for a moment, but what the hell.

I would kill for Chinese food. Half chow Mein and brown rice, cream cheese rangoons, maybe
orange chicken and kung pow?

Harry’s laughter lights up my skull, and it’s like a direct line to my pleasure centre.

It’s a deal. I Love you.

Butterflies erupt in my belly as those words sear into my brain. I know he loves me, but I’m not
used to hearing him say it.

I love you, too.

The sound of Remus snapping the phone closed pulls my attention to him.

“Did you know your eyes go all glassy when you’re talking to Harry like that? You were talking to
Harry, weren’t you?”

I chuckle and duck my head.

“Yeah, I was.”

Remus starts to stack the copious books and notes we’ve collected today. It’s well past dinner at
this point. We’ve been at it for hours, only stopping for a sandwich when Mrs Weasley insisted.

“We have one more experiment we’d like to try today,” he says, and there’s a gleam in his eye that
makes me nervous.

“Which is?” I warily ask him.

“How do you feel about alcohol?"

 Chapter 38
Chapter Notes

Trigger warning for this chapter. Smut lies ahead, including male anal fingering. If
that isn't your thing (lame ) then you can skip it without missing anything
important.

Thank you again for all of the comments. The goal this week is to get caught back up
with my replies. I appreciate you all so much

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you

 Harry

My back slams hard into the wall, as Hermione loses her balance and all of her weight crashes into
me. Her eyes go wide in shock, and she looks over her shoulder expecting, I think, to find the
person who pushed her.

That would be gravity, luv.

“You’re pissed,” I say with amusement, enjoying the freedom in which she smiles.

Her eyes remind me of a forest tonight, a thousand different browns blending and sparkling in her
happiness. She gives every air of being offended; nose in the air and sniffing loudly before she
bursts into laughter and tries to kiss me.

Tries being the key phrase. She doesn’t hit my mouth quite centre but instead plants her lips off to
the side and above some, so she’s kissing me below my nose.

Earlier, I let Draco take a picture of her at the kitchen table. Mi was trying to drip noodles into her
mouth and missed completely. Rather, she dribbled them down her cheek and chin and then chased
them drunkenly with ill-coordinated lips.

It’s only fair. She took several pictures of him in the Converses and dinosaur shirt. Besides, it was
adorable.

Hermione giggles mindlessly against my lips, her body all soft and pliable. She pulls her face away
just enough to give me a stern glare.

“No, I’m not,” she insists, but doesn’t even finish the sentence before she’s giggling again.
Yes. She is.

My head is fuzzy with it. The liquor buzzes in my veins, even though I didn’t take a single sip. I’m
not positive what the point of this particular experiment was, other than as entertainment. Because
watching my swotty, proper wife slowly deteriorate into a babbling, laughing, trolly has been
entertaining indeed.

“You can’t blame me,” she concedes, as we finally make it to our bedroom. She’s plastered herself
to my front with her arms draped over my shoulders and we’re taking baby steps across the
hallway. Her kisses are sloppy and wet, and I can’t wait to remind her of this tomorrow. “I’m
supposed to be tipsy. The Order’s,” she seems to hesitate, trying to figure out what she wants to
say. “Orders,” she finally announces before bursting into more giggles. “Remus is the one who
kept refilling my glass with that elf made wine.”

I grope around beside me until I find the door handle and we spill into the bedroom in a tangle of
laughter and limbs.

She peppers dainty kisses over my neck, like she realizes she’s been a smidgen looser than normal
and is now being extra careful to make up for it. I kick the door shut behind me, and the lock
automatically clicks shut with an audible snap. I fall heavily against the thick wood with my arms
full of my drunken wife.

Alone at last.

“You’re such a good kisser,” she mumbles from somewhere under my chin.

I snort through my nose, which turns into a crickety moan when Hermione drags her teeth over my
Adam’s apple. She’s very unsteady on her feet, and I grip her hips tight in my hands to ensure she
stays upright.

“Your kissing reminds me slightly of Fang tonight, luv.”

Hermione digs her nails into my chest as a sign of pique but doesn’t so much as pause in her
ministrations on my throat.

“Ow!” I pout through laughter and reach up to rub the newly forming bruise on my peck.

I can’t wait for the time when it’s only the two of us living here. If such a thing is even possible.
I’m going to fuck her muggle-born arse on every piece of antique pureblood Black Family furniture
that still exists in this house.

Woah.

I shake my head to clear it of the fuzziness.

Hermione pulls her face away from my neck and gives me an incredulous glare. "Really? My
muggle-born arse?"

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly.

“Don’t be,” she says distractedly. “I liked it.”

Maybe I’m more affected by her imbibing than I thought. If that was the point of this test, then we
passed. Or failed. Whichever the case may be.
"We're going to run another experiment," Hermione mumbles as she sucks a mark into my neck
below my ear.

She must have felt me thinking about them. I’m sick and tired of Bond experiments.

Her hand has found its way to the front of my trousers, and if she keeps rubbing the heel of her
palm up and down my cock like that, I’m liable to agree to anything she says.

I’m not sure whether to be terrified or excited.

“Okay...”

“We’re going to see if I can bring myself to orgasm,” she says. No complaints yet. “By only
touching you.”

Oh.

My mind and body freeze as one, considering the possibilities. That’s...I give my head a shake. I
am drunk.

“H-how do you expect to do that?”

Hermione is working the buckle of my belt free, and with an uncoordinated tug that almost knocks
her sideways, yanks it from the loops.

“Through proprioception.”

Huh?

“English, luv.”

Hermione shakes her head in exasperation.

“Our bond is sentient, Harry. You know what I’m talking about. Stop playing stupid. How many
fingers am I holding up?”

She squishes up her face like it’s hard for her to concentrate then wraps her arms around my waist.

“Three. Two on one hand and one on the other.”

She beams at me like I just won first prize in a spelling bee.

“This is a clothes-free investigation, Harry,” she says, yanking down my zipper. She runs her nails
up my sides as she hitches my shirt up my torso.

It’s a jumble of clumsiness and ill-coordinated kisses as we try to strip each other, stay on our feet,
and manoeuver to the bed all at the same time. Hermione is still in her jeans, though I’m down to
my trunks when she presses me into the mattress.

“Do me a favour?”

“Mm-hmm,” I answer, still sucking on her tongue.

“Consider it an experiment. Could you take some of the buzz from me? I may have drunk more
wine than I realized, and I don’t have the coordination to do what I have planned right now.”
Another blasted test, to see how far our connection goes. I took the pain from her injury into myself
on instinct. I couldn’t tell the others how I did it, despite how many different ways they attempted
to get me to describe it to them this afternoon. Which irritated Remus and Nate to no end. All I
know is she was in pain, and I didn’t want her to be, and I knew I could handle it better.

I don’t need to understand how something works to be able to use it.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Not this per se, but...Hermione always refers to our Bond like a
physical link. Something she can see and touch. An invisible string linking me to her. It didn’t
manifest like that for me.

Maybe it’s because our magics are different, or maybe it’s because she’s a girl and I’m a bloke. I
like to think it’s because she’s always been a part of me. She’s been the little voice in the back of
my head telling me what to do for much longer than is appropriate to admit. But I can feel her
inside my head. Her influence, her thoughts, and her feelings. I can touch her like a separate being,
living inside my brain. Some days, if I didn’t know better, I’d almost think I had multiple
personalities.

For a few weeks there, when I couldn’t breathe without her next to me, while I felt her moving
down a hallway half a castle away, we did wonder if we were going quite mad.

Still, without knowing how I do it, I siphon her lightheadedness, and her giddiness, and take it into
myself, then erect a wall between us so she can’t feel it anymore. Her eyes dim, then brighten
again as she shakes her head.

She pushes me flat on the bed, then straddles my hips still wearing her trousers. “You’re going to
have to teach me how you do that,” she says with a smile.

“Steal the know-how from my head one day,” I say instead, my muscles taking on a loose quality.

My head feels less fuzzy than previously, somehow, now that I’m dealing with her drunkenness
directly instead of filtered through her. I must have a much higher alcohol tolerance than Hermione
does because I feel less drunk now than I did when she did.

If that makes sense?

Hermione reaches into her pocket and pulls out her wand. I didn’t see her shove it in there. All of
our holsters are on the floor. She’s already made our twin core wand her primary.

With a flip of her wrist, a bottle of Ogden’s finest appears in the air in front of her. My eyes go
wide as she twists off the lid and swallows back a gulp as if it were water. Which lasts all of five
seconds before her eyes pop out of her head and she gags. Her face screws up and her entire body
shudders, like a dog shedding water.

“Ugh, that’s disgusting,” she mumbles.

I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to hold in my laughter.

“What was the point of my siphoning off your inebriation if you’re simply going to get pissed
again?"

My shoulders droop as the alcohol hits her bloodstream.

“You took too much,” she whispers conspiratorially. “I need a little liquid courage.”
With another swish of her wand and a mumbled spell under her breath, my arms stretch from my
body, and invisible binding cinch around my wrists.

“Hermione!” I demand, giving my arms a tug.

"I don't need your participation in this particular experiment. Just your willing body and hard
prick."

My eyes roll back in my head at the crassness of her words.

“Bloody hell, Witch!"

I give my wrists another yank and though my muscles strain and bulge, my arms don’t move at all.

Hermione twists her wand in a circle, and a dark green bow appears in the air. She grabs it in her
other hand and slaps it against my forehead. My eyes go crooked as I try to get a look at it and only
succeed in making my head hurt.

I tilt my head at her in question.

“You told me I could tie you to the bed and stick a bow on your arse.”

I snap my jaw closed, vividly remembering the circumstances in which I uttered those fateful
words. I have to swallow several times to work enough saliva into my mouth to speak properly.

“I said you could do it for my birthday. We’re days past that now.”

“Fine,” she sighs, and the bow disappears.

The invisible bindings do not.

Hermione climbs off my lap, then shimmies my trunks down my legs. My cock, completely
ignoring the fact that we should be angry at being tied up, is instead waving hello to our wife with
enthusiasm.

She places her wand and the bottle of Ogden’s on the bedside table, then quickly picks the bottle
back up and takes another healthy swig. I count to fifteen before I feel it hit my bloodstream.

The tension in my back and neck releases with a pop.

I watch with hungry eyes as Hermione crawls off the bed and pushes her jeans down her legs,
taking her knickers with them. Midnight blue and sparkly, they came with a matching bra. I know.
I picked them out at the shopping centre when no one was paying us any attention.

I try again to loosen myself, but it’s a lost cause. I could break the bindings with magic, but where
would the fun be in that?

“You realize fair is fair, right? Everything you do to me I’m going to do to you.”

She gives me what can only be considered a Slytherin smirk, and I make a mental note to start
supervising her study sessions with Draco. She’s obviously been spending way too much time with
the wanker.

“I’m counting on it,” she says in a sultry voice, and it may be the alcohol, but the way her tone
drops and becomes all breathy makes me that much harder.
Fuck.

When Hermione climbs back on the bed, she reminds me of a tiger. Golden brown hair, long limbs
and crawling on all fours with a predatory stare. She runs her fingernail down my sternum, and
goosebumps break out across my body.

The same thing happens to her. Her nipples pebble in the cool air of our room, and her lips tighten
into an O shape.

“I like that,” she whispers, then runs her nails down me again, all five fingers curved like claws. "I
like the sting of sharpness against my sensitive places."

I already hate this. I want to touch her. I consider bursting through the bindings, but Hermione
shushes me verbally, even though I haven’t said anything out loud.

My head is swimming.

She gathers her hair over her shoulder and dips her head to lick across my chest. Hermione sighs in
pleasure, her face going all soft and blissful. My nipples grow achingly hard, and it’s a sensation
I’ve never experienced before. Hermione throws her leg over my hip, so she’s straddled above me.
My dick twitches with need.

Hermione whimpers with want.

She kisses me languorously, swirling her tongue around mine and nipping on my lips when she
stops for breath. Mi rests her head against my forehead and puffs deeply, warm air cresting over
my face.

“It’s so scary, being this connected to someone. It’s like I can’t keep any secrets anymore.”

Obviously, she can, because I didn’t know she felt that way. I try to catch her lips in a kiss, but
she’s just out of my reach.

“I don’t need to know your secrets, Hermione. I don't want to lose you, to us,” I tell her truthfully.

She’s always known all my secrets anyway. I’ve never been able to keep anything from her.

“I know,” she breathes against my face. “That’s what makes it so terrifying.”

When she kisses me again, it has a taste of defiance to it.

Hermione laps at me like a cat. I angle my head this way and that, so she can lick at the skin on my
neck and nibble little marks into it. Her breath ghosts in little sighs and mewls of contentment. She
works her way slowly down my shoulders, nipping at my collarbones.

“Have I told you how much I love having my breasts played with?”

I can’t tell if it’s a rhetorical question or not, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t think she’s looking for a
response. She runs the flat of her tongue over my hardened nipple and keens at the contact. She
circles the nub with her tongue, then rubs against it with her thumb. Hermione grazes my nipple
with her teeth, and her body bucks from the contact, her hips twitching and her stomach muscles
clenching until the smooth surface concaves.

Her head and hair are blocking half my view, and I want to growl in frustration.

“The first time you sucked on my nipples, the sensation was so strong I thought I was going to
die.”

She latches her mouth around my flat chest and sucks, then moans around the mouthful of muscle.
Mi’s teeth make a small indention as she laps her tongue across the pebbled flesh, tightening her
lips as much as she can and sucking until her cheeks hollow.

This—whatever this is, it’s my new obsession. With every flick of her tongue across my chest, her
body reacts to it. It feels good for me. Wonderful even. I’d not really thought of my chest as an
erogenous zone. But Hermione doesn’t give a shit about that. She’s sucking on my nipple, and
tugging slow and firm on the other, because it feels good to her.

Mi doesn't care a lick about my pleasure, and I never realized how addicting that could be. I'm just
a conduit for Hermione’s desires. That is enough to get any man off. I have to close my eyes and
think of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks to stop myself from coming on the spot.

She switches sides, biting and sucking as she goes, and I fucking love it, because by this time
tomorrow I’m going to make sure there’s barely a square inch of skin on her body that doesn’t have
a mark made by me.

When she kisses down my stomach, she dips her tongue into my belly button.

“I loved it when you suckled me here,” she whispers before latching her mouth onto the skin
beside my hip and laving me with her tongue.

My cock is weeping pre-come.

“I want to touch you,” I beg, pulling at the bindings on my wrists.

Hermione doesn’t acknowledge my words.

She settles lower between my legs and begins to kiss and lick up and down my thighs.

“And here,” she says, before biting me again.

Hermione cries out around the meat in her mouth, and her arse snaps back in the air. I can smell her
slick. Almost taste it against my tongue. Her quim is hot and swollen. She’s tired of being teased,
but she loves it too. She’s doing it to herself after all. My participation has not been required.

Her mouth finally makes its way to my prick, but she doesn’t take it in her mouth. Instead, she licks
across my balls like a kitty cat drinking cream.

Her hips are twisting in the air, moving this way and that. She roughly shoves my legs apart, and
with a muttered spell I don’t understand, begins to lick the skin underneath my cock.

Frissons of electricity fire across my body, and I moan at the same time she does. Her hand wraps
around my cock, and she starts to stroke it in lazy distracted tugs. Fingertips graze past my balls, to
the cleft between my legs.

Oh, Merlin.

I can’t watch this anymore.

I jerk my head to the side, hiding as well as I can. But I can’t hide at all. I could run to the farthest
edges of the earth, and Hermione would still be able to see me clearly.

I’m pinned like a bug on display, and Hermione isn't even in her right mind to appreciate I'm bare
and at her mercy. Her fingers slide up and down my arse crack, and she mewls as it teases her own
entrance, running her fingers in soft probing circles. She’s so blasted wet. She’s almost dripping
down her legs.

My cock is leaking a steady stream. I'm pulling on the bindings again, only now it's out of my
control. It’s a subconscious demand that I touch her as soon as possible.

Hermione whispers, and the next time she touches me, her fingers are wet and slick. Her tongue
never stops flick, flick, flicking against the skin under my balls. When she starts that damn sucking
again, I almost come on the spot.

She seems to sense it, because she pulls back her mouth and begins to concentrate on my cock. The
sudden stop after the build-up is agony, and a groan slips from my lips as she changes tactics and
the tension in my balls recedes.

Mi licks up the length of my shaft, angling it this way and that and twisting her hips in a circle. She
wraps her lips around me and I feel her pussy tingle. Her clit is throbbing in time with the bobbing
of her head.

Oh, God. I dig my head into the pillow. My muscles tighten and release in a rapid sequence.

“Hermione,” I beg. “I’m gonna—”

"I like it when you're rough with me."

Hermione releases my cock and smacks my inner thigh, and the slap of skin on skin sounds like a
gunshot in the silence of the bedroom. I jerk under the impact, though it was more in surprise than
any actual pain. The shock is enough to send me back from the brink.

My whimper turns into a grunt as my balls tighten painfully.

“You’re killing me, Mi. Let me come. Please.”

She doesn’t even hear me.

"But I also love it when you're gentle. When you take your time and make it last and ruin me
underneath you."

She’s for sure ruined me.

Her fingers are still probing gently between my arse cheeks. I try to open my mouth to complain.
To tell her to stop. To say anything at all. But all that comes out is a desperate sounding whimper.

My heart is beating out of my chest, and once again I can’t decide if I’m terrified or excited.
Hermione is...needy. She’s so very desperate. Her quim, her gorgeous, delectable quim is
clenching around nothing.

"Before you, I didn't need anything inside me to come. Now though," without any warning she
slips a finger inside me, and my back curves off the bed.

“Merlin, Hermione!” I whine, trying to lift my head to look down between my legs. Her forehead is
on my hip, her eyes are closed. I don’t think she’s even cognitive in what she’s doing.

“Now, I need the sensation of being filled by you.”

I’m shivering. But I’m not. Hermione is shivering, her body spasming so fast it feels like she has
the chills. She slowly presses inside me, and the burn of the stretch feels so good. Her hips thrust
backwards then rock forward when she retreats inside my hole. Again, and again she does it, lazily
fisting my cock, tilting her hips forwards and backwards in time to her thrusts, until suddenly it’s
no longer enough.

“More,” we say as one.

I whinge in embarrassment when Hermione lifts my leg and tosses it over her shoulder, then starts
her attack on my flesh again.

"I'm so close," she chants. "So, so close. I just need a little..."

Hermione pulls free of my body and whispers the charm again, and when she presses back inside,
the sensation of being filled has multiplied. She's using a second finger. The burn is quick to bleed
into pleasure, and I plant my foot on the mattress and bow my back. Whether I'm squirming away
or pushing her deeper inside me I really couldn’t tell you.

She starts to quiver and shake, and her hips are snapping relentlessly. Her magic swirls around the
bedroom, dipping and surging in between us. Her clit is tingling, her quim is clenching. Her
muscles coil tight in her belly, the tension reaching a fever pitch. She keens where her lips are
latched onto my cock and simulates sucking her clit.

Her fingers graze against something inside of me and she breaks in a beautiful wail of pleasure. I
come all over my stomach as Hermione falls apart between my legs, her mouth hot as she pants and
groans through her orgasm. Her fingers freeze inside me, but don’t slip out, and I need to writhe
away at the sensation of being filled but not taken.

My wife loves it though, when I press as deep as I can and hold my body still against hers. When
she finally pulls out, I hiss at the sting and sudden feeling of emptiness.

I feel spent, in every way possible.

My head is spinning. Hermione is collapsed across my legs, body still spasming at sporadic
intervals, her hips and chest twitching like she’s been electrocuted. I break the binding spell
holding my arms in place, run an Evanesco over my stomach, then dig my fingers soothingly
through her hair. She moans in delight when I drag my nails over her scalp.

“As soon as I can move,” Hermione pants in a weak and breathy voice. “We’re doing that again.”

Finally.

A Bond experiment I can fully get behind.

The witching hour. It’s appropriate that it’s become my favourite time of the day. The entire world
comes to a standstill at this time of night, and it’s just my witch and me secluded and alone.

We’re both going to need magic to stay on our feet tomorrow, but I wouldn’t give up this time with
her for anything, and certainly not simply because it’s going to irritate Nate and Moody that I’m
dragging arse.

We’re laying side by side in our massive four-poster, legs entwined and heads sharing a pillow.

If I could, I would never leave this room again, and let the pieces fall where they may. But
Voldemort would never allow us to live in peace, and even if he did, I couldn’t live with myself if I
let him win when I had the power to stop him.

Hermione must see the dejection on my face, or feel my despondency through our Bond. Her smile
blooms soft and pitying.

“I’m sorry about this morning.”

She whispers it into the dark, which is silly, because it’s just me and her. But it’s that time of the
night, where even though you’re the only two on earth you fear breaking the silence.

The Order wants us to practice strengthening our connection. Remus suggested we only
communicate telepathically. Try to anticipate the other’s thoughts. I truly detest the idea. When
we’re training, then it's fine. We’ve always been good at anticipating the other’s moves anyway. A
little practice is only a good thing.

I could pull her thoughts from her head. After earlier, there are no barriers between us.

I know exactly what she’s feeling. Hermione’s aura, her magic, is wrapped around me like a warm
blanket on a cold night. I know that she’s content, and sated, and at peace with the world.

Despite everything, Hermione is happy, and I made her that way.

Hermione and I...we don’t have a Bond. We share a soul. She is mine and I am hers and I know in
my heart without a doubt that I could still feel her from around the world.

But I don’t want to know everything about her day with the blink of an eye. I love listening to her
talk to me, at me. The way her face lights up when she tells a story. I’m even rather fond of the
occasional lecture, not that I’d ever admit that out loud.

Hermione jumped into testing and strengthening our connection with enthusiasm. To her, it’s
academic. It’s just common sense to learn everything she can about Bonded Mates as quickly as
humanly possible. Remus may have shared her eagerness to further his knowledge, but that’s not
what the rest of the Order members had in mind this afternoon.

They want to take everything we are to each other and narrow it down to something compliant,
something they can use to their benefit, and I refuse to let that happen.

I wanted to be taken seriously by the Order. But just like everything else in my life besides
Hermione, even that backfired on me. They still don’t see me as one of them. They see me as their
weapon. They see us as their weapon.

I’m so tired of being used for other people’s purposes.

I trail my finger down her face and over the curve of her jaw.

“You know why they did that to us today, right?”

Her face squishes up into that adorable little thinking expression, her brows drawn inward and her
lip between her teeth.

“To prove a point, I guess. To show you that I can take care of myself, which I can.” Her nose
scrunches up and she half-heartedly glares at me. It takes all my self-control not to smile. “That you
are too overprotective, which you are. We screwed around during that stupid duel, and we can't
skive off until all this is over. Plus, I think Voldemort making such an open attack so quickly after
returning to a corporeal form really sent them round the bend.”
I shake my head.

I'll accept the reprimands on the duel, and the additional training. The stronger we are together, the
better as far as I'm concerned. But that wasn't their only point. Not even their main one.

“No. You heard what they said. ‘Who would you choose? Her, or the world?’ They’re absolutely
right, Hermione. I choose you. Every time.”

Her doe-like eyes widen at my words.

“No, Harry,” Hermione says and covers my mouth with her fingers. “You can’t say things like that.
You can’t even think things like that. They are right. I am disposable.”

“The fuck you are,” I growl.

I roll over onto my back, pulling her with me. She settles herself on top, her chest tight against
mine, her legs straddling my hips. She places her forearms on the bed to either side of my head, so
I’m trapped inside her embrace.

“Every decision I’ve made since I was eleven years old has been to save the lives of others. That’s
why there’s a Malfoy living in my house. I’ll do everything in my power to limit the loss of life in
the upcoming war. If they don’t realize that, then fuck them. But if it comes down to you or them?
You win. Always, Hermione. Before this life and into the next. You should know this by now. I’d
burn a path to hell if that’s what it takes to keep you safe.”

The glow from the fire backlights her, and she looks like an angel on top of me, the browns and
golds and reds in her hair giving her a halo.

“There’s a saying attributed to romance novels,” she says, running her fingers over my scalp. “It
goes something like the hero would sacrifice you to save the world, and the villain would sacrifice
the world to save you.”

She’s so beautiful.

I love the scattering of freckles over her nose, and the way her eyes change colour when she’s
angry or sad. I even love the tangles in her hair and the way my fingers catch when I bury my hands
inside her curls.

I gather her hair over one shoulder so I can see her face without impediment. She closes her eyes
when I tuck a stray strand behind her ear.

“I love you so much, Hermione.”

When she brings her lips to mine, it feels like this is the place I was meant to be. Everything feels
so easy, so right, when Hermione is kissing me. Gentle or rough, beseeching or answering my call,
when Hermione’s heart beats against mine, I feel like the Chosen One.

Chosen to belong to her.

“I don’t mind being the villain of their story, so long as I’m the hero of yours.”

This time when she smiles, it lights up her face. Merlin, what she does to me...I know she can read
my mind and everything, but she can’t possibly have any idea of the effect she has on me when she
smiles at me like that, because I couldn’t describe it if our lives depended on it.
My heart wants to burst out of my chest, and I know I’d do anything, anything, to have her smile at
me like that forever. I can’t let them all die because Hermione would never forgive me if I did. But
that doesn’t mean she won’t forever come first. She brings her lips to mine again, but pulls away
when I try to close the distance between us.

“You’ve always been my hero, Harry.”

Then she kisses me.

 Chapter 39
Chapter Notes

Ugh. I was finally feeling like myself again. I had the meds under control. The docs
confirmed I couldn't take antidepressants because said meds most likely caused the
unholy self-pity and sadness I was feeling, and they couldn't risk adding a drug that
affected my brain chemistry to a cocktail designed to mess with my brain chemistry, so
I physically and mentally forced myself into a better head space. I'm writing again.

Then my teenager came with me to the neuro god, even though I told her to get the
fuck out of the car, and that I didn't need a babysitter. I couldn't believe I gave her a
direct order, and she looked me dead in the eye and refused to leave. Bitch has balls
So she came, and proceeded to tell the doc that not only am I still having seizures,
but I had one that lasted 3 minutes...whiiiiich, I was unaware of. #braindamage

So, he totally changed my medication, DOUBLING the main med that fucks me up. I
started on Sunday, which means I've spent the last thirty-six hours sitting on the
bathroom floor. Dying

Here is the next chapter. I've given my family strict instructions to keep to the original
posting schedule after I keel over.

I loved you all...

Harry

“We need to talk.”

I step into the parlour, where most of the older residents of the Townhouse reside after dinner.

Far from the hideously dank and disparaging space the room was in the last timeline, the elves,
under the supervision of Molly and a reluctant Mi, have transformed the room into something soft
and welcoming. The furniture has been switched out with pieces from the Potter vaults, dark
replaced by light. There’s a fire roaring merrily in the hearth, and Mi even set up a tiny table and
chairs in the corner for the elves to spend time with us without feeling the need to serve.

In theory. In practice…

Ron and Hermione stand behind me, a stack of books in each of their arms. Arthur removes his
glasses, slowly cleaning them on his shirt with a look of foreboding upon his face.

“About?” Remus asks, his voice heavy with hesitancy.

I look around the room, taking in everyone who’s here.

Molly and Arthur share one couch, listening to the wireless. Remus and Sirius are sharing another.
Moody and Tonks are each on a red velvet chair, Moody puffing on his pipe near Tonks, who is
chatting quietly with her mentor.

Nate and Bill sit with their heads together, and if I had to guess, probably talking about a certain
Dragon trainer who is waiting on a location reassignment from Romania to the London Society of
Endangered Magical Creatures.

The only permanent residents from the Townhouse missing are the Twins. That’s not a surprise.
Molly isn’t aware of their extracurricular activities of prepping for their joke shop, and she
wouldn’t approve if she did.

By refocusing their efforts on their future defensive line a year sooner than before, the decoy
detectors are already almost ready for use.

Neville is pruning a plant in front of the fire. He explained rather enthusiastically at dinner that its
flowers only bloom under extreme heat. Ginny is glancing through a Teen Witch Weekly in the
corner, while Draco reads Machiavelli’s The Prince sitting on a cushion next to Nev.

Malfoy…on the floor. In jeans so tight as to be painted on and a sex pistols shirt. I run my hand
down my face, wiping my mind of the bemusement I never fail to feel when it dawns on me how
much has changed in such a swift space of time.

Mad Eye is the only one who makes me hesitate. His loyalty has always been to Dumbledore, and
we need to do this without the Headmaster’s knowledge. I doubt Dumbledore would agree with
what we have in mind. Even if his support would make it that much easier.

It’s up to you, Hermione whispers through the Bond.

I hate that it’s up to me.

I turn to Ron instead, stalling the moment of decision.

“Will you go get the twins for me? They might have something to contribute to the conversation.”

“I’ve got it,” Mi says, then pulls out her wand and whispers Expecto Patronum. I start in surprise
when a Doe forms in front of us, instead of her little Otter. “Come into the parlour, please? We
need to have a meeting.”

The Doe saunters off through the doorway, and Hermione’s nerves and excitement regarding her
Patronuses new form glows brightly in the back of my mind.

Uh...

I shake my head to clear it of the distraction and turn back to the matter at hand.

“Mad Eye,” I say, and I swear the room holds its breath. “I’m sorry about this, but I’m gonna need
you to leave, please.”

His magical blue eye stares straight through me. It’s disconcerting in the highest form. “What are
you planning, Potter? Going to get yourself killed?”

I push my glasses further up my nose, hesitating before I answer. There’s nothing for it. I’ve got to
be honest. I’ve never had much tact as it is and even with all my practice, I’m still a horrible liar.
“No. I hope not anyway. However, your loyalty lies to Dumbledore and the Order. The loyalty of
every other person in this room lies with me.”

Mad Eye doesn’t move from his seat, puffing away on his pipe.

“And your allegiances align away from the Order, do they boy?”

I want to shove my hands in my pockets. I want to turn away. But I can’t let them see me struggle.
Not if I want them to follow my lead.

“Yes,” I tell him honestly. “Not on the most important things. We need to defeat Voldemort. On
that, we will always agree. But my methods vary greatly from Dumbledore’s, and I won’t be kept
on a leash.”

I determinedly ignore the fact that, in theory, I'm fifteen years old demanding the loyalty and
obedience of people—in some cases—three times older than myself.

“Constant vigilance,” he grumbles. Reluctantly, a smile pulls at my lips.

“Constant vigilance,” I repeat.

Silence fills the formal room. Moody doesn’t move from his spot, and I don’t raise my wand to
make him. Like an old-fashioned stare down, everybody holds their breath with anticipation,
waiting for which of us is going to crack first.

“I won’t take that stupid vow of loyalty,” Moody advises me, pulling his pipe from his mouth.

“Thank fuck for that,” I say without thinking first. “Too many people have said it already.”

Chuckles break out from the others, covering up the scoff of motherly irritation from Molly for my
foul language.

Almost every person in this house has taken that stupid vow.

Moody puts his pipe down on the table.

“Yet, I will swear on my magic that I won’t repeat what’s said in this room tonight.”

My smile is sharp and fast.

“Good enough for me.”

As one, Hermione and Ron move from behind me and settle themselves in the middle of the floor.
Together they start arranging papers and books, pulling out the research we’ve done.

Chatter breaks out amongst my chosen family, while we wait for the twins to appear. It only takes
a moment more for them to arrive. They smirk at me, then seeing all the furniture taken, lean up
against a wall.

They look at me and give a silent nod before every person in the room falls silent.

I roughly clear my throat.

“Voldemort is going to break into Azkaban.”

Immediately, questions of who and when and how fly from every direction. I hold up my hands
and shake my head, and the murmuring drops to zero.

“I can’t tell you how I know because you won’t believe me if I do. I also don’t have the time to
spend," I shrug, "however long, in St. Mungo’s to prove I’m not insane. My information has been
good thus far; I hope you can take me at my word about this.”

The others all turn to look at each other, unspoken comments shared with looks built on years of
knowledge and friendship.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Malfoy speaks first, closing his book on his lap.

“Okay,” Remus agrees, his calm and steady voice both accepting and encouraging me to continue.
“What do you expect us to do? Alert the ministry? Add more guards? You know they won’t
remove the dementors. Dumbledore has already tried.”

Ron gives me an encouraging nod, and I take a fortifying breath before I continue.

“I don’t intend to stop Voldemort from breaching the prison. As a matter of fact, I’m looking
forward to when he does. But I want to get there before him, and rid him of his supporters.”

“Kill them you mean,” Remus says, and his voice is flat and empty. His look is one of
disappointment, and I fight the need to squirm under his scrutiny.

Hermione passes me one of her notebooks, followed by one of the tomes we took from the Black
vaults. Sirius’s eyes go wide when he sees the title. He reaches over and places his hand on
Remus’s forearm, his touch calming and reassuring all at once.

“Let him speak,” Sirius implores.

Remus silently agrees.

Mi gives me a shove of encouragement.

“No. I won’t kill them. Not that they don’t deserve it.” My voice hardens and my hand flexes at my
sides. “I promise you, here and now, that before the end of this war, Bellatrix will die by my hand.
But not in Azkaban. Not like that.”

Probably. Maybe. Actually, I can’t make any guarantees regarding how long I allow her to breathe.

"I'll fight you for her," Neville speaks up.

Sometimes I forget, as wrapped up as I am in what she did to Hermione, that we aren't the only
ones who have suffered at her hands.

"We can do it together," I promise him.

Mi smacks me upside the head. Metaphysically at least.

Maybe explain the plan instead of fantasying about murder she hisses at me.

Right.

“Hermione found a spell.”

I open up the book to the page marked by Hermione and pass it along to Moody, who happens to
be sitting closest to me. I hand the written notes to my Godfather. His eyes go wide, glancing back
and forth between me and the paper in his hands before he passes it along to Remus.

“It’s a Black Family incantation,” I tell them, “intended to rid an enemy of their power.”

I gaze around to the older Order members, making eye contact with each and every one of them.

“It doesn’t simply bind the person, but pulls their magical core physically from their body. It
literally strips them of magical ability. They’d be worse than a squib. Imagine the blow to
Voldemort when he goes to collect his staunchest and most powerful supporters only to discover
they had less magic than even the plainest Muggle.”

“We’re in,” the twins say as one.

The other Hogwarts students all laugh. The adults don’t crack a smile.

I continue to explain.

“The Death Eaters have been in Azkaban for over a decade, cut off from their magic. I imagine that
it would take a day or two to gather their strength back.”

Sirius nods along.

“Accurate. I was weaker than a newborn pup when I finally made it from the island. I couldn’t
apparate for days.”

I shove my hands through my hair, starting to pace a little.

“They’ll be well embedded with Voldemort by the time anyone realizes something is wrong with
their powers. It will be a huge psychological blow to him personally and his followers that they
went through the considerable risk to free the old guard from Azkaban only to find out they’re
worthless to him. That’s exactly how he’ll see them, as worthless. Even if Bellatrix is bloody scary
even without her magic.”

Sirius points to the book still making its way around the parlour.

“That spell has to be performed by the head of the family,” Sirius says.

“I’m aware,” I inform him. “I know it takes considerable personal power as well. I’m fairly
positive I can pull it off.”

Molly gets the book next, and she and Arthur lean their shoulders in so they can read it together.

"You want to rip pure-bloods of their magic?" Draco drawls with distaste in his voice.

"No," I shake my head. "I want to stop Voldemort with as little loss of life as possible. No.
Actually, what I really want to do is grab some muggle dynamite and blow Malfoy Manor off the
face of the earth. I want to remind every Voldemort sympathizer out there that for every muggle
they kill, we’ll kill one of them. But I can’t do that. Stripping our enemies of their ability to hurt us,
though, that I can do.

“If I could get close enough to purge Riddle of his powers I'd do it tonight. But if it came down to
Dolohov's magical ability or your mother's life, Draco, which would you choose?"

Draco gives me a challenging glare, but doesn’t offer a counter argument.

“What about you, Arthur?” I ask, and Mr Weasley’s eyes slowly rise to meet mine. “If it came
down to Molly’s life, or Ginny’s, or Bellatrix Lestrange's magical abilities, which would you
choose?”

He stares at me for so long, I think he’s going to protest. But then he nods his head.

“This is dark magic, kid,” Moody growls.

Hermione immediately jumps into the argument.

“It’s not. I’ve researched it a thousand times over.” She lifts another book from the pile and passes
it to Tonks. “I’ll concede it's possibly grey. However, it doesn’t fall under the guidelines to render
it black. No lives will be taken, no bodies will be maimed. It falls into the same category as a long-
term love potion. Deplorable, sure, but technically not illegal.”

Moody gives her a dubious look, his magical eye still on me.

Mi tilts her chin in the air and hardens her eyes to slivers. It’s an expression I recognize well. Ron
too bites his lip and rolls his eyes as she gasps for breath to fuel her upcoming lecture.

“Maybe this will come as a wake-up call to the Magical community as a whole. Things like love
potions and obedience potions should be illegal, and they’re not. They’re barely even regulated.
Perhaps a selection of pure-bloods losing their powers, even ones locked in prison, will serve as a
lesson to those who think it’s okay to subjugate others simply because it’s in their power to do so.
Like the way most Wizards treat their elves!”

Remus fights a smile and Sirius gives his willingly, even if it disappears as quickly as it comes.

He gives his attention back to me.

“It won’t work,” Sirius says flatly, and I shove my hands in my pockets and face my Godfather
directly.

“Why?”

Sirius moves to the edge of the couch, his agitation making his motions tight and jerky.

“For a multitude of reasons. One, you have to have a connection to these people. A justification to
name them an enemy. You’ve never even met them before. I doubt simply labelling them as your
enemy will be enough to power the spell.”

How about the fact that one of them killed my wife? Another hit her with a spell that kept her in
hospital for a week, and at the time we died, she still didn’t know if she’d be able to have children.
I have an up-close and personal relationship with almost every Death Eater in those cells. Even if
they don’t know it.

They don’t have to see me as their enemy. Though they do. I’m the reason they were locked up in
the first place, even if I had very little to do with it, seeing as I wasn’t yet two. But for the spell to
work, it only requires that I see them as a threat to my House, with a personal link to the object of
the spell.

I have that in spades.

“Humour me,” I say lightly. “Let’s assume that as Head of House Black, I can label them traitors to
our family. What’s your next objection?”
Sirius scoffs in irritation, running his hand roughly through his scraggly hair.

Huh.

It’s like looking in a mirror. I wonder if my dad did that too?

“You need to be within spitting distance of these people to do the spell. Which means that you
would have to go to Azkaban to do it. There’s no way in hell the Ministry would let a civilian just
waltz into the prison and start performing unknown magic on the prisoners. Never going to
happen. Not even for The Boy Who Lived.”

Tonks speaks up.

“If you think you can somehow sneak into Azkaban, you do need a trip to St. Mungos. The
dementors alone would stop that from happening. You wouldn’t make it past the front door.”

Hermione is grinning ear to ear. If Ron looked any more pleased with himself, he’d probably float
away. I rock back and forth on my heels, trying not to look too smug.

It’s brilliant. It really is. One of the best schemes we’ve come up with, if I say so myself. Made
even more so as Ron was the one to make the connection.

“That’s fine too,” I assure her. “All we need is the rotation schedule for the guards. The human
ones. We have a way around the Dementors.”

Sirius scoffs in disbelief.

“How in Merlin do you expect to get onto and off the island without alerting the dementors to your
presence?” Moody demands, his magical eye fixed on me.

“The same way Sirius got out,” I say with a smile. “How many Animagi do we trust with our
lives?”

We reconvene in the kitchen.

The notes that Mi and Ron have collected over the last two weeks are spread out over the table.
There’s the layout of the prison and the requirements of the spell. A list of the specific prisoners
and their locations inside Azkaban.

Every person whose magic I steal will require a personal vessel. Something to contain their magic
within. I’m not destroying their power completely, not technically at least. I could give it back to
them at any time.

The Blacks weren’t known for being forgiving, but they had a reputation for being sly. Steal the
magic of the one who wronged you, then blackmail them with it until you get your way. Even after
you gave their magic back, they’d always know it was within your power to take it from them
again.

I don’t know which generation hid the book inside the vaults, but I can understand the inclination.
That sort of power could go to your head.

Quickly.

There’s a list of appropriate accoutrements to contain your enemies magic tacked on at the end of
the spell. They’re all gaudy and obscene. Suitable for pure-blood feuding. Just because I want to
strip you of your powers, doesn’t mean we can’t be high-class about it after all.

I plan on using mason jars. Bellatrix’s magic isn’t going to lounge around in a goblin made vase
while I’m in control of it. I’m already dreaming of destroying it with Fiendfyre.

I take a tug on the ale Dobby placed in front of me. Sirius has a tumbler of Firewhiskey. Mrs
Weasley is in the corner knitting, shooting us disgusted looks every thirty seconds. Moody let
Winky feed him, and is currently flipping through Hermione and Ron’s meticulous notes.

Moody, much to my surprise, has been one of our most prominent planners.

When I asked him if this didn’t go against his oaths to the Order, all he said was that he liked to be
proactive.

Okay then.

Winky pops back into the kitchen, Dobby and Kreacher a half second behind her.

“Well?”

“They didn’t notice a thing,” Winky says primly. Dobby nods his head so fast his entire body
shakes. “They’s not see us come and go at all,” he adds.

Hermione scowls over her cup of tea, not at all pleased that we’ve pulled the elves into our scheme.
Kreacher isn't all that happy either to be frank, but that’s more to do with blood purity and bias than
actual anger at the plan.

He's just bent because one of the intended targets is a Black.

“I don’t like it!” Hermione insists.

“Your objections have been noted, ‘Mione,” Ron says with exasperation.

It’s perfect. It’s so simple it has to work. The elves will drop us in the prison. We already tested
that they can apparate and disapparate with Sirius as a dog. I’ll go last, since I’ll be the only one
not in animal form. We’re trusting that the confusing thoughts of the Animagi surrounding me, and
Prongs as our protection, will keep the dementors away while we make our way through the
prison.

It should take seventeen minutes to get in, walk to each cell, perform the spell, obliviate their
memory, and make our way out again by Tonks and Hermione’s calculations. I’ll call for the elves
when we’re ready to leave.

Sirius is still unconvinced.

“Even if we wait until the full moon and bring Remus with us, I still don’t think it’s enough people.
We’ll have to pull in two of Dumbledore’s closest advisors, and despite bringing Aberforth and
Minerva, there would only be five of us excluding you. I don’t like it. That’s not enough to
guarantee the Dementors don’t feel your presence.”

“We could always ask Dumbledore to go with you,” Arthur says. “He has an animal form, though I
don’t personally know what it is. But he taught Minerva how to transform. If he joined the raiding
party, we’d be sure to succeed.”

Moody is objecting before Arthur even finishes.

“There’s no way Albus would agree to this. I understand what the lass says about the spell being
grey. But there are no shades of grey in Dumbledore’s eyes. His sense of morality is very clear.
There is no 'for the greater good.'”

I feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut. Hermione’s mind flares against me, her own shock at hearing
that phrase evident on her face. For The Greater Good has taken on an entirely new meaning to us,
after we read about Dumbledore’s past.

I’m not sure I agree with that. The whole no Greater Good thing. Not with everything I know. It
seems to me everything Dumbledore does is for the greater good, and no matter the damage he
causes in the process. Or maybe Dumbledore slid so far into the light to make up for his influence
on Grindelwald in the past that he makes decisions despite the greater good. Either way, while I
concede Dumbledore would never agree to assist me in stripping magical beings of their powers, I
really couldn’t tell you what he would or wouldn’t do anymore.

“There’s no love lost between the Dumbledore brothers either,” I say smartly. “If we ask Aberforth
not to tell his brother what we're doing, he will. As for McGonagall, we can always wait to tell her
until the last minute. Call her over for dinner, or a meeting, or anything that would ensure her
presence, then inform her of our plan. If we explain to her this will be happening with or without
her participation, she’ll join. She won’t let me go without her protection. This, I guarantee you.
Dumbledore may find out afterwards, but it’ll all be over by then.”

I just won’t tell her that I plan to keep the mason jars with their powers in the Chamber of Secrets.
By the time the next Parselmouth finds their way into the chamber, every one of the witches and
wizards for whom those jars belong will long be dead.

They’ll be nothing but glass and metal.

“It’s still not enough,” Sirius insists, slamming his fist on the table. “I won’t bring my Head of
House, and my son to boot, into a place that’s designed to suck the life out of you. Literally. Not
without a hell of a lot more protection than this.”

“I’ll have prongs to protect me,” I insist.

Remus just grimaces.

“It’s not enough,” Sirius repeats.

“We might be able to help with this,” the twins say in their synchronized voice.

The sudden absence of the click-clacking of Molly’s knitting needles gives the kitchen an ominous
feel as the twins rise from their chairs. It’s my turn for my stomach to sink with apprehension.

Without saying a word, they transform before our eyes.

Their bodies shrink, their hair shoots out, until identical red foxes preen in the spot the twins just
stood.

I burst into laughter as they lower their front legs and seem to bow before us.

“Bloody hell,” Ron breathes, as Ginny squeals in delight.

“Wicked,” Neville grins.

The foxes scurry around the kitchen, rubbing up against Hermione’s feet. Why does this not
surprise me? At all. Of course, the Marauders' heirs are illegal Animagi. My smile splits my face.

Molly’s knitting hits the floor.

“GEORGE AND FRED WEASLEY!” she screeches, and half the men in the room flinch in
sympathy and fear. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

The foxes scamper into the corner, before resuming their human forms. They raise their arms in
front of their bodies, warding off a potential blow. Or maybe hoping to hold off their mothering
impeding screaming session.

“Now don’t get mad—“ “It was only a bit of fun—“ “To see if we could do it.”

They give their mother their usual devil-may-care attitude, but deflate like a balloon losing its air
when Mrs. Weasley starts to stalk towards them.

“Well, I think it’s bleeding brilliant, isn’t it?” Ron says enthusiastically.

Ron immediately ducks his head away when Molly rounds on him with a knitting needle tight in
her hand.

Arthur seems to be fluctuating between gob smacked excitement and horror at what his children
have accomplished on their own.

“Since when?” he asks the twins, his voice brittle and hoarse. “When did you complete the
transformation?”

“Beginning of Sixth Year,” they say together.

Arthur gives up the fight and lets parental pride win. His eyes are shining in happiness and his grin
could break his face. Molly’s chest is swelling, her face tinting a familiar shade of red.

“Well, that gives us two more Animagi,” I say determinedly, hoping to cut her off before she gains
her steam. “Does that make you more comfortable, Padfoot? I’m not helpless, you know. I
distinctly remember saving your ass from the Dementors once upon a time.”

Sirius is only half paying attention to me. Most of the people around the table are still watching
Mrs Weasley rip into the twins.

I catch Arthur’s eyes across the table and tilt my head pointedly at his wife. She’s crossed the
kitchen and has the twins pinned in the corner, a hand on each of their ears. We’re just lucky she’s
yelling in her own voice and isn’t using a Sonorous. With a sigh so heavy I can feel it in my chest,
Arthur rises and goes to help his sons.

Draco reaches across the table and without saying a word, takes Sirius’s Firewhiskey and throws it
back with one gulp.

“I suppose it’s my turn then,” he grumbles, and every head in the room whips to stare at him. Even
Mrs Weasley stops her lectures to give her attention to Malfoy.

“You’re an Animagus?” I ask dumbly.

Because even Sirius and my dad didn’t manage it until they were fifteen. Like, at the end of their
Owl Year. Draco’s birthday was only a few months ago.

“No. I’m not an Animagus. Not like Sirius and the twins, at least. It’s more akin to skin walking.
Or being a Metamorphmagus. It’s a magic, or a curse," he says gumly, "that follows the Malfoy
line.”

He stands up from the table, and begins to strip off his shirt. He pulls the button on his trousers,
and yanks on the front of his belt. With the toes of one foot, and then the other, he shoves his shoes
from his feet. Pulls his socks off and drops them on the floor.

He looks around the room before he speaks.

“When we’re younger, our shape is undecided. I could shift into any animal I pleased. I slithered
around my house as a snake. Flew through the yard as an eagle. My father is a python, as was his
father before him, and his father before him.

“No one knows about our ability. Father never even told the Dark Lord. Unlike with Animagi, our
clothes don’t transfigure when we shift. You wear them, you lose them. I’m rather fond of this
shirt, Potter.”

“Definitely a curse,” Remus says, familiar with the theory of losing your clothes in the
transformation.

Draco pushes his trousers off his legs, and Hermione turns her face so she’s not staring at Malfoy
in his pants. She’s the only one. The rest of us can't tear our eyes from him.

Draco looks me in the face.

“I told my father the power skipped over me when I was thirteen. That somehow I'd lost it. Just
another reason I’ve never done the Malfoy line proud. He threatened to disown me until my mother
interfered.”

“But it didn’t skip you,” I state. Anticipation bubbles in my stomach. What could Draco’s other
form be that he’d rather risk disinheritance than admit what it was?

“No. It didn’t. It settled on a permanent animal. I haven’t been able to shift into anything different
since.”

Hair starts to sprout from his head, turning a tawny yellow. His body folds in on itself, a sickening
cracking noise as bones are broken and reformed. I only stop from gagging, having witnessed, and
heard, Remus’s transformation first. His pants are shredded from his person, dropping to tiny
scraps on the floor.

Hermione’s shock lights up the back of my head like a beacon. Her gasp is joined with a dozen
others, as Draco takes his new form.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!”

Ron pushes up from the table in a rush, coming around to the other side.

I drop to my knees in front of the beast in the middle of the kitchen and hesitantly reach out my
hands. He shakes his head and his mane fluffs around his head. His paw scratches across the
kitchen floor, his agitation clear.

His eyes are still grey, startling in the predator’s face. Even covered in fur, his expression reads
clear as day. Fuck off, Potter.

Draco Lucious Malfoy, Slytherin son of a Slytherin son, takes the form of a lion.
 Chapter 40
Chapter Notes

Sorry about last week. I got wrapped up in the Hunger Games, then got the cold that
won't end. But here we are, bsck on schedule.
Hermione
“I don’t like it!” I hiss, stomping my foot with my hands fisted at my sides. I turn to Ron and give
him an imploring glare. “Tell him, Ronald! Tell him I’m right.”

We’re sitting at the library table, his elbows on his knees and leaning forward with his fingers
entwined. How many times have I seen him take that pose, in this life and the last? I almost feel
bad. We forced him to grow up even faster than we had to last time.

Then the thought flitters out of my mind. He needed a little maturity.

He’s slow to look at me and even slower to respond. I have to fight the need to stomp my foot
again.

“Mione, I mean...I understand your point. I wish I could go too. But it was my plan to begin with. I
can’t tell you I don’t agree with it now, can I?”

I growl at him, honest to Merlin growl, and that’s entirely Harry’s fault. I never would have
growled at a person before Harry’s abrasive temper merged with my more delicate nature.

Harry snorts under his breath.

I whip in his direction instead and his face morphs into one appropriate for a grandmother's
funeral.

“Harry James Potter-Black! Stop reading my bloody mind! And I’m going with you and that’s
final!”

Draco chuckles from where he’s stretched out on the couch with that stupid book lying flat against
his chest and I pivot to glare at him. Naturally, the first muggle book he chooses is Machiavelli’s
The Prince. I don’t care that his animal form is a lion. Draco is a Slytherin through and through.

“Is it always like this?” he asks Nev conversationally. “The constant bickering and sniping?”

“Pretty much,” Nev confirms, observing us from a chair. Molly and Winky got a microwave for
the kitchen, though Molly refuses to use the thing. Neville is sitting with his legs crossed and a
bowl of popcorn in his lap as if he’s watching a movie.

I don’t know why I thought a summer spent with us would be good for them. They aren’t picking
up good habits as much as reinforcing their annoying ones. Draco is as cunning as ever and Nev is
gaining so much confidence in himself—and with Draco—that now Neville is mouthing off to me
in ways he never would have dreamed of in the other timeline.

“Golden Trio my arse,” Draco says with a smirk.

I hadn’t intended to have this argument in public, but when we left the kitchen, Neville and Draco
followed. We may have accepted Draco into our little half-knit family thing, but I’m not to the
point where I’m ready to let him into my bedroom. To the library we went.

My husband, the annoying prat, holds out his hands beseechingly.

“Look, Mi. I’m sorry. But you’re not coming with us. The spell can only be powered by the Head
of House Black. That’s me, whether we like it or not. You would serve no purpose other than as
another human without an animagus form who the others will have to chaperone.”

Chaperone? CHAPERONE?!!

I’m trying to keep my calm. I really am. But Harry’s so damn good at pushing my buttons.

Harry doesn’t even have the gall to look apologetic. Stupid, overprotective, overbearing...

I stomp my foot again.

“Don’t you use that buillshite excuse on me, Harry! We are Bonded Mates! Magical titles like
Head of House mean shite when it comes to us. That spell works for me just as well as it does for
you and you damn well know it!”

Harry’s frustration is starting to show. He scrubs his hands roughly over his head.

"Even if it does, Hermione," he growls out through clenched teeth, "it wouldn't be safe to bring you
with us."

Moronic, bloody, insufferable, prat who thinks he can keep me locked in a tower....

He throws his arms out in frustration.

"I understand I can't keep you locked in a tower, but that doesn’t mean I'll allow you to jump
headfirst into dangerous situations."

He did not just say that.

"Allow me?" I hiss. "You won't allow me?!" Mother loving… "And STOP READING MY
MIND!!!!"

My eyes bulge out of my head.

"Dammit, Hermione! You know what I mean. We'll be gone less than twenty minutes, and I will
not risk you—"

I cut him off and poke him in the chest.

"A time we could cut in half if there were two of us performing the spell. We don't even know for
sure the damn spell works to begin with!" I fume.

“There’s an easy way to solve this dilemma,” Draco sneers from the couch.

All three of us turn to face him.

“How’s that, exactly?” Harry asks, his irritation apparent.

Draco lifts his hand in front of him, twisting it left and right and admiring his perfectly groomed
nails

“Test it on the Weasel.”

“Hell no!” Ron shouts, pushing up from the chair and skittering backward. “Are you trying to kill
me? I swore fealty to them. That’s a vow on the penalty of death. If Harry declares me an enemy of
his House, I’m liable to drop dead!”
“Calm down, Weasel. All you Gryffindors are so over-dramatic. That’s not enough to kill you.”
Draco lowers his voice. “More's the pity.”

Ronald scoffs.

“Whatever, Malfoy. Of course, you’d say that. You’d probably get a huge kick out of watching me
keel over."

“Yes. I would," Draco says with a half-smile. He shakes himself out of his reverie. "But seeing as
you are essentially Harry’s lieutenant, knowingly leading you to your death would trigger Harry to
take my life. I doubt the vow would do it quick and painless either. It would probably pin me in the
beheading pose until Harry got around to separating my head from my neck.”

Harry chuckles under his breath, and Ron’s gaze goes far off, probably imagining exactly that.
Draco, sweating and fighting an invisible hold as Harry saddles up to him, sharpening his sword.

Draco rolls his eyes.

“But, by allowing your lord and commander to test magic on you, you are essentially fulfilling your
vow to him. He is declaring you an enemy of his house to serve his house.” Draco rises from his
lounging and takes a more studious pose. He rests one ankle on his knee and crosses his hands
together in his lap. “The Weasleys have all sworn fealty, yes?"

“Yes,” Harry grouches. “Every single one, including Gin. Though the only three with enough balls
to do it to my face were Ron and the twins.”

Neville flushes guiltily.

His vow came at daybreak the morning after Draco joined us, waking Harry from a fitful sleep of
nightmares about the Department of Mysteries. Prophecies mixed with Bond Orbs and time
tentacles thrown in for kicks and giggles.

"Then the Weasley’s are your Bannermen. The Weasel is your Number One. If you and Granger
went on a mission, Weasel would have the conn. It would take more than you testing the spell on
him for it to activate the killing curse on his vow."

Harry startles at Draco’s words, and I stare at him like an owl.

"Did—Surely I misheard you,” I say. “Did you just quote Star Trek?"

Draco blushes horribly but doesn’t give any other outward sign of embarrassment. He clears his
throat and meets my eye.

"The telly is a ghastly device. Horrid, really. It's truly appalling the lengths muggles will go to, to
replace magic in their lives."

I have no words. I've officially seen it all.

"Yet you've watched it enough that you have portions of Star Trek memorized?"

Neville replies instead.

"It's all he does when he's not in the library or training. While you three are off doing,” he gives me
a pointed stare, “whatever it is you do—plotting the infiltration of impenetrable Wizarding
strongholds apparently. Malfoy is sitting in front of the telly. You should hear him talking to it, all
hours of the day and night. It's even worse now that we have popcorn."

Neville stuffs a handful into his mouth to emphasize the point. Draco flushes again.

“I—”

What?!

I think I’ve been rendered mute.

Ron stops me from having to come up with a response to that.

“If it’s so safe, Malfoy. Why don’t you let him practice on you?”

Draco smirks a condescending smile, eyes bright and lips half turned.

“Wouldn’t work, I’m afraid,” he coos, fake sympathy dripping from his tongue. “See, Potter and I?
We are related. By blood, and by...” He closes his eyes in a painful exhale. “Bond. He swore to
protect me. Stripping me of my magic might not kill me, but it certainly wouldn’t be keeping me
safe.”

Draco pulls at invisible cuffs, and I swear he’s preening.

“That leaves you or Longbottom, and no offence to Longbottom, but a flobberworm would struggle
to find him scary. Potter here could name him an enemy of our House until Dementors became
unicorns, and it wouldn’t make a difference.”

In the blink of an eye, Neville is standing over Draco, his knee between Draco’s thighs and both of
his knives pointed at Draco’s heart and crotch. The popcorn bowl is still rattling on the floor, and
fluffs of popcorn and unpopped kernels are spread all over the library floor.

“You were saying?” Neville asks conversationally.

Bloody...why are purebloods always putting knives to each other’s throats?! Harry takes a step
towards them, but at a quick flash of eyes from Draco, halts where he stands. Draco turns his full
attention to Neville.

“The kitty has claws,” Draco purrs.

"Big words coming from a lion," Nev counters.

With a flash, Neville is flying through the air, landing sharply on the decorative table between the
chairs. It explodes in a shower of wood and glass under Neville’s back. His air is forced out of him
with an ooomph.

They move almost too fast for me to follow, exchanging blows and grunts of effort, but come to a
stop in the rubble of the table, Draco straddling Neville’s chest with Neville’s knives still at
Draco’s throat and belly, but Draco’s wand under Nev’s chin.

Draco has a small trickle of blood dripping down his neck, stark and bright against the pale
creaminess of his throat.

"If you tell a single soul about my secret, Longbottom, I'll curse you so hard you'll be begging me
for death."

Neville’s chest is heaving, but his voice is steady when he speaks.

“You’re fast,” Nev says, in a tone of voice I wasn’t expecting to hear from him for years yet. “But
can you curse me before I slice open your vocal cords? I’ve yet to hear you use non- verbal
magic.”

Neville presses in a little deeper with his right hand, and I watch in a fascinated stupor as the blade
digging into Draco’s belly shoves in hard enough that Draco hisses in a breath. His shirt flutters
from the rip in the fabric.

Draco’s smile slides slowly and wickedly over his face.

“I may have misspoken, Longbottom,” Draco cedes, lifting his wand from Neville’s throat. “But
you owe me a new shirt.”

“Send me the receipt,” Neville says with a cocky lilt.

I finally get it. Mortimer sent us to an alternate universe. It’s the only rational explanation at this
point.

Sirius comes in carrying a letter and stops dead upon the threshold.

“Problem?” he asks, looking around the room.

“Nope,” we all say in varying tones and exclamations.

Nev and Draco skitter to their feet, wands and blades disappearing up sleeves and into holsters.
They don’t bother to repair the table, typical boys, so I do so with a flick of my wand.

“Hmmm,” Sirius grins with a mischievous smirk. “You’ve got a letter,” he says, handing the
envelope to Nev. “The damn owl wouldn’t stop pecking. Who’re you talking to so late at night?”

Nev blushes red, and shoves the decorative envelope into his pocket, crumbling it in his haste. “No
one,” he stutters.

“The plot thickens,” Draco drawls.

“Suuuuure,” Sirius laughs before leaving us alone again.

Harry and Ron join in on Draco’s ribbing, trying to force Neville into admitting who the letter is
from. The night is getting late, and I’d like to attempt more than five or six hours of sleep tonight.

"Enough of this nonsense," I mutter.

I turn and face Ronald.

“Sorry, Ron,” I say, then point my wand at him.

“Inimicus domus meae, potestatem tuam capio pro mea.”

Enemy of my House, I take your power for my own.

Ron’s eyes go wide with shock, his chest heaving with the strength of his gasp. His hands lift to his
chest, spreading wide in an attempt to hold his magic in.

He fails.

It drips from him in inky drops, turning to mist, before solidifying before our eyes. His magical
aura is orangish-red, like the flash of light during a sunrise when it first peaks over the horizon.

“Bloody hell, Hermione,” Ron stammers, watching in horror as his magic comes to a rest between
us. It’s coalesced into a moving self-contained liquid, rotating in mid-air. “Give a bloke some
warning, will ya?”

Harry looks at me as if I’ve sprouted a second head. His incredulity is thick in the bond.

“Seriously, Mi? Just like that? You don’t even have to work up to stripping him of his power?”

I turn my nose up, still examining the core of Ronald’s magic floating in the air before me.

“Don’t you dare judge me Harry Potter-Black! So I have some unresolved anger issues to work
through. It’s your fault, I’m sure. I never had a tempter until you got in my head.”

Every boy in the room barks in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Harry scoffs. “Okay. I’d for sure say you have some issues to work through.” He steps
closer, looking at the inky globule of his best friend's magic. “I wasn’t expecting it to be that easy.”

It’s incredibly easy to be angry enough at Ron to make him squirm. “He abandoned us twice,
Harry!” I insist.

Harry rolls his eyes.

“You can’t keep holding that against him. He saw the error of his ways both times!”

“Yeah!” Ron says, rubbing at his chest. “Give me back my magic. I’m cold.” He sways on his feet.
“And I think I’m going to puke.”

He does look a little green. Harry conjures a bucket for him and shoves it into Ron’s arms.

Fine. I made my point. That’s all I was looking for.

“Consider us even then, Ronald. You are forgiven.”

At my words, his magic turns into mist and is softly reabsorbed back into his body.

He throws up, turning his back and hurling into the bucket.

“That was horrible,” Ron cringes between bouts of sickness. “Is that the way muggles feel all the
time?”

Now I feel bad.

“No. They never had magic, to begin with. So, they don’t know what they’re missing. You did.”

“Ahh,” Ron says, and I vanish the sick in his bucket. He goes to put it down, but I put my hand up
and shake my head.

“Better make sure Harry can do it too.”

Ron’s shoulders slump and he groans in irritation. You’d think we were telling him he had to go to
bed without dinner.

“Go, Harry. Your turn.”

Harry smirks at Ron.

“Sorry, mate,” Harry says, pulling the wand twin to mine.

“You don’t look sorry,” Ron grumbles.

Harry just smiles.

“Inimicus domus meae, potestatem tuam capio pro mea,” Harry intones.

Nothing happens.

“Really?” Ron laughs, looking a near sight happier than he did thirty seconds ago.

In a fit of irritation, Harry turns his wand on Malfoy.

“Inimicus domus meae, potestatem tuam capio pro mea.”

Nothing happens. Again.

“What’s wrong, Potter?” Draco taunts. “Can’t get it up? It’s a common enough problem I hear, not
that I would have personal experience with that.”

Harry’s frustration is mounting, and I bite my lip not to laugh. It’s such a Harry problem to have.
Always bursting with righteous anger, then when the time comes to punish someone for their past
grievances, he discovers he’s already forgiven them after all.

I roll my eyes in exasperation.

“Fine then,” I sigh.

Boys. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.

I walk the two meters between Ron and me and grab him by the front of his shirt, hauling his lanky
frame down to my level. I kiss him roughly, trying desperately to ignore the sickening feeling of
his lips against mine.

It grosses me out to think at one point in time I wanted to kiss him.

“Seriously, Mi?” Harry laughs.

My irritation piques that he doesn't seem to care that I'm snogging his best friend.

After a heartbeat of Ron standing frozen still, his arms thrust out at his side, he shrugs then links
his hands behind my bum. Ugh. Disgusting. I push at Ron’s chest, laughing and scowling at the
same time. Ron grins at me sheepishly and opens his mouth to smart off—

“Don’t touch my arse, Ronald Weasley!”

Within the blink of an eye, Harry morphs from amused annoyance to an anger so hot it makes me
gasp.

“Inimicus domus meae, potestatem tuam capio pro mea.”

Harry sounds like a different person when he utters the spell this time. His voice is dark and
terrifying. The lights in the library flicker then surge from his power.
Ron collapses to his knees, almost pulling me down with him. He claws at his chest and gasps with
wide eyes as his red aura bleeds from his pores and hovers in a ball in front of Harry. His eyes roll
into the back of his head before he tips over to the side.

“OH MY GOD!” I shout, then drop to the floor over Ron’s prone body.

“Are you mad, woman!” Draco snaps, jumping from the couch and hurrying over to us. He stops a
good distance away from Harry, who is trembling head to toe, wand pointed downward at Ronald.

"Potter!" Draco barks and Harry lifts his head and wand and angles both towards Malfoy. Draco
raises his hands to show he's unarmed. "She’s fine, Potter,” Draco says, never breaking eye contact
with Harry. “Granger, tell him you’re fine.”

“I’m fine, Harry,” I agree automatically. “I’m absolutely fine.”

Harry’s eyes flick to me, then down to a still unconscious Ron. I run a diagnostic spell over Ronald
which creates a floating monitor which illustrates that his vitals are weak, but steady. His race is
listed as Muggle. The reading which usually monitors someone’s magical core, reads lifeforce
instead.

It’s hovering somewhere above fifty per cent.

His magical core, spinning and rotating in slow languid twists that reminds me of a lava lamp is
still floating in the air in front of Harry.

“Go to the corner and cool off, Potter,” Draco admonishes.

Harry’s heart is thundering in his chest. The green is almost completely gone from his eyes,
replaced by burning black embers.

Harry jerks his head in a broken semblance of a nod, then turns on his heels and marches stiffly to
the side of the library. Ronald’s magical core, having been released from Harry’s hold, coats its
owner in a stupendous glow, seeping back in through osmosis.

Ronald takes a gasping breath of air, face tight in agony and body writhing in pain, but he doesn’t
open his eyes. My still activated diagnostic monitor blinks a frantic red in warning, then settles into
a comforting rhythm, the magical signature returning and rising before my eyes.

Draco drops to his knees beside me while Neville hurries after Harry. Draco lifts each of Ronald’s
eyelids, checking their dilation.

“I thought you were fucking smart, Granger?” he jeers, not even sparing me a glance. “You
purposefully triggered a Bond Mate? Not just any Bond Mate, but Harry Fucking Potter?! He
could have killed the Weasel and not thought twice about it. Nobody could have done a damn
thing to stop it! Bond Mates can’t even be held legally responsible when they kill in defence of
their Mate.”

“I—”

Huh?

“Where’s that bloody little bag you carry everywhere?”

I—
I shake my head and try to clear it of the thundering emotions going on over in Harry.

Harry is in the corner of the library, back towards us, Neville whispering hotly at his side. He’s
trying to block his side of the Bond, but failing miserably. His shoulders are heaving as he sucks in
air through clenched teeth, trying to calm his racing heartbeat.

“What? What do you mean? Kill him? Not be held responsible?”

Malfoy grunts.

“Longbottom, switch spots with Granger.” Draco points his chin at me. “Granger, go fix Potter
before he blows up the house. And give me that blasted bag!”

I summon my bag from our room, then climb to my feet and run to Harry. As soon as I’m in reach
he pulls me into his embrace and buries his face so no one can see him. I wrap my arms around his
back and hold him as tightly as I can.

“I’m sorry,” he pants into my hair, gasping and wheezing, desperately for forgiveness. “I’m so
fucking sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I just saw him touching you, and then you pushed him and
the next thing I knew he was on the floor. I’m so sorry.”

“Shhhh, Harry. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I didn’t understand.”

I still don’t understand.

Draco correctly reads my look of confusion.

“The Bond Mate connection, it’s a living, breathing thing.”

Harry slips his hands up the back of my shirt, and his breathing starts to ease with the skin on skin
contact. “Yes. We’ve figured that much out.”

“It’s magically and biologically wired into a Mate to protect and serve his Bonded. Certainly you
noticed even before the binding Potter was overly willing to do what you said. He followed you
around the castle like a bloody puppy.”

That’s not true at all! Though, excluding Sixth Year, where we were fighting like cats and dogs, he
did take my suggestions more than any other person. “Didn’t you think it was unusual that Saint
Potter threatened to kill a bloke on the Hogwarts Express? Even a wanker like McClaggen?”

Yes. But no. Because the old Harry would have never threatened another’s life. Even after
Dumbledore died, he didn’t try to kill Snape. But this new incarnation? This Harry would rain
down brimstone if anyone even looked at me wrong. Another change I’d attributed to our rebirth.

“How do you know about that?” I ask instead.

Draco rolls his eyes.

“Everybody knows about that. I knew before we finished pulling into the station.”

Damn. Double damn.

Harry’s trembling has stopped, and his adrenaline is finally petering out. Though, now he’s getting
rather heavy.

“It’s built into the magic of the Bonds, Granger! That intrinsic desire to claim and please. To keep
their other half safe at all costs. If something happened to you, it would be like cutting off a limb to
him. Worse even. That’s why a Mate can’t be held responsible for their actions. I thought it was
weird when the Order kept pushing at him last week. Having you on the battlefield with him is
either genius or fantastically insane.

“You take someone like Potter, who already had a hero complex to begin with, and flood him with
a magical need to protect and defend?” Draco stares around the room, looking for I don’t know
what.

“How do you not know this?!” he demands.

“How do you know this?!” I snap.

“The Malfoys had a pair of Bonded Mates in the Sixteenth Century. Rina Malfoy kept a diary.
They’re still in the Malfoy Library.”

Malfoy was raised with knowledge someone like me could only dream of.

“We’re muggle-born, Malfoy. Everything we know we’ve figured out ourselves. I have a total of
three books that mention Bond Mates!”

Bloody Hell! I didn’t even think to look in private libraries for information on what’s happened to
us. Malfoy is right. I am an idiot. It’s an incredibly intimate connection. That’s why there aren’t
any books on it in stores or public libraries. It’s all kept within the families.

“Honestly, Granger. I thought you knew. I called you a...” the word literally gets stuck in his
mouth. “A... you know what, and he threatened to take my tongue. During training, you fell with
barely a scratch and Potter almost took down three Aurors on his own.

“I figured it was Harry-bleeding-Potter combined with the effects of the Bond. You know,
protective and shite. But obviously he has a different reaction in a training situation. Because this?
This was unexpected. Maybe, what triggered him was he wasn’t expecting your response. In
combat, he’s aware there’s a chance you could get hurt. Here, he wasn’t prepared to see you push
the Weasel away in discontent.”

That makes sense, I guess. You always react differently in situations you planned for than not.

“Well,” Neville says, trying and failing to give an encouraging smile. “The good news is we now
know, for sure, the spell works for both of you.”

Yeah. Brilliant.

I laugh against my will, and it sounds just this side of barmy.

I will not be going to Azkaban. I’m probably going to have to rethink my role in a lot of things
going forward. That cannot happen again. Not until we want it to. The Order’s Secret Weapon
indeed.

“Will it always be like this?” I ask quietly to no one in particular. Draco answers after a heavy
silence.

“I have no idea, Granger. In any other person, I’d say not. I read Rina’s journals last summer while
working my way through the library, so I still remember most of it. But she liked that her mate was
fussy about her safety. Rina mentioned that Cryus fought a duel once, over a perceived insult to her
honour, but...they were near strangers when they met. They mated a week before their official
wedding day. They didn’t have the...the history that you two have.”

He means the history of having already died together once, even if he doesn’t realize that’s what he
means.

I look at the other three boys on the other side of the room. Ron, still unconscious, Neville
monitoring his vital signs, and Draco conjuring potions from my bag and pouring them down
Ronald’s throat.

“Probably,” Draco says again, after a few minutes of silence. He sits back on his bum, having
finished treating Ronald. “When the threat of our constant death is gone. It’ll probably ease some.”

When the war is over.

“This stays between us,” I tell the others firmly.

Together they nod as one, sharing knowing glances.

My fingers run a steady trail over Harry’s head, where he’s still breathing shakily into my shoulder.

“He’s fine,” I whisper in his ear. “Ron is fine and I’m fine and everything is going to be fine.”

You learn something new every day. Apparently, there are levels of intent to the purging spell.

Harry rendered Ron, his best friend in the entire world, unconscious on the floor all because I
kissed him. Not because I kissed him. He was laughing at first. Because I shoved him away. I hope
it kills Bellatrix.

I watch in wonder as Draco mumbles soothing empathies in the redhead’s face as Ronald finally
comes around. Okay, well maybe not soothing, because I’m not sure they could go thirty seconds
without insulting the other without bursting into flames. But whatever he’s telling Ron seems to be
helping, because Ron visibly relaxes as they help him off the floor and onto the couch.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Ron almost looks thankful for Draco’s help. Looks like our trio
just became a quintet.

I’m sitting at the dressing table with Winky braiding back my hair. Harry is in the shower, after a
rough night’s sleep. The incident in the library has officially been added to his rotation of
nightmares.

Ron has already been up here, disgruntled, but back to full health and assuring Harry that he’s fine.
Ron claims all is forgiven. It’s going to be a while until Harry has forgiven himself. I spent five
minutes throwing myself on my sword, metaphorically, and apologizing to them both.

Again.

After all, the entire incident was my fault.

“Harry Potter’s Mi?”

I look behind me in the massive mirror as Dobby sticks his head around our bedroom door,
knocking gently on the wood.

“You can come in, Dobby. How are you today?”

Dobby grins at me, then bobs his head when Winky gently clears her throat in a quiet
admonishment.

“Dobby is well, Mistress.”

The tiny elf averts his gaze, shuffling his feet on the floor. He peeks at me with a hesitant smile,
clearly bothered by something unknown.

“Master Draco asked Dobby to give you these,” he says before I can inquire as to the problem.
Dobby snaps his fingers, and a silver embossed miniature trunk appears in his hands, its heft
causing the elf to droop a little. He holds it out to me, and I take it from his grip and place it in my
lap. He nods at me encouragingly and gives me a beaming smile.

I unclasp the closure and flip the lid open.

No wonder it was heavy. The inside is stuffed full with identically bound silver and black
embossed books. Two rows stacked two deep. There are three books that stand out from the rest.
One is distinctly masculine.

“Master Draco sent Dobby to the market, Ma’am, to wait for Missy. Missy is a Malfoy elf, see, but
she be Master Draco’s personal elf. She be sworn to Draco, not the family. I’s tells Missy that
Master Draco needs Mistress Rina’s journals.”

What?

I quickly glance at Dobby to see him twisting the edges of the Potter jersey in his hands before
returning my attention to the trunk on my lap. I run my fingers gently over the delicate bindings
and admire the pristine condition of the five hundred-year-old tomes. There are so many of them!

“Missy be upset that Master Draco leave her behind, but Missy loves Master Draco. So she sneaks
Dobby into the library and we’s stole Mistress Rina’s journals. Master Draco says no ones misses
them. Now they be yours. Please don’t be mad at Dobby, Mistress.”

Winky has finished my hair, and quietly faded into the background. Dobby’s voice has gone tight
and squeaky, even higher than it normally is. He looks on the verge of tears. As quickly as I can
with a trunk so heavy and delicate, I place it on my dressing table, then slide from my chair to end
on my knees in front of Dobby.

“Why would I be mad at you, Dobby? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Dobby went to Malfoy Manor without permission, Mistress. Dobby went into the home of bad
wizards. Dobby should be punished.”

“You can enter Malfoy Manor?” Harry asks, and I jump at the sound of his voice. I was so caught
up in Dobby’s anxiety, I didn’t even feel Harry come up behind me. Water is still dripping from his
partially dried hair, and there’s nothing but a towel around his hips.

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir. Elves can go anywhere where they’s aren’t warded out.”

Elves can go anywhere.

I still can’t get over the hubris of wizards.

Why am I surprised that the Malfoy’s wouldn't consider elves as significant enough magical beings
to ward them from their home.
Harry lowers to one knee beside me and holds out his arms. Without barely a second's hesitation
Dobby flings himself into his master’s embrace.

“You did great, Dobby. Brilliant! We’re both so proud of you.”

Dobby starts to cry in relief, beetle tears pouring down his face and onto Harry’s bare chest. But
Harry doesn’t even notice. He runs his hand soothingly up and down Dobby’s back by rote, our
mind on the other side of London, where the Death Eaters are gathering their numbers, in a home
where elves can come and go freely.

Dammit.

I owe Draco another thank you. I hate it when he’s right. Harry’s almost killing Ron was certainly
in service to our House. Because, without that fiasco, we never would have learned that Malfoy
Manor isn’t impenetrable after all.
 Chapter 41
Chapter Notes

***warning!! There be smut ahead!!!***

Thank you as always for your kind words and amazing comments. I am horribly
behind on responding, but please know every single one helps me get the next chapter
out!

Thank you guys!!

 Hermione

Dobby and Winky both pop out of our bedroom, leaving Harry and me alone. He stands up from
his half-crouch, then reaches out a hand and hauls me to my feet.

“How are you feeling this morning?” I ask him.

We haven’t been alone and awake this morning together until just this moment.

He slept like crap last night and was up at dawn sparring with the dummy in the training room that
they’ve enchanted to fight them in hand-to-hand combat. I was already sitting at the dressing table
with Winky braiding my hair by the time he came in, and Ron came up so soon afterwards; I’m
willing to bet he was waiting for Harry to finish taking his frustration out in the attic before he
knocked on our door.

“Okay,” he responds with a shrug.

By which he means almost killing his best friend has added to the layer of guilt he constantly
carries within him. He slept maybe two or three hours, broken up over five, and we didn’t have
nearly enough sex last night, because when he took me on my knees in the middle of our bed, it
was hard and fast, and I collapsed in exhaustion as soon as I came.

“I’m sorry,” I say with all the sincerity I can muster.

Harry gives me a soft smile and rubs his knuckle down my cheek.

“It wasn’t your fault, luv.”

We can agree to disagree about that.

That’s something else I’ve noticed, without the need of any stupid journal, thank you very much.
The more sex we have, the better. I don’t mean just that Harry is a boy and boys are led around by
their pricks. I mean that Harry has an almost intrinsic need to claim me.

Once that barrier was breached, it became a key part of his equilibrium.

I hope Hogwarts is ready for kissing in the hallways, because at times the only thing that soothes
his soul is the feel of his mouth against mine.

He leans in without any thought and plants a kiss on my lips, before turning towards the closet to
get dressed. Breakfast has already started I’m sure. Thank Merlin Molly no longer expects us for
the morning meal. It was a painful transition for everyone, but Harry and Molly both have come to
accept their roles. She stays out of his way, and he stays out of hers.

Then training is promptly at nine. It doesn’t matter to Nate that this is Harry’s house, and the main
purpose of Nate’s presence in it is to train Harry. If we’re not there on time, we’re punished the
same as the others are.

Still, we’ll have time. If we’re quick. Harry looks awfully good in that towel. He’s filled out nicely
this summer, the constant food and exercise forcing bulk onto his frame years before it would have
otherwise. Harry seems to be gaining all the weight Neville is losing. It’s done well for him.

“You know, skin on skin contact helps,” I say coyly.

It’s the first thing we learned. If either of us were upset, just touching each other calmed us down.
It’s more than magic. It’s a biological response. Like Draco said last night—the Bond is a living
and breathing being. Even before we realized the Bond existed, we were touching each other as
much as we could. That week we were apart at the beginning of the summer before we moved into
the Townhouse was the closest to torture I’ve ever come, Malfoy Manor excluded.

Merlin! Even in the last timeline, I was really the only person Harry allowed to touch him.

Harry pauses halfway to the closet, turning carefully on his heel. He licks his lips slowly,
unconsciously, and my muscles clench tight and deep in my belly. It takes all my considerable self-
control not to allow my eyes to roll up into the back of my head at the way he looks at me right
now.

Like I’m a buffet and he’s a starving man.

“It does, you’re right.”

I want to mouth off that I’m always right, but maybe after last night, that isn’t such a smart thing to
do. With a tug of the cloth, his towel is on the ground.

Winky spent fifteen minutes this morning brushing and braiding back my hair. She’ll be livid if I
mess it up before I even leave the bedroom. Though I am her mistress, and in theory at least, I’m
supposed to be in charge.

In reality, maybe I can avoid her until my afternoon shower after training this morning. I can blame
the destruction of my hair on that, and not seducing my husband before breakfast.

Without another word, I grip the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head.

“Where do you want me?” I ask him, and Harry takes himself in hand, slowly stroking the
thickening length.

“Edge of the bed,” he says, tilting his head to the side.

He plucks at one of his nipples, pulling and twisting until it’s a hardened peak, and my knees
almost buckle as the sensation of my nipples being tugged ghosts over my skin.

“Harrrry,” I whine, already needy and desperate.

Fine.

I admit it.

Harry isn’t the only one of us that functions better after sex. I’m not ashamed to concede to it. It’s
academic, after all. I seem to, to...breathe easier if that makes sense, the closer Harry is to me.
When he’s inside me? It’s the only time day or night where I feel really at ease, even if I’m pulled
tight as a live wire.

“Strip,” he orders, not offering to help me; the prat.

I turn my back towards him and as slowly as I can, push my yoga pants down my legs. I’ve taken
to wearing thongs almost exclusively when training. The wedgies are less that way, and Harry
complained, loudly and with his hand smacking my arse, that he could see my knickers through my
pants, and therefore so could every other man in the room. According to him, half of Britain has
made a pastime of staring at my arse in yoga pants, even though I’ve never worn them out of the
house.

Still, it’s not that big of a bother, if every time Harry sees my bum outlined in satin and lace he
makes that expression. The way his eyes graze my body, scalding and probing all at once,
memorizing yet always taking in something new? That is certainly worth the price of wearing a
thong all day.

“Knickers on or off?” I ask, looking over my shoulder. Harry is leaning against my dressing table,
slowly sliding his hand up and down his erect prick. “Off,” he says, octaves deeper than his normal
pitch.

I do that to him. I do. No one else.

I peel my knickers down my legs, having to pull them away from my quim, as I’m so freaking wet
the material has started to stick to me. I’m not looking over my shoulder anymore, and I’m not
paying attention to my surroundings, so I don’t notice when Harry closes the distance between us
and slides his fingers between my legs.

The sound I make is...yeah. I’d rather not think about that. I give up on pushing my knickers the
rest of the way down my legs and instead lean forward on the bed, letting it take my weight onto
my elbows.

With his foot, he pushes my knickers down to the floor, and I step out of the pooled material. He
kicks my feet wider, and my stance adjusts so my legs are spread, and my arse is in the air.

Harry leans across my back, two of his fingers sliding through my folds and spreading my slick.
His other hand grabs a palmful of my arse, squeezing it until just this side of pain before he runs
the heel of his hand up the centre of my spine.

I arch into his touch like a cat desperate to be rubbed. No wonder Crookshanks never enters our
bedroom anymore.

“Have I told you yet how much I love this bra?” he mumbles against my shoulder blade. He
reaches around in front of me and grasps the zipper at the middle of my chest, dragging it down
and freeing my breasts from their over-tight confines. “Such easy access.”

With one hand in my quim, fingers moving painfully slow over my slit, he pulls the sports bra
down my arms and off my body.

I stretch my back as much as I can and twist to the side, so I can kiss him over my shoulder. I love
kissing Harry. It’s like our joined soul solidifies between us every time I kiss him. It’s deep and
filthy and he wraps his hand around my throat and Merlin, it makes my stomach do things that
should be illegal.

When his fingers finally dip inside me, I whine into his mouth in an altogether unattractive fashion,
pushing back into his hand. He leans away and places a palm against the small of my back, pinning
me how he wants me, and those damn teasing fingers ease in and out of my centre at a pace that
could keep me strung out from here to eternity.

He pulls his hands from my skin, and I hear him sucking his fingers clean.

“On your back. Legs spread and bent at the knees,” he orders, and I hasten to obey him.

Only it’s not the compulsion that makes others obey him as Lord Black or the sheer intimidation he
flexes as Harry Potter, Chosen One and Boy Who Lived, that makes me skitter to do as he says.

No.

This is just Harry. My husband and Bonded and yeah, that’s enough for me.
I climb onto the bed, then fall onto my belly, rolling over onto my back. With a hand under each of
my knees, I spread my legs as wide as they’ll go. Harry is already on his knees in front of me by
the time I look forward again.

His hands grasp my thighs and spread my legs wider. Then he takes his thumbs and parts my labia,
so every nook and cranny is open and on display for him. My core clenches around nothing, and I
bite my lip and twist my head so as to not watch what Harry does to me.

This is not Harry performing under a deadline. I like that Harry. That Harry pounds me deep and
fast and latches his teeth onto the back of my neck and rubs my clit in frenzied circles until I’m
falling apart around him in two minutes flat.

This is Harry, ignoring all other responsibilities and just sitting back and preparing to spend the rest
of the day making me scream his name as often as possible.

I don’t have time to reconcile myself before his mouth is on me and his tongue is licking a stipe
from my asshole to my clit. My entire body shudders under his touch. The nerve endings he
exposed with his thumbs by parting my lower lips expand and contract in that magical way human
bodies do to send euphoria coursing along all my limbs.

Harry runs his tongue over my clit, playfully flicking the delicate bundle of nerves. He tightens his
tongue into an arrow and delves it into my quim, rubbing against my walls in short powerful licks
that have me squirming on the bed. He trails his tongue down to my asshole and circles the little
bud with his lazy teasing strokes.

My legs are already shaking, so Harry grabs one and throws it haphazardly across his shoulder
blade and down his back. He then rests my other foot on his shoulder next to his throat. With a
twist of his chin, he lays a butterfly kiss on the bottom of my foot, and magic shoots from where
his lips touched my skin. My knee drops open and fuck, he runs his tongue up and over my clit
again.

Then he trails kisses over my leg.

It's so yummy when he sucks on my thighs. Nowhere in any of my books did it mention how good
it felt when a tongue ghosts over the skin of your thighs. But it does. It feels so good. Harry dips
two fingers into my centre, and sucks on the fingers of his other hand until they’re dripping with
his saliva. He then uses both hands on my holes before moving his mouth to my thigh.

“Touch yourself, but stop before you come,” he orders me, then latches his lips around the crest of
my thigh and sucks.

His tongue twirls and licks against the sensitive flesh between my legs, pulling on the skin until
just before I cry out, then moves an inch and starts again.

His hand roams up my left side and plucks at my nipple, and my hips start to thrust. He’s touching
me everywhere, and it’s so, so, perfect. His fingers spear my quim, his thumb strums over my ass,
his hand cups both of my breasts, pulling at my nipples one at a time over and over again.

My stomach starts to quiver, and I dig my heels into Harry’s back. My walls squeeze around
Harry’s fingers, needing him harder, faster, just a little bit more. I’m so very close.

My fingers freeze on my clit.

That dirty, no good, antagonizing...

“Harry!” I whine, and tug against the magic holding me still.

Achingly slow and against my wishes, my arms lift above my head and link themselves at the
wrists, stretched out and pinned to the mattress.

The bastard has bound me with magic.

“I thought I told you to stop touching yourself before you came?” Harry asks, looking at me
through lidded eyes with his lips still ghosting against my thigh.

“I forgot,” I lie.

“Uh-huh,” Harry says, placing kisses into the patch of hair over my mound. “Good thing I can read
your mind. I was able to stop you in time.”

The Bond is singing.

Content. Happy. Well-fed. It’s glowing between us, so much so that if I had the use of my hands, I
swear I could reach out and pluck it.

Harry climbs up from the floor and joins me on the bed, situating himself between my legs. He
keeps my thighs wide, my knees pressed up to my chest. He runs his cock through my folds,
collecting my juices on his tip and spreading it down his length, then he pushes inside me.

He collapses in a groan, catching himself with one arm by my head and the other on my leg. I
moan at finally being filled by him. I break the magic binding my wrists together and surge up to
meet him, tangling my lips with his.

He sets a punishing rhythm, succumbing to our need to merge. To be as one. It’s the only time
we’re ever really at peace.

I lean my shoulders forward, my hands on his face to keep him kissing me. But Harry makes that
motion moot, when he crowds on top of me as much as he can, surrounding me with his body. His
knees are under my arse, his hand on my thigh and breast, and his back is bowed to cover me. To
protect me from anything that may try to take me from him.

“Fuck,” I pant because I know he likes it when I swear in bed.

When he rises just enough to slip my leg up over his elbow, I slide my fingers down my front,
strumming them across my clit. I clench around my Soul Mate, and Harry makes an anguished
sound, speeding up his hips. His eyes are closed, and I can feel him like I feel myself. His need.
His determination. How good he feels on top of me like this.

I keep my eyes open, and stare down the line of our bodies, and watch where Harry disappears
inside me over and over and over again. “Bloody, witch,” Harry growls, then catches my lips in a
kiss.

It doesn’t take much after that. Harry’s weight isn’t heavy. It’s comforting. The feel of him
pressing into me, my body supporting all his bulk as his hands hold onto my thigh and rib cage.
The way he sucks on my tongue in time with my fingers as they graze a feral path across my clit. I
don’t so much peak as tumble right over.

One minute I’m trembling from ten stone of Harry pounding me into our mattress, the next I’m
trembling because my orgasm burst at the base of my spine.
Harry comes with a guttural groan, kissing me throughout it. His hips stumble and his hand slips
and suddenly I support all of Harry’s weight across my chest, but I don’t care, as he continues to
spasm on top of me.

I “oomphf,” at the impact, and Harry starts to laugh until suddenly we’re both hysterical and
Harry’s cock twitches and squirms inside of me.

“Sorry,” he pants through laughter, and rolls to the side with a sincere lack of coordination, pulling
my legs with him.

Our laughter dies slowly, a random burst escaping every few seconds.

“What time is it?” he asks.

His back is towards the head of the bed, so I lift up on an elbow and look over his prone form.

“Eight forty,” I tell him, before collapsing back onto the mattress. Harry throws an arm around my
torso and hauls me in until he’s basically laying on top of me again.

“I need another shower,” he laughs through a huff.

“What you need is to skip the morning session and try to get some sleep.”

I can feel it pulling at him, like weights in your shoes dragging you under the water. You can fight
it all you want, but eventually, you’re going to be dragged under the tide.

“I’ll sleep when this is over,” he says, and he doesn’t mean training with Nate. “Ideas about the
elves?” he asks.

Too many to sort through.

“Yes. My first thought was to have Draco summon Missy to him here so we can question her about
everything she’s overheard in the weeks since Draco’s been with us. We’d have to adjust the wards
to let her in, of course. But that’s too big of a risk.”

Harry tusks in acknowledgement and disappointment. He hasn’t joined S.P.E.W. I think S.P.E.W.
in its original form is out the window. But Harry has rather taken to the title of Defender of House-
elves. If I’m not careful we’re going to have a hundred of them all working for us.

Unlike other magical families apparently, elves can’t simply wander in and out of the Townhouse
whenever they want. We don’t get deliveries. Our elves pick them up. We don’t even allow for
traditional mail delivery. There’s a basket on the roof for letters not needing an immediate reply.
Owls can reach the windows but aren’t allowed in the residence. There are several perches that
Kreacher keeps filled with water and owl treats for the Owls to wait if they need to carry back a
response. The only owls that can come and go as they please are our own. Hedwig nips at Harry
from time to time looking for a letter to deliver, but other than that, we’ve barely seen her this
summer. She’s as happy here as she is at the castle.

“Maybe,” I continue, “Draco can summon her once we get to Hogwarts. I know it’s not done often,
but I’ve seen family house-elves pop up from time to time.”

“What we need is a way to spy on Voldemort.”

“We aren’t using the elves, Harry James Potter-Black! Don’t you even think about it!”
Harry runs his lips over my forehead, pushing back my hair.

“I didn’t mean like that. Yes, we’d have to use the elves to get the devices into the manor, but I
wouldn’t do anything which would put Dobby at risk. Or Winky,” he adds.

“Kreacher too!” I say, having grown rather fond of the abrasive elf.

“Kreacher too,” he agrees.

We lay there in silence for several minutes, both of us lost to our thoughts. Harry’s lips are running
back and forth over my forehead, his fingers trailing lightly up and down my arm.

“Okay, let’s go shower. Plus, I’m going to shag you one more time. Because I can, and I want to,
and it’s for the safety of our House that I’m not on the verge of snapping right?”

I cover my mouth so he can’t hear me giggle.

“Makes perfect sense to me,” I say, feeling a new round of wetness seep out between my legs.

“Take Draco and Sirius to a muggle shop this afternoon while Ron and I are going on our second
round with Nate. I want you to pick up every spy movie you can find.”

I startle at that announcement, and finally open my eyes. Harry is looking down at me with a grin.

“Whatever for?”

“I’m going to make the twins watch them on the VHS player. You’re always saying Wizards rely
too much on their magic. Let’s see what the twins can come up with to allow us to spy on the other
side with the help of muggle imaginations combined with magical ability.”

A smile splits my face.

“You. Are. Brilliant!”

He kisses me slowly and deeply.

“It was your idea. Or it would have been. I just got there first.”

Huh.

“You bastard!” I grunt as my orgasm, hovering right on the edge of my fingertips, peters into
nothing.

Harry is perfectly still inside of me, his fingers linked with mine. My orgasm was going to be
glorious, until Harry ripped my hand away from my clit.

“Try to break free this time, Witch.”

With a pull so slow as to be excruciating, my arms are latched above my head again. Bound
together at the wrists and pulled tight away from my body. Harry runs his hands down my arms,
and the steam from the shower leaves a layer of perspiration on our skin that has nothing to do with
our sweat dripping down my back.

He kicks my feet apart, pulls at my hips, then thrusts his dick inside me.
Technically, we’ve already cleaned off. But it feels like a wasted effort since my slick is dripping
down my thighs again. The shower is still running; the steam is so thick I can barely see more than
a few inches in front of my face. Harry moved us out of the stream of water though, and licked
across the top of my ass where my stretched-out curls drip down my back.

“We’re going to be late!” I whimper, as Harry pulls out of my quim and runs his head up and down
my slit instead.

Harry kisses up and down over my shoulder.

“Ask me if I care.”

My cheek is flat against the cool tile, my arse tipped out. There’s just enough room between the
wall and my body for Harry to cup my breasts and pluck at my nipples. My legs are trembling from
the angle he has me pinned in and basically, the only thing keeping me on my feet at this point is
magic and Harry.

I do pull at the bindings, but my arms go nowhere. I put my magic into it, and instead, it shocks my
arms. I squeal in surprise, as tingles burn down my limbs. It adds to the pleasure in a way I was not
expecting.

Neither was Harry, if his moan and the hard thrust of his hips is anything to go by.

“That’s a nifty trick,” I tell him breathily.

He runs his tongue over my neck, before latching onto my ear. He growls into my skin.

“The more you struggle, the more it’ll sting. Try to get away hard enough, and it’ll light you up
from the inside out. Though I think you kinda liked it.” Yes. I did . “Maybe I should use the spell
on your quim.”

My hips jerk backwards of their own accord, forcing his cock deep and hard into my pussy.

“Oh, Merlin,” I moan, galvanized at the thought of those tingles on my most sensitive of areas.

Harry grunts into my ear, his fingers plucking at my breasts, the other sliding down between my
legs.

“Oh, you do like that idea, don’t you?”

I never should have showed him those books!

His fingers pick up their pace against my clit, flicking and pinching the swollen knot, but his cock
is still tortuously slow, filling me to the point of bursting before dragging against my walls until
only the tip connects us.

“My good girl likes the thought of me pinning her hips with magic, does she?”

“Uh-huh,” I moan, trying to shove myself down his cock. He’s so much stronger than me, and with
the way he has me frozen and on display, I’m completely at his mercy.

“Such a good girl,” he says again.

They call it a praise kink, and I knew I had a praise kink even before I knew what a praise kink
was. Isn’t that why I’m the first to raise my hand in class and why I’m the first to finish an
assignment? I like being told I’m a good girl.
When Harry says it, in a voice so deep he doesn’t even sound like himself, and with an inflexion
that says what makes me a good girl is how very bad I am...something inside me breaks, like a dam
overflowing, every time Harry calls me his good girl.

“My good girl wants me to spread her legs and magic her quim so that every time she squirms with
need and desperation, it feels like a million live wires sparking against her clit, does she?”

“Blihasbf,” I garble incoherently.

Harry laughs against my back, licking and placing kisses up the top of my spine.

“Come now, Hermione. Is that the way you answer a question from the teacher? Ten points from
Gryffindor. Try it again. Do you want me to pin you to the bed? And use magic on your quim until
you scream?”

Yes. Yes. YES!

“Y-e-s,” I say brokenly, the word chopped into three syllables. “Please!”

“Maybe not though. Maybe I magic you so that you’re sitting on my face, and your hands are on
the headboard. Or I position you on the couch so that I can fuck your quim with my tongue. I’d
make you come over and over again, and every time you tried to squirm away, it would set your
pussy on fire.”

I whimper so loudly it echoes in the loo.

I think he’s broken my brain.

His hand slips from my breasts and he fists it in my hair. He exposes the front and side of my neck,
and if I didn’t feel so bloody fantastic, the pull and twist of my back would hurt.

“You are so fucking lovely,” he growls before running his teeth over my throat. The way he leans
forward over me changes the angle of his hips, and I start to gasp in needy little yips every time his
thick cock bluntly brushes against my g-spot. “So, bloody beautiful.”

He releases my hair and I sigh as my body relaxes from its taught position but then he links his arm
around my front and cups my chin in his hand, turning my head backwards again. His kiss is wild,
and untamed and it’s exactly what I needed. The sweet mixed with the sin as he tells me how much
he loves me through the Bond.

His other hand leaves my clit and kneads my breasts instead.

I tighten my quim around him then mentally and physically prepare for him to pull me back from
the metaphysical edge and make me build all over again. It’s what he’s been doing all morning
after all. But Harry freezes my hips without warning me mid-thrust, and warm buzzy fire explodes
over my clit when I keep pushing through.

My vision whites and all sense of coherence is thrown out the window. I scream, and the sound of
my wail, which isn’t swallowed by Harry’s kiss, bounces around in the bathing chamber, drowning
out the unrelenting slap of wet hips against wet arse.

My knees buckle, and Harry drops my chin to scoop his arm under my hips and continue pounding
into me.

Harry roars behind me, his head dropping to my shoulder as he releases my breasts, supporting his
weight against the wall with his fist. He pours his seed inside me, and aftershocks wrack through
my body, milking his pulsing and throbbing length buried inside me.

It’s coming easier to him, no pun intended, to release that punishing grip he has on his self-control.
To willingly submit himself to that moment of vulnerability when your body, mind, and soul are
all exposed at once. Especially since the night we were drunk. I’ll have to remember to thank
Remus one day.

“My arms,” I whimper, and now that the pleasure has ebbed, I feel the pain for what it is.

Harry hastens to release the magical bonds holding my wrists in place and catches my limp body in
his arms. He slides slowly to the ground, back spray from the water hitting the tile and sprinkling
us in a gentle mist.

“Thank you,” he whispers into my hair where I’m curled up into his lap. His arms are latched
around me, and his thumb is running slowly up and down my arm.

Our hearts are pounding in our chests, though if I were to run a diagnostic on us, I bet my title as
Lady Potter-Black I’d read our heartbeats have synched and are beating as one.

“For what?” I ask once I feel confident in my voice. It’s a little scratchy truth be told.

“For loving me,” he says honestly, and it breaks something inside me that he still feels the need to
thank me for that.

“Always, Harry. Always.”

We’re going to be late.

Ask me if I care.
 Chapter 42
Chapter Notes

Soooooo, I fuxked up the posting this is what happens when you've written 20
chapters a head lol.

If you've already read the Azkaban raid, please read this before it lol

Hermione

“I’m here, I’m here. I’m sorry I’m late.”

We’re supposed to be having a meeting to go over preparations for the DA next term aaaaaand
anything we don’t want Mrs Weasley to hear. But my parents called unexpectedly, and I ran into
the backyard so I could get a clearer signal.

I bungle the stack of notes and books I have in my hands as I stumble to a stop in the library. My
hair is frizzing in every which direction despite Winky’s best efforts, and much like whenever we
crept closer to exams, the closer we get to the Azkaban raid, the angstier I become.

Harry and Ron’s antics are rising at equal rates with my nerves, to the point where it’ll be a shock
if we make it through tomorrow night without me hexing anyone beforehand.

Everyone is already waiting for me around the massive table. Everyone but Neville, that is, who
was called back home to visit his Gran for a few hours. Listening to the stories our Ministry friends
tell about Madam Longbottom’s work schedule, it’s probably the first time she’s been at her house
for ages as well.

Harry is sitting at the head of the table with Ron and Draco directly on either side. Draco,
unsurprisingly, doesn’t have anyone immediately to his left. As the only two 'outsiders' as it were,
Neville and Draco have taken to spending the most time together when we’re not in one group. The
twins have their heads together chatting with Gin, who’s sitting next to Ronald.

It’s ironic.

Harry is wearing a polo shirt and sitting at the head, in a chair that is purposefully larger than the
rest, but Draco looks like the prince, lounging artfully with his body pointed towards my husband
and draped in a white tee with the Green Power Ranger on it. Apparently, the snake can turn into a
lion, but the snake will always remain.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ron says. “Nev isn’t here yet either.”

“Wrong,” comes from the doorway. I look over my shoulder to see Neville striding into the room
slightly out of breath. “I’m here too. Sorry. It was hard to get away from her.”
His cheeks are flushed, and it’s obvious he jogged up the stairs.

“Scared of an old woman, Longbottom?” Draco taunts.

“Absolutely, yes!” Nev says with a shudder. “If you’d ever met her, you’d be scared of her too.
Honestly, I almost feel bad for the Death Eaters.”

Ron laughs and Draco rolls his eyes as Neville slides into the chair next to the twins.

I gather my thoughts and stop gawking in the middle of the walkway.

“How are your folks?” Gin asks, and it’s nice to have her talking to me again without the edge in
her voice and the venom in her glare.

I drop my load of books onto the table by Harry’s own, smaller pile.

“Good,” I tell her.

I lean into Harry and run my fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and tips his chin back
before I slide into the seat between Neville and Draco. Without prompting, Draco picks up my
stack of materials and drops them in front of me.

“They’re having a blast living out of a tent in some third world country, and let me tell you, I don’t
see the fun in that.”

“Aww, come on now,” Harry teases. “You don’t think you’d have fun living in a tent for nine
months?”

It wasn’t all bad, he says for me alone.

“No,” I say in a dead voice. “Just no.”

Never again if I can help it.

Harry laughs lightly, and even Ron joins in. Harry, because he remembers the almost nine months
we did spend in a tent and Ron, probably because of all the horror stories we’ve told him.

And probably because of my look of absolute horror. Neville and Gin start talking about his visit
with his Gran while I go through my notes for today’s meeting.

Summer hols is almost over and we plan on sending out feelers for the DA before the first week of
school is out. I’m going to ask whoever ends up with the DADA post this year if we can use their
classroom, or perhaps arrange to start lessons outside for the beginning of term. I don’t think it's
strategically safe to give the knowledge of the Room of Requirement to more people than strictly
necessary.

If all else fails, I’ll have Harry ask the Headmaster if we could maybe set up in the Great Hall. If
everything goes to plan, we’ll have more than just the same handful of students participating that
we did last time. If whomever they sucker into taking the post is affiliated with the Order, or isn't a
Death Eater in disguise, maybe the DADA teacher will even help out.

Though I'm of the mind it's better if we run the club ourselves.

I quietly activate my custom wards around the library and all the usual privacy spells, then set the
perimeter charm to alert us when someone is on their way up the stairs.
We watched Home Alone last week, and now the guys keep joking that I've set the library up like
the McAllister house, booby-trapped so that no one can enter or leave without my knowledge and
permission.

They're not wrong.

A record is kept whenever a book passes through the wards. Both on leaving and returning. Ron
doesn't realize I know he's had a copy of The Art Of War since July…even though I bought him his
own paperback.

“Everyone still in the parlour when you come up?” I double-check with Neville.

“Yeah. We probably have hours before anyone heads this way. Moody just poured the port.”

Ahh. Yeah. We’ve got a good while before we’re disturbed then. They’ve taken to talking about
the good ole days, which I utterly despise because it doesn’t sound like the good ole days at all.
Unless you count the fact that half the people killed in the first war are at least alive in their stories.

A shiver runs down my spine at that uncomfortable thought. Harry and Neville can't take it. They
always leave the room when storytime starts. Our orphan boys, born at the end of July. Their
parents feature heavily in the memories shared.

I pull out my pen then flip open a notepad before knocking against the wood of the arm of the
chair.

“First things first, did Remus tell you Aberforth confirmed for tomorrow night?”

Ron opens his personal binder and makes a tick next to a highlighted line. I'm not looking forward
to when we have to go back to parchment and quill. Perhaps I could petition the Board of
Governors into making the change? I know for a fact they're permitted to use ballpoint pens at
Ilvermorny, and Victor was allowed to use inkwell pens at Durmstrang.

Quills are pretty, but they’re just so inconvenient. Either way though, they can't force me to give
up my highlighters!

“No, he didn’t,” Ron says, “but I never had any doubt. From what you've told me, he’d do almost
anything for a chance to stick it to the Death Eaters.”

True, but it’s nice to have it in writing anyway.

I cross it off my list.

“Draco and I have to be in the potions lab by eight,” I tell them as I check my watch.

Tomorrow’s the last day for the Wolfsbane potion, and if you don’t stir it at the exact right time,
the previous six days’ worth of doses are utterly worthless. Not to mention the painkillers and a
small batch of Polyjuice we’re brewing on the side. You can keep the Polyjuice base for up to a
year without hair mixed in.

Just in case.

'Just in case' has become my new motto.

“So, we have to be done here, or at least our portions of it, within an hour and fifteen minutes. I
have a timetable set up for the items on our agenda and...”
I let the sentence hang there as I look up to find all eyes on me.

Everyone is staring at me, and not in a ‘look how responsible Hermione is, isn’t she great?’ sort of
way either. It’s more of a ‘who died and left the swot in charge?’ sort of expression that I haven’t
seen much of late. It’s almost nice to know I can still elicit those types of stares even after
everything we've been through.

Draco is leaning on his right elbow, twisting his primary wand around in his fingers.

“You know Granger, it pains me to say it, but being the head of a Great and Noble Family suits
you. You’re bossy, a pain in the arse, you think you’re always right, expect to be obeyed without
question, and now you’re calling meetings you don’t show up on time for then proceed to lecture
other people for messing up your schedule.”

My pen falls to the table in a clatter that seems to echo on end.

Of all the!

“That’s—that’s not...”

“I thought I was the Head of a Great and Noble House?” Harry inquires playfully, saving me from
my stuttering stupor. I can’t believe Draco would say that to me! Of all the stupid, patronizing,
arseholish...

Draco looks Harry straight in the eye.

“That’s what all Great Ladies want their husbands to think. The husband is the head, he controls all
the money, yadda yadda, yadda. But take a look at the Weasleys. They’re,” he gets stuck on the
word, his face squished up in distress. “Pureblood.” It drips from his mouth like something foul.
“The mother shows Arthur respect as her Lord and Master. She dotes on him as a great wife
should. But who’s in charge of their House? The father, or the nag?”

“Oi!” Ron says in anger, his ears pinking before my eyes. He slams his hand flat on his papers.
"Don't you talk about our mother like that!"

“Mum!” chime in the rest of the Weasley children with knowing laughs. Mrs Weasley is a nag. It’s
part of her charm. I personally think that Mr Weasley likes it. He’s a wonderful father but leaves
most of the childrearing to Molly. His interests lie elsewhere, and his wife’s micro-managing
parenting style allows him the time to explore those interests. Like flying cars and motorbikes.

“Exactly,” Draco gloats, leaning backwards in his chair.

He links his hands over the image of the Green Power Ranger and he’s just so smug, I want to
smack it off his face. I tilt in his direction, not believing a word he says.

“So, you’re telling me your mother is in charge?” I ask sarcastically. “And what? Your father
simply lounges around all day waiting for your mother to assign him a task. ‘I’d like my jewels
from the vault, dear,’ or ‘Perhaps we’ll offer the Dark Lord residence in the manor today? Would
you mind purchasing some tarps to protect the furniture from the blood?’ Forgive me, Malfoy, but
from everything I’ve learned about your family, I find that very unlikely. What happened to ‘Wait
till my Father hears about this’?”

Draco sits up straighter in his chair. He leans forward over his entwined hands, and it feels like the
only thing keeping him out of my face is the restraint of his fingers, pressing against his belly.
“I’m telling you,” he says sharply, “that my mother has skills for getting what she wants that you’d
do well to emulate. Like it or not, Granger, you have a place in society now beyond the Hogwarts
schoolroom.

“You are the last of a great house. More than that. You are the Head of two great lines combined.
Part of being a Great Lady is simply assuming you will be obeyed, and planning for those results.
You certainly have that part down. But part of it is...” he twists his head side to side, looking for an
accurate word. “Elegant manipulation,” he says, twirling his fingers. “The dexterity to work a room
and come away with the contacts and contracts you need to see your goals to fruition. That’s an art
form you’ll need to learn. You can’t brute force everything, Granger. There’s a reason they call it
playing politics. After all is said and done, it’s all just a game and you need to learn the rules.”

I tap my pen on my papers, trying and failing to provide an appropriately witty response. It’s not as
if it’s nothing I haven’t thought of myself. Perhaps not quite as gratingly as Draco just presented it.
But...

“Did you have a point, Malfoy?” Ron asks dryly.

Draco doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“Perhaps my point is moot,” he says with a shrug as he leans back in his chair. “Because Potter is
content to be led around like a toddler on a training leash, and with the bloody Chosen One as your
house pet, I’m sure you’ll always get what you want anyway.”

His eyes are glittering, and his voice is devil may care, and ice forms in my chest as what he’s said
sinks in.

“Harsh, Draco,” Harry says, a tinge of anger in his tone.

Neither Malfoy nor I acknowledge him.

That was...wow. I don’t know how to reply to that. I just tap, tap, tap my pen on the table and let
the tension fill up the room. Before we welcomed him into our home, Draco knew I was ambitious.
Harry wasn’t his only rival. Draco and I have fought tooth and nail for top grades for years now.
It’s oh so very Slytherin of him to point out one of my biggest fears while twisting it into a
backhanded positive.

I’m not a people person. I don’t have strong social skills, and no matter what line of work I end up
in after the war is said and done, Malfoy is absolutely right. Politics will not be my strong suit.

But the thought of getting a job or a place in society simply because I'm Harry Potter’s wife is
abhorrent to me, and long before Draco shared my space, he knew me well enough to at least know
that.

Now to decide if that was his way of trying to help...was he backhandedly offering to teach me
how to play the game? Or was he trying to undermine my confidence by showing me my
weaknesses in such a way as not to be accused of doing so?

Isn’t that the point, though? To always keep them on their toes? Never let them feel like they have
the upper hand in the game. As soon as your opponent starts to feel comfortable, you quickly
change the rules.

So very, very Slytherin of him.

Harry lifts his chin to get my attention. You have a little Slytherin in you too, luv.
In more ways than one.

“On that pleasant note,” I say, “this is for you.”

I reach into my bag and place the harness I had made for Draco onto the table in front of him.

“What is it?” he asks warily, lip turned up in disgust.

“It’s a harness for you to wear into Azkaban.”

Draco lifts it gingerly with two fingers while Ron starts to snigger beside Harry. I look towards
them and their heads are together, whispering behind raised hands. I distinctly hear the word leash,
however, float across the Bond.

Harry gives Ron a shove and gestures for him to be quiet.

The pack I had made for Draco is similar to Harry’s holster and sheath for his sword. That’s what I
had in mind when I designed it. Two bands latch around him, at his neck and around his belly. He
can remove it with a pull of a cord that, hopefully, he’ll be able to reach with his mouth. As his
magic matures, if he can use non-verbal spells in his animal form, we can ditch the cord and he can
use magic to open the clasps. On his back is a leather pouch and slots for his wands. He’ll be able
to fit an entire set of clothing and a cloak with a smidgen room to spare.

I know. I tested it already.

He drops the leather heavily onto the table and shoves it away with distaste.

“No. Not just no, but hell no. Absolutely not. I’m not wearing some bloody collar like a house
cat!”

My face flushes with irritation, and I tilt my chin to cover my blush.

“Then you aren’t going with Harry to Azkaban,” I snap. Draco’s eyes widen then tighten to slits in
anger. “Besides, it isn’t a collar,” I continue. I straighten my back and steady my tone, to not let
him show he’s gotten to me. “It’s a pack. An extremely expensive, dragonhide, Slytherin green,
pureblood worthy pack, thank you very much,” I sneer with my nose in the air and shove it back in
his direction. “You don’t change forms like the rest of the Animagus do. You can’t wear your
wand, or an invisibility cloak, or anything to help keep you safe. I will not allow you to knowingly
wander into danger unarmed and unprotected.”

Draco rolls his eyes, a tiny smirk pulling at the sides of his mouth. If I didn’t know better, I think
he enjoys fighting with me.

“I’m a bleeding lion, Granger,” he huffs with irritation. “I don’t need protection. I am the
protection.”

I’m already shaking my head no.

“While that may be true,” I say, talking over him when he opens his mouth to complain. “I’m not
allowing you to go into danger without backups of our backups. I don’t want you out there literally
naked without a wand. End of story. I’m not sending any of my people out unless I’ve done
everything in my power to keep them safe!"

Draco stutters over his reply, irritation or maybe a feeling of degradation causing him to falter in
his words.
“Your people?” he chokes, heat forcing his cheeks to pink. “What? Are you collecting us now?
Like lost puppies? Since when did I join the Saint Potter pity train?”

I pivot so I’m facing him directly and ignore the other six sets of eyes in the room. My heart is
palpitating and I feel Harry’s anger making my skin tingle.

“Yes, Draco! You are one of my people. You became one of my people the minute you swore
yourself to my husband. Now, I don’t know what kind of loyalty you’re accustomed to...Oh, wait,
yes, I do! The kind that expects you to stick your head onto the block and pray the executioner
misses. But the side of the light isn't like the side of the dark, Draco.”

Draco tilts forward in his seat, completely twisted to face me now. His arm is on the table, he’s
leaning over the side of the chair. His scoff is so loud it must hurt his throat.

"You're telling me your precious Order cares if I live or die?" he sneers.

"No, Draco. I care.” I poke myself in the chest, then I poke him too.“I care if you live or die,” I
yell, much louder than I meant to.

Draco blanches, and Harry’s stomach twists as he has a flashback from the fight in the bathroom,
where he watched as Draco’s lifeblood covered the floor from a curse Harry gave him. In the
corner of my eye, I see Harry turn his face, so we can’t see him at all.

“I care,” I say again, in a much more reasonable tone. My voice isn’t even shaking and yay me for
that! “From here on out, you are one of mine, which means it’s my job to keep you alive. Despite
his best efforts, Harry has yet to die under my watch.”

Just anytime I’m not in charge, apparently. Malfoy Manor doesn’t count, I think, since I don’t feel
like that situation was my fault.

Draco is breathing heavily through his nose, and the emotion in his eyes flakes away, until the
storm clears and only pure grey remains.

Twenty to one, his Godfather has taught him Occlumency. The look in his eye, or the lack of an
expression, is one I’ve become intimately familiar with. I relax my posture and pick up my pen
again, breaking the staring contest and finally looking away.

“I don’t send my boys into situations that are liable to get them killed if I can help it. There have
been times where we’ve run headfirst into trouble and sheer dumb luck pulled us through, but this
mission will not be one of those. Since you are one of my boys now, you either go to Azkaban as
safe and prepared as I can possibly make you, or your arse stays home with me. Do we understand
each other?”

If I’d known trying to help him would cause this big an issue, I’d have let him go to Azkaban
unprotected. Okay. No I wouldn’t. But I’d have gone about it in a different way for sure.

I wait for a moment to let my rant sink in before adding, “Or maybe I am collecting house pets,
Draco. Gryffindor’s Princess with a tamed lion at her beck and call? Has a nice ring to it, don’t you
think?”

Sniggers and sarcastic comments break out from the peanut gallery, but I don’t let my eyes leave
Draco. He glares at me for so long with his lips pressed tight that I tense for the explosion.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a little bit scary sometimes?” he wonders aloud.
I tighten my eyes and give him my best glare. I never! Irritation dances over my skin, and “How
dare—” I start.

“Yes,” says every person in the room but me, cutting me off at the knees.

I roll my eyes and cross my arms in front of my chest, straightening my posture in my chair.

“I’ll wear the stupid pack,” Draco agrees begrudgingly, pulling it into his lap.

“Good,” I say as primly as possible.

“Good,” Draco snarks back. We’re silent for a moment, the rising tension dwindling back down.
“That was well done,” he adds resentfully. “That bit at the end. The house cat jab. Call me your pet
again and I’ll bite you.”

“Thank you,” I reply with a smirk. “And noted.”

I fling my hair over my shoulder and pretend I don’t see all the Gryffindor boys roll their eyes at
me.

“Are you two having a moment?” one of the twins asks. His eyes are sparkling with mischief.
“Cause we can come back another time if you are.”

I do my best not to react, and cross Draco off my agenda.

“Who’s next?” I ask and look around our assembled group.

“I’m assuming you want to go next?” Harry confirms with a small chuckle while pointing to the
twins.

The twins stand up from the table and bow at the waist, before dropping a duffel bag onto the
wood. “Thank you, my Lord,” they say benevolently. “It is an honour to serve you and this court,”
one says. “To prove our devotion, we come bearing gifts for your majesty’s pleasure!” the other
says with another bow.

“Get on with it,” Harry croons, rotating his hand in the universal sign for hurry the fuck up.

I tap my pen on the table again.

“Are they really gifts,” I ask, “if I’m the one paying for them?”

Beyond the Twi-Wizard funds Harry gave them at the beginning of the summer, Harry has insisted
on paying for everything they make for us or the Order. It’s a good thing neither of us wanted to
live off our money when we get older because we’re liable to be broke before this war is over.

Okay. Not really. But still, it’s best I handle the bills. I don’t want Harry to see how much there is
in our vault; knowing him as well as I do, he’d likely give it all away.

“Marriage has made you cranky,” one of the twins says and flashes me a wink. “Look who she’s
married to,” the other replies, pointing to my husband. Harry flips them both the bird. Laughing in
amusement, the twins unzip the duffel bag like they’re performing a muggle magic trick. All arms
waving and expecting applause as they show off the black canvas bag. “Weasley’s Wizarding
Wheezes will be coming to a store near you.” “But until that day,” “May we present the Weasley
Wizarding Mobile!”

They pull out a container of what looks like women’s compacts. Some are simple, blacks and greys
and steels. Several are square instead of round. Others are beautifully detailed with dragons and
flowers and a gorgeous bronze one with a tree that’s just set to bloom. That one goes to me. I flick
the clasp and gasp in awe when I see the inside. The top is indeed a mirror, but where pressed
powder would usually rest on the other side, instead sits a set of runes etched into more glass. The
runes are sitting on a grid, one that looks suspiciously like a dial pad.

The twins begin to weave their tale.

“At first we were inspired by the communication mirrors that Harry and Sirius shared.” “But those
can only communicate with its pair.” “Then Hermione graciously let us study her mobile phone.”

Fred, or George—Harry is the only non-Weasley here who seems to be able to tell them apart. No,
including the Weasleys—flips open his mirror and presses a combination of runes on the dial pad.
Harry’s steel grey compact starts to vibrate, lighting up a vibrant blue colour. He flips the compact
open and comes face to face with Fred, or George’s, face smiling back at him.

“Bloody hell,” Ron says, looking between his brothers and the compact in his hands.

“That’s...brilliant!” Harry grins.

“Hermione was telling us about communication coins she was planning to make.” “We can use the
mirrors instead.” “If we need to meet, she can set the time and date,” “And it’ll appear on all our
displays.”

The twins pass me a scrap of parchment with instructions, and I tap my wand against the compact
and whisper the incantation, then a time and date. As one, every compact in hands or on the table
lights up and vibrates. Harry turns his to show me, and it reads 1/9/95 @ 9 pm.

“That is bloody wicked,” Ron says, and I have to agree.

“It’s ingenious,” I marvel. “Can I send a message to just one person?”

The twins grin and nod their heads.

“Every compact has an identifying rune combination. Just like your mobile phone does. You can
send a direct message to just that person, or the entire group.”

Harry rotates his mirror in his hands and runs his thumb over the runes.

“That’s,” he shakes his head at a loss for words. “Amazing guys. Do we have a way for the Order
to use them as well, but not be included in our group?”

Harry gives the twins a knowing look.

Meaning, we don’t want the Order to know the shit we get up to at Hogwarts.

“We anticipated that.” They pick up a spare compact, opening and closing the snap. “We plan on
selling these babies in the store, and obviously can’t have one person sending messages to the
hopefully hundreds or thousands of magical folks who have one of the devices. The spell we gave
Hermione is for her use only. It won’t be a feature available anywhere else. We made a special
batch of communication mirrors just for us. With spares and extras. We have a total of about fifty
done so far, with an additional thirty planned for the Order’s use if they’d want them.”

If the Order has a way of communicating with each other outside of Patronus and owl I still don’t
know about it. If nothing else, I know Sirius and Remus would want a mirror.
“Ours are enchanted with a more complex version of the spell than the one’s we’ll use for the
general public."

Neville clears his throat, a flush rising up his neck.

“Can I get two more?” he asks, not looking anyone in the eye. “Plus one for my Grandmother?”

“Sure!” one of the twins replies while the other pushes two more across the table.

One reaches into their bag for a compact not spelled for our group and pushes that across too.

Ron and Draco immediately start asking about the secret correspondence he received in the library
and if one of the communication mirrors could be for the mysterious letter writer.

He’s lying I tell Harry, barely able to contain my smile. He’d only need one if it were for the
Minister.

For sure he agrees.

Harry pulls at the back of his neck, completely hiding his face from the others.

Girlfriend? I ask.

I admire the craftsmanship of the communication mirror in an attempt to avoid bringing attention to
my grin.

Or boyfriend? But who? Harry questions, eyes flicking back to Neville.

Nev is getting redder by the moment.

Harry draws attention back to him, and Nev gives a relieved sigh. Harry taps his mirror on the
table.

“These are brilliant, guys. Really. Well, done!”

“We’re not done yet,” George, or Fred, reply.

They pull items out of the duffel bag one by one, showing off how they work. Several pieces I
recognize from before. Extendable ears and decoy detectors. Only there’s differences with each
item, some detail big or small that’s been raught from the changes Harry and I have made from the
timeline.

The decoy detectors now have timers on them, and you can set a distance for how far away you
want it to scurry. They also become invisible the minute you activate them and let them go. They
give us each a bag of sweets, color coded to a list of instructions given for each. Included is a pack
of explodable gum, and I’ll have to ask which movie they pulled that from because those are
certainly something we didn’t have in the last timeline.

When the gum gets wet it activates the explosive properties, then you stick it, or throw the wet
glob, and boom!

“Next, we have—"

The proximity alarm goes off.

It’s as good as a bomb with the way we all jump.

“Bugger!” Ron says, and as one we flip our papers around and toss open textbooks.

Mirrors disappear from tabletops and the Twins push all of their supplies back into their duffel with
one huge swipe of their wand. Draco picks up his harness and tosses it onto the reading chair so it’s
all but hidden by the back cushion.

I wave my wand to end our privacy charms, just as Professor McGonagall makes her way into the
library.

I start in surprise to see her here, as does pretty much every other person in the library.

“Professor!” Harry stammers, half rising from his chair at the head of the table. “We weren’t
expecting you.” His eyes flick to mine.

This can’t be a coincidence, Harry says.

I tap my pen against the wood again.

Stranger things have happened.

“Sit, Potter. There’s no need to rise on my account.”

Harry sits back down, and we wait for the Professor to break the silence in the room. Only she
doesn’t. Professor McGonagall, in a green and black tartan dress, less restrictive than those she
wears during the school year, simply stands there and stares. Her eyes are tight and her lips are
pursed and it almost appears like she’s sniffing the air. She looks down over her nose at us, eyes
stopping on every person. It’s a look I’m well familiar with, though I don’t know what I’ve done to
earn it today. Usually, I’m only on the receiving end of that particular displeased scowl when
we’ve stolen an ostensibly impossible to reach stone or started an illegal duelling club.

“I don’t like this at all,” she tisks, staring at her students pretending to study.

The Fifth Years at least finished our summer work weeks ago. Or Harry and I did, and then Harry
let the others copy his. I’ve been a benevolent wife and friend to pretend I don’t know about it.

“Professor?” Draco questions, looking at me beside him.

All I can do is shrug. I have no idea what’s happening.

“You’d think,” she says, tapping her wand on her leg, “as a lifelong educator, it would warm my
heart to see members of two competing houses getting along so well. Not only a Slytherin sitting
with Gryffindors, but two boys whom I assumed would be bitter rivals to the end, now sharing the
same table.”

Draco squirms under her observations. Harry sits up straighter.

“It doesn’t. I know trouble brewing when I see it. What are you plotting, Potter?”

Ron laughs out loud then chokes it back down when Professor McGonagall’s glare turns to him
instead. He slumps in his chair, trying and failing to make himself as small a target as possible.
Neville looks petrified, then seems to realize it, and sits up straighter in his chair.

Harry nudges his glasses up his nose, a thousand different responses fluttering through his brain.

“Why do you always blame me?” he questions.

“Because it is usually your doing,” she snaps.

I mean, she’s right. But in our defence, very rarely do we go looking for trouble. Most of the time it
comes looking for us. For the most part at least. When we go asking for it, trouble is usually
waiting for our arrival.

“Did you need us for something?” Harry asks, polite amusement in his voice.

Minerva closes her eyes, and her chest heaves in an exhale.

“This summer has found us, yet again, in need of a new Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher,
and we’ve had some trouble securing an adequate teacher for the spot. I came to speak with Mr
Smythe about accepting the position.”

“I hope he said no,” Harry says. "Hogwarts isn't safe for DA professors."

Then flushes as he realizes what he’s said and to whom. Professor McGonagall rears back, offence
bare on her face.

“I beg your pardon?”

I wave my hands beseechingly and quickly try to drag Harry back out of trouble.

“What he meant, ma’am,” and I try not to wilt under her glare, “was that traditionally, people don’t
last long in that position.”

“No,” Harry says, sitting on the edge of his seat. He rams his finger into the tabletop. “That’s not
what I mean at all. I meant it isn’t safe. I hope he told you no. The DADA position is cursed.
Literally. Voldemort cursed it when Dumbledore refused to give him the job. I’ve seen the
memory. You haven’t held a person in that position for more than one year in over two decades.
I’m rather fond of Nate. I’d prefer not to end the year with him dead or insane.”

Professor McGonagall is obviously ruffled, despite her noble façade. She flexes her shoulders and
sucks her lips between her teeth.

“Thank you, Mr Potter, for your exemplary faith in us. As it is, Mr Smythe is rather fond of you as
well, which is why he has agreed to accept the position of DADA teacher. If it makes you feel any
better, however, it is a provisionary assignment to last only as long as he is on loan from
MACUSA.

“Also,” she reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a stack of what are unmistakably Hogwarts letters.

It’s about time too. They left them a little late this year. Professor McGonagall walks the circle of
the table, handing one to Fred and George, Ginny and Draco, but doesn't deliver one to the rest of
us.

She clears her throat, and we all pivot in our chairs and ready ourselves for whatever is coming.

“Fifth Year,” she begins, “is traditionally the year we first assign Prefects.”

Ah.

I’d wondered if our changes so far would trickle into choosing Prefects. After all, none of us are in
the same position we were in the last timeline.

“I find myself struggling with the assignment this year. Mrs Potter-Black would be my first choice,
but with all the extra,” she purses her lips in displeasure. “Burdens you lot have taken on this
summer, I felt it would be irresponsible of me to assign you the task of Fifth Year Prefect without
first asking if you felt you could handle the additional responsibilities.”

I find it highly amusing that she’s still calling Harry, Potter, but me by my married name.

Do you mind? I ask Harry.

I wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of you handing out detentions, Harry says with a smile.

“Yes, Professor. I would love the honour of Prefect,” I tell her, trying not to preen.

She gives me the barest hint of a smile, but for a woman held together so firm, she might as well
have hugged me.

“Wonderful!” she says, flipping through her remaining envelopes and passing me the one with my
name.

My married name. Bugger. I can already tell that’s going to be a problem. I flip the tab, and the
Prefects badge flitters out onto the table. I smirk to see she’d already assumed I’d say yes.

I look to my side and see Draco has opened his letter, and his Prefect badge rests on top. I elbow
him gently, and while he leans away and makes a sound of disgust, he bites his lip to stop a smile.

“As for the male prefect,” she says thoughtfully, tapping the Hogwarts letters on her other palm.

“Don’t give it to me,” Harry says bluntly, and Professor McGonagall’s eyes widen in surprise
while Ron sniggers under his breath.

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you, Mr Potter."

Last time, Professor Dumbledore told Harry he didn’t receive the post because he felt Harry
already had enough responsibilities. If it was true then, it’s double true now.

“It’s Lord Potter-Black,” I say just quietly enough for Draco to hear.

He scoffs a smothered laugh and drops his chin into his chest when Professor McGonagall gives
him her best glare. If we’re not careful we’re all going to have detentions before term even starts.

“I’m simply being honest,” Harry intones. “A trait I’m sure you appreciate, Professor. I do have
enough on my plate already. Besides that, none of the other houses would listen to me after what
happened last year, and everyone would think it’s favouritism anyway.”

Professor McGonagall seems surprised at his well thought out logic. But Harry isn’t done yet.

“You can’t give it to Ron either,” he continues, “because he’d be bloody terrible at it. Hermione
would do all his work and Ron would spend half his time tormenting First Years.”

“Oi!” Ron exclaims in outrage and scratches at the back of his neck.

“Am I wrong?” Harry demands with a smirk.

“Absolutely not,” Draco drawls.

Ron shoots him a dirty look and I giggle under my breath.

“No,” Ron concedes with irritation. “But you don’t have to be so brutal about it.”

The Transfiguration teacher tuts at us and snappishly hands out the remaining three envelopes. She
pulls a Prefect badge from her pocket and drops it onto the table in front of Neville.

“If we gave it to either Mr Thomas or Mr Finnigan, they’d blow up half the school while
supposedly doing rounds.” She seems to realize what she’s said. “I expect you lot to keep that to
yourselves. Congratulations Longbottom,” she says dryly. “Do owl your Grandmother and tell her
the news.”

Harry clicks his tongue in rapid succession glancing quickly around the room before he shoves his
hands through his hair.

I realize what he’s about to do all of five seconds before he does it.

“While you’re here, Professor,” he starts, and Draco groans and slides down in his chair.

Ron shakes his head like there’s a bee in front of his face and the twins exchange looks of horror.

I thought we weren’t going to give her any warning! I demand, but it’s far too late for that because
McGonagall seems to grow an inch and glares at Harry with a queenly flare.

“Yes, Potter?” she prompts, and Harry clears his throat. “Am I about to hear what you were
obviously plotting?”

Harry clears his throat again as he sends almost two weeks of planning out the window.

“We were planning on sending you an owl tomorrow but...”

Why is he even hesitating? It’s too late now. Might as well get it out. He pushes his glasses back
up his nose again, one of his few tells.

“How do you feel about helping us break into Azkaban?” he asks blandly.

Professor McGonagall closes her eyes and breathes deeply through her nose. She turns on her heel
and marches from the room, and like a pack of kittens scampering after their mother, we all shove
up from the table and rush to catch up with her.

“Molly!” Professor McGonagall yells, and Draco snorts under his breath.

“Now you’ve done it, Potter. She’s tattle-telling to mummy.”

I smack Draco upside the head, and he hisses and trips, while rubbing where I whacked him.
Serves him right the wanker. The professor never breaks her stride when she hits the stairs and
starts heading downwards.

“Do you have any brandy in the house? I’m going to need a draft immediately!”

Mrs Weasley is already on her feet and pouring Professor McGonagall a glass when we all fall into
the parlour. Minerva a healthy swig, then holds it to her chest and collapses heavily into one of the
red velvet chairs.

“Potter tells me we’re breaking into Azkaban?” she questions with a weary tone.

All conversation promptly stops as half a dozen sets of incredulous expressions turn in Harry’s
direction.
Harry shrugs sheepishly, pulling at the back of his neck.

“She was already here,” he says by way of explanation. “I thought it would look suspicious if we
called her back tomorrow.”

“TOMORROW!” Professor McGonagall practically shouts before she pulls herself back under
control. She takes another swig of brandy, and Mrs Weasley stands to refill her glass without being
told. “Out with it then,” the professor says. “Let’s hear what nonsense you’ve got planned.”

Harry opens his mouth, but Nate speaks up first. “Did I mention I was an Animagus?” he tells her.

Draco and I left them pretty quickly after that. We’re really the only brewers in the household,
excluding the few times Professor Snape drops by to supervise. Molly can concoct what she deems
relevant to being a housewife, and she spent a pleasant afternoon teaching me all she knew, but not
much beyond that. They don’t need me to help convince Professor McGonagall to join the
Azkaban raiding party, but they do need me to brew so Remus keeps his head during the mission.

I’m taking private lessons with both Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey in an attempt to cram a
potions mastery as well as a medical degree in between studying for my OWLS.

Or at least that’s what Ron accuses me of doing.

That’s because he isn’t haunted with nightmares of what could happen to us the next time he
splinches himself and we're forced to live in the middle of the woods. Especially since this time,
we'd probably have Nev and Draco with us as well.

If that day ever comes, let’s just say I’ll be patiently waiting for his apology.

“Did you mean it?” Draco asks, catching me off guard.

We’ve been stirring and adding ingredients in silence. I didn’t notice anything different about him,
but as I pull myself out of my own head, it’s apparent something is wrong. His posture is perfect,
his skin horridly pale. He’s lost all of the...ease, I suppose, he’s worked hard to earn these past
weeks.

Serenity I didn’t realize he’d had until it was suddenly gone.

“Mean what? It’s safe to assume I did, whatever it was. I don’t make it a habit of saying things I
don’t mean.”

“That I was one of your boys,” he cringes as if he's saying something distasteful—his face screwed
up and preparing for a blow.

I laugh through my nose.

“I’m not going to brand you with my version of the Dark Mark if that’s what you’re worried about.
Or maybe I should. How about a stack of library books?” I chuckle at my joke. Draco does not.
Anyway...”I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious, Draco. I promise. But yes, I suppose I did. I
don’t want you harmed, any more than I want Ron or Neville.”

He places his copper spoon on the rubber mat beside his caldron and turns to look me in the eye.
The storm clouds are back. His pompous veneer is firmly in place. He looks every bit the
pureblood scion, except in every way he doesn’t. Like a Power Ranger on his tee-shirt with bare
feet.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” he says, consonants hard and crisp. “Worry about me that is. It makes me
uncomfortable. I’m not going to worry about you. I can’t.”

Done stirring, I lower my spoon to give him my undivided attention. Tally marks and favours.
That’s how he’s made friends. You can’t show vulnerability, even to those closest to you.

Maybe especially to them.

“That’s not how this works, Draco. I understand we aren’t friends. Maybe we never will be. But
we’re allies now, at least, and out of all the people crammed into this house, outside of Neville, you
spend the most amount of time with me. I’d like to think that I’m allowed to care if you live or die,
and take strides to keep you among the living.”

He looks confused. His breathing shivers slightly as he comes to grips with my declaration.

Draco runs his hand over his forehead, obviously still not getting the point. I don’t know whether
to laugh or to cry.

“This is horribly unfair, Granger. Pretty soon you’ll need me for something, and then it’ll be all
‘Remember that time I saved your life?’ You Gryffindors are insufferable.”

I laugh full out at that.

“Deal with it, Draco. You’re one of us. We don’t run on I.O.Us. Ron and Harry never oathed to
me, and I still pulled their arses out of trouble more than a time or two. It’s what friends do for each
other. We don’t keep score. And I’m calling it. We’re officially friends. Don’t you have friends
you’d do anything for?” I ask, thinking of Crabbe and Goyle.

He licks his lips as his eyes jump between mine, unable to choose a spot of reference.

“Yes,” he says finally. “But no.”

Draco runs his hand down his non-existent tie.

“There’s one person, maybe two. But we can’t show that kind of...” I want to hug him. He looks so
lost. But I know that’s liable to get me thrown across the room. “We can’t show that kind of
affection. It’s simply not done. It’s uncouth."

My heart might be breaking a little bit for him.

“It isn’t safe,” he adds softly after a moment.

“I’m sorry for you,” I say, meaning it.

“I don’t want your pity!” he snarls, but even that is missing his usual snap.

Draco was raised a Slytherin, with Slytherin values and beliefs. But I keep coming back to that lion
form. How much courage must it have taken to break away from his family? His friends?
Everything he’s ever known, and embed himself with his supposed enemies.

All to do what’s right?

Under the guise of saving his own hide.

“I don’t pity you, Draco. You and Harry, you’re a lot more alike than you think. Then either of you
want to admit. He never thanked me for my pity either. I admire you. You claim you joined us to
stay alive, but Harry gave you a choice. You could have hidden in a corner and rode out the storm.
No one forced you to join us. To really join us. To stand at our side and pick up a sword. Literally,
in Harry’s case. In case you haven’t noticed yet, I’m not exactly the coddling type.”

Draco huffs a painful laugh, his ghost of a smile gone as quickly as it came.

“You’re going to make me do it, aren’t you?” he demands and my eyes go wide at his tone. Now
I'm the one confused.

“Make you do what, Malfoy? Nobodies making you do anything. That’s the point.”

Draco tilts his head to the side, his mounting frustrations almost palpable.

“Fine!” he hisses, and then lowers to one knee of the floor.

Oh no. Nononononono

I pull at his shoulders, trying to get him back up. It's utterly useless. He weighs two stone more
than me and is a good six inches taller.

“Don’t! For the love of—”

My pleading falls on deaf ears.

“I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, do hereby swear my fealty and loyalty to Lady Hermione Jean Potter-
Black.” Bugger. He even used my title. My head falls back on my neck and I stare up at the ceiling.
“Heiress of House Potter, Heiress of House Black, Bonded Mate to the Heir of Gryffindor, until
such time as she releases me from my oath, or until my death. Whichever comes before.”

He—

He just...

The vow slithers under my skin and sinks inside my bones. It’s heavier than any I’ve accepted
before. My limbs ache with it, my magic flares. That was...that oath was so very different from the
one he gave Harry.

My jaw is on the floor, when Draco rises to his feet and wipes invisible dust from his trousers
knee.

“There,” he snaps, and he sounds like Draco Malfoy again. Smooth, confident and without a care in
the world. “We’re even.”

“I—” I try, but nothing will come out.

"Potter has a second, it's only right you do as well. First thing is etiquette lessons. I refuse to be
oathed to someone with table manners as poor as yours.” I have bad table manners? He pulls on his
cuffs again. “Fair warning, however, if you tell a single soul outside of Scarhead that I bent the
knee, I'll kill you with my bare hands and welcome the death that follows."

Uh, "Okay?" I stutter, not at all convinced, I haven't gone mental.

“See you for breakfast, Granger. Oh, and the next time you decide to go shopping for me,” he
snarks, “do warn me ahead of time. Your tastes are deplorable, and my preferences are very
particular. Some things money simply cannot buy, and good taste is one of them.”
Says the man wearing a Power Ranger tee-shirt combind with bespoke trousers. With that, Draco is
out the door.

I—

I have no words.

Harry comes barreling into the room almost as soon as Draco disappears. It's obvious he ran here.
Ron and Neville come crashing in an instant later. He cups the top of my head then works his way
down my face and arms, checking me for wounds.

"What happened?" he demands. "Where's Malfoy? You were screaming in my head!"

I—I was?

"What happened?!" Harry snaps again.

I replay the previous five minutes in my mind, and watch as Harry's face transforms. His face goes
slack and his eyes go wide as he sees the scene play out.

"What happened?" Ron asks with an altogether different tone. His eyebrow is lifted and he looks
put out that he just ran up two flights of stairs for no apparent reason.

"I have no idea," Harry replies.

Harry cups my face in his hands, running his thumb against my cheek.

"I—I think you just got a number one?"

I—I have no words.

I guess I have a pet lion after all.

 Chapter 43
Chapter Notes

I messed up the posting schedule So if you haven't read the chapter of

Minerva being brought into the loop, go back one and read that first!!

Thank you, thank you, thank you. Comments have me happy!! Thank you for reading
❤️❤️❤️ Your continued love keeps me going.
 Harry

“Five minutes!” Moody announces, stomping around the parlour and verifying everybody’s
readiness.

I double-check the jars in my bag.

“I feel like we’ve robbed a menagerie.”

Ginny says it in jest, turning in a slow circle, but she certainly has a point.

I chuckle under my breath, checking my supplies for the thousandth time.

Draco, who transformed in the kitchen away from onlookers, has made his way into the parlour.
Remus, who let the moon touch him an hour ago, is curled up in front of the fire, snuggling with a
shaggy-haired, black-dogged Sirius. The twins are scampering around the furniture, nipping at
people’s heels and purposefully being a nuisance. Though she’s in the form of a tabby cat,
Professor McGonagall looks as regal as a queen sitting on the table, giving the twins irked looks
and swishing her tail in irritation.

Aberforth is in his goat form, munching on a plant Neville procured for him. Nate is sitting on the
owl perch grooming his eagle feathers.

Hermione calls Draco to her, who snarls lightly, but doesn’t complain when Mi latches the harness
with his pack around his neck. She makes him test it to ensure he can pull the cord, then snaps it
around him a final time. Draco growls at her, then glances about the room, before running his head
into her hip so hard Mi almost falls over.

Mi laughs and digs her hands into his mane, rubbing him like she does Crookshanks.

Did he just...? Are they?

I shake my head and go back to checking my supplies. I’m not in the right frame of mind to even
begin to work that out. I don’t understand how the more Hermione yells at us, Malfoy included
apparently, the more she endears us to her. I doubt I will ever understand. Especially as I’m the
worst example of the lot.

I look around again. Yeah. We do kinda look like a petting zoo.

Tonks alternates between worried looks at Padfoot and Moony with their shaggy heads together by
the fire and checking in with the others, asking their beast forms if they’ve got everything they
need and waiting for a nod in return. Ron is with the other Weasleys, trying to assure his parents
that everything will be fine.

Honestly, we’ve broken into the Ministry twice. How hard can the prison be? Dementors don’t
frighten me.

I breathe in deeply through my nose, trying to calm my runaway heart. I’m not scared, I’m excited,
and Hermione doesn’t find that reassuring at all. For the millionth time in approximately three
minutes, I check my father’s magically expanded pouch on my hip to ensure I have enough mason
jars including four extras. They’re in a bag, inside my bag, so they don’t rattle around. On top of
that, I have two wands, three knives, plus the Sword of Gryffindor all in their holsters on my back,
arms, chest and thighs. Instant darkness powder and decoy detectors in smaller pouches are linked
to my belt. My invisibility cloak is because, since Six Year last time, I don’t leave the house
without it. Two communication mirrors have been shoved into my trouser pockets, and Hermione’s
father’s PPK is tucked into the small of my back.

Just in case she said. If we get to the point where I need to use the gun, we’re in deep trouble
indeed.

Mi crowds into my personal space and slips my glasses from my face. Before I can ask her what
she’s doing, she slides a different pair over my eyes.
“They have a night vision spell,” she shows, tapping on the bridge of the glasses over my nose, at
the same time Ron exclaims, “Oi! Nice getup, Mate.”

I tilt my head at Mi in question, and she takes my hand and drags me to a mirror. Instead of my
reflection looking back at me, I look like a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair. A fit-
looking middle-aged man wearing black Dragon-hide armour and enough weapons to invade a
small country.

Huh.

She got the glamour spell to stick. Now I know where she and the twins went this morning. I make
a mental note to give them her Bonding ring and have them stick a shield charm in it.

“I’d rather be safe than sorry,” she says. “We’ll destroy this pair afterwards, so this specific alias
can’t be used again.”

If the wizards on duty aren’t called away from the main prison floors as we planned, there’s a
decent chance we end up in the cells tonight instead of walking around outside of them. Tonks
slipped an untraceable request into the Auror department the day after we set our plan to break into
Azkaban. That was nine days ago. She got confirmation of it yesterday. If all goes to design, in
approximately three minutes, the Aurors of Azkaban will be pulled into a thirty-minute long
gathering to thank them for all their hard work toiling amongst the Dementors.

More than enough time for us to get in and get out.

You’ve got this Hermione whispers into my mind. You’ll be fine.

I do got this.

Thirteen cells. All of which are in the high-security section and most of which are situated side by
side. Another sign of the Ministry’s ineptitude. I get the idea of keeping the most dangerous
prisoners secluded and in one section. But allowing them to be that close and to talk to each other
through the bars is just mental in my opinion. Plus, it will make it incredibly easy to break them
out.

Though, since tonight it’s to our benefit, I suppose I shouldn’t complain.

Not trusting myself from injuring him again, I watched as Ron allowed Hermione to practice the
spell on him until she could get his magic bottled and in her pocket in under twenty-five seconds. If
she can do it that fast, I can too. We should be in and out within fifteen minutes.

“One minute!” Moony yells, and all the Animagus move towards the middle of the room where the
elves are waiting.

Poor Winky looks terrified, but Dobby is bouncing on the tips of his toes.

I always knew there was a reason he and I got along so well.

“Stay in formation,” I say, “and we’ll be fine. We get in, we get out, we stay safe! At the first sign
of trouble, I’ll call for our escape. We don’t need to get them all. Robbing Voldemort of even one
of these Death Eaters will be a blow to his regime.”

Almost twenty sets of eyes look to me, their faces differing between human and animal, and the
weight of their stare sits heavy on my shoulders. This was my plan, my idea. We don't have to do
this. There's still time to back out. If anything goes wrong...
“First set, go,” Moony says, and Winky grasps hold of McGonagall and Aberforth in the
predetermined sequence and disappears from the parlour.

I hit the timer on my watch. It's set to alert every ten minutes.

Two at a time, the elves with their charges disappear from the room until only I remain.

Hermione pulls me into a hug so fierce it pushes the air from my lungs.

“You better be safe, Harry!” Hermione demands. “Don’t do anything stupid or reckless. In and out,
just like you said. Don’t dawdle!”

I run my thumb over her bottom lip, admiring how very lovely she is.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ll be right back.”

I move my lips in a silent charm and watch as my hand disappears against my wife’s face and the
feeling of an egg cracking over my skull slides down my face.

I'm fully disillusioned.

With Dobby’s hand in mine, together we depart in a flash of elf magic.

I land in a stone hallway. The only light that of the moon shining in from cracks in the walls and
bars. Dobby disappears with a whispered, “Good luck!”

The night vision on my glasses must be working because, despite the dank and gloom, I see
everything clear as day.

“Expecto Patronum,” I whisper, pulling my wand, and Prongs burst forth from the tip, cantering
around our circle.

I swear I see Hermione’s new doe, invisible but still present, striding lightly beside him.

I keep forgetting to ask her about that.

I protect the stone hallway as much as I can, putting up the spells we used for our meetings,
Muffliato, Silencing, etc. I debate enabling the perimeter alarms, but don’t know whether the
Dementors would set them off or not.

I’m surrounded by a bevvy of animals, standing tightly together with their backs towards me
staring down either side of the walkway. Nate, in his eagle form, is circling above my head.
Though the castle is used as a prison, it had the potential of being beautiful, once upon a time.
Unlit sconces line the walls and murals long since faded to blacks and greys cover the ceiling.

The corridor is big enough for the Dementors, so probably twelve feet tall and twenty feet wide. I
imagine, before, this space could have been a great hall.

“Spread out,” I say, and my guard separates, each taking a designated point on the floor.

It’s one of the only things we argued about. We practiced for an hour last night. McGonagall and
Remus wanted to stay at my side the entire time. 'What’s the point of a guard if they aren’t
guarding you?' they said. But I think it makes more sense to scatter. The Dementors won’t be able
to pinpoint where I am, because the static, for lack of a better word, caused by the animal’s brain
waves won’t be concentrated on one spot.
They aren’t truly here as my guard. They’re here as a distraction. Only the younger generation
seem to understand that though.

Dementors immediately appear at each end of the passageway, but don’t come any further than
that. They don’t have faces, but if they did, I’d say they'd look confused. Between the love for my
wife powering Prongs and the bevvy of animal brains messing with their mojo, the Dementors
seem content to sit back and watch the play by play.

Do Dementors even have eyes?

No, blossoms in my mind.

A smile tips up the side of my lips.

So far, so good, I tell my Bonded. She’ll let the others know.

It's freezing here, a combination of the Dementors touch and the damp sea air. I get a surge of
anger knowing how long Sirius spent in this hell. A wet tongue slides against my hand, and I
glance down to see Padfoot.

It’s okay, he seems to tell me. I’m free now.

I’m spending too long in one spot. I turn in a circle, looking around me one last time.

The prison cells aren’t numbered, but so long as the elves dropped us in the pre-designed spot...

Tonks provided me with updated mugshots, so I know what everyone looks like after ten years in
captivity. Rockwood is lying prone on his back, his arms behind his head. He doesn’t even look in
our direction. Asleep or perhaps uncaring of the activity beyond his cell.

My blood is rushing in my ears so loudly I can’t hear myself breathe. I’m not even sure I am
breathing. Maybe Hermione is breathing for us both. This is it. The first test. Every eye of my
animal guards is focused in my direction, waiting to see the spell work. They can’t see me, but they
can smell my location.

I’ll have to thank Umbridge again for the torture when I get to her cell because even though inside,
I’m shaking, my hands are perfectly still. I have the smallest connection with Rockwood. Except
for the battle in the Department of Mysteries, I had very little to do with the man. If the magic fails,
it’ll be with him.

I pull the jar from my bag with my left hand and magically untwist the lid. It floats in the air beside
us.

“Augustus Rockwood, for crimes against me and crimes against those I love, I declare thee an
enemy of my House. Inimicus domus meae, potestatem tuam capio pro mea.”

For a horrible second, that seemingly lasts an eternity, I don’t think it’s going to work. Ron’s power
always bled out of him immediately. But then, suddenly, the man’s eyes pop open and he gasps a
breath of shock, and his magic flows from his body like water.

It’s blue and almost crystal-like, sparkling in the moonlight. A man that dark shouldn’t have magic
this pretty.

It solidifies in the air then comes to rest inside the glass container on my side of the bars.
“What have you done to me?” he barks, struggling to climb to his feet with his hands clutching his
chest.

I stun him and watch with dispassion as he drops to the side.

“Obliviate,” I say and point my wand to the man on the stone.

I erase the last minute from his mind.

Sirius nips at my hand. A smile that would give Riddle nightmares spreads across my face.

One down. Twelve to go.

I fall into a rhythm. Speak the spell and collect their magic. Stun them, obliviate the last minute
from their mind, and then move five feet down the row to do it again. My guards walk the edge of
our perimeter, snapping at the dementors who seem ready to break the line and fly into the
corridor.

It would be easier if I could stun them first, but part of the spell is they have to be aware when their
power is stripped. Which, again, makes no sense to me, but Draco assures me it’s to uphold my
pureblood honour.

Of which I have none.

After one of the Lestrange brothers, the prisoners seem to understand something is going on, even
if I can’t be seen. A phantom voice issuing decrees followed by collapsing prisoners is proof
enough for anyone. Several inmates come to their bars, yelling at each other, and asking questions.

“Who’s there?” and “What’s going on?” and in one case, “Can I pet the lion?”

Draco almost bites their hand off. Padfoot barks in amusement beside me.

Travers’s magic is green, and he screams like a baby when it bleeds from his pores. I silence him
after mere moments, but the sound bounces off the stone, pulling other prisoners from their cots.

I can almost taste their fear. It would be a heady feeling indeed if the thought didn’t make me feel
sick.

The Dementors begin to get antsy at the end of the hallway. You’d think Dementors would be used
to screaming, but maybe that’s only when they’re the ones making you wail.

Dementors don't have ears, Hermione says from across the Bond. They’re feeding off the fear.

If that’s the case, luv, the Dementors are going to feast tonight.

My hands begin to sweat.

Some prisoners watch their comrades wilt with dispassionate stares. Others begin to taunt, teasing
that they’ve been spared. Still, others yell for the Aurors. I throw up another silencing spell.

To them, there is no reason why the pack of animals and I, still fully invisible, stop at one cell and
not another. Why a mass murder remains on their feet, but a person convicted of the minor crime of
being a Death Eater collapses to the stone. They start joking and making bets, wondering who will
fall next to the phantom of Azkaban and his travelling zoo. I try to tune them out and pick up the
pace.
The Dementors don’t scare me, but that doesn’t mean they don’t affect me all the same. My heart
is thundering in my chest as the cloaked half-demon’s agitation grows.

“Never an Auror when you need one,” a pale-skinned woman laughs when I walk by her cell.

She opens her mouth wide to heckle Sirius—who hasn’t left my side—and a shiver of disgust
trickles down my spine when I see how many teeth she’s missing.

That’s why you don’t turn to the dark side, mate. They don’t have dentists.

Nate flies too far outside our perimeter and dips in the air before catching himself. I’m already on
my way to catch him mid-fall when he wings it back inside the circle.

Bugger.

“Don’t do that again,” I snap at him, and startle when he salutes me with one wing.

The problem is that our perimeter is getting smaller. My breath blooms in a white puff of smoke in
the air as the Dementors creep ever closer. I silence every prisoner before I steal their magic, but it
makes little difference at this point. Dementors don’t hear. They feel. It doesn’t matter how many
Animagus I brought with me. With every prisoner who succumbs to my will, the panic and fear in
the prison ward continues to rise.

Like the tide at sunrise, it can’t be stopped.

Every prisoner’s magic is different. Greens and blues and reds. Some of the textures are almost
liquid, some as thick as glue.

I know without having confirmation, that Hermione is on her side of the Bond taking notes. To
pull a favourite phrase from my wife, even I can admit it’s fascinating.

I stop in front of Umbridge’s cell and tap my wand against my thigh. It was a surprise, and a
pleasant one, when we learned the fanatical bitch had not only been thrown in prison but in the
high-security ward to boot. We tried to find out what the charges were besides treason, but those
were classified even beyond Tonks’s reach. Whatever she was doing behind the minister's back,
however, was enough to get her locked away for the rest of her life.

It almost doesn’t feel like punishment enough.

Even in prison, Umbridge is wearing a stupid bow. It looks like she tore a strip from her hem and
fashioned one from it. Her toad-like face bulges in anger, and she picks up her tin cup and bangs it
on the wall when I steal her voice from her throat. Remus growls at my knee.

Happiness, and just a touch of revenge, bubbles in my chest when I tear her magic from her.

“Dolores Umbridge, for crimes against me and crimes against those I love, I declare thee an enemy
of my House. Inimicus domus meae, potestatem tuam capio pro mea.”

She attempts to gurgle a high-pitched scream, much like she did in the Forbidden Forest, then her
eyes roll back in her head, and she passes out on the spot. Unfortunately, she’s still breathing.

A Dementor lunges in my direction, and I jerk and stumble before Prongs rams him with his
antlers. My hands start to shake from the cold.

“So gross,” I mumble as Umbridge’s power drifts through the air into the jar.
Her magic is pink, surprise, surprise, and its fluidity reminds me of Pepto-Bismol. I tighten my lips
around my chattering teeth, so I don’t gag.

"Obliviate."

I duck as a rock comes careening from a cell behind me.

My watch beeps a warning that we’ve hit the ten-minute mark. McGonagall hisses as a Dementor
glides down the hallway before Prongs bats it away again.

Shit. I'm moving too slow...

Nausea roils in my stomach. The animals that surround me are growling and yipping in the air,
adding to the chaos blooming in the middle of Azkaban. Despite the chill, I’m sweating through
my armour.

Dolohov is three cells down the row.

Images of Hermione, unconscious and hefted over Neville’s shoulder dance through my mind. The
disillusion charm is holding, but for all that he’s a monster, Dolohov is no fool. He seems to
realize his time is coming. He gives a bemused smile as I prepare to rip his magic from his body.

My vision goes white. The ever-increasing sounds of growling and roaring behind me filter into
nothing.

I shouldn’t give in to the rage coursing through me. I know I shouldn’t. But my anger settles my
heartbeat. It helps me regain control. Anger is what I’m good at. It’s what’s kept me going so far.

I point my wand at the monster who almost killed the woman I love.

“Antonin Dolohov, for crimes against my wife and crimes against those I love, I declare thee an
enemy of my House. Inimicus domus meae, potestatem tuam capio pro mea.”

He bellows as his power is forced from his body, its colour and texture like that of a swamp. I
don’t silence his pain, and instead, let it wash over me until it dwindles into nothing. Until his body
tips to the side, dead or almost there. It doesn’t matter to me either way. He’ll never be able to hurt
Hermione again. It settles some of the ache in my bones.

McGonagall hisses, and nips at my hand, then she turns and snaps at an approaching Dementor.
Yeah. I know. I shouldn’t have done that.

“Obliviate.”

The Dementors are starting to surge. They don’t make noise, but the sound of their cloaks dragging
against the stone and brushing against walls makes a slithering effect that has my skin crawling.
My anger warms me from the inside out, boiling my blood to fire. The Dementors cool me from
the outside in. The result is a body fraught with tension that’s struggling to breathe.

I’m running out of time.

I have to stop and clear my head. Dementors feed on bad emotions. I’m not here to settle a score.
I’m here to rob Voldemort of his army.

Get in. Get out. Keep everyone safe.

My hands clench at my side.

But it’s so, so tempting just to kill the rest on my list and be done with it. I duck as Nate dives over
my head.

Bellatrix’s cell is next and I’m panting in barely contained rage. I point my wand at the crowding
Dementors, and Prongs lowers his head and charges, sending them all scurrying back the way they
came. Only—Prongs is starting to dim.

The Dementors are feeding on my anger. Patronuses are fueled with love.

I love you I send to my wife

Concentrate and stop screwing around, she demands.

Prongs surges as I laugh, glowing brighter than the moon. Then he flickers when he’s rushed by a
dozen Dementors. Draco is pacing back and forth, shaking his head in agitation. The twins are
snarling as they walk in a circle around me. Even Aberforth has his head lowered, ready to attack.

I finger the blade strapped to my left thigh and feel the pistol at the small of my back heat as if
begging me to use it.

Sirius nips at my arm and I dig my fingers into his fur before I lift a hand to my face and pull off
my frames. I let the disillusion and glamour fall and reveal myself to my enemy.

She’s fuzzy without my glasses, but she can see me just fine.

Bellatrix’s eyes widen in shock, and she starts to cackle that horrible laugh. The laugh that makes
you cringe away in fright and horror. Her laugh could strip the flesh from your bones if forced to
listen to it for too long.

“Do I know you?” she asks, rising to her feet. "You do look familiar."

She closes the distance to the bars and wraps her fingers around the metal. Her nails are like razors
—like she’s used the stone surrounding her to sharpen them into the only weapon they’d let her
have.

Draco’s roar rattles the stone.

“I'm Harry Potter,” I confirm, my voice steady despite the rage coursing through my bloodstream.

It would be so easy to kill her. She’s wandless, all but defenceless. Driven mad by devotion to a
Dark Lord and a decade playing snack to the Dementors. With a tug of magic, I could hold her to
the bars then slit her throat like she slit my wife’s.

My breathing comes in tight little pants, as I play out the vision in my mind.

"What does the itty-bitty Potter brat want with little old me?" she croons, voice as soft as velvet
laced barbed wire.

I finger the blade strapped to my thigh, and Sirius rubs his head against the back of my hand. He
drags his tongue in what I assume is supposed to be a sign of comfort. The air in the prison drops
several degrees as Prongs canters down the hallway to ward off another Dementor. They seem to
be multiplying before our eyes. I reach out to Hermione across the Bond, who rubs against me like
an invisible cat. The fire of her in my head surges and blooms in support. Prongs flares before
setting into his steady light again.
Stop wasting time.

The words are light, almost like a breeze through the trees, but I hear her all the same.

My bonded telling me to get my arse in gear refocuses my attention.

I will end Bellatrix. But not tonight.

“I won’t kill you. Not now. Not on purpose. But if you survive this, when your master pulls this
memory from your mind, I want him to know it was me who robbed him of his strongest ally. I’ll
be coming for you soon, Riddle. Of that, you have my word.”

I pull a jar from my bag and twist off the lid.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says in that sickly demented voice. “With or without me, he’ll kill you
anyway.”

But it’ll be harder without her. So much harder.

“Bellatrix Lestrange, for crimes against my wife, crimes against those I love, and a betrayal to the
house of your foremothers, I declare thee an enemy of my House. Inimicus domus meae,
potestatem tuam capio pro mea.”

She doesn’t even get the chance to scream.

Bellatrix’s magic is ripped from her body, bursting from her pores like a million tiny bullets. Her
body arches and her neck rears back as her power is forced from her core. Her mouth opens as if to
cry out, but nothing leaves besides a whimper. She rises several feet off the ground before she
collapses to the stone like a marionette who’s just cut their strings.

I hope she’s dead.

Her magic is disgusting. Black and tar-like, it moves as sludge through the air. I transfer it into the
jar, and it jerks like a visceral thing, testing the confines of its new home.

I obliviate her and those able to see me where I stood in front of her cell after I restore my
disillusionment charm. If she survives, I trust Riddle will work the hardest on her to discover what
happened to his most devoted follower.

My watch dings. Twenty minutes...

Shit!

Hermione is screaming, the sound ripped from her in torturous pain. But she’s not. It’s in my head.
It’s all in my head.

The Dementors surge before retreating from my stag. It’s getting harder to breathe, harder to see.
My animal guard is faring better than me at least, but they won’t last for long. I shake my head to
clear it of the echo of my wife's torture and the vision of blood running free down her arm in a
stream.

I pull my second wand and call another Patronus, so two bucks now protect our group. The
Dementors fall back enough that I can breathe, but only to the outside of our perimeter, which is
barely wide enough for me to stand with my arms extended at this point.

Draco starts to growl.

I slip my glasses back onto my face before moving, tripping to the next cell over. The jeering from
the unaffected prisoners gets louder, the screams for help more urgent, and I throw out several
silencing charms before turning my attention to my next target.

It does little good. I can't silence them all, and my magic is taken up with simply keeping us all
alive.

Barty Crouch Jr.’s sanity is no better than Bellatrix. His tongue is constantly darting out like a
snake, tasting the sea salt in the air. He’s rambling, declaring his devotion to his Master.

Remus howls and lunges for a Dementor who the werewolf felt got too close. Adrenaline is
shooting through my system, and my chest gets hot and tight as the Dementors get closer and
closer.

I have to get them out of here. The Dementors are too near.

Imposter Moody starts his lament while I ready the jar.

"No matter what you do to me, it's in the service of my Lord. He will repay my dedication."

I've seen how Voldemort pays his debts. With goblets filled with blood.

"Barty Crouch Jr, for crimes against me and crimes against those I love, I declare thee an enemy of
my House. Inimicus domus meae, potestatem tuam capio pro mea.”

His manic laughter never stops as I pull his magic from his body. His power is purple, and choppy
like the sea during a storm.

I drop it into my bag without a care.

"Obliviate."

Hurry! Hermione insists as if she can feel the rising panic in the atmosphere.

There’s only one person left, and he’s sitting in Sirius’s old cell.

Sirius rises to his feet beside me, decked out in his Pureblood finest. His hands are shaking, and
Moony is growling at Sirius’s knees. Peter stumbles to his feet then scurries in wide-eyed fear as
deep into his cell as he can get. He’s wearing bracelets I’ve seen in pictures, meant to bind a
person's magic. To prevent Wormtail from transforming into his Animagus form and slipping out
through the cracks like the rat we know him to be.

We’ll take care of that for them.

“Sirius, my old friend,” Wormtail starts, and I silence the hallway for the dozenth time and pray we
don’t alert the Auror’s to our presence.

We’re almost out of time.

“Whatever you want to say,” I tell Sirius, “Hurry it the fuck up.”

I end the disillusionment charm since Sirius is in plain view. I remove my glasses and slip them
into my pocket. Peter starts to whimper.

"Lord Black," my Godfather says, giving me a formal bow. His voice is steady, despite the myriad
of emotions I see storming behind his eyes. "May I have the honour of naming him a traitor?"
Draco forced me to read a book on pureblood etiquette he’d found in the Potter-Black library.
Some bullshite about refusing to be oath-sworn to a heathen. Thanks to Hermione’s power of recall
that I now share, the protocols are burned into my brain.

As a result, the formal answer to Sirius’s request drips off my tongue like water.

"As a Son of House Black, it is your right. Name him thus, Father, and I will deliver his
punishment."

In another life, I’d be asking my father the honour of naming Wormtail a traitor. But because of
this man, my parents are gone, and the burdens of both Houses have been left to me. Sirius is no
one’s son, but as we proved with the work we’ve done tonight, I am his. At least as far as magic is
concerned.

Sirius smirks at me, delight that I’ve named him father sparkling on his features. It bleeds into a
scowl when he faces their former friend again. His wand drops into his hand.

“Peter Pettigrew, I name thee betrayer and an enemy of my House, and to that of House Potter, the
House of my adopted son.”

“Help! Guards! Guards! Sirius Black is in the prison! He’s going to kill me. Help! Guards.”

I silence Peter’s screaming, watching as his mouth moves but nothing comes out. It’s too late
though. The damage has been done. The Dementor’s, held at bay so far by the confusion of so
many animal brains and Prongs, surge forward at the obvious emotional spike of the rat. There are
too many of them for Prongs to keep back. Even two of Prongs.

I point my wand at Peter.

“Inimicus domus meae, potestatem tuam capio pro mea.”

The dementor’s charge the minute Wormtail’s magic leaves his body. His magic, a sickly yellow
colour the texture of mush, seeps from his pores in a painful explosion of fury. I direct it into the
jar, twisting the lid and dropping it into my pack.

I don’t have time to Obliviate him or reestablish my middle-aged man glamour. I’ll just have to
hope the trauma scrambles his brain. What little left of it there is.

Every cell in my body fires at once.

I’ve already started to turn before Wormtail’s knees begin to buckle. My guards scatter from the
Dementor’s path and I grip my scabbard and pull the sword, all in one single move. Without giving
it any thought, I swing the blade in an overhead arc, dragging it through the closest Dementor.

It screams a horrible death knell, an oozing liquid bursting into the air, before it's skeletal body
drops in two and its robes flutter to the ground.

—Bloody fucking hell!

The Sword of Gryffindor can kill Dementors.

The entire prison seems to hold its breath before it explodes into a fury of screams and activity.

We've gotta get out of here. It’s my only thought as my heart beats a vicious path out of my chest. I
have to get them out.
“Winky!” I holler. “I need you!”

She doesn’t appear.

God bleeding dammit all to...

I pull out a decoy detector and throw it down the hallway and watch as it skitters out the other
archway. Hopefully, the Aurors will go there first.

Sirius’s Patronus is charging down Dementors left and right. But there are dozens of them. More
than were at the lake, shoved into a much tighter area, and hundreds possibly crowding outside the
castle and hovering at windows and doors. Our breath exhales in icy bursts and all the light in the
prison is blacked out from the press of dark robes and skeleton-like bodies.

Prisoners whimper and shout in despair and fear and hide in the tightest ball in the farther corner
that their cells will allow. Someone screams, and the sound is haunting in my ears.

I bring the sword around and jam it down into another robe.

It’s a literal fight for my soul.

One by one my guards transform back into their human forms. All except Draco, who plants
himself in front of me and roars. Remus settles in front of Sirius and raises his hackles, leaning
down into a crouch and baring his teeth in a growl.

“Sirius, you fool!” McGonagall hisses, raising her wand and firing her Patronus. “You stupid,
impetuous, fool!”

“It wasn’t his fault!” I snap at her.

We were building a castle on a game of exploding snap. It was bound to collapse eventually. We’ll
never know if it was Wormtail’s panic, a second unexpected human mind or if the Dementors just
finally realized they had us outnumbered and we looked like food.

Even over the screaming of the prisoners, I can hear the thundering footfalls of the Aurors running
this way. The decoy detector explodes somewhere in the castle, and the tone of the running
changes as the Aurors head in that direction instead.

“TO ME!” I yell. “Everybody, back in their Animagus forms, now!” I order. “Get behind me!”

Nobody bloody moves beside Sirius and Remus at his feet. The ones that are able are directing
their Patronuses at the Dementors.

It isn’t enough.

It’s nowhere near enough.

“NOW!” I snap, stepping out of their protection and holding both sword and wand in a defensive
position, blocking the Dementors path. “Before the Aurors show up and see your faces. DOBBY!"

“You’re the boss,” Nate says before he throws himself into the air as Aberforth and the twins drop
down to all fours and scamper behind my back.

Dobby and Kreacher appear beside me, eyes wide at the chaos of ten-foot floating demons bearing
down on us from every direction and silver see-through-animals charging them down.
"Mistress says you need us," Kreacher postures with a high head and a trembling voice and facing
completely away from me.

“Grab them and go!” I order, and Kreacher grips the closest two animals to him and disappears into
thin air.

“I’m not leaving you,” McGonagall says determinedly, waving her wand and directing her tabby
cat Patronus at the oncoming attack.

I jump into the fray while the others line up behind me. If the Sword of Gryffindor can kill
Dementors then I’m going hunting. I trust Sirius to keep our team behind the line of Patronuses and
step out in front of Draco.

Prongs comes with me, guarding my back as I glide into a horde of Dementors. I remember the
dance Nate has spent the summer teaching me and twist the blade in my hand, ramming it into a set
of black robes. It cries out in a hacking hiss before tumbling to the ground. I don’t wait for it to
fall. Using magic to aid me, I push and pull the Dementors at will, slicing as I go.

Still, they’re too close.

I can fight through their effect, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t touch me. I hear Hermione
screaming, see the knife slide across her throat until I remove the arms of the Dementor that has me
at the shoulder, and it collapses in a sea of robes.

“Dobby!” I bark and push him towards McGonagall.

Without a word, he grabs hold of the witch’s wrist and whisks her away mid-complaint. Her
furious screech of “Potter!” still rings in the air.

I ram my fingers into the pouch with the instant darkness powder to grab a fist full then throw it
into the air as footfalls thunder our way again.

It was dark before.

Now it’s an abyss.

But Dementors don’t need to see.

I toss another decoy detector in the opposite direction of last time and hope it does the trick.

Draco roars and grabs at the hem of a Dementors robe, throwing him into another before falling
back beside me. Remus hasn’t left Sirius’s side.

My lungs burn like ice as the torturous memory of my mother's scream wails in my head quickly
followed by the flash of green light behind my eyes. I blink and see Hermione on her knees in the
Malfoy drawing-room, gasping a ragged breath.

Then I’m back in my own head.

I love you, I tell her, then use my Occlumency and shut down my side of the Bond as tightly as I
can.

An image of us, years before I knew I loved her, with her head in my lap reading a book while Ron
and I play chess under the big tree at Hogwarts pushes its way to the forefront of my mind, and my
mother’s screaming stops.
I cut another Dementor in two, and the others hiss in anger and glide outside the sword's reach.
Sirius throws his head back and laughs.

“Gods!” he yells as the Auror’s try to shove their way through the pile of half-dead demons. “I
haven’t had this much fun in ages!”

Sheer adrenaline has me laughing in return. I hit him in the back with a disillusionment charm,
doing the same to myself, just in case the Aurors have night vision glasses too. The human faction
of the prison guard has finally joined the fray, and Sirius is dodging spells and sending them back
just as fiercely. I use the sword as both a weapon and shield and pray that, despite the darkness
powder, and the chaos of the fight, the Auror’s didn’t see Sirius’s face.

“How can you even see anything?” I ask with a laugh.

“Can’t!” he says gleefully like it’s the best game he’s ever played.

“Who’s left?” I ask, yelling over my shoulder.

A shot of blue light fires at my head and I block it with the blade before swinging it at an
oncoming Dementor.

“Just us and the cat,” he hollers back.

Surprised laughter bursts from my lungs as Draco roars in anger. Us and the cat! I’m never letting
Draco live that down. I’m going to have it engraved on his tombstone.

Here lies Draco, the Cat.

Our oversized kitty grabs another robe and shakes the creature between his teeth. It reaches for
Draco anyway, its skeleton fingers straining for Draco’s fur. Draco toddles to the side, drunk-like
and unsteady on his feet, and I cut off the Dementors head. Draco’s soul, slipping through his
lion's teeth, returns to his body with a jolt. Draco gives his head a shake then dives back into the
fray.

Lion’s heart indeed.

Kreacher reappears, and I shove Draco across the floor with a burst of magic. He roars at me in
anger, claws scraping on stone, then pops away with Kreacher’s arm on his fur.

Sirius’s back collides with mine, his arm reaching out to feel me against him.

“Having fun?” he asks loudly over the dim of the prison riot we’ve started.

I’m reminded viscerally of the night I lost him last time. Fighting side by side, laughter bright on
his face. Nausea roils in my stomach and fear makes my eyes grow dark.

But our combatants tonight aren’t aiming to kill us, and I’ll cut any dementor in half who tries to
get their hands on his soul.

“Like you wouldn’t believe!” I laugh, flipping the sword around in my hand and jabbing
backwards to slice a Dementor coming up beside my Godfather.

“As one,” I say, and we split apart, working as a team. Sirius handles the Aurors, who are firing
blindly into a melee of rampaging Dementors and screaming prisoners, and I handle the hooded
demons.
Dobby apparates beside us, then vanishes with a cry as a bolt of green goes flying over his head. I
twist on my feet to see where he went when a second bolt hits me square in the chest. The pain is
instantaneous. Fireworks explode behind my ribcage and my eyes water in pain. But I manage to
stay on my feet, as the Dragonhide does its job and absorbs most of the spell.

Whatever the hell it was.

“Master!” Dobby cries turning in a circle, and I look down at him with a grin.

“Dobby,” I shout.

He smirks devilishly in my direction before I grab his wrist in my wand hand, and the tail of
Sirius’s coat, and just like that, we’re gone.

Chaos seems to be the theme of the night.

Disorder reigns free when we land back in the parlour. Mrs Weasley is having hysterics in a
corner, fretting over the shape of the Twins. They look fine to me, but what do I know? I’m not an
overprotective mother.

Professor McGonagall has what looks suspiciously like Sirius’s good brandy in her fingers, sipping
it gingerly from one hand and holding a palm to her chest with the other.

Hermione is beating on Ron, physically, who with Neville’s help is trying to both comfort her and
hold her at arm's length. Draco the cat is sitting back on his hind legs at her side and lowly
growling, looking so much like an oversized guard dog that I have to double-take.

Tonks is on her hands and knees in front of a growling Remus and pops to her feet when Dobby
appears seemingly alone, jumping over furniture to head our way.

Winky is passing out huge blocks of chocolate, forcing them into mouths and hands and ignoring
the mumbled denials from half the Order that claim they don’t need it. She shoves a chunk bodily
into Aberforth’s mouth when he tells her to bugger off.

I love that little elf. She reminds me of my wife.

Even if she didn't come when I called her...

And Albus bleeding Dumbledore is sitting on a red velvet chair, grinning ear to ear with a china
teacup in his hands. The arsehole winks right at me, even though I’m supposed to be invisible.

Bloody hell.

I reach over my shoulder and hold the scabbard while I slide the sword back into its resting place
before breaking the disillusionment charm on both me and Sirius. Then I pick up my glasses from
the nearby table and switch them with the night vision and glamoured frames Mi gave me earlier.

“Harry!” Ron exclaims, and Hermione whips in my direction, before leaping over the ottoman and
into my arms.

“Harry! You selfish prat!” she screeches, beating on my chest.

I groan in pain, and Hermione’s concern spikes even through the dampened Bond. Then she double
checks me for visual wounds before she’s hitting me again and yelling “serves you right! And why
are you covered in filth?”
“Let him be, Mione!” Ron laughs, wrapping his arm around Nev’s shoulders. “Give the poor bloke
a chance to catch his breath before he’s attacked again.”

She utterly ignores him.

“You completely deviated from the plan!” Hermione continues to yell.

“Love you too, wife,” I laugh, grabbing both of her wrists and planting a kiss on her lips.

She pulls her arms from my grip and links them around my neck, sinking into my touch. It isn’t
until I hear the gentle throat-clearing of one Albus Dumbledore that I remember we’re in the
middle of the parlour.

Hermione jerks like someone hit her with a stinging jinx and pushes away from me so fast she
stumbles. I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her close, before looking at the Headmaster.

With all eyes on us, I slip the gun out from the small of my back and slide it into Hermione’s rear
waistband. She sucks in a sharp intake of air and glances at me sideways.

Thank you luv, but I didn't need this.

“So, who told?” I ask Dumbledore, unable to stop smiling. “Or do you have another portrait spying
for you here? I know it wasn’t Phineas Black. He’s been resting comfortably in the Potter-Black
vaults since the day after I took my place as Head of House.”

Dumbledore places the teacup and saucer back onto the end table and crosses his legs at the knee.

“Your wife got rather nervous when you did not show up at the pre-arranged time. Knowing you
the way she does, and using that magnificent Bond you share, she determined that you’d found
yourself in a spot of trouble, and instead of calling for help, were rather enjoying yourself.”

I notice he doesn’t comment on the portraits spying for him.

Sirius throws back his head and barks out an aggressive laugh.

Professor McGonagall huffs, loudly, then takes another sip of her dram.

“Lady Potter-Black felt, circumstances being what they were, you could use a bit of backup. She
sent Winky to hunt me through the halls of the castle. Fortuitously, she found me on the first try.”

Ahh. Which is why she didn’t come when I yelled for her. I may be her Master, but she’s
Hermione’s girl, through and through.

Hermione is blushing horribly, but her nose is in the air, and stubborn self-righteousness is bursting
from her every pore.

“I don’t recall being rescued,” I say dryly.

“Quite,” Dumbledore agrees. “Knowing you as I do, I deemed it unnecessary. Though Winky told
such a thrilling tale of spy craft and espionage, I decided I must come see for myself. I take it all
went well?”

Professor McGonagall opens her mouth to answer, bristling with discontent, but Dumbledore
silences her with a hand on her knee.

I take a quick glance around the parlour. Draco has disappeared, ostensibly to go someplace private
to change back into his human form. The Twins are smirking with their hands in their pockets.
Aberforth is drinking tea from his brother’s cup, and from the way, his eyes roll back and his neck
flexes, probably isn’t tea at all. Or at least heavily doctored with a liquid that contains alcohol
content. Nate gives me a thumbs up from his spot leaning against the back wall.

The only person who looks ruffled is the Transfiguration professor.

“Very well,” I announce. “I managed to steal the power of all thirteen targets and keep the
prisoners contained until the last. It was Wormtail who lit the fuse that exploded the bomb at the
end. Even when the rest of the prisoners finally realized what was happening, they were more or
less resigned to it. Convinced that Voldemort will be able to set it right. But Wormtail has always
been a coward. His outburst finally alerted the Dementors that all was not right.”

Dumbledore nods sagely.

“Smart to leave him for last, then.” He pauses for a very deliberate minute, then asks, “The damage
left behind?”

I decide to take a page out of his book, and answer a question with a question.

“Did you know the Sword of Gryffindor can kill Dementors?”

Dumbledore looks genuinely taken aback. He freezes in his chair, eyes whirring over my form,
which truth be told, is a little worse for wear.

“No,” he answers honestly. “I did not.”

“Neither did I,” I smirk at him. “You learn something new every day. I don’t think we were seen
by the Aurors. My entire team got in and out unseen and unhurt, myself excluded, at least to the
best of my knowledge.”

The others agree with nods and hums of confirmation.

“However,” I continue, “I left a pile of dead Dementors and stunned prisoners in my wake. It’ll be
easy to tell the damage to the Dementors was done with a blade of some sort. Some of the
Dementors are in pieces.”

Mrs Weasley makes a gagging noise and presses her face into her husband's shoulder, and
Professor McGonagall looks rather green.

“It was wicked,” the twins say together.

“He handled himself well,” Nate praises.

My chest is starting to throb. I’d bet money I broke a rib.

“If you don’t mind,” I say, not caring if they do, “I’d like to get changed. The Dementors don’t
bleed, but they ooze something nasty, and I desperately need a shower. And I got hit in the chest
with something. The armour took the brunt of it, but I think I may have a broken rib I need Mi to
look at.”

Dumbledore inclines his head with a twinkling smile and a wave of his hand.

“Go, of course. Take care of your ailments. If you do not mind, Harry, I’d like to stay and hear the
rest of the tale. It sounds thrilling.”
“My home is your home, Headmaster,” I say with a grimace, posing as a smile.

Tonight was a success. A smashing, fantastic success. He can’t take that away from me.

“We’ll be down in a few minutes,” Mi says, then links her hand with mine and leads me out of the
parlour.

Chatter breaks out as soon as we’re through the doorway.

“You’re going to have to talk to him sooner or later,” Mi says, referring to Dumbledore.

“Yeah,” I sigh.

But not tonight.

The walk to our bedroom feels like it takes forever. Now that the adrenaline is leaving me, my
hands are shaking and my shoulders droop in exhaustion. All that disappears when our bedroom
door slams shut, and Hermione pins me roughly against the wood.

“You bloody arsehole!” she hisses, beating on my chest again. “Don’t you ever do that to me
again! Shutting down your side of the Bond like that!”

I moan in agony, but don’t get a chance to defend myself because her mouth is covering mine and
her tongue is down my throat. With fumbling fingers, she pulls on the leather and silver buckles
holding the sword to my back, and the entire rig slides off my arms and falls to the floor in a
clatter. She pulls down the zipper under my armpit to loosen the armour then shoves it up my chest
and over my head.

I hiss in pain from the motion of my arms rising above my head but Hermione doesn’t seem to care.

“I’m so bloody pissed at you,” she growls when she takes a step away and pulls her shirt off over
her head, then pulls the gun from her waistband and floats it over to the bedside table.

She shoves her trousers and knickers down her legs in one go. She slaps my hands away when I
reach for my belt, jerking the leather in an angry tug and loosening the buckle. She doesn’t even
bother taking off my combat trousers and instead reaches her hand into my pants and frees my
erection from its confines.

Forgetting about the probable broken bones and bruises already forming on my chest, I haul her
back to me and dig my hand into her hair. She wraps her arms around my neck and lifts her feet
from the ground to link them around my waist.

With two steps to the right, I have her up against the wall and sink into her.

“Oh Merlin, yessss,” she sighs at the rough treatment, her forehead falling to rest against my neck.
I’m trembling with the effort to hold still, but I drop kisses across her shoulders and wait for her
okay to keep going. She flexes her hips, tightening her internal muscles around my prick, then
whispers in my ear, “Don’t be gentle.”

I’m not. I squeeze her arse and hip and pin her against the door while I fuck up into her. Hermione
feels desperate, and it feeds into me until I’m gasping for breath and her nails are raking red lines
down my back. The entire bedroom rattles as sparks explode around my wife.

“Almost,” she pleads, so I slip my hand between our bodies and slide my fingers over her mound
and through her curls until I find that sweet little bud that makes her come so beautifully. “Oh,
fuck,” she cries out, and something claws and latches onto the base of my spine and roars like a
fucking dragon when Hermione falls apart around me.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I say with a raspy voice, holding her as tightly as I can. “You’re such a
good girl. Such a good girl.”

Hermione grunts and groans and it sounds almost feral as she grinds and spasms in my arms. I hate
it when she takes my control like this. She makes me strong at the same time she makes me weak. I
have no choice but to follow her over the edge.

“Mine,” I growl as I shake and jerk through my own orgasm.

“Yours,” Hermione says into my ear. I can feel her heart galloping next to my own where her chest
is pressed against me.

It hurts. Horribly.

“Mi, I gotta—” I say, stumbling with her still in my arms.

I make it the six meters or so to the couch then collapse onto the cushions. I groan when the force
of it presses her harder into my bruises.

“Well, bloody hell,” she says, scampering off my lap. “You really are hurt, aren’t you?”

I can’t open my eyes. I can barely breathe as the pain, only a while ago localized to one spot,
spreads through my torso with alarming speed. I hear her mumble the diagnostic charm and try to
breathe through my teeth.

“Two broken ribs and one cracked. Bruised a lung too. I would know that if you hadn’t shut the
Bond. You seemed fine. Just a little bump. Open the Bond, now!” she demands.

I open the lid to the trunk in my mind, and Hermione flares with love, and concern, plus tons of
irritation, and too many thoughts for me to work through right now.

Mi sways on the spot.

I think, actually, I broke a rib up against the door...

“Bloody fucking hell, Harry,” she swears. “That hurts!”

Even though my lids are closed, I still roll my eyes.

“Yeah. I’d figured that out myself, thanks. That’s why I kept the Bond closed.”

A vial touches my lips, and I open my mouth to accept whatever vile concoction she’s offering me.

“You really shouldn't accept potions without verifying what they are first,” she says
conversationally, as another slides over my tongue.

I—I can’t even with her right now.

“This is gonna hurt,” she says, and before I can brace myself, “Episkey.”

I cry out in pain as the ribs in my chest repair themselves.

“There,” she says, with not nearly enough sympathy for my tastes. “Go take a bath. A hot one. I’ll
let the others know you’ll be down when you’re done.”

I stay where I am, feeling a little whiplashed as I listen to Hermione clean herself up and redonning
her clothing.

“Don’t I get even a little bit of sympathy?” I ask conversationally. “Maybe an ‘I’m so glad you’re
home, husband. Congratulations for ridding the world of a dozen of the worst sorts of Death
Eaters. Hey! It’s really wicked that you can kill Dementors with the sword.’”

I peek open an eye and turn my head in the direction I know Hermione is standing.

“Congratulations,” she intones with her hands on her hips. She doesn’t sound like she means it.
“I’m so proud of you.” I don’t believe her. “I love you so much.” Truthful, yet dryly sarcastic.

“Hurry up. We’ll go over what you did wrong when you get downstairs.”

There it is. That’s my girl.

Hermione Jean Potter-Black.

Ballbuster.
 Chapter 44
Chapter Notes

Okay. From here on out, you'll see more and more changes. Both minor to plots and a
bit to the timeline. This is my favorite chapter, and (I think???) one of the very first I
wrote.

I really hope you guys like it. Please, please tell me if you do!!!

Releasing this a little earlier, because even though we aren't religious, we promised the
kids a day of playing MarioKart.
 Hermione

We’re all in the library for one last time before we’re back at Hogwarts tomorrow.

Draco is lounging on the couch, reading The Prince, for the second time this summer. Harry drops
today’s edition of the Daily Prophet into Draco’s lap, with the headline “Incident in Azkaban”
taking up the top portion of the front page.

“You’re famous, Draco.”

The man doesn't even look up from his book.

"Of course I am. I'm a Malfoy. I'm rich, beautiful and powerful," Draco quips back.

Harry pretends to gag.

Draco’s eyes flick to the paper.

“Do I even want to look?” Draco asks with a hesitant sneer.

In about twelve hours, we'll be on the train to Scottland and this all ends. We each have our parts to
play, and that doesn’t involve joint study sessions in the library.

I’m going to miss this peace in the middle of a war that we’ve scrapped out for ourselves. Now that
the Prophet has finally announced the Azkaban raid, things will begin to move fast.

Harry made the first move. It's Voldemort’s turn.

I’m nervous—pulling on my fingers and Harry smacking my hands away nervous—about how
things are starting to fall.

Draco is going to be on the other side of Hogwarts.

Harry is walking around with a poisonous sword. Ron’s is on its way.

I have a James Bond gun in my bag that will be re-homed to the small of my back when we’re
walking through the castle.

Ron and Neville are both armed to the teeth twenty-four hours a day, and we’re about to be locked
in the castle with no way to control what goes on beyond its walls. Worse yet, Neville caresses
those damn knives like a touchstone. He probably plays with them more than a teenage boy plays
with his prick. The vanishing cabinet, which I removed from the castle at the end of last year, is
already shrunk and in my handbag. What took Draco a year to repair on his own, he and I did in a
week. Its brother is in our closet in the master suite. I'm not going back into the castle without a
surefire way of getting back out again. We've already adjusted the Master's warding so Remus and
Sirius can enter the room in case they need to use the cabinet.

Harry slides down to the floor, resting in front of my cushion.

“You’re the only one of us that made the paper. You and Sirius. It’s kinda funny actually.”

With a look of curious apprehension, Draco raises one brow in that expressive way his supercilious
breeding taught him and grabs the paper to read.

"There was an incident at Azkaban Prison in the late hours of the 23rd of August....cause unknown.
Peter Pettigrew, convicted Death Eater and Mass Murderer, was kissed by a Dementor. Several
other prisoners were left stunned and unable to remember several moments leading up to the event.
The Ministry is investigating...

“Kissed, eh? You look broken up over it, Potter. I thought it was part of your saving people thing
that even Death Eaters can be redeemed?”

I move from my spot curled up in a reading chair, and sit beside Harry on the floor. His arm
immediately wraps around my shoulders, and his fingers begin tugging through my curls.

He looks over at Draco, who's giving him a curious stare.

“You’ve mistaken me for Dumbledore. Good riddance as far as I’m concerned. I’m sure he won’t
be the last to go. I’d forgotten that someone was screaming while I was chopping Dementors into
pieces. Now I know why.”

“Hmm,” Draco says, looking impressed despite himself.

“Machiavelli wrote, Any man who tries to be good all the time is bound to come to ruin among the
great number who are not good. Hence a prince who wants to keep his authority must learn how
not to be good, and use that knowledge, or refrain from using it, as necessity requires. There may
be some hope for you yet, Potter.”

"Did you just refer to me as a Prince?" Harry asks with amusement.

Draco pauses with his mouth unattractively wide, caught in a trap of his own making, before
returning his attention to the newspaper.

"Aurors on duty have yet to pinpoint what caused the Dementors to attack the High-Security
Section of the prison, but one Auror, who has requested to remain anonymous stating the ongoing
investigation, swore to this reporter that they witnessed both Sirius Black, falsely accused Death
Eater who spent almost thirteen years in Azkaban for the crime of Murdering twelve muggles that
Peter Pettigrew was later convicted of committing, and a lion.

"Madam Bones, Department Head of the D.M.L.E, said that she had no comment but that reports
of a lion in Azkaban are ridiculous and asked the name of my source so that they may be examined
by mind healers at St. Mungos.

“Okay,” Draco concedes, folding the paper and dropping it to the floor beside him. “That was
slightly amusing.”

“Honestly, Draco,” I say, pulling open my book. “A lion is the best disguise I could ever think of.
Even with a hundred lifetimes, not one person would ever guess that was you.”

Draco visibly shudders, looking distressed.

“Please, don’t remind me. If I could obliviate the knowledge from my memory, I would. It’s a
ghastly curse. Fate is a cruel mistress.”

Harry snorts and rolls his eyes.

The twins come out from a back corner, arms laden with books.

“I know you aren’t planning on taking books from the Potter-Black library with you to school!” I
scold, eyes going wide at the sheer number of them.

I don't know how many books we added this summer.

Thousands if you include the books from the Potter vaults.

That’s not even including our personal collection from our room. Several of which we still haven't
gotten back yet. I may be a Gryffindor, but even I don't dare go hunting them down.

That's a job for Harry and Harry alone.

“Come on, Hermione.” Twin One pouts. “You let Draco take his stupid prince book.” Conjoles the
other. “Ron still has The Art of War too.” "He carries it around like a security blanket."

Another one of the books I added to the collection myself. Him, I do need to go hunt down. I want
my copy back.

“The Art of War?” Draco repeats, and I glance from the twins to see Draco’s eyes twinkling as an
opportunity to harass Ron presents itself to him. “I wasn’t even aware the Weasel could read. Let
alone a book with such a fascinating title.”

"Don't be unkind, Draco," I say snidely, trying to imitate his mother. "Manners are what separate us
from our uncivilized lessors."

Draco grins in pride at how snobbish I sound, and Harry makes a gagging sound.

"I don't think I can touch you right now," he says, climbing to his feet.

"Well hit, Granger. Ten points for Gryffindor. But there are our lessors, and then there are the
animals. The Weasel doesn't need our manners."

"Says the lion," I snark back.

He bares his teeth in a half growl.

"The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One
must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves."

Another quote from The Prince.

I roll my eyes, then crawl over to Draco.

His eyes widen at the sight of me scowling in his direction.

I lunge to yank that stupid book out of his hands, and we end up struggling for it.

"Would you stop—" Draco pulls my hair, and I elbow him in the gut. "Quoting that stupid bleeding
book!" I finish with a huff.

Growling under my breath, the arsehole is so much stronger than me, I cheat and use magic to
wrest it from his grip. I end up on my bum with a hard crash, but I win the battle for the book.

I crawl back to my original chair and hand the book to Harry.

"Put this in our trunk, please. I'll give it back when he’s less obnoxious."

Harry takes it from me with his finger and thumb, looking between Draco and me.

"Am I the only one terrified of Hermione spending so much time with Malfoy?" Neville asks.

"Absolutely not. He is not a good influence on her," Harry agrees.

Draco beams.

"I'm going to go find Ron," Harry says haltingly, looking between Draco and me. "This...whatever
it is, is making me very uncomfortable."

"You mean Malfoy's mummy issues he's working out through Hermione?" Neville prompts.

Harry gags again.

I sigh.
Draco huffs in annoyance.

"Yes. That. Exactly. Come on Nev, let's go."

The twins have started sliding sideways, arms still full of I don't want to know books to make I
don't want to know gadgets.

"Where do you two think you're going with my books?" I snap, pulling them to a stop.

The twins begin to bargain.

"Aw, come on, Hermione!" "We'll be careful with them."

Draco, though, has other things on his mind.

"About that war book..." Draco says to the twins.

“I think this is the first time in history we aren’t running around like maniacs trying to pack and do
last-minute homework the night before the train.”

Ron sounds both ecstatic and in awe as he pushes a pawn across the chessboard.

“Make sure you tell Dobby thank you,” I mumble, not paying them very much attention.

"I don't know why we have to take the train," he grouches for the thirtieth time in three days. It
started, funnily enough, approximately ten minutes after he finally apparated for the first time.

He doesn't have his license, but as far as Harry is concerned, the license is superfluous. The point
is that all five of us can travel independently now, a year younger than they teach us in school.

Draco chuckles under his breath from the couch behind us. He’s stretched out reading yet another
book on potion-making.

Honestly, I think he reads more than I do.

The Twins are nowhere to be found. Probably holed up with Sirius, planning pranks for their last
year at school.

Ginny is curled up on the other side of the couch from Draco.

Neville is lounging in front of the fire, cooing to his plant. It’s finally blossomed, and the flower
heads are rubbing against his finger like a cat. It really is very pretty.

No one bothers to point out that Draco’s socked feet are in Ginny’s lap.

Forced proximity and twice-daily duelling have done a pretty decent job of pushing everyone to get
used to each other over the last month.

That and working out some of our conflicts.

Nate is of the mind that sometimes a difference of opinion just needs to be handled with fists. It
seems to have worked out well. Occasionally the Weasleys and Draco are downright friendly
towards each other when they forget that they’re supposed to be enemies.

Especially since the other night here, in the library, when Draco helped stabilize Ronald after
Harry, feeling he had to protect me, angrily drained Ron of his magic.

Though luckily, no one has mentioned it since it happened.

Harry and Ron are playing chess, Ron flat on his stomach on the floor. Harry is leaning against the
couch in front of Draco, and my head is in Harry’s lap. He can’t reach the board as my book is in
his way.

Instead, he’s using magic to move his pieces.

His fingers run rhythmically through my hair, and I’m a heartbeat away from curling up and going
to sleep right here in the library.

“How the times have changed,” Draco drawls. “Weasel had a house-elf pack his belongings, and I
was forced to fold my clothing like a Muggle.”

“Poor baby,” Ginny whinges in a playful tone.

“Quite,” Draco agrees with her snottily.

"Last time I checked, Malfoy," Ron says, grinning from the floor. "Mocking me isn't a conducive
method of getting what you want."

The entire room seems to hold its breath.

“My apologies, Weaselllllley,” Draco says through clenched teeth, catching himself before he calls
Ron a weasel.

Merlin, spare me from boys. They've been fighting over The Art of War for hours...

Ron is practically floating with having something Draco wants. It would be easier to simply order
another copy, but I won't ruin this for Ronald.

Molly pops her head into the library, looking stressed even though the rest of us are rather at ease.

“Downstairs please, children. We have some last-minute details to go over before bed tonight.”

As one, we groan, and Ron’s knight takes the opportunity to run Harry’s pawn through with its
spear.

Draco is on his feet first, then reaches out a hand to pull me to mine.

“Thank you, Draco.”

He smirks at me.

“Don’t mention it,” he says. Then, “seriously, don’t mention it. I have a reputation to protect.”

Harry laughs at that, climbing to his feet.

“Don’t worry, Draco. Your secret is safe with us. As soon as we hit the Platform, it’s back to
Malfoy and not so veiled insults. If you’d like, I’d be happy to break your nose on the train. Put to
rest any rumours you’ve been bedding with the enemy.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Draco says dryly, “but thank you for the generous offer.”
I trail them out of the library, Draco and Harry continuing to snipe at each other all the way down.

Only now, their tone is distinctly jovial rather than filled with malice. That all comes to a stop
when we enter the kitchen to see both Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape sitting at the
table with Arthur.

Nate is lounging on the other side, a teachers robe open around his american clothing.

“Tea, dear?” Mrs Weasley asks, trying and failing to defuse the tension that erupts whenever
Professor Snape drops in for a visit.

The fact that Professor McGonagall is here as well doesn’t make me feel any better. My stomach
twists in knots, wondering what could bring two heads of houses out the night before students are
set to arrive back in the castle.

“Yes, please,” I say, slipping into a chair at the table.

Ginny takes the one next to me, accepting a china cup from her mother.

The twins are already in the kitchen, leaning forward with their elbows on the counter. All of the
boys remain standing. I doubt it passes anyone’s notice that Draco remains as well. I bite my lip
and turn my chin down.

Neville, Ron, and Draco have all taken up positions behind Harry as if they’d just stepped onto the
battlefield. Evenly spaced to give them room to move yet still cover each other's backs.

Ron is directly behind Harry. It’s his job to guard Harry’s arse, and I’ve never seen him take an
assignment so seriously.

Nate is smirking with pride.

“Professors,” Harry greets, nodding his head in respect at them. “This is a surprise.”

Remus and Tonks, trailed quietly by Sirius, take up posts in the corners of the room.

Harry is our leader, and few things show it than the oldest members of the Order lining up behind
his back.

“It’ll be a quick visit, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall shakes her head, eyes closed in
exasperation. “Excuse me. Mr Potter-Black,” she corrects herself.

"Lord Potter-Black," Draco admonishes in a respectful tone.

If he can't be the leader of his own gang, then he's damn well going to be second in command of
ours.

“Potter is fine, Professor,” Harry grins. “It’s a mouthful otherwise.”

“Indeed,” she agrees with pursed lips. “However, the titles and names were given with a purpose,
and it would defeat that purpose if we didn’t use them properly. Which is why we are here tonight.
We felt your unique situations needed privacy to discuss, rather than in the Great Hall or Common
Rooms."

Harry meets my eyes as Professor McGonagall continues to talk.

"This brings us to our first item of business. As mentioned at the end of last year, you'll be taking
private lessons with the Headmaster this term, Lord Potter-Black. I will add the caveat that these
lessons are contingent on you maintaining your grades in your other classes. This is your OWL
year after all. The minute something starts to slip, all the extras go."

Harry smirks at her.

"That won't be a problem, Professor."

Professor McGonagall looks dubious of his claim.

Nate cuts in.

"There will be Aurors guarding the castle this year. They have all volunteered to take turns in
continuing your advanced defence training. That’s not including our additional practice outside of
class. And the DA club."

Determination trickles along our Bond, but Harry keeps his expression bland.

Professor McGonagall looks to her left.

"Severus?”

Professor Snape lowers his cup of tea, giving his attention to Draco.

"As per Mrs Potter-Black’s request, I will be working with her on advanced potion-making in
private instruction. I've requested that Draco join our little study sessions, and the Headmaster has
allowed it."

"Thank you, Severus!"

Draco sounds genuinely happy about the private instruction and meets my eye with a small smile.

Then his face falls into his pureblood mask. "But it’s Lady Potter-Black."

I'm going to slap him.

Professor Snape’s eye roll is going to make me nauseous.

Harry grumbles through the Bond.

He still isn’t happy about me spending time one on one with Snape. Matter of fact, he swore to
supervise every lesson. Maybe now that Draco will be there, he’ll be less of a pain about it. There’s
nobody he trusts me with so much as himself or Ron, but somehow in the last five weeks, Malfoy
has come in a tight third.

“Draco, you already know you’ve been named a prefect for this year,” the Potions Master
continues. “I’m concerned about your lodging. It has been arranged for you to room on your own
for the current school year. In order to not show favouritism, all prefects in Slytherin House have
been given their own dormitories. As the smallest house, we have rooms to spare. You are to
inform me at once, however, if another student so much as looks at you cross."

There are all my fears for this current school year laid bare. Draco will be a castle away from us
when I've come to depend on him on my right side.

"To the best of my knowledge, no orders have been handed down from the Dark Lord regarding
your treatment while at Hogwarts. However, I wouldn’t put it past any of his followers to attempt
to curry favour by bringing you back into the fold. By whatever means necessary. Especially when
it is discovered the Greengrass sisters have fled from the Dark Lord and aren’t simply hiding in
wait until school starts.”

“If anyone tries to hurt Draco,” Harry growls, “they’ll have me to answer to.”

“Saint Potter to the rescue,” Professor Snape sneers in his direction.

Harry takes a step forward, leaving the rest of them behind.

“No, Professor. I am his Head of House, on his maternal side. It’s my duty to protect him from
harm. Beyond that, Draco is my friend. I don’t take kindly when tossers mess with my friends.
Draco himself has borne the bruises of that truth more than once in the past.”

Professor Snape rises from the table, ready to pick a fight.

“What will you do, Mr Potter-Black,” he hisses like the snake he represents, “when people start to
question why you are suddenly running to the defence of your sworn enemy? The whole point of
this farce was to keep Draco safe. He can’t do that if you are chasing after him like a dog.”

Harry shrugs, not at all concerned about the accusation.

“They won’t question it. I have a saving people thing, remember?”

"It's Lord Potter-Black," Draco snarls in a much harsher tone.

Professor Snape glares at Harry, and I feel Harry’s amusement leaking across the Bond. I'd rather
that than images of Harry running Professor Snape through with the sword.

Professor McGonagall clears her throat, trying to break the rising tension.

“Well, as for you two,” Professor McGonagall says.

“Us?” the Twins say simultaneously, echoing in surround sound and pointing at each other.

“No.”

Her voice could break glass, and her eyes peel paint with the looks of disdain she throws at them.

“Since we don’t have a head boy or girl in Gryffindor this year,” and she gives the twins a scowl
that would make Dumbledore cower before turning her attention to me. “We’ve assigned Lord
Potter-Black and yourself the head’s dorm instead of opening the married housing. There are two
bedrooms and a private common area, plus a kitchenette. I imagine with the number of books
packed into your trunks this year; you’ll need the extra space simply for storage.”

Professor McGonagall smiles at her joke.

Fury is trickling in through our Bond before Harry shuts it down.

“No,” Harry replies, his voice flat and cold.

“No?” Professor McGonagall baulks, taken back by his refusal.

All heads turn towards him.

“No. We won’t be sharing a dorm. There'll be no hand holding in the corridors. In no uncertain
terms are we to give any indication that Hermione is more than what she’s always been—my best
friend. We’ve gone to great lengths to ensure the knowledge of our bonding doesn’t leave this
building.”

“Harry,” I breathe, caught off guard by his severe declaration.

My stomach bursts with butterflies at the barely contained fury rippling over his body.

I—I was not expecting this. I just assumed we'd room together.

Apparently, Harry did not.

“I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question, Potter.” Professor McGonagall exhales forcefully at her
slip-up. “Lord Potter-Black."

He snarls at the title.

She tries another tactic.

"Harry. The first day of class when a teacher addresses her as Potter-Black, the entire school will
know that you are married. It was a union blessed in magic. There is nothing we can do to hide it.
Professor Dumbledore had planned to speak with you before the welcoming feast to ask you to
break the charm so he can make an announcement. Better to disclose the Bonding upfront then
submit Hermione to months of scrutiny and invasive assumptions and questioning. There are very
few reasons one marries at your age, Harry.”

“Told ya,” Draco mumbles behind him, and Harry whips around to glare at his cousin by adoption.

“It’ll be fine, Harry,” I try to assure him, rising from my seat. “The castle is the safest place in the
world.”

"That's bollocks and you know it!" he shouts.

Harry kicks out at a chair, sending it skittering across the floor.

"I'm sick and tired of Dumbledore making unilateral decisions about my life!"

"LORD POTTER-BLACK!" McGonagall exclaims, but Harry isn't listening.

“It’s not just about the castle! If they announce we’ve married...hell, that we’re Bonded-Mates! At
the fucking Welcoming Feast? It’ll be on the front page of the Prophet on the next day’s paper.
Fuck, they’ll probably print a special edition just about you and me."

He turns to me with heaving breaths and pleading eyes.

"Merlin, Hermione. Claim your Mate for the world to envy? More like mark your Mate so all the
Death Eaters walking the streets have a blinking target to aim for!”

He pulls the sword from the scabbard across his back, and it makes an audible ringing sound that
echoes in the room.

That’s never a good sign. The sword takes its cue from Harry.

Magic crests around him, and with the sword in his hand, Harry is practically glowing with it. Even
I have to avert my eyes at the vision he's become.
My heart is so high in my throat I can taste it on the back of my tongue.

As one, Neville, Ron, and Draco take a step back, giving Harry room to manoeuvre. He points the
blade in my direction, and it’s like trying to face a tornado head-on.

Nate shoves up from the table, a wand in each palm.

“It was bad enough when you were simply Potter’s Mudblood!” Harry thunders.

“Oi!” Ron exclaims in anger.

"That's why they chose you last time!"

His voice breaks, and flashes of that day flicker through my memory. But I didn’t witness it from
that angle. I was on the floor, not watching from above.

His terrors haunt my mind.

"Harry," I hiss, in a panic over what he’s about to reveal. But he’s too far gone to care anymore.

"They could have chosen Ron. They could have tortured me. But they chose you, because of who
you were! In their eyes, your blood makes you worthless, and what you mean to me makes you
priceless! They tortured you and killed you so I WOULD HAVE TO LISTEN!"

Harry breaking is a horrifying, beautiful thing to behold. He's screaming at the top of his lungs,
forcing faces away at the strength of his cries.

"Even THEN they knew I'd do anything for you!"

His magic can no longer be contained inside his skin and so is dripping out of him in waves so
thick you can touch it.

I need to be sick at the pain on his face and the way it rips through my body like a physical thing.

“What do you think is going to happen when Riddle discovers that this time you own a piece of my
soul? I’ll die a thousand times before I let them get their hands on you. I can’t take it, Hermione!
Not again! Death would be a BLESSING if you were ever captured. They’ll drag out your torture
for weeks, months. Fuck! Years, if only to make me suffer.”

We’re caught in the eye of the storm, and Harry is the hurricane.

He's splintering before our very eyes.

Ron looks at me, the dawning realisation clear on his face. His eyes are wide as saucers, and fear
pulls his mouth tight. He looks on the verge of vomiting. He laughed at Harry being stuck with
me, but it never really occurred to him the entirety of what that meant.

Harry understood the minute those rings were brought out.

The pictures on the walls rattle and the knick-knacks on flat surfaces float in the air. My hair drifts
out around my face from the power pouring from Harry’s core.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry moans, and I feel it crack inside my chest.

The sword tumbles from his hand to land in a clatter of metal at my feet. Then he falls to his knees
before me. He wraps his arms around my thighs, his head hidden in my belly. A dozen items clatter
to the ground in a lilting crash as Harry releases his magic.

A groan is torn from me, unbidden at the onslaught of Harry’s terror.

It feels like the earth is opening beneath us. Inside me. There’s a well of untapped horror, and it’s
eating at my very soul.

It’s not mine.

It’s Harry’s.

He can’t breathe, so neither can I.

His fear of losing me causes my throat to close, my lungs to seize in my chest. His shoulders shake
from his sobbing, and I can’t think from the terror clawing at my mind.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he weeps, and there’s nothing at all I can do except run my fingers
through his hair and promise him it’ll be alright.

We share everything, he and I.

He is the chaos, and I am the calm.

My hands tremble where I drag my nails over his head, and the only thing keeping my knees from
buckling is the man who is cleaving at me.

"It's alright," I whisper. "It's going to be alright. Nothing can hurt me when I'm with you.”

But how can it be alright when everything has gone so horribly, indescribably wrong?

How can he save me when I was killed for being at his side?

Ron uses his palms to wipe tears from his face, then walks to the corner, giving us his back.
Unable to watch the destruction of his best friend.

He, too, falls to the ground, knees bent in a squat, chest heaving in the knowledge that he watched
us die, even if he doesn't remember it.

We’ve always been Harry’s weakness.

It’s how Voldemort gets to him, almost every time.

It’s an unwritten rule in the ‘How to Defeat Harry Potter Handbook.’ Want some one-on-one time
with the Chosen One? Grab somebody he loves.

I’ve always known Harry loved me. In one form or another. This, though, is something else
altogether.

“I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you. I can’t lose you.”

He chants it like a mantra against my stomach.

I’m no longer just Harry Potter’s best friend.

I’m Harry Potter’s wife. Within hours, the whole of the Wizarding World will know it. The rings
on my fingers seem to glow as I run them through Harry’s hair.
I search out the room, looking for help in any corner.

Mrs Weasley is openly weeping. Professor McGonagall has both hands covering her mouth. Even
Professor Snape is lost for words.

Nate, of all people, is watching the scene with an expression of dawning realization. Like all of the
pieces have fallen into place and he can finally see the picture.

Sirius looks stricken.

But it’s the witch with bubblegum pink hair who has her face buried in his chest and Remus at her
back with his arms wrapped around them both that shocks me from my own horror.

That...wow.

Everything from the other timeline makes so much sense now.

Sirius cups Remus's cheek, and Remus lets his other rest against Tonks’ head and yeah.

Okay.

I see it.

Remus kisses Tonks’s head and Sirius’ palm and then pulls away from his—his lovers.

It’s Remus clearing his throat that brings Harry back to the present. Harry lifts his head from my
stomach and roughly wipes his eyes. I cup his face in my hands, soothing my thumbs across his
skin.

He's shaking so badly that everyone in the room can see his quaking.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” he whispers, loud enough for every ear to hear. “I never should have
kissed you.”

I pull him to his feet and let him tuck me close to his heart.

It won’t do us any good now to tell him I heartily disagree.

I can’t even imagine our lives anymore without that kiss. Neither can he, no matter what he is
saying right now.

“Harry,” Remus pleads.

As carefully as he can, he creeps forward and stands in Harry’s line of sight.

His hands are out, but he doesn’t touch us. Thank Merlin for that.

I don't know what would happen if he tried.

“The Bond practically glows between you. Anyone with even the slightest inclination can see it.
I’ll admit, to the outside observer your interactions with each other don’t seem to vary all that
much from before the Binding was sealed, but that simply goes to show how close you were
beforehand. Better to acknowledge it and keep her close, then pretend it doesn’t exist.”

“Besides that, Harry,” Professor McGonagall says, “Hermione is correct, Hogwarts is the safest
place for her."
The use of my first name makes me double-take. Her voice breaks on the word.

Harry scoffs, knowing in a visceral way how untrue that statement is.

McGonagall powers on.

"The dorm room we have arranged for you two is warded and password protected. There are no
rules against adding your own wards as well. It has its own small sitting room with a floo, a
bathing area and a dining nook."

Remus gives her an encouraging nod.

"You can bring Dobby and Winky. They’ll welcome the chance to spoil you both and have an
apartment to keep neat and tidy. With all the extra lessons you lot are taking this year, I’m sure
you’ll appreciate a safe space to...” she hesitates, perhaps choosing an appropriate word, “a space
to strategize.”

I know she’s still uncomfortable with her cubs being trained for battle, even if she understands why
it needs to happen.

She knows as well as I that Harry must lead the charge.

I appreciate her attempt to use the benefits of a private room to assist in calming my husband.

It does little good.

“You talk about Draco being alone with the Slytherins. She has two classes that I don’t take. That
none of us take. You want to brand her, then throw her out undefended. It’s not as difficult to get
into the Castle as you believe it to be. Not when you’re highly motivated to do so. Hermione would
be a prize worthy of the effort."

His voice has lost that manic edge to be replaced with a vicious hiss of fire laced with steel.

I almost don't know which is worse.

"Even now, Voldemort is branding children to do his bidding. Children in your stronghold who
have no choice but to submit or die. Submit, or watch the slow and painful death of everyone they
love most."

A shudder rips through Draco’s body as he acknowledges the fate we saved him from.

I don’t bother to point out I’m more than capable of protecting myself. The boys aren't the only
ones who spent the summer training for war. It would be a pointless observation.

Even in the other timeline, Harry doesn’t take chances when it comes to the safety of those he
cares about. Felix Felicis, anyone?

Now with the Bond?

Draco steps forward, bracing for Harry’s wrath.

“I’m in both Arithmancy and Ancient Runes with her. You walk her to the classroom, and I’ll bring
her back to you safely. We move in pairs, remember? I won't let her out of my sight. I’ll sit with her
every day. They’ll have to get through me, to lay hands on her, Potter.”

Draco meets my eye over my husband's head, and I know he isn't only doing this for Harry.
He swore his fealty to me.

Apparently, that includes protecting me in the classrooms and hallways of Hogwarts.

“They’ll have to get through all of us, Mate,” Ron chips in, having calmed as Harry calmed. As
always, taking his cues from Harry.

Harry’s face whips to Ron’s.

"So it comes down to you or her? Her life or yours?" he begs his best friend. "Either way, it's a loss
I wouldn't survive."

I sometimes wonder if they don't share a Soul-Bond as well.

"Then I will take the first blow, Harry!" Draco promises. "Trust us to keep them safe!"

I've never seen him shine so brightly.

Harry baulks at Draco, mouth open and eyes wide.

I think it’s the first time Draco has used Harry’s first name. It makes the whole thing more real,
somehow.

“That defeats every fail-safe we’ve enacted to ensure your safety, Draco!” Professor Snape hisses
at his Godson, rising from his chair.

It's Draco’s turn to crack.

“Fuck my safety!” Draco explodes. “The sole purpose of this,” he throws his hands into the air, “of
EVERYTHING, is to defeat The Dark Lord!”

He shoves his finger in Harry’s face.

“HE can’t do that if he’s lost his Goddamn mind because something happened to his wife! What
would you do, Severus, if something threatened the woman you loved?”

As if pulled by a magnet, Professor Snape looks at Harry. His face hardens, years of lines pressed
to the surface. But his eyes...his eyes soften at the edges.

He almost looks on the verge of tears.

“Everything,” he says sharply. “Always.”

Without another word, he storms from the kitchen, the floo whooshing to life in the other room.

Draco turns to Harry.

“If I die in defence of your Lady Wife?” he questions, standing to his fullest height. His face is
blank, a slight sneer in place.

There lies Draco Malfoy, scion to the Malfoy dynasty.

“Then I’ll kill every man, woman and child who had a hand in it,” Harry promises with a growl.

Harry is his cousin, his Lord, and probably the most powerful magical being on the planet. If he
makes a promise, it's as good as an unbreakable vow.
“Good enough for me,” Draco agrees.

He pulls out a chair and slides into the seat.

“Could I get a cup of tea, Mrs Weasley? You make it just like my Missy did. I miss her.”

Draco grins when Mrs Weasley simpers at him, wiping her face on her apron and jumping to her
feet.

Draco winks at Ron when her back is turned.

Ron scowls in response.

Merlin bless, Draco Malfoy. Some of the tension in the air lessons until, at last, it is breathable
again.

"You know this isn't just about Hogwarts though, don’t you?"

Harry turns to me, his face earnest.

"There's a reason why I went straight to Augusta from Gringotts after Ragnok informed us of our
binding. Our names have been ripped out of every record I could get my hands on. The second this
gets out, any chance you had of living a normal life is over."

I scoff at his ignorance.

"Harry. Any chance I had of living a normal life ended when The Boy Who Lived saved me from a
troll in the girls’ loo. Besides that, as Gringotts showed us, you can't change my last name, even if
you burned our proof of marriage."

In theory, I'm sure it could be done with the paperwork of Hogwarts, but as much as I disagree with
his methods, like Harry, Dumbledore does nothing without a purpose.

I, for one, am tired of living in the shadows.

Harry growls in frustration.

“You’re bloody impossible, do you know that? This changes everything! He won’t even care about
capturing me anymore. As soon as that announcement goes out, you jump to number one on
Voldemort’s catch and torture list. Why bother with me when I’ll come to him willingly with you
in his clutches?”

His anger is mounting again, so I try to play it as cool as I can.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last decade, it’s how to handle an angry Harry Potter. I sit at
the table next to Draco, who refills my mug with refreshed tea.

His knee is crossed over his leg, and he looks all the world like he's just sat down for breakfast.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Undesirable Number Two, remember?” I say, doctoring my beverage. “In this life or the last, it
makes no difference. I will not cower in the shadows while others fight in my stead! He doesn’t
scare me, Harry.”

Harry pulls at his hair, on the verge of losing his cool again. He closes his mouth and screams in
frustration.

“Well, bloody good for you. Because he fucking terrifies me!”

Harry scoops up his sword and storms from the kitchen, leaving expressions ranging from horror to
amusement in his wake.

“Shouldn’t someone follow him?” Ginny prompts.

I notice she doesn’t offer to do the deed.

Everyone turns to me, but I shake my head.

The Bond is whirling with a thousand different emotions that Harry has no desire to share right
now. He'd be occluding if he hadn't promised to stop blocking his side of the connection.

“I’m his wife,” I say. “Not his keeper.”

“Best let him brood for a bit,” Sirius says.

Ron snarls in fury then storms out after his best friend.

I tilt in Professor McGonagall’s direction, who is still looking distinctly disturbed. Nate has
stepped into the background to watch the way the dominoes fall.

“Anything else, Professor?” I ask, hoping to wrap this up quickly.

She drags her eyes away from the open doorway where both Professor Snape and Harry
disappeared and focuses on my face again.

She shakes herself like a dog, clearing away the haunted fear behind her eyes.

“No, Lady Potter-Black. I don’t think so. There will be questions, of course. I’d prepare H—" she
stutters. "Harry as well as you can for them.”

She stops talking, but I see her thoughts stewing behind her eyes.

“Out with it, Professor.”

She'd been Minerva in our last life.

Her chest heaves with the strength of her breath.

“That was unexpected. I—I feel like I must inform the Headmaster of what I witnessed here
tonight.”

“Inform away,” I tell her, not at all concerned about the Headmaster’s response.

We don’t answer to him, and he’s smart enough to have expected this type of reaction to an official
announcement of our Bond.

It’s why he sent Professor McGonagall tonight to warn Harry it was coming. That way, Harry
could lose his shit in the privacy of his own home and not in the Great Hall. We may not agree
with all his choices, but that man is no fool.

I only feel bad that she was the one who had to deal with it.
“Does that sort of outburst happen often?” she asks, and my anger rises in my throat.

I understand that she’s concerned about the other students, but she should know Harry better than
that.

Much to my shock, Draco answers the question.

“No, Ma’am. Although, I would recommend spreading it around that no one should challenge
Harry to a duel this year. They’d lose, horribly. And I sincerely hope I’m there the first time
Parkinson calls Granger a Mudblood. His reaction will go down in the record books, I’m sure.
Anyone stupid enough to try to hurt Hermione is going to be in for a big surprise.”

Shockingly, that doesn’t seem to ease the Deputy Headmistress’s mind.

Draco tries again.

“You know Potter. Would you consider him a particularly overprotective person, Professor?”

She nods her head.

“I would, yes. Short-tempered, self-sacrificing, and horrifically brave,” she adds with pride.

Draco looks nauseous. Those are not his favourite qualities in a person.

He clears his throat.

Nate takes over.

“You’re worried about the, admittedly, impressive display of power, and his lack of control over it.
I promise you; Harry was in complete control. I suggest you watch him spar one day. You’ll
understand better. But instead of concentrating on his outburst, concentrate on what caused it.”

She looks wounded.

Like Dumbledore just fell from the astronomy tower.

“I have seen him fight, Mr Smithe. I was at the prison, remember? It was impressive, to be sure.
But it’s not only that. I—”

Remus speaks up for the first time.

“We’re going to win this war, Minerva, because of her.”

Remus points to me, and I wipe the tears once again dripping down my face.

“He’ll defeat Voldemort, if only because the price of his failure would be the end of her life. You
saw the—” his voice catches, and he clears it before going on. “The visceral reaction he had to the
thought of her coming to harm, and you automatically think their connection is some sort of
security risk. That his emotions can’t be trusted. But she’s not a weakness. She's his strength.”

Draco takes over.

“She shares his soul, Ma’am."

She twists in her seat, looking from Draco to me.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “I see.”

“Do you?” he asks, and I’m blown away that out of all the people in this room, Draco Malfoy is
the one coming to Harry’s defence. But then I remember the silver trunk of books tucked away
into my luggage, and maybe I’m not that surprised after all.

“I do,” she assures him.

Her face firms up some, a sense of action filling her eyes.

Neville slides into the chair next to me and then grasps my fingers in his under the tabletop. I
glance at him quickly, and he squeezes my hand.

Thank goodness for Neville and his quiet stoicism.

“I will do as you suggest, Mr Malfoy, and inform the other Heads of House, discreetly, that due to
current circumstances, they should strongly discourage the students in their house from challenging
Lord Potter-Black."

The titles are back. I guess that means she's regained her composure.

"Little is known any more about the connection between Bond-Mates. Perhaps a burst of
overprotectiveness is to be expected. Combine that with the added pressures he faces because of
the war, and yes, Mr Malfoy. I understand what you are saying.”

A burst of overprotectiveness is an understatement.

“Some will take that,” “As a challenge to test Harry’s skill,” the twins say, speaking up for the first
time and shooting Draco a knowing look.

He doesn’t even look sheepish.

“Is he likely to kill them?” she asks seriously.

Sirius and Remus, both laugh, then hide their faces when Professor McGonagall turns her glare on
them. Nate chuckles outright.

After all, he’s spent the last two months helping every person in this house hone their ability to kill.
He’s spent just as long helping Harry keep that urge contained.

“Only if they hurt Hermione,” Draco says with a smirk.

I kick him under the table.

Not!

Helping!

“No,” one twin says, attempting to keep a straight face. The other adds, “They might walk funny
for a while,” “But he won’t cause any permanent damage.”

Probably.

“It really has little to do with Hogwarts, Minerva,” Remus speaks up. “So long as Death Eaters
don’t somehow breach the castle, and no one is stupid enough to challenge Harry to a duel,
everything will be fine.”
I raise my empty cup of tea to my lips to hide my expression and meet Sirius’ stare over the rim.

“Very well,” she says. “Please try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum.”

Professor McGonagall excuses herself quickly after that. Her back is almost through the kitchen
awning when Remus hits her with a spell.

“Oblivate,” he says, and her back stiffens.

I watch with widened eyes as Remus modifies her memories.

She stands there, frozen for a moment, before she shakes her head and continues to leave the
kitchen. We hear the floo flare to life from the other room.

“What—”

Remus cuts me off before I can ask.

“We don’t want her to remember everything that was said here this night. I’ll find a way to deal
with Severus.”

The quiet that falls in the kitchen isn’t any easier with her Obliviation.

Worse.

I can almost hear the other’s thoughts, feel their eyes staring at me.

Without a word, I call the Firewhiskey from the counter, pouring a healthy dollop into my empty
teacup.

“So, when did you die?"

Draco.

Naturally, it has to be fucking Draco who asks the question. His eyes are so earnest, and his hand is
flexing on his teacup.

It must fascinate the scholar in him.

Boy, is he in for a surprise.

“It certainly answers a few questions,” Nate scoffs sliding into the table.

I take a swig from the Firewhiskey, letting the burn of the liquor warm my blood and settle into my
belly. I don’t even gag or shudder this time.

You could hear a pin drop, and the entire room seems to hold its breath.

I sit up straight in my chair and look Draco in the eye.

He bound his life to mine.

Until you release me from my bonds or until my death. I have little doubt that last time, he lost his
life directly following the loss of ours.

You don't tell Voldemort no and live to tell the tale.

“In three years. In the drawing room at Malfoy Manor. They slit my throat.”

“The knife…” Nate peters out, having been there for both of Harry’s outbursts.

“The knife,” I agree with a lack of emotion that I certainly don’t feel.

Mrs Weasley’s gasp is audible.

Remus’s moan slithers over my skin, just this shy of a growl. He knew, he had to know, but this is
the first time we’ve confirmed it out loud.

Neville grips my hand so hard that the bones grind together.

Malfoy rises from the table, barely making it to the sink before he’s sick.

The memory of that life and of that death makes my muscles ache. Nausea roils in my belly, and
the back of my throat burns.

But I don’t stop talking.

“The whole thing about Hogwarts being the safest location in the country is a lark. I can't tell you
how many times those walls have been breached. By the time we died, the entire country was
under Riddle’s control. Cedric Diggory died in the maze, the night Riddle regained his body.
Hogwarts fell. The Ministry fell. Dumbledore died at the hands of a supposed ally."

They don’t need to know who. If we have any say, it won’t happen this time. I take another sip
from the bottle of Firewhiskey.

Nate is nodding along. I wouldn't be surprised if he's taking notes.

“Harry, Ron, and I were on the run. They didn't know Ron was with us, but Harry and I? We were
the most wanted people in Britain."

I almost laugh.

"Literally. Our faces were plastered on wanted posters all over magical Europe. Undesirable
Number One and Undesirable Number Two.

"We lived in a tent, in the woods, moving to a new spot nearly every day. We couldn’t walk into a
store. We lived off only what we could steal or find. Being a muggle-born was a crime. They
snapped your wand and imprisoned you for stealing your magic. Snatchers were criminals who
made their living collecting muggle-borns who were on the run. We were captured by a group led
by Fenrir Greyback. Taken to the Manor. Bellatrix was there. Your parents."

I meet Draco’s eye, and the rest of the room falls away. He is mine, in the same way Neville and
Ron are Harry’s. He deserves to know why.

"You were there too.”

Draco is shaking, head dangling over the sink. His eyes are filled with horror.

I should stop.

But I can’t.

Now that the dam has broken, it’s impossible to stop the flow.
The echo of the fear I felt that day makes my body tremble. My muscles quiver with the memory of
the torture I suffered on that drawing-room floor.

Harry dreams of my screams, but I dream of theirs. His and Ron’s. Locked in a cellar, forced to
listen to my wails. I dream of the horror on Draco’s face, in designer clothes but almost as thin as
us.

“It was the Easter Hols, I think, but...time was hard to tell when you’re living in a tent...we didn’t
realise it was Christmas, either, until we went to Godric's Hollow, and we were attacked by
Voldemort. But that’s a story for another time.”

A growl slips from my lips.

"Every time Harry has fought Voldemort or one of his minions, and I mean every single bloody
time,” I jab my finger into the table. “It's because an enemy had hurt someone Harry loved. Trust
me when I say there's been a precedent set for Harry losing us."

Us.

Ginny.

Everyone.

Cedric.

Sirius and us.

Dumbledore.

Us.

"It's why Harry was able to call the Prisoners in Azkaban enemy of our house and rid them of their
powers. We've already fought each and every one of them. Multiple different occasions. Several of
them came close to killing us. Tried to kill Neville, Luna, Ginny and Ron. Until Bellatrix finally
did."

Someone makes a pained noise, pulled deep from the back of their throat. But I’m no longer in the
townhouse.

I’m on the drawing room floor, searching for someone to save me. He’s younger here, ghost white
and shaking in my kitchen. But he looks at me the same way he did there. With fear in his eyes.
Fear for me and fear for himself.

I pick a spot on the table to watch then stare into my teacup instead.

But I owe it to him to look in his eyes when I tell him his fate.

“If it wasn't Easter, it might have been that Voldemort simply wouldn’t allow you to continue at
Hogwarts,” I say, speaking to him alone now.

“You and your family were little more than prisoners in the manor. Long before that night,
Voldemort used the threat of killing you to force your family into compliance, the same way he
used them over you.

"That night, your Aunt called for you, Draco, and asked you to confirm who we were. I’d hit Harry
in the face with a stinging hex, so he at least looked a little off-kilter. The boys hadn’t had haircuts
in almost a year. They'd stopped shaving. We’d lost so much weight from starvation; we didn’t fit
our clothes. But it was us, and you knew it.”

I can see his knees buckle by the way he drops before pulling his back straight by sheer willpower
alone.

“You wouldn’t confirm it for your parents. Avoided the questions and only told half-truths. Maybe
and I don’t knows. You outright refused when they told you to summon Voldemort with your Dark
Mark. Your father had to do it."

That I remember clearly. It feels important somehow.

"Despite living in the manor, you looked almost as bad as we did, and still, you denied a direct
order in risk of your life."

I see it, now, that same spark of defiance that brought him to us to begin with. That made him risk
is life that night. He sees it too. Realizes, that no matter what reality we're living, he'll always be
strong enough to do what's right.

Eventually.

"Like Harry said, I'm expendable. So, they picked me to torture. Took the boys to the cellar. We
had the Sword of Gryffindor. It seems no matter what life he lives, it’ll always come to Harry.”

I know I sound dead.

Monotone.

I feel dead.

I’m numb.

I look down and see my right hand rubbing obsessively up and down my left arm, tracing invisible
branding I no longer own.

Neville is still gripping my fingers, refusing to let go.

I’m losing the feeling in that hand. It helps, though, to see life entwined with mine as I fight the
scars of the past.

People are crying, but I don’t look at who. I don’t have the energy for anything outside of myself
right now.

“Bellatrix was insane and enraged about the sword. I don’t know why. All I could concentrate on
was the pain. She hit me with the Cruciatus curse over, and over again. Then when I still wouldn’t
tell her what she wanted, because, as you know, I’m as stubborn as they come, she dug her knife
into my flesh. She branded me, with the word Mudblood, carved into my forearm.”

The sounds of someone vomiting hit my ears, but I can’t tell if it’s really happening or if it's a
memory.

“I only know what happened after that because of Harry’s nightmares. Harry and Ron got free
because he’s Harry Potter, and he has both the best luck and the worst luck in the world. They
overpowered their guards and stole their wands, then stormed the drawing room.

"But he froze, when he saw me barely conscious, with the knife to my neck. She slit my throat, in
front of Harry and Ron, then Bellatrix and Voldemort both hit Harry with the killing curse.”

I stop myself before I mention Mortimer. Already as it is, the DOM is going to open a room just for
experiments on Harry and me.

“Then we were in the Great Hall,” I finish with a shrug.

I don't look away from Draco’s gaze. He, above all others, deserves to know why.

"You had been deteriorating for years. Even when we were still at school. Anyone who looked at
you could see it. The look of terror on your face—sworn to a madman, forced to do things even the
vilest of humans wouldn't dream of. We almost got you out as Hogwarts was falling, but Death
Eaters showed up and took you away, congratulating you on your prowess in catching The Boy
Who Lived. It was either flee with them or risk dying with us, and with their hands around your
collar, it was no choice at all. We went into hiding. You became a prisoner in your own home.

"It was the first thing we decided when we got back. Harry swore if it were within his power, he'd
never see that look of fear and desperation on your face again.

"As it was, it already haunted Harry’s nightmares."

I drop my eyes from my second to my teacup, golden liquid playing host to my memories, and
finally look around the room.

"Ronald?" Mrs Weasley gets the courage to ask.

"I was already dead by then, but I can't imagine he didn't follow right behind. If you're asking if he
remembers, he doesn’t. But he’s known since the moment we got back. He belongs to Harry as
much as I do. One does not exist without the other."

Surprisingly, all she does is whimper.

I finally look around the room.

"You all have said it yourselves. Seen it with your own eyes. The three of us? We're closer than
siblings. Closer than lovers. We would die for each other, have died for each other. You saw Ron
fall to his knees when Harry did. Because he knows, like he knows his own name, that the three of
us went to our deaths together, and we probably will again. They would die a thousand times over
if it meant saving my life.

"But Harry and I? There's not a word to describe what we are to the other person.

“So, if Harry seems a little out of control, and if his reaction to the thought of me getting hurt feels
a smidgen unrestrained, well, watch the person you love most in the world be tortured, then killed,
then think about how you’d respond to being alive again, and because of who you are, your
—everything—will continually be in the crosshairs of a degenerate sadist.”

Draco gets sick again. In the back of my head, I see myself going to him and giving him comfort.

But I don’t.

I tell them one more truth.

"It's not that Harry doesn't trust you. Harry doesn't trust himself. How can he, when he is the means
of his own destruction?"
Neville gives me a one-armed hug and a kiss on the forehead, then goes and tends to Draco. Sirius
looks grimmer than I’ve ever seen him before.

Mr and Mrs Weasley both are crying.

Gin is too.

Tonks has her face buried in Remus’s shoulder. Nate has his fingers linked together stretched out
on the table wearing an expression of such stark determination it’s honestly a bit terrifying.

First, I’m going to kill Harry for putting me in this position.

But then I’m going to kiss him.

Because I needed this. I’ve fallen too deeply into how things are, and I’ve forgotten how things
were. I won’t just sit here while decisions are made about my life.

Not this time.

“Keep this to yourselves, yeah?” I say needlessly.

I look at the members of our chosen family.

I meet their eyes one by one, letting them share the burden of this secret.

Nods of assurances and things like “Of course,” “Always,” and “Who would believe us, anyway?”
reach my ears in solemn tones.

"We won't let you down," Nate growls, and it’s a promise so fierce it almost feels like a vow.

I trust every person in this kitchen. I don’t just trust them with my life. I trust them with Harry’s
too, and his life is far more important than mine. It’s everyone outside these walls who wants to
destroy us.

I need to find an owl, then take care of my husband.

I leave my now empty cup of tea but bring the bottle of Firewhiskey.
 Chapter 45
Chapter Notes

Here's an extra chapter this week, because yeah. This week has blown. I hope this
helps in case yours sucked too.
Harry
Fuck.

I slam the door behind me, the hard smack of it closing doing nothing to calm the anxiety crawling
over my skin.

Our warded bedroom is enormous, but I feel trapped and cornered. I need to run, to fly. To grab
Hermione and stick her on my broom and get as far away as possible. I pace the open area instead,
trying to kill the panic coursing through my blood. Yanking my glasses off, I rub my palms into my
eye sockets, pushing at the pressure building behind my eyes.

I buggered it up.. I screwed up so bleeding bad. There were so many people in that kitchen, and I
just…

Snape, that bloody bastard, was at the fucking table.

“FUCK!”

A wave of raw magic bursts from me, and the chairs around our tiny table, now clear and back to
its original size, topple over at the unleashed energy into the air.

“Go away, Ron,” I snap when I hear the door open.

“Yeah, and let you destroy half the house in a fit of pique? I don’t think so. It’s literally my job
description to keep you from self-destructing.”

Mockery is dripping from his voice. The door slams behind him.

I quickly grab my glasses and place them on my face as I whip my wand out and shoot a banishing
hex at him, intending to force him from my bedroom. He has a physical shield raised on his sword
arm quicker than I can blink.

The spell rebounds, and I duck at the same time Ron twirls his wand and pulls it into his body. A
loop tightens on my right ankle and yanks my foot out from underneath me. I end up sprawled on
my back, looking up at a smirking Ron who places his socked foot on the middle of my chest.

I debate my options on how to best thrash him, but Ron must see it flare behind my eyes because
he grinds his heel into my breastbone and straightens his arm until his wand is pointed at my balls.

I grunt and grimace, annoyed that I can't hide just how much that bloody hurts.

Matchpoint to Ron.

“Now we could throw hexes at each other all night, or you can tell me what your actual problem is;
because that was a pretty extreme reaction from just being told you can share a room with your
wife at school. Especially since—if I’m remembering correctly, and stop me if I’m not—you threw
a fit not two months ago when Mum tried to tell you that you couldn’t share a room with Mione.”

Being lectured with Ron staring down his nose at me, quite literally, is never a position I thought
I'd find myself.

"That was impressive," I say despite it all. “You realize you did that spell nonverbally?”

"Thank you," he grins, peeking over his shield. “I can only do basic spells. Mainly the different
shield and trick charms, and only in the last few days."

That doesn't surprise me. Nate calls Ron some sort of savant when it comes to shield charms. He
can hold one twice as long as the rest of us can, even when he's being pelted from all sides. Some
of those are nowhere near basic, but that's neither here nor there.

"Can finally call things to me wordlessly," he continues and he lifts his brow in exaggerated
annoyance. I smirk ear to ear. I love that trick. "Pays to be one of the few with my own room. Been
practicing for hours. Don’t tell Mione though." He cringes, and scratches at his cheek, wand still in
his hand. "She’ll expect me to start using it for everything.”

I huff out a laugh, knowing the truth in his words. She's become a right pain the closer we get to
leaving for school, pressuring people to study and get ahead for their OWLS and NEWTS.

I'm honestly shocked the twins haven't tried to lock her in a closet yet. Not sure how quickly I'd let
her out if they did.

He reaches his hand down, shield still covering his vital organs—because Nate literally beat it into
us to never let your guard slip—and I allow him yank me to my feet. He slides his wand into its
holster, and the shield vanishes as quickly as it arrived as we right the sideways furniture and take
a seat at the table.

Only as soon as I sit down, the need to move is so overwhelming I shove up from the chair to
return to the pacing of my bedroom.

“That wasn’t an extreme reaction,” I argue, at last, looking at him with stormy eyes. “An extreme
reaction would have been cutting off McGonagall’s head and slicing open the soft spot of Snape’s
belly to watch him bleed out over my kitchen table. Then, maybe flooing to Dumbledore’s office
and removing his limbs joint by joint. I simply—” Ron looks at me with an amused expression
bare on his face. Panic is clawing at the back of my throat, and it’s making it hard to breathe. Fuck,
fuck, FUCK!

“I can’t lose her, Ron,” I tell him emphatically. “Not again. The way I see it, my reaction was
perfectly reasonable.”

I can feel Ron’s eyes on me, ever watching, as I stomp the length of the room before turning back
and starting the other direction.

“What?” I sigh, unable to take his constant staring.

He leans back in his chair, raising his hands in a sign of meekness.

“You tell me,” he recommends, and my neck cracks with the amount of tension snaking up and
down my spine. “There’s more going on here than that.”

Yeah. Like it’s that easy. I hate that he can read me this well. I hate that he's been paying that close
attention. He needs a girlfriend so he stops studying me all damn day.

“I don’t think I can explain it,” I tell him honestly.

His shoulders roll forward as his elbows go to rest on his knees.

“Try,” he encourages, and suddenly I want to scream again.

I don’t know how to put into words the way I feel when I linger too long on thoughts of Hermione.
I don’t even know if there are words to describe it adequately.

“Elle me consume corps et âme,” I sigh, then Ron and I both startle when I speak in French instead
of English.

“That’s new,” Ron laughs.

“Hermione speaks French,” I say unnecessarily. We both know where that came from. “I don’t
even know what I said,” I lie.

She consumes me body and soul.

Ron links his fingers and taps his thumbs together, waiting for me to go on.

“You don’t want to hear this,” I assure him.

I don’t want to be feeling it. I don’t understand it. Ron damn sure doesn’t want to know about it.
He has zero frame of reference to relate to how I feel every minute of every day.

Still, he just scratches his chest, like it’s no big deal.

Even in the last timeline, we were never this open with our feelings. But maybe that's because he
fancied my future wife and I was a heartbeat away from shagging his sister.

When it mattered, when our lives were on the line…when he could tell I was on the verge of losing
my mind, he always hugged me as tight as his arms would allow then attempted to shake some
sense into me.

“If you say something that disturbs me, I’ll let you know," he says. "Promise.”

He sounds so fucking heartfelt it hurts. It's not like him at all. Not at fifteen anyway.

“I thought you had the emotional range of a teaspoon,” I grumble under my breath.

Ron gives me a confused smile.

“Must have been the other me,” he says with a shrug. “Or maybe, my best friends dying, coming
back, getting married, and living under the constant threat of death has made me wise beyond my
years.”

I snort in surprised amusement at that rather philosophical response.

My chest aches with the burden of everything I stand to lose, and quite without realizing it, I’ve
raised my hand to the middle of my sternum, attempting to rub the pain away. Unfortunately, this is
a hurt that won’t disappear so easily.

Fine.

I slide into the chair I’d previously vacated.

“Malfoy gave Mi a gift of sorts, of the journals written by the Bonded Mates among the Malfoy
line. It’s when we realized our elves could get into the Manor. Draco’s elf Missy snuck Dobby into
their library."

I peek my eyes up at Ron, who gives me a silent nod of encouragement.

“I didn’t read all of them. Mi did, but I didn’t. We don’t both need to read the same thing anymore,
you know. She can read something, and I can read something, and we can each use the information
the other learned. Which, Hermione thinks is the best part of being Bonded Mates, by the way.”

Ron chuckles, but it’s a nasty sort of sound.

“What?” I ask, caught off guard by the change in his demeanour.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. Then he kind of growls at me. “Only it’s bullshite that on top
of everything else, now you don’t even have to study. It’s bad enough you’re going to pass your
OWLS no problem, if only because Hermione remembers what’s on the tests, but now you
basically...well, you get to cheat for the rest of your life.”

I stare at him dumbfounded before I start to laugh.

Merlin, he’s so fucking stupid.

Honestly, it's almost a relief.

“You think that’s the way this is going to work? Hermione is going to do all the studying, and I'll
do what? Be off in a corner playing exploding snap. Spend all the time I used to devote to
homework, now wanking or flying? You’re bloody delusional, Ron. Hermione has an eidetic
memory, and she’s planning on using me as a second set of eyes to get in twice the amount of
study time as she usually did. This is going to make school so much worse! She’ll expect me at the
library with her every day, for hours on end. History of Magic essays twice as long as the
requirements. If I don’t get O’s on every single subject from now on, always, Hermione is going to
throw a colossal fit! Blimey Ron, she'll probably give me a Time Turner and make me take twice
the classes."

The thought makes me want to cry.

“And," I exclaim "despite the fact I technically know everything she does, half of it still doesn’t
make sense. Like Advanced Arithmancy. Or maybe that’s just because I don’t care about it the
way she does. Equations are not my thing. I don’t really enjoy gathering knowledge the way
Hermione does. Not that that matters for this particular conversation…”

I shake my head, getting back on track. Merlin, now I’m even rambling like Hermione. Ron’s eyes
go wide as he realizes the truth of my words.

He throws his hands up in concession.

“Yeah, okay. I see your point. Double-edged sword, and all that. Forget I even said anything. You
were talking about the journals?”

My headache is starting to spread behind my eyes. I massage my palm across my forehead.

Right. The journals...

“I did read the one written by the bloke. He wasn't as loquacious as his Mate. He had two journals,
compared to her," I stop to think and run my hand down my face. "I don’t remember how many she
had. Twenty, at least. He talked about how intense the first few weeks were after the Binding
sealed, but then how it sort of—tapered off?"

I close my eyes and try to find the right words to explain what it feels like.
"I don’t know exactly how to describe it. Settled, I guess, is maybe a good word. After the first few
weeks, the Bonds didn’t consume him as they did at the start. He was able to return to his job; they
were able to return to their regular life without their connection adversely affecting them."

I tighten my fists and lean forward in my chair, all but begging him to help me make sense of this.

“I should be used to it by now, Ron. It’s been months. The Bonds are settled. Entrenched. But
every day, every second, it feels as if the Bond is getting tighter. We are becoming more entwined.
It…” I toss my glasses onto the table again and dig the heel of my palms into my eyes. “It terrifies
me," I admit. "I lay in bed at night and watch her chest as she breathes and feel her heartbeat
thrumming along in the back of my head and wonder, will it ever get any easier? Will this need to
touch her, t-to claim her,'" I blush. "Ever loosen its hold on me? It’s like a compulsion. Now I’m
supposed to handle that surrounded by a thousand students and teachers I can’t trust?”

I reach out across our Bond and sense how heavy she feels. Tired, despondent, but oddly decisive
as well. I consider slipping into her thoughts, seeing through her eyes, but discard it as swiftly as
the idea comes. She’s cleaning up the mess I made like she’s done so many times before. I have no
right to intrude on how she does that.

Even this though, being away from her just this much when I know she’s burdened and unhappy…
my hands spasm with the desire to wrap my arms around her and lift her load from her shoulders.
To throw myself at her feet in apology for my fuckup and offer to protect her from the world.

"Quick question," he lifts his finger. I nod for him to go on. "Did this other bloke have a madman
trying to kill him at every turn?"

A snort, painful and uninhibited is forced through my nose.

"Not that I'm aware," I confirm with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Ron’s face sobers when he looks into my eyes. “What does Mione think about it?” he asks,
breaking into my maudlin thoughts.

What indeed?

I run both hands through my hair, trying to formulate a response.

“You know Hermione. She’s all logic, and I mean that in the best—and worst—way possible.
She’s always been the more pragmatic of the three of us, and me the more emotional, and you
somehow the voice of reason. When you aren't being a complete wanker."

Ron just rolls his eyes.

"I've said I'm sorry, yeah? Again, you can't be mad at me for shite I haven't done."

He's right. I forgave him years ago. It's just fun to needle him now.

"The effects of the Bond have only made those differences starker," I pick up where I left off. "To
her, the Bond is a—a tool to be learned, mastered, and manipulated to our best advantage. She’s
not wrong. Gods, I can’t even imagine what would have been different if we’d had this connection
last lifetime. But—” My hands are spasming over my knees with the need to feel her under my
fingers. “I feel like the more control I gain, the less in control I am. I can kiss the constellation of
freckles across her back and still feel like I’m not close enough to her. It’s like the difference
between free falling and flying. With one, you're in complete control of your actions and with the
other, all you can do is pray. Yet, in both situations, you’re zooming through the air."
Flying, he understands, and he nods like that makes perfect sense to him.

“She’s in my head, and in my blood, and still I need more. Loving Hermione is like a study of
contradictions. It’s too much while at the same time, not nearly enough.”

My voice falters off, as my throat goes dry. I swallow roughly, trying to gather enough wetness in
my mouth to continue. I still didn’t really answer his question.

“She thinks I’m somehow fighting it. That I need to surrender to the Bond. That even when we…
you know,” I stutter with a blush. I resolutely refuse to look in Ron’s direction. “I don’t want to
reach the end. In that case, I guess she’s right, because why would I ever want that to end? They're
lucky I ever leave the bedroom."

"...the kitchen table..." he mumbles under his breath.

I ignore him, fighting down another blush.

"Reaching the end just means I have to separate from her again, and that’s the one thing I’ve come
to despise most in this world. What she doesn’t realize though is that succumbing to her was the
easiest thing I’ve ever done. I don’t need to surrender. I already did.”

Elle me possède, corps et âme.

She owns me, body and soul.

I can tell he's trying to understand. But he's never burned from the inside out.

"Despite what I said downstairs, kissing Hermione was the best thing I ever did. I can't believe it
took me so long. I feel like a prat that I never kissed her before."

I finally raise my gaze, to see Ron staring at me with wide eyes. He gapes at me like a fish before
he finally gains his voice.

“You are a besotted fool, aren’t you?” Ron sympathizes.

Yes. Yes, I am.

He's not done yet.

“Yet, incredulously, you thought you’d be okay being separated from Hermione at Hogwarts?"

His expression of profound disbelief says it all.

"Already you’ve set an impossible bar for every bloke in the castle. How are we supposed to
measure up as boyfriends when Harry Potter, Bonded Mate, looks at his wife the way that you
stare at Mione." He cringes, hard. "I’m a little embarrassed for you Mate, to be honest. Still,
though, I understand wanting to pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. We've spent so many years
bouncing from one impossible situation to the next. It's been pretty fun being holed up here and
encouraged to do shite like play with swords and learn ridiculous, wicked spells—with the added
bonus of fucking with Malfoy all day long."

His face falls.

"If you ignore the barmy amount of reading that makes my eyes wanna bleed."

He's not wrong.

"But not realizing the truth would come out when we went back to school was just daft.”

The anxiety is crawling back into my shoulders and my knee bounces in agitation. I shrug my
shoulders in defeat, the action painful and jerky.

“I hadn’t given what returning to Hogwarts would mean for us one bloody thought all summer.
Obviously. Maybe I purposefully avoided thinking about it so that I didn’t have to risk her outside
the sanctuary we’ve built here. The idea of losing her again? That she could die, and I might
possibly live through the process? Be forced to carry on without her?"

My voice is ratcheting up, getting tight and breathy.

“The thought of something happening to her simultaneously paralyzes me and makes me want to
hunt Riddle down tonight and kill him with my bare hands, magic and prophecies be damned. I
know she’s not helpless. I know it," I insist with a pleading tone. "Of all the people we know,
Sirius included, she is the most capable of kicking someone’s arse. People that don't know her
constantly underestimate her. Most students at school are petrified of her, for good reason."

I smile despite myself.

"Remind me to tell you what she did to Umbridge last time."

Then the beseeching is back.

"When she was being tortured for information on us and on the sword? On whether or not we'd
gotten into that vault? Fuck, Ron. It was unbelievable. Bellatrix mutilated her with a cursed knife
and tortured her with the Cruciatus, and yet Hermione never stopped screaming the lie. Over and
over again, loud enough that we could hear her in the dungeons. You and I were tied together when
we were forced into the cella. Luna and Dean were both there. Luna, because they were using her
to force her father into compliance. We never did find out what happened to Dean. You were out of
your mind, shouting for her, screaming her name, literally clawing at the walls. I think…I
remember seeing blood on your hands. Then when we got free…Wormtail killed himself. Dobby,
of all people, showed up to help us. Hermione…bleeding. Gasping for air. Unconscious and limp
in Bellatrix’s arms, the knife at Mi's throat—"

“ENOUGH!" Ron yells, pulling me from the vision that plays on repeat through my mind. "You
can stop, please,” he begs, voice broken and rough. Ron is panting in his chair, fists clenching on
his knee so hard his knuckles are white.

For that matter, I'm panting too, so I take a deep breath and pull my thoughts from that place.

He closes his eyes and takes a calming breath before he looks me in the face again. “I get it, okay.
I get it. The thought of her falling into enemy hands is an irrational fear that’s not all that
irrational.”

He shakes his head like a dog shedding water. He drags both hands down his face, eyes shut tight
and mouth trembling.

“Merlin, I’m so glad they didn’t send me back too,” he mumbles almost too low for me to catch it.
“I’m going to have to Scourgify my brain of those images before I try to sleep tonight.”

I look at him from over my clasped hands and jerkily shake my head. Now he knows what I deal
with every time I close my eyes.

“Thanks. That’s brilliant. Loads of help.”

Taking a deep breath, Ron leans back in his chair with his elbow on the table and taps his thumb
against the wood. He summons a plate of biscuits and takes an impressively big bite. Crumbs
sprinkle over his front, and he chews like a mad man for a moment until his mouth is clear enough
to talk.

“The way I see it, we have a couple of options. First, and really the most obvious solution is you
could kill yourself.”

A noise sounding something like a blast ended skrewt claws from my chest and I jerk like I’ve
been slapped.

“Excuse me? How does dying solve this problem?”

Ron lifts his hands like it makes all the sense in the world to him.

“Well, your death is what triggered this timeline. Isn’t that what you and Hermione call it? A new
timeline?”

I nod my head in agreement.

“Then your death will trigger another one. Die, ask for another re-do, and don’t seal the Bond.
Better yet, to be safe, cut her off completely. The minute you come to, kick Hermione to the curb.
Tell her she’s an insufferable, know-it-all swot, and you don’t understand how we were ever
friends with her to begin with. Honestly, the best thing to do would be to ask your Death, thingy,
person," he cringes "to send you all the way back to First Year, and never become friends with her
at all. I'm not suggesting we let the Troll eat her," he concedes. "But it's a possibility. Hell, we
might even be able to find a way to take out all the Horcruxes before he regains his body and stop
the entire thing from happening.”

I stare at him flabbergasted. That’s—that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

“Besides the fact that it would destroy her not to have us as friends, since we were basically her
only ones for a while, we wouldn’t survive a week without Hermione. You know that as well as I
do. Think of all the trouble she’s pulled our arses out of over the years. How would you expect a
twelve-year-old version of you and me to hunt down and destroy Horcruxes without Hermione?
That’s just barmey, Ron. Completely nutters. Not to mention, I have no desire to go through
puberty for a second time. Being fifteen again sucks enough.”

Ron grins at me full out for the first time since I lost my shite in the kitchen.

“Yeah, I do know that, Mate. Just wanted to make sure you did too.”

I scoff at the reverse psychology of it all. Okay. We need Hermione. I know it, she knows it, we all
know it.

Next.

“So, option number one, I kill myself. Not a scenario I'm all that chuffed about to be honest.
Suggestions for option number two?”

Ron takes another bite of biscuit, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant kind of way.

“Surrender to it.”

Really? This again?

Ron wipes the crumbs off his face and meets my eye.

“I don't mean submit to the Bond. I honestly have no idea what that even means. I think you
concede the fact that you're probably always going to feel this way in some shape or form. Make
peace with the knowledge that you love your wife, and yeah, we're not exactly living normal, safe
lives, so that's probably going to make you do barmy things from time to time—Like rattle the
walls with overwhelming power and confess to a room full of people that you've been reincarnated.
Add in a healthy dose of magic and biology, and I think you’re stuck this way.”

I have to swallow twice before I can reply.

“That's a lot of really big words, Ron. Are you sure you aren't being possessed? Do I need to check
the back of your head for a Dark Lord of some sort sharing your body?”

Ron twists on his seat, showing me his back and flipping me the v simultaneously.

There's a recognizable loosening to my muscles that tells me Hermione must be drinking. I don't
know why I didn't think of that. Tension that’s been making my muscles quiver suddenly slips
from my shoulders like rain off a rooftop. The witch is a bloody genius.

I guess it’s like that prayer thing Mrs Figg used to say. Change the things I can, accept the things I
can’t, and recognize the difference. The silence between Ron and me lightens, until we’re both
sitting and smiling, rather than scowling and near tears.

“How’d you know it was me anyway?” he asks, grabbing another biscuit. I lean back in my chair
and run my fingers through my hair. “When I first came in,” he adds in case I didn’t know what he
meant.

Well one, there's only four people warded for this bedroom without needing me or Hermione to let
them in. Five, dammit, cause I think Mi added Malfoy to the wards, shudder.

Two, there's no way in hell Nev or Draco would have followed me up here. Both know better, if
for different reasons. My Godfathers too, for that matter. Which leaves Ron, because he's both
resisted the urge to punch me in the face and held my hand while I cried often enough to not allow
my temper to frighten him anymore.

“Hermione’s still in the kitchen,” I say distractedly. “Drinking, from the feel of it." I click my
tongue on the roof of my mouth. "Nope. Now, she’s on the move.”

She’s going to kill me. Actually, Avada me. I won’t have to kill myself to reset the timeline
because Hermione will do it herself. Though, she doesn’t feel angry at all. More resigned than
anything else. Determined.

Ron shakes his head, a bemused half-smile on his face.

“I’ve seen you use that trick all summer, but that knowing where she is at all times thing is still
seriously freaky, you know.”

“I like it,” I admit, feeling Hermione travel through the house. She ends up in Sirius’s study.
Curious.

“I know you do. I’ll never understand that. The thought of living inside Hermione’s mind is
petrifying to me.”

I have to laugh, even if the sound is dark and harsh.

"It's funny, cause last time you were the one trying to get into her knickers."

He doesn't even flinch.

"Yeah, but I bet I wasn't trying to get into her brain then, was I?"

He honestly looks horrified. With good reason. They fought more then than they do now.

“True. But remember. She has to live inside mine too.” I tap myself on the temple.

Ron visibly shudders. I’ve finally run out of words and so wait for Ron to break the peace and
acknowledge the hippogriff in the corner.

“Say it,” I demand when the silence gets too thick between us.

“You just confirmed for everyone in the house that you’re from the future,” he says bluntly with
his hands in his pockets.

“I figured that out for myself, funny enough. Any other helpful advice?”

“Advice? No. But—”

Ron takes a breath, gathering his courage.

“I don’t think it really matters.”

I stare at him agog, not following his line of thought at all. Rubbing the back of my neck to work
out the knots, I lean back in my chair.

“You’ll have to explain that one to me. Because I don’t understand.”

“I don’t think it matters,” he repeats. “The only people in the kitchen who hadn’t sworn fealty to
you were Snape and McGonagall, and I’m positive they each have sworn an oath to Dumbledore of
some sort. Snape, you’re planning to kill, and I bet McGonagall would swear to you if you asked
her.”

Not happening. Am I going to kill Snape? Undetermined, but still a distinct possibility.

“Every person in this house either already knew, or suspected.” Ron scratches at his chin. “I mean,
give us some credit. Either you’ve become a seer, or you’ve got information from someplace that
even Dumbledore and Snape didn’t know about. ‘Don’t ask me how I know, but there’s going to be
a breakout from Azkaban?’ Come on, Harry."

His smirk is as familiar as my own face.

“What’s more plausible, that you could take over for Professor Trelawney, or that you’ve died and
come back to the past. Because, between you and me, I would lean towards dying and coming
back.”

“You think, in your infinite wisdom, that the entire residence already suspected that Hermione and
I are from the future?”

“I think,” Ron emphasizes, “that once the shock of your rather impressive outburst wears off, these
past few months are going to make a lot more sense to people. Like Mum, who still gets cringy
when she sees you and Hermione come down for breakfast together knowing you two slept in the
same bed. But in your mind, you’re already of age, and Hermione is your wife. You’ve been
through something together that very few people, if any, could ever understand. Hell, I barely
understand it, and I was there. Technically. Maybe now they will.”

He shrugs, and a blush lightly covers his cheeks.

“Simple as that huh?” I chuckle.

“Simple as that,” he confirms.

“How’d you get so smart?” I wonder aloud, thankful that despite our differences, we always make
up in the end.

This is why I told him about what happened to Hermione and me. Ron keeps me sane.

“Spent a lot more time in the library,” he shudders, and I laugh along with him. Or maybe I’m
laughing at him. "Every time I get through one book Mione adds two more to my pile. I'm
dreaming about battle tactics at this point. It's mental, Mate. She’s lucky that it's actually kinda
fun."

I feel better, as impossible as that sounds. Calmer, at least, about admitting the truth to the world.

“Speaking of Hogwarts,” I say offhandedly, trying to pull the conversation away from the
uncomfortable topic of my wife and me. “Did I ever tell you; you were Keeper from Fifth Year on?
Plus, you spent most of Sixth Year shagging Lavender in every empty classroom you could find."

Ron’s eyes light up, and he jerks forward in his chair.

“Seriously?” he demands. "Keeper?"

Skips right on over Lavender I see.

“Yup,” I confirm with a grin. “So long as everything holds true, Angelina will be captain, and you
steal the Keeper position right out from under McLaggen’s nose.”

“Stupid git,” Ron growls, and I quietly agree. “Will you still be on the team this year?”

It’s my turn to shrug.

“It might be a nice break. Especially if practices run at the same time Mi is taking lessons with
Snape. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to lounging in the dungeons once a week to watch her
brew. She wasn’t either. We had a massive row about it. Now that Malfoy will be with her, maybe
I can give up my supervision duties. If Malfoy had to choose between Hermione and Snape, I’m
sure he’d choose Hermione.”

Ron makes a disgusted face.

“You seriously think it’s a good idea to trust Malfoy? I mean, I know he oathed and all, but I still
don’t trust him.”

I don't think Ron actually means that anymore. It's just habit to disparage the mouthy git. Hermione
is on the move again, slowly making her way to our portion of the townhouse.

“He bent the knee to her as well,” I tell him, and Ron makes a whatever motion with his hand. I
shake my head and smirk at him. “No. I mean, Draco Malfoy, pureblood bigot and wizarding
scion, swore his fealty without caveat. Not ‘I’m on your side until the Dark Lord's death,’” I say
sarcastically. “He told her that I had a second," I point to Ron. "She needed one too. He swore to be
her man until she released him from his oath or until death took him. Whichever happens first.”

I chuckle darkly at Ron’s nonplussed expression. If his jaw drops any wider, he’s going to drool.

“Frankly, Ron, I trust her with him as much as you. They’ve got this weird, symbiotic master/slave
bond, whatever, thing going on that’s more than a little bit freaky. He yields to her—" I wiggle my
hand. "I don’t know...superiority? Dominance? Something that ranks her above him in the grand
scheme of things. But it’s still Malfoy, so he only submits enough to ensure he’s not crossing that
invisible line that his oath drew in the sand."

I shake in silent amusement at the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

“She thinks she can make him a more palatable human being. He thinks he can make her some
type of devious wizarding queen the purebloods will have no choice but to take seriously—with
him as her right hand of course.”

“Of course,” Ron sneers.

“In the meantime, we’re forced to watch as they try to one-up the other while guarding each other's
backs.” Ron looks dizzy trying to work through the puzzle of Malfoy’s and Hermione’s
blossoming friendship. “If nothing else, it’ll make for an interesting school year.”

The door pushes open, and Hermione saddles through, looking much looser than I anticipated.
Then I put my glasses back on, zero in on the Firewhiskey bottle in her hand, and realize the reason
I feel so much better may have more to do with Hermione’s drinking than Ron’s sudden emotional
maturity.

Ron immediately climbs to his feet, stretching his arms over his head.

"Lavender, huh?" he whispers, bending low to speak into my ear.

"For months," I confirm, trying to hide my grin.

"Nutters," he laughs, then rises to his full height.

“This is where I leave you,” he says, and squeezes my shoulder in support. I place my hand over
his, and give him a squeeze in return.

“Thanks, Ron,” I say quietly, hoping he knows that he helped, even a little.

“No problem,” he assures me, before turning towards my wife.

Hermione links her arms around him, and their height difference is so severe that he can rest his
chin on her head.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” she whispers, and Ron kisses her on her forehead, before
letting himself out of our room, and quietly shutting the door behind him.
 Chapter 46
Chapter Notes

Hey all!

Content warning. We have some smut, and Harry finally working through some of his
PTSD issues. Then the next chapter is back to Hogwarts!
Harry
Her silence is making me nervous.

She finishes walking to the table, and places the almost empty bottle of Firewhiskey down with a
thump. I know she didn’t drink all that because I’d feel it if she did. She reaches into each of her
pockets, and pulls out two identical vials of potions. They’re labelled, but facing away from me, so
I can’t see what they are. Hermione twists the lid off the Firewhiskey, and when I decline the
bottle, she takes a swig instead.

The sensation of my muscles unclenching until I'm loose and soft, gives me a loopy sort of smile.

Next, she hands me one of the vials, and I pop it without question.

Immediately my headache eases into nothing.

“I’m so sorry,” I start, gearing up to throw myself on my sword. Literally, if need be. I scoot to the
edge of my seat and reach my hands out towards my wife. “I don’t know what happened
downstairs. I didn’t mean to lose it like that. Please forgive me.”

Hermione doesn’t even glance at me as she moves around the bedroom.

“Ummm, Mi?” I prompt, only to be ignored completely.

She walks over to the hamper and removes her leggings then drops them into the empty basket.
Her shirt is one of mine, and therefore still covers her bum. Unfortunately. I know for a fact she’s
wearing lace baby blue knickers today, matching the bra she put on this morning. She meanders to
the sound system her parents gave us and browses through the shelves of records until she finds the
one she wants.

I don’t see the title, but the word Sinatra is written in white lettering. With the ease of someone
long familiar with handling vinyl, she slips it onto the turntable. Music immediately begins drifting
from the speakers, and Mi takes both of my hands in hers and hauls me from the chair.

“What are you doing?” I ask through halting laughter as she drags me to the open space between
the couch and the fireplace.

It sounds like a song from the old movies that Aunt Petunia used to watch; black and white with
couples dancing across the screen.

Hermione drapes one of her arms across my shoulders and keeps her fingers linked with my other
hand, holding them between our barely touching chests. She’s light on her feet, a lifetime of dance
lessons shining through. She sways her hips from side to side, alternating her weight from foot to
foot, and unconsciously I sway with her. Her childhood lessons making me light on my feet too.

“Remember when we danced in the tent? We were miserable, but for those few minutes, it was just
you and me, and we were happy and together. I don’t want to talk about what happened in the
kitchen. Not yet anyway. Dance with me, Harry, and we’ll worry about everything else tomorrow.”

She twirls herself out, so our arms are stretched as far as they’ll go, and when I tug at her, she twirls
into me until her back is against my chest.

Cause it's Witchcraft Frank Sinatra croons from the speakers. Wicked Witchcraft .
I burst into laughter as Hermione twists in my grip, turning to face me once again.

“Really, Mi?” I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in ages. “Witchcraft?”

She’s grinning ear to ear, and I dip her backwards before hauling her tight into my arms. The music
swells, and we move in what little open space is available between us, my thigh between her legs,
as we dance to the music.

“Why are you so good at this now?” she asks, delight on her face.

“Because you’re good at it, luv. How old were you when you started lessons?”

“Six,” she confirms. “My parents thought it would help me socialize. It didn’t, but I always liked it
anyway."

It's such an ancient pitch

But one I wouldn't switch

'Cause there's no nicer witch than you

The music comes to an end, and we slow our movements until we’re rotating in place, her hips
swaying in time with the snapping of the record. I slip my hand down her thighs, then up the hem
of her shirt, spreading my fingers wide against the small of her back.

“I love you,” I tell her, dropping my forehead to hers.

“Take me to bed, Harry. Take me to bed tonight, and let’s not worry about tomorrow.”

I make it as far as the couch before I have her underneath me.

There are about a hundred different ways Hermione says my name.

There’s plain old Harry. When her lips are turned up in a smile, and my name gets brought up in
conversation. There’s the way she says it when she breaks it down into multiple syllables, her
exasperation with me evident. There’s when she uses my full name, and everyone in the vicinity
takes a small step back, because they know I’ve done something wrong, and my wife is one of the
only people unafraid of telling me what it was.

Loudly.

Then there’s when she sounds like this, and my name is like a breath in the air. A sigh and a caress.
When it falls from her tongue with a broken gasp, and her limbs shudder from the sensations
ripping through her.

That’s how I like it the best. When she can’t form words, yet my name still slips from her lips.

“Harry,” she sighs, her hips rocking on my lap.

Her skin is flushed a lovely pink, sweat coating her flesh. Her hair is a mess of curls and tangles,
gathered in a knot at the top of her neck. Little strands fall loose and wild, sticking to her face and
throat and breasts.

How could I not have surrendered my soul into her safekeeping, when she says my name like that?

She holds a hand to the back of my head, her nails scraping deliciously over my scalp and skin. The
other hand is behind her, on my thigh, supporting her as she rides my cock. She presses me to her
when I take her breast into my mouth. Her nipples are fat and hard. The flesh of her breast is red
and heated from the scrape of my stubble and teeth and tongue.

“You’re such a good girl,” I say against her flushed skin, and Hermione whimpers and bucks, her
hips snapping with extra force at the adulation.

I’m perched on the edge of the couch, my feet planted on the ground, giving Hermione a steady
frame from which to ride me. The fire is roaring in the hearth, even though we cast cooling charms
to keep us from melting this close to the flames.

Even though I love making Hermione sweat.

Our bodies slide against one another from the heavy coating of our perspiration, and Hermione
seems to glow in the firelight.

The lewdness of her moans is intoxicating when I run the flat of my tongue around her nipple.
When I imprint my teeth into the softness of her curves and suck the swell of her breast between
my lips.

I almost laugh at the thought that I haven’t surrendered myself to this witch.

I could worship at her tits for hours. I plan on it, as a matter of fact. Every time I suck her nipple
between my teeth and flick it with my tongue she cries out in pleasure, her back arching to bring her
closer to me.

Her breasts are framed beautifully in my hand when I spread my fingers across her ribcage.

She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Hermione is so fucking lovely with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. All of her
reservations are gone. All of her worries, and fears. The weight of the world that lays heavy on our
shoulders is left outside our bedroom.

The only concern we have in this space is how many times I can bring my wife to completion
before I follow her myself.

After tonight, who knows when we’ll feel this at peace again.

“Gods, Harry.”

The way she says my name. It inflames me.

It’s like a sigh. Or a prayer. Or maybe a thank you for a prayer answered.

I can forget about everything else when Hermione says my name like that.

I can’t decide where to touch her, and so touch her as much as I can in as many places as possible.
As her hips lift, and my cock slips from her warmth, I fill my palms with her breasts. Spread my
hands around her rib cage and feel her lungs expand with life.
When she lowers herself to take my length as deep inside her as possible, I grab her hips and force
her down. Bruise my fingerprints into arse cheeks. I hate being separated from her. It causes me
physical pain. But every time she’s away from me, I want her to feel where I was inside her the
night before.

She’s covered in my markings if anyone dares to look. Of course, if they’d try, I’d kill them, so it
would be the last thing they’d ever see.

My marks are on her hip, and her breast, and her thigh. The crevice between her legs has a perfect
impression of my teeth, because my girl is no wilting flower, and she likes it rough as often as she
wants me worshiping at her feet.

The sounds of our lovemaking fill every corner of the room. Her sighs and her hisses. The
smacking and sucking of my lips against her chest, and collarbones and shoulders. The slapping of
skin against skin when she tightens her legs around my hips and speeds up her motions.

“Slow,” I hiss, grabbing her hips and decreasing her rhythm. “Slow down, luv. We’ve got time.”

Her walls flutter and contract around my prick, and she whines my name in a glorious broken sound
that makes my stomach muscles clench with need. She’s so close. Her body is trembling in need.
She’s so close to the edge I could push her over with little more than a hard puff of air.

But I’m not ready for this to be over yet.

Another thing she’s right about. I’m never ready for it to be over. I’d stay like this forever if we
could.

“You have the most beautiful quim,” I mumble against her breast, as I slip my fingers against her
clit.

She jerks like I electrified her and her walls clench against my length. I lean back some and stare
down the lines of our bodies, until I can see her wetness clinging to her curls and the way my dick
disappears between her fat and swollen lips.

“Harry,” she whines, and Merlin, how my name on her lips ignites me. “What are you doing to
me?”

Hermione grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls, dragging a hiss from my lips. My back bows and my
neck arches and my chin tilts up until I’m looking into her eyes.

I’m inches taller than her, a gap that grows every day, but when she’s riding my cock like this, she
towers a full head over me.

“Making love to my wife, as she requested.”

“Gods, Harry,” she repeats on a breath of air, before bringing her lips to mine.

That beautiful fucking mouth that says the filthiest things that nobody gets to hear but me. If the
others knew the way she swore when I was buried balls deep inside her, they’d fall over from
shock.

Her kisses have deteriorated to that place I love them best. Wet and messy and lewd. She thrusts
her tongue into my mouth and kisses me with the determination of a Niffler searching for treasure.

I pin her to me with an arm around her back and the other on her hips. I maybe throw a little bit of
magic in as well, so she can’t raise her hips any higher than they currently are. Instead, she rotates
them in a circle, looking for the friction to send her over the edge.

“Slow,” I breathe against her lips, and Hermione whines in a broken, desperate way.

I pull her bottom lip down with my thumb and she sucks it into her mouth. Her tongue twirls
around the digit, and she scrapes her teeth against me, and against my wishes, my hips snap up to
meet hers, and Hermione keens at the impact.

“That’s cheating,” I chastise her, as her hips speed up again.

I grip her hips in both of my hands, spreading her spit over one, and slow her motions to a heavy
drag of my dick inside her body. She squeezes me as tight as she can, her body going rigid then
limp, as I force her to take me at my pace.

“Then stop tormenting me,” Mi pleads.

Her eyes are closed, and her hands are holding the back of my head as her hips twirl in little circles.
Keeping a firm grip on the meat of her side, her quim moving up and down my length, tight and
warm and deliciously lazy, I move my other hand back between us, searching out her pleasure.

Her fat little bud is so swollen and hot. I don’t flick it fast and hard like she wants me to. I shove
my thumb back into her mouth and let her suck on me for a moment, and once she releases it, press
it against her clit. Slow and soft, I run my thumb over the bundle of nerves. I capture her lips in a
kiss and coax my name from her lips as her body starts to tremble.

Surrender to the Bond. What a joke. I gave myself to it willingly, and this is my reward.

Hermione moans, deep and guttural, as her orgasm washes through her. It feels like a pane of glass
that shatters, but doesn’t scatter to the floor. Like a bulletproof window from Muggle movies, she
cracks and splits, lightning bolts of frisson shooting out in every direction, but her pieces never
fully break. They never spread across the floor in an ocean of spilt fragments. I can follow every
arc of her orgasm when she quietly comes apart atop me.

With her legs around my hips and her arms wrapped loosely over my shoulders, I summon our
bedding to the floor, then, together, we rise from the couch, and lay her flat in front of the fire. I
cherish the moments I see her like this, her body bursting with life. I rest my hand between her
breasts, sitting back on my knees, and her heart is fluttering like a snitch in flight.

She’s soft and pliable, limbs made pliant from our release. I cup her sex in my hand and grind the
heel of my palm into her clit and watch her twitch with aftershocks. Her head thrashes from side to
side, and she clenches at the bedding until her knuckles go white. Her thighs are covered with our
sex, and I want to lick her clean of it.

My hands shake with the overwhelming urge to mark her, and claim her and lock her inside so no
one can take her away from me. There’s blood pouring from her...her throat, and her arms. In a
matter of hours, we’ll be on the train with no glamours and no protection and—

“Hey,” she says softly, pushing up onto her elbows.

I blink a slow blink, and Hermione, my wife, comes back into focus, pushing out the nightmarish
version of her dead on the floor. Just the sound of her voice pulls me out of my spiral. She reaches
out a hand for me, and I lean forward until she cups my face in her palm.

“It’s not a now or never situation, Harry. You have to have faith that no matter what happens in the
future, we’ll find ourselves right back here again. Bound forever, remember? Together through
time and space. I was born to be your other half. What happened tonight doesn’t matter. What
happens tomorrow doesn’t either. I am yours, and you are mine, and nothing can take that from
you, Harry. Not Voldemort. Not the Death Eaters. Not even death.”

I think the Bond is affecting my vision, because even with my glasses on the bedside table and with
the layer of moisture coating my eyes, I’ve never seen her clearer.

“You don’t need to surrender to the Bond, Harry. You need to surrender to the fear eating you from
the inside out. Admit to it, release it, and let us live our lives. Because if we hide in fear, locked
away in our ivory tower, then Voldemort, and Dumbledore, and every person who has ever tried to
control you wins. Simple as that. Surrender your fear, and trust that we, together , will be enough to
overcome everything else.”

She swipes her thumb across my cheek and wipes away the single tear.

“That easy?” I ask her, my voice shaking and rough.

My heart is pounding out of my chest, and it has nothing to do with my bare wife spread out
beneath me. Trust that even if we die, we'll find each other again. Can it really be that simple?

I’m still rock hard. Maybe harder than I’ve ever been in my life.

Hermione releases my face and settles onto the blankets, and I line myself up with her entrance.
She sighs and I groan, as I sink myself inside her. I fall, collapse, surrender myself across her chest
and catch my weight with my hands on the floor. Her feet link against the small of my back,
closing what little space remains between us.

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” she whispers quietly. “But you’ve defeated the Darkest Wizard
ever born half a dozen times now. Certainly, it should be easier than that.”

My breath escapes me in a puff, that maybe in another life could have been construed as a laugh
before it morphs into a moan of silent submission.

She feels so good. So right. So perfect.

“Harry,” she sighs, like a breath of fresh air breathing life into my fractured psyche, and I turn my
head and catch her mouth, silencing even my name from her lips.

Hermione clutches at me, gasping and arching her back. Her skin is so hot, it's burning. The smell
of our sex is like a drug, spurning me on faster, harder. I pull out and thrust back in and Hermione
stretches around me.

“Surrender,” she says.

Already I’m on the precipice. I hold my weight on my forearm and slip a hand under her arse,
cupping the soft mound and angling her hips so I can sink that much deeper inside her. I bury my
face in her throat, kissing and sucking and breathing in her intoxicating scent. Her walls clench and
swell around me until the tingling at the base of my spine bursts into a million different directions
and I stiffen in her arms.

My release triggers hers, and she gasps against my ear, her nails digging into my back as she
clutches me to her breast. Her heels dig into my back, her arms up under my armpits, and I swear
she’s stolen my strength because she holds me so tight, I can barely breathe.
Our hearts now feel like two snitches, chasing the other through the air. I slide from her warmth
when I begin to soften, and turn onto my side, pulling her into my arms. She’s facing me and
shoves a leg between my knees before throwing the other around my hip. My prick gives a feeble
twitch, tormented at being this close yet not inside her. She magics the sheet to cover us, though
we’re dripping with sweat and everything else.

I can’t imagine anything more perfect.

We were meant to be. Even death can’t change that.

“Better?” she asks when our breathing almost returns to normal.

I think about it for a moment, wanting to answer her with the truth.

“Better,” I confirm, meaning it for the first time all summer. I do feel better. Lighter, somehow.
This time I don’t think I can blame it on the alcohol.

Maybe the fear of losing her will never go away. But I can’t let it run our lives.

She dozes for a little while, and when she comes back round, that familiar thread of determination
is thrumming in the back of my head. My eyes flick to the bedside table where I squint to see the
clock, and it’s after midnight. Tomorrow is here.

“I did a thing,” she says into the silence, then cringes at the sound of her own voice.

Her hands are tucked under her cheek, my arm under our pillow, and I’ve spent the last twenty
minutes tracing her form with my fingers.

I smirk at her aversion.

“Are you going to tell me, or do I have to seek it out?”

Her nose scrunches in the most adorable way, and she shies away as if waiting for a blow.

“Why don’t you already know? It would be so much easier if I didn’t have to tell you stuff like
this.”

Stuff she’s embarrassed to say out loud, she means.

“Because I’m not an eavesdropper like somebody I know. I value my wife's independence and
autonomy. Besides, I like listening to you talk.”

She rolls her eyes, then scoots a little closer to me, tangling her feet with mine.

“I didn’t eavesdrop. I was too busy dealing with the unexploded bomb you left in your wake in the
kitchen to split my attention and listen in on you and Ron. I simply gleaned a summary of your
conversation to ensure that you were in an okay headspace before I moved onto the next step of my
plan.”

Gods, that sounds just like her. I can’t help but smile.

“I am sorry about that.”

Hermione simply shrugs. She pushes my fringe out of my eyes, my glasses having been restored to
their rightful place across the bridge of my nose when she drifted off to nap.
“Don’t worry about it. I took care of the blowback. I told them all the truth.”

Mid-breath, it goes down the wrong pipe, and I end up choking on air like a bleeding moron.

“Excuse me?” I scrap out, sure I must have misunderstood her.

“Draco, naturally, asked me when we died. So, I told them.”

She-she told them? Like it’s no big deal? Like she didn’t hit me upside the head, repeatedly, when I
told Ron and Sirius, and then she tells everyone! Nausea swirls in my stomach, and I get
lightheaded at the thought. She told them everything…

“Ow!” I exclaim when she pokes me in the chest. I rub my palm against the new bruise forming.

“Oh no, Harry James. YOU told everyone. I simply put it in perspective. I thought maybe it would
help if I gave them a picture of what got your knickers in a twist. I think I was rather effective.”

Visions of Draco vomiting in the sink and Mrs Weasley sobbing in her husband's arms assail my
vision. Yeah, I’d say she was effective.

She’s getting defensive, then immediately gulps so loud they could have heard it in France. Her
face scrunches up again.

“That wasn’t the thing I was talking about though…the thing that I did.”

I rub the bridge of my nose under my glasses. I’m getting a headache.

“Let’s hear it then.”

Hermione tugs on her fingers, before curling them into fists. That’s not a good sign. She feels all
twisty, nervous but convinced she’s right.

“I broke the Fidelius and sent Rita Skeeter an owl,” she says, then averts her gaze and lifts her
shoulders to her ears to protect herself from my coming outburst.

I close my eyes and count to five, before I lose my cool.

It doesn't help. Instead, I push to a sitting position, the sheet pooling at my waist.

“You what?” I say, impressed with the calm I've managed to summon from...somewhere.

Hermione sits up too, ignoring the sheet and resting on her knees.

The fucking cheater.

She’s naked, and covered head to toe in little red marks put there by my mouth. My dick
immediately starts to swell. We instituted a strict no nakedness while fighting rule for just this
reason!

“Hear me out, Harry,” she says, pulling on her fingers. “It’s best if we just face it head-on. Get the
Wizarding public on our side. As much as you hate it, the Boy Who Lived mantle is going to follow
you around for the rest of our lives. The Chosen One also having a Bonded Mate? If nothing else,
it’s great for your brand. Especially since I’m a Muggle-born, and Bonded Mates are steeped in
magic. Like, there’s never been a recorded pair of muggle Bonded Mates, Harry. Now here we are,
Muggle-born and Half-blood. It’s significant, whether it means anything to you or not.”
She’s gaining steam for her subject now, her voice swelling and her magic shining.

“You’re already going to be the face of this war. There is literally nothing you can do to avoid that.
Last time, you were the face of both sides, someone to rally behind and, if the prophecy is true, the
last person standing between Voldemort and complete victory. This time, we’re going to control the
narrative. No more of his Undesirable Number One rubbish.”

“You sound like a campaign manager,” I joke.

“I learned a lot, last time, from Fudge and Umbridge and even Voldemort. They were able to get
away with the atrocities they committed for as long as they did because they controlled what was
released to the public. This time, we will. I gave Rita Skeeter the exclusive, so long as she can
guarantee that at six p.m. tomorrow, the Prophet will release an evening special edition paper
announcing our Bonding. I also owled Mrs. Longbottom, advising her of the previous Fidelius and
asking if she’d give a statement to confirm how happy the British Ministry is to support our
marriage or the like.

“We give them one article, one statement and interview, and then we refuse to speak of it again.
Everything will already be out in the open by the time the owls are rushing home from Hogwarts
with the news. There won’t be time for snide remarks or 'exclusives,' with people like Lucius
Malfoy filled with stories about us at school. One and done. That’s the deal I offered her.”

That’s...even the thought makes my skin crawl. I shove my hands through my hair, wanting to get
up and pace.

“If Skeeter tells me no, well," Hermione shrugs and smirks at me. "I’ll contact the paper directly
and put her back in a jar.”

Fuck, I love my wife.

I can already tell; the next couple of weeks are going to be horrific. But maybe, just maybe, we’ll
make it through okay.

“You’re positively wicked, do you know that?”

“I am not!” she huffs. “I’m simply rational. It’s the smart thing to do.”

She bounces in her irritation, and her breasts sway on her chest, and suddenly I forget what we
were supposed to be fighting about. Cheater.

“I hate this, Hermione. I really fucking hate this.”

She walks forward on her knees until her legs are touching mine.

“I know you do, Harry. But better we live by our rules, then blindly follow someone else's. I know
you don’t trust, well, anyone, really," she concedes. "But at least trust me. Trust that this is the best
decision in a whole host of terrible choices. Trust that I will handle Pansy Parkinson asking about
when the baby is due and Lavender Brown asking about your dick size. Trust that if a Slytherin
wanker tries to corner me during Prefect rounds, I’ll leave him oozing in a corner for a teacher to
find the next morning.”

I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t follow her around for the rest of our lives, as much as I’d like
to.

Surrender, then let go.

“Let’s make a deal then. I’ll try to trust you more, that you can take care of yourself, and you’ll
trust me to do the same.”

“I do trust you, Harry,” she says, giving me a bemused smile.

“But not really,” I say. “Not if it comes down to your judgement or mine. You didn’t trust me to
get everyone out of Azkaban after the raid. As a matter of fact, your panicking and sending Winky
for reinforcements almost got us all kissed, since she didn’t come when we called for her. You sent
Dobby and Kreacher, but minutes after I yelled for Winky. In a fight, that’s the difference between
life or death. We have a division of labour, and I think if we both stuck to that, we’d fare a lot
better. You plan, I execute. But plans never make it through the first execution. You should know
that by now. You need to trust that once things start to go barmy, I’ll be able to handle myself.”

Hermione starts to swell in anger, then immediately deflates. She tisks her tongue in a pout.

“You don’t own the monopoly of being concerned for your Mate’s safety, you know,” she says
with an irritated huff, crossing her arms over her chest.

“No. I don’t. Which means if I have to loosen my reins, you have to loosen yours.”

Her eyes twinkle in mischief, and my gaze wanders down her chest as her nipples tighten in the air.

“You don’t have to loosen the reins too much,” she says, a blush tinting her cheeks a lovely shade
of pink. “I kinda like it when you pin me tight.”

She tries to put space between us, skittering on her hands and knees, but I link my arm around her
waist and haul her underneath me. Hermione throws her head back and laughs, and the sound fills
me like oxygen.

Until I fill her mouth with my tongue.

All I hear for the rest of the night are her moans.
 Chapter 47
Chapter Notes

And we're back to Hogwarts people!!!!

Trigger warning, this chapter is bracketed with little doses of smut, but per my notes,
last time apparently someone commented that it has been a while since Harry had
gotten a blow job So I guess I was just fulfilling someone's request lmao. You
know I always try to fulfill your requests if possible, and specific sex scenes are easily
to do in this specific story than changing the plot to give someone a scene they want to
see.

Hugs!! And as always thank you for reading!

Oh! Thank you to Keri for giving it a final read through to make sure the changes I've
made still flowed okay.

Thank you so much to Scott for the new Chapter Heading!!!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Hermione

"You said five minutes!" Ron yells, banging at our door. "It's already been ten. Get your arses out
of bed!"

My lips make a sucking sound when I pull them away from Harry's to send a quick glance at the
door.
"Ignore him, luv," Harry mumbles as he turns my face back to his before gently nipping my lips.

Sure.

No problem.

I'll just pretend I've gone deaf.

How am I supposed to ignore it when it sounds like Ron is—"Oh!"

Harry grips my waist and snaps his hips, so his prick surges inside me, and yeah, okay. That's how
I ignore him. Harry chuckles against my lips, and I moan as he drags his cock against my walls.

If someone told me that lazy morning sex would be my favourite, I'd have called them a bold-faced
liar.

It's so uninventive.

So lackadaisical.

But on our sides, with my leg over his hip and Harry crowding on top of me so that I'm pinned
underneath him is absolutely my favourite place to be.

Technically we're on our sides.

In theory at least.

Or at least my hip is. But I'm surrounded by Harry, with his arm under my head and his hand
gripping my neck. His other arm is across my chest and holding me against him. His front is so
tight to my side that I can barely move, and I'm forced to wrap my arm around his head just cause
there's no more room for it anywhere else.

It would be easier if it weren't even there.

I can barely breathe with Harry's weight incapacitating me, but rather than feeling smothered; I feel
grounded. I feel safe. There is no place I'd rather be than making slow lazy love to my husband on
a Sunday morning. Never mind the fact we have a house full of people waiting for us.

"Come on guys!" Ron tries again, sounding rather whiny now.

"Five more minutes," I yell, my voice broken and strained.

Ron doesn't stop his banging.

"He can't hear you, luv," Harry chuckles in between thrusts, never speeding the rhythm of his hips
against my arse. "Silencing wards, remember? So, no one can hear you scream my name, but me."

Harry runs the palm of his hand down my front, and I arch into his touch when his fingers slip
against my clit.

What?

"Wards," he whispers huskily, drawing out the s.

Oh yeah. Bugger.
Wards, because those won't fail, whereas silencing charms wear off eventually.

That explains why Ron is still banging and yelling in the hallway. I feel around for the wand I used
last time, and when I can't find it between kisses within the covers I call a wand to me from the
bedside. I don't even register surprise when my hand closes around Harry's Phoenix core wand.

Huh.

Harry pushes my chest to the mattress, so my arse lifts and spreads, and fireworks explode behind
my eyes as his prick slams against my cervix then drags back against my g-spot.

It takes me three tries to untwist the warding.

"F-f-five minutes!" I try again, hoping he can't tell what's going on behind our door.

"I'm going to need more than that," Harry says huskily into my ear and twists my nipple between
his fingers.

I shove the blanket into my mouth to smother my moan.

"Fifteen," I holler at our best friend. "We'll be down in fifteen minutes."

"Oh, GROSS!" Ron yells, loud enough to wake the dead. "Are you guys shagging in there?"

"Of course, they're shagging," Draco drawls from outside the door. "Don't worry, Weasel. I'm sure
if you ask nicely, Scarhead will shag you too. After all, he's spent all summer learning how to
manipulate his sword, and he is looking very fit these days."

"That's it, Ferret. I've had it up to here with you. Good luck ever getting your hands on that book,
since Merlin knows you'd never step into a muggle bookstore to buy your own."

"Jokes on you Weasel. I'm a Black by blood. The elves will always choose me over you. Kreacher
snuck it from your trunk last night. I have to admit, I was surprised to see you could write as well
as read. Though if Granger saw what you did to her book, she'd probably remove your bollocks
with a dull severing charm. I can't wait to show her how you defiled it with all your chicken
scratch."

"You bloody tosser!"

There's a hard thud against the outer wall and an outburst of anger as it sounds like the two come to
blows outside our door.

"GO AWAY!" Harry growls.

He slides his arm across my hips and hauls me into his body, and a keening wail slips from my
mouth.

He's trying to keep my attention, but my head keeps turning towards the ruckus outside the door.

"Bloody cock blockers," Harry grumbles too low for them to hear him, and I get a painfully clear
vision of what our life will be like in a decade or two when we have children.

"I would," Draco says, panting. "But I've been banished from the lower levels, because Rita
Skeeter showed up with her Quick-Quotes Quill, and is currently sitting at the kitchen table
interviewing Molly about being the surrogate mother to Bonded-Mates."
"What?" Harry and I yell together.

I almost crick my neck due to turning so fast towards the door.

"I thought that would get your attention. I'm leaving now, to go hide where I won't be seen. Come
on Weasel, before Potter kicks your teeth in for listening to him shag his wife."

Without a wand, because my husband is a powerful arsehole, I feel the wards of our room go back
up.

I try to get away, but Harry tightens his grip on my throat, and I almost swoon as a lightheaded
sensation fills my head, and lightning shoots straight to my clit.

"Bloody hell, Harry," I moan loudly, and he releases me to lick into my mouth. I close my fist
around his hair and yank until he's groaning. "You have one minute, then I'm leaving, whether
you're finished or not!"

"Challenge accepted," he smirks, then before I can register it happening, I'm on my belly, and my
arse is in the air.

It takes approximately two.

It's like that nightmare where you go to take your OWLS, only you're naked. More importantly,
you fail the tests.

Winky appears as soon as I slide from the bed and wraps my dressing gown around my naked
body. If she was loitering just out of sight until we finished, I don't want to know.

The little elf informs us that, apparently, not only did Skeeter descend on our doorstep like a
Dementor wanting to suck out our souls, but she also brought a photographer with her and a gaggle
of other people to confirm the Bond, including a Goblin.

"Ragnok , you think?" Harry asks, linking his arms around my waist from behind and dropping his
chin to my shoulder.

I put my hands behind me and feel his legs, relieved he at least has his trunks on.

"Got to be, right?"

Though I have no idea how Skeeter managed to trick him into descending on our doorstep.

"Stop wasting time!" Winky squeaks, pulling on Harry's arm until he disentangles himself from
me.

"You shower, Master," Winky says while shoving him towards the toilet, giving out instructions
like a general to her troops, "and I bes getting Mistress ready out here. Your clothes be already
arranged for you in the loo. When you’s done, I be doing your hair."

My hair? Harry mouths at me from over his shoulder, not even bothering to hide his amusement. I
startle as a cleansing spell is unabashedly run over my body without fair warning.

"In the chair, Mistress. We's don't have much time. Of all the mornings for your..." she mumbles,
descending into a pique of silence.

Her little stool materialises behind my throne-like vanity chair, and she taps her foot impatiently.
"You must look the part, and you's hair be a tangled mess!"

Harry grins, and I feel the top of my head, where a night of debauchery followed by a morning in
the sheets has left me looking a little to be desired.

Except to Harry, of course, who looks ready for another go. I climb into the seat in front of Winky,
and my face crunches in displeasure as I sit flat for the first time in hours. Maybe it's a good thing
Skeeter has finally pushed us out of bed. I need a break. I'm sore in places I didn't know were
possible.

"This isn't necessary," I insist after Harry disappears into the shower.

If Winky could look any more unimpressed, I don't want to see it.

She ignores me completely, pulling a comb through my curls. I tell her I'll set her free if she doesn't
allow me to pick out my own clothes. She responds by informing me she'd be pleased to serve the
house of Potter-Black as a free elf, and the more I complain, the longer it'll take until we'll be
ready.

I almost burst into tears, but I still have no idea whether from frustration or overwhelming
happiness that she offers to work as a free elf.

I do stop complaining. Besides, by the time Winky finished, I look rather pretty.

I hadn't noticed over the course of the summer how the wrought silver jewellery box that appeared
one day had been steadily filling with jewellery until she popped open the lid and started searching
through pieces she liked.

My curls are long and luscious, trailing down my back well past my bra. I ask her if she somehow
made it longer, as I'm sure my hair wasn't this length last night, and all Winky does is beam at me.
Silver hair combs with the Black family crest pull my hair back from my face, holding it from my
eyes. I allow her to press light makeup into my face, but only enough to make it look like I wasn't
wearing any at all. Ruby dewdrop earrings dangle delicately from my earlobes.

While I would never choose the clothes she selects, I do look...expensive, while not at all like
Pansy Parkinson, which is what I'm most worried about. A flowing skirt that stops mid-calf, with
layers of gauzy fabric in different shades of whites and silvers and creams until I look like a
blooming flower, and a silver-grey vest shirt that laces up the back like traditional witches robes.
It's perhaps a little too loose in the bust but that gives me a high-class edge.

Winky says since the Black and Potter colours clash like a Christmas tree, it'll be blacks and whites
from here on out. I twist the rings on my fingers, my anxiety surging up my throat.

Harry, who despite the fact that he took a shower is ready before me, pulls my fingers apart. Winky
even managed to wrangle his hair into something halfway presentable while I was getting dressed.

"You's still be too bare," Winky fusses, and returns to pouring over the jewellery box. It must have
an extendable charm on it. "You's be needing a necklace, I think."

Harry, looking dashing as ever in his snug black trousers, white oxford, and black vest, pulls a
little black velvet box from his pouch. He's carrying a velvet cloak with a rich green lining that he
tosses onto the bed.

"I'm not wearing that," Harry states, pointing to the discarded robe, and Winky barely stops from
rolling her eyes.

"You's be a Duke, Master ," and boy! The amount of impertinence in her tone has me biting my
tongue to hold back a giggle. "It bes Winky's duty to ensure yous represent the house of Black in a
manner befitting your station. Even if yous refuse to act like it." They lock eyes, Winky on her
perch, Harry with a lifted brow. "Master," she pointedly adds.

He's the first to break eye contact.

"I thought I was a Lord?" Harry finally mumbles.

I think…I think Winky rolls her eyes.

"Lord Black dids you no favours by ignorings your education this summer," she adds, not quite in a
submissive manner as she returns to rooting through the jewelry box.

Match point to Winky.

He chooses to ignore the bait.

"I can help with the jewelry. It was supposed to be a birthday present, but..." he shrugs and lifts the
lid on the box, twisting it in his hand to show me what's inside.

"Harry," I breathe, reaching out to touch it, but hovering my fingers just above.

The metal is worked into the shape of a triangle, with a lion resting in the middle. Its eyes are
shards of rubies. The lion seems to yawn before it resumes its spot. A snake encircles the lion, his
tail twisted around the lion's frame, with eyes of emeralds. They look like they were plucked from
Harry's own face. On closer inspection, there's a wand embossed across the bottom, and a wand
straight down the back and behind, hidden by the animals’ bodies.

The image looks familiar, but I can't place where it's from.

Toujours l'amour reads across the bottom. Always Love.

It's stunning.

Harry takes the necklace in one hand and tosses the box onto our couch.

"Turn," he says, and I lift my hair, gathering it over my shoulder. He slips the chain around my
neck, and the chain is long enough to rest comfortably between my breasts. I'll be able to hide it if I
need to, but will never have to take it off. The chain is unbelievably delicate but thick enough that I
feel its heft.

He drops a kiss under my ear before grabbing my hips in his hands.

"Our family will never be Always Pure again, and that's the way I like it. Always Love felt more
appropriate. Sirius helped me submit it to the ministry, as the new Potter-Black Crest."

"It's beautiful," I breathe, wiping a tear from my cheek.

"Flip it over," he whispers against my ear.

I lift it from my chest and turn it in my fingers, and there, engraved on the back and clear without
the distractions from the front, is the Deathly Hallows symbol behind a pair of engraved frolicking
deer.
"You make me the Master of Death," he breathes into my ear. "Not a wand or an invisibility cloak.
The pendant is charmed. Minor shield charm, slight repelling charm, but it'll heat to the touch,
every time I think about you. Expect it to feel warm forever."

I haven't thought of the Hallows in weeks, months, but in truth, they're never far from Harry's
consciousness.

"Is it okay that I made the change without telling you?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," I say distractedly, still flipping the pendant round and round in my hand. Then what he says
clicks in my head. " HOW did you do it without telling me?" I demand, looking over my shoulder
at him.

He taps himself on the forehead.

"I've got mad skills," he sasses, and I catch his lips in a quick kiss.

A new crest, for the new family we'll start together. In a decade or two.

“How did you manage to avoid me finding out your Patronus had changed?” he asks me gently.

Oh. That.

“Yes, that.”

“Stop reading my mind,” I pout.

I don’t stomp my foot. I don’t.

“Stop projecting so much,” he says against my ear, his lips sending shivers down my back.

I keep flipping the pendant over and over in my hands, seeing the symbols of our relationship blend
together.

“I forgot,” I tell him honestly, and he huffs into my throat.

“No, truly, I did. You were sleeping, for once, and I didn’t want to disturb you, so I sent a Patronus
to tell Ron we’d be late to training, and instead of my little Otter it was a Doe. I was shocked, to say
the least, and irritated, because how patriarchal that the girl’s Patronus changes. But then I liked it.
And you started whimpering in your sleep, and I rolled over to rub your back and completely forgot
about it.”

“That easy, huh? Are you sure you don't mind? I can try to force mine to change to an Otter if that
would make you happy.”

Knowing Harry, he probably could.

His lips are trailing up and down my neck, and if I don’t put a stop to this, we’re never going to get
out of this bedroom. I take a step forward, then another, until I’m completely out of his grasp.

“Yes. I'm sure. I like that we're a mated pair in everything. Now stop distracting me,” I demand,
straightening my hair and smoothing down my skirt.

“I really don’t want to deal with that woman today,” he admits with a frustrated sigh.

"You and me both, Harry. But the time for hiding is past. Do I look okay?" I ask worriedly.
"You's look beautiful, Mistress," Winky assures me.

“Lovely,” Harry agrees. "Thank you for your help, Winky. We'll see you and Dobby at Hogwarts,"
Harry says to the little elf, chucking her playfully under her chin.

She blushes a horrible pink shade, and ducks her head before stepping away.

“Do you have the jars?” I double-check.

The elves are taking all of our luggage over to the castle, per their request, so that they can get our
belongings put away before we get there.

But there’s no way we’re leaving a dozen Death Eater’s magical cores sitting around only guarded
by wards that we don’t set up ourselves, even if Winky is scarier than a dozen Death Eaters
combined.

“In my pouch, strapped and double wrapped for transport,” he confirms, patting the pouch clipped
to his hip.

Nothing left to do than head into the storm.

Despite all her grumbling about our house colours clashing, just as I reach the door Winky stops
me to spread a velvet cloak, the twin to Harry's, across my shoulders—lined with the deep
burgundy hue of the Potters. I look pointedly over my shoulder to where Harry's is still thrown
disrespectfully across the blankets. With an almost silent huff he scoops it up and tosses it over his
back and cinches the clasp at his throat.

Then he stumbles into my hips when I come to a halt as soon as I step into the hallway.

Draco is lounging against the opposite wall, with his hands shoved in his pockets.

He's back in the bespoke suit, black from top to bottom, including his wing-tipped shoes. The only
colour on his person is the Slytherin green tie draped down his chest. Oh, and a cloak as fine as
any his father would wear in a hue that shimmers emerald black.

I'm desperate to ask if it belongs to him or if Winky got to him too. Unlike our cloaks, his has loose
billowing sleeves in the traditional Wizarding fashion, even if it's open and loose and draped
strategically behind him. Seemingly framing his impressive physique.

He pushes off from the wall as soon as we lock eyes: brown to grey.

"We need to talk before you go down there," his voice is clipped, and his eyes are hard. "She's
already pressing to see how far she can get. Do not allow her to get away with it. Harry is in
charge. He is Master of this house. But you are his lady. Yet, yours is no ordinary marriage.
Equals, in every sense of the word. Do not let him show you up, but still show him deference.
Demand the use of your titles, except for those honoured few given leave to call you by your
name."

Harry puts his palm on my hip, nodding along to everything Draco is telling us. We start moving
down the hallway, Draco still rattling off instructions.

It does not pass our notice that Draco is not addressing Harry, but me.

"Don't raise your voice. Don't stomp your foot. Smart, but not swotty. Respectful, but demanding of
respect. Expect to be obeyed, but show appreciation when they do. Push the Muggle-born angle.
Your Bond is a bloody big deal, and if wielded correctly can give you an untold amount of power."

He lifts his hand to stop me when I open my mouth to object.

"You say you don't want it but you do. You want werewolf rights and elvish welfare. Inheritance
rights for daughters and gay marriage. That will take power, Lady Potter-Black, and it starts today
in your kitchen."

I shove back my rebuke.

"You," he says, glancing at Harry and poking him in the shoulder. "Do not threaten to kill anyone,
do not actually kill anyone. No pulling your weapons, no touching your weapons. Do not raise your
voice. Play up the Muggle-born connection, how proud your parents would be, if only they weren't
stolen from you at such a young age. How proud you are to have inherited the Black title from your
Godfather now that the corrupt administration has been overthrown and defenders of the Light are
in charge. Emphasise the immense power that comes from the union with your Muggle-born
witch."

Harry's hackles immediately raise, but he swallows thickly and pushes them back down.

Draco isn't trying to be cruel.

He's trying to give us the best advantage possible.

"Alone, Harry was already destined to be one of the most influential wizards in the commonwealth.
Perhaps the world. Together you could be unstoppable." He pauses ominously. "If you manage to
get through this morning unscathed."

On that promising note, I think I need to sick up.

"I should be in there with you," Draco snaps with frustration.

We've reached the second landing, a floor away from the kitchen.

"The Malfoy heir would go a long way to legitimising your place in society. I should publicly
declare. Here and now."

"That is the most dangerous thing you've ever said. I thought first and foremost, a Slytherin was
concerned in saving their own arses," I prompt. "What happened to waiting on the sidelines then
falling in with the victors?"

Draco seems to twitch, his eyes moving to a spot over my head.

"That's what I'm doing, obviously. People follow the Dark Lord because he's powerful. But
Scarhead, here, kicked You-Know-Who's arse when he was only a baby. That's the only reason I'm
here. It's why I should declare! If for no other purpose then to show the others that the smart thing
to do is to follow the most powerful, and that title belongs to you. I'm the most influential Wizard
in Britain, minus my parents. You need me publicly on your side."

Thinks highly of himself, doesn't he? Harry laughs.

I don't laugh.

Draco is obviously upset, though I'm not really sure why.

The words are suitable for a pureblood heir. Snobbish, self-serving, but the tone is all wrong. I
wish I knew what was going on inside his head.

"Absolutely not," Harry says, pulling Draco to a stop. "I won't risk you unnecessarily."

"It's going to come out either way, Potter. If not in the announcement, then by the end of the week
at least, when I'm sitting with her in class every day."

"Or we go to the Headmaster and ask that he inform those teachers to assign seating this semester,
and force you to sit together. Even if that gets back to Malfoy Manor, you still have plausible
deniability. What would happen to your parents, Malfoy, if word got to Voldemort that you've
defected to the other side? What would happen if it was on the front page of the paper?"

Draco growls under his breath and shoves his hands through his hair before quickly putting every
strand back in place. He yanks on his cufflinks and shrugs his shoulders until Draco Malfoy takes
the place of Draco, my friend.

He looks to Harry again.

"Don't run your hands through your hair. For the first time in your miserable life, it actually looks
halfway decent. Have I already said don't kill anybody?"

Hypocritical, but okay.

"Yes," Harry says with an amused snort.

"Good. I mean it. Don't kill anybody. Take control of the conversation and keep control. Go."

I move from Harry's embrace and step into Draco's, pulling him into a hug. He stiffens in my arms,
eyes wide with surprise before he gingerly hugs me back.

"Gryffindors," he grouches under his breath, but his head dips to my shoulder before he quickly
steps away again.

Walking down the final flight of stairs and the well-worn path leading to the kitchen, I feel maybe
we finally have this under control. Until I step into the kitchen and come to a painful halt at the
scene playing out in front of me. Dobby and Kreacher are busily serving tea and coffee along with
a selection of breakfast edibles for the gathering.

Madam Longbottom, Minister for Magic, is at the head of the table, nibbling on a piece of toast.
Neville is sitting beside her, smiling broadly and talking animatedly about something I can't hear.

Winky forgot to mention that.

Excuse me. Lord Neville Longbottom. The minute his Gran takes the oath as Minister for real and
not simply as an interim, (which she will) Nev will be elevated in her stead. You can't be both a
Head and the Minister of Magic. Another reason, as if they needed it, for Nev to spend the summer
with us. Together, he and Harry are the only Heads of House at Hogwarts, and being who they are,
the youngest, most politically powerful wizards in the country.

I've never seen Nev this slick, even at the Yule Ball. Never in any of my lifetimes. He's dressed to
the nines with a purple vest, and a sleek gray cloak falling artfully across the back of his chair.

"Minister," Harry says, giving Madam Longbottom a slight bow. "Thank you so much for joining
us for breakfast."
"Harry, dear, how many times must I tell you? It's Gran or simply Augusta. None of this Minister
babble."

She's never told us that.

Ever.

Not once.

Even Neville's eyes go wide before he quickly averts his face.

Harry doesn't falter, he simply pivots and responds.

"I'm sorry, Gran. I just thought with so many people around, you'd want me to respect the niceties."

As if I ever needed another reason why Harry could have been a Slytherin.

"Nonsense," she smiles, waving away her hand. "Neville doesn't call me Minister. The
Longbottoms have long been allies of the Potters, as you well know dear. We shouldn't change
who we are to each other, just because we have an audience."

Wow.

That was...Draco could take lessons from this lady.

What the bloody hell is going on?

You're asking me? Harry breathes. I have no idea.

Winky was right, as usual. While we were learning to maim and kill, we should have spared some
time for political manipulation. My knowledge gleaned from books about the beginning of
wizarding nobility in no way prepared me for the dance currently happening in my kitchen.

Ragnok is standing in a corner, chatting amiably with Sirius.

They catch our eye, and Ragnok gives a respectful bow.

"Lady Potter-Black," he says before pulling a book from inside his breast pocket and shaking it in
his hand. "I have the manuscript we were discussing during our last correspondence, and I thought
I'd take the opportunity to bring it by before you were busy with other responsibilities."

Just go with it.

"Thank you so much, Chieftain," I say with a smile, meeting him in the middle by the table. I take
the leather-bound tome from his hands, and open the cover, to see it's a book on Goblin investment
strategies. "Thank you!" I say again with enthusiasm.

Ragnok smiles that horrible smile that says he's genuinely pleased.

"Think nothing of it, Lady Potter-Black. I do so love your thirst for knowledge. It's refreshing to
find a witch with both the will and the know-how to take a hand in her family's financial welfare.
You've been a pleasure to mentor this summer."

Laying it on a little thick, but okay. I'll take it.

There are half a dozen Aurors I recognise lounging around with steaming mugs of tea and coffee,
each with an eye on the Minister and an eye on everything else.

One by one, they turn and bow in our direction.

Ron is smack dab in the middle of them, leaning against the island with a cup of tea in his hands,
dressed in snug jeans and a tucked in white Oxford with boots laced up to his knees. He's not quite
as big as Charlie, but he's certainly on his way. A summer of sport and lifting only aided in the
spread of his shoulders. I know how many weapons he carries, and most of those are hidden, but
there's a blade for all to see on his hip.

It's gleaming in just the right manner.

His cloak is latched and open at his throat, stopping just before the floor. It's so dark that it would
blend into midnight. With the hood raised it'll hide his recognizable features completely. I wonder
if he could fight in it?

"My Lord," he says, dipping his head and lifting his tea in salute with a smirk.

My! Winky has been busy this morning.

Is this going to be us from now on? No more jeans and knitted jumpers. If Harry is expected to
lead an army of Wizards, those of us at his back will be expected to play the part as well. I find it
fascinating that rather than traditional Wizarding robes Winky has us kitted out in high-end muggle
clothing with touches of Wizarding finishes. Maybe to reflect our mixed-blood heritage?

Though, even in the last timeline, I never saw Draco in robes outside of school. He too, always
dressed in straight-lined suits rather than the multi-layered robes.

Maybe it's a generational thing?

Even Molly is missing her flowered dress and is in a simple, cream and lilac set of women's robes.
Simple, but of a much higher quality than I've ever seen her wear before. We didn’t supply them.
She and Arthur must have gone shopping with the money Harry gives her for running the house.

"Lord Potter-Black," Kingsley intones with a bow so deep it bends him in half.

Harry leaves my side and walks to the Auror, shaking his hand and putting on a show.

Amelia Bones rises from her spot at the counter, and joins in the hand-shaking.

"Kingsley, good to see you."

He was here two days ago. The Aurors have taken over our practice since Nate left for his new
post at Hogwarts last week.

"Amelia," Harry greets, only sounding slightly uncomfortable about addressing the DMLE head so
informally.

"Lord Potter-Black. A pleasure, as always. I'm so sorry for dropping in unannounced."

"Think nothing of it," he tells her. "You know you are always welcome at my table. Besides, I’m
well aware you and Gran come as a set these days."

She's never been at our table. I'm going to kill that damn reporter.

Molly is smiling broadly at anyone who'll listen. She's going on about how she was the only
mother poor Harry ever knew and how protective the Weasley clan is of us with a glint of threat in
her eye—all while simultaneously playing hostess and refilling tea cups. Rita bloody Skeeter looks
like Christmas came early as her eyes trail Harry and I conversing with the who's who of the
Ministry hierarchies and an in-person visit from the Chief of the Goblins.

I glare at the parchment and quill hovering in the air, the quill flying across the paper with
wondrous speed.

Incendio I think, and with a flick of my wand, the parchment and quill both burst into flames.

Molly squeals and jumps from her chair, knocking it over as she rushes to remove herself from the
dwindling flames and the pile of ashes growing on the table.

Skeeter whips around in her seat and glares at me over her bejeweled spectacles. She places her
hands on the table, uncaring of the ash mere millimeters from her fingers, and rises menacingly
from her perch.

"WHY YOU LITTLE...!"

Smirking, I conjure a jar from thin air, already filled with leaves and holes in the lid, and place it
gently on the table.

Rita stops mid-rant, her eyes going wide in fear and anger. They flick to the Minister of Magic,
who is watching us with rapt attention and a suppressed grin on her face.

I tap the lid once, twice, and give Rita my sweetest smile.

"Good morning, Ms Skeeter, and welcome to our home. We're so pleased to play host to you today,
with no warning or request beforehand. An oversight on your part, I'm sure."

I shake my head and giggle in a way that makes me want to puke, but reminds me of Umbridge,
and Umbridge always got what she wanted.

"I'm sorry, but I must have misheard you just now. You were saying that you can't wait to publish
the pre-approved statement I owled you last night, yes?"

Her face twists into a mocking smile, something made to show pity and reflect her oh so humble
opinion of my stupidity.

I want to slap it off.

"Well, Hermione, dear child, your owl was just so unexpected last night, and the claims are so
outrageous. You didn't expect me to publish something that unbelievable without verifying my
facts first, did you? Imagine my surprise when the Bond office had no comment." Of course, they
didn't. Department of Mysteries. "Luckily, I ran into our illustrious Minister in the lobby who told
me not only was she privy to the knowledge and could confirm its veracity but that she was on her
way to your house now, as her Grandson has been staying with you."

I'll have to remember to ask Neville if that was true or if Augusta just threw off her entire schedule
to help us out of a spot this morning. Thank Merlin I had the foresight to owl her too.

"But still, I needed a little more proof than that, didn't I? What better place than Gringotts? Any
Bond that results in a marriage is sent directly to them. Therefore, I popped right over to the Bank
and spoke with Mr Ragnok here, and asked him if he'd like to give a statement. Since we were all
meeting for the interview this morning, I graciously invited him to come along."
I tap my nail on the metal lid of the glass jar, and Skeeter tenses with every sound of impact.

Remind us to send Ragnok a thank you card, I mentally tell Harry. Or find some Goblin made
treasure in the vault and give it back to them. He could have made things very difficult for us. We
owe him for dealing with this so neatly. And remind me to hex Skeeter.

His repressed laugh is almost audible from where he's still standing with Kingsley watching me
take apart Skeeter.

"Interview? I don't remember inviting you for an interview. I do remember sending you a statement
to publish for the Prophet, but—"

"Hermione, darling—" she interrupts.

"Excuse me," I sharply cut her off before she can finish whatever bullshite she has to say.

My eyes flash, then I give her a dazzling smile.

"Rita, dear. You may call me Lady Potter-Black, as befitting my station. We haven't yet reached
the point where I feel comfortable with you using my given name, especially after the way you
treated my husband and me last year. Now, I owled you because of that mistreatment. For better or
worse, you're a well-known name in the publishing industry, and I thought you'd appreciate the
chance to make amends for your foul behaviour towards us during the Twi-Wizard Tournament
coverage."

Her face grows tighter and tighter with every dart I throw.

"However, if this is going to be too difficult for you, then I can reach out to the editors of the
Prophet, and see what other reporters they recommend. Perhaps the editors would like to report on
the story themselves. The person who breaks the news, after all, will be known worldwide. Or, and
I don't know why I didn't think about it before, we are acquainted with Xenophilius Lovegood.
Owner and editor of the Quibbler , I'm sure you know it. His daughter is a close and dear friend of
ours. Perhaps we can give his circulation a little boost as a personal favour, and allow him to
publish the official announcement of our Binding."

I bite the inside of my lip to the point of tasting blood to stop from laughing as Skeeter battles
through the emotions on her face.

She's trembling from head to toe, her hands clamping the table in a grip so fierce the wood seems
to be shaking as well. Her face is bleeding between rage and greed with so rapid a progression, I'm
slightly concerned she may have a stroke.

Harry walks to my side and puts his arm around my waist, gently resting his palm against my hip.

That was such a turn-on he whispers into my mind, and now I'm fighting down a blush as well.

He places a kiss against my cheek, then looks Skeeter in the eye.

"Have I officially introduced you to my wife, Rita? Lady Potter-Black. She's magnificent, isn't
she?"

The kitchen is waiting with bated breath, as Skeeter gets a hold of her emotions.

"I," she inhales through her nose, closing her eyes. " Apologise ," she growls through clenched
teeth, "for my behaviour during the Tournament last year. I suppose in my zeal to share the
extraordinary story of Mr Potter's accomplishments, that perhaps I overlooked some facts."

"This'll be the perfect time to correct that then, won't it? Since you've already barged your way into
our home, I'll give you twenty minutes. I suggest you make the most of it."

After taking several calming breaths, Skeeter opens her purse and pulls out another parchment and
quill.

"Wonderful," she says, before taking a seat at the table. "Perhaps we should start with your family,
Harry."

"It's Lord Potter-Black," he says with a smile. "Perhaps we start with the statement my wife already
gave you, plus a published apology for the way you treated her last year."

Sirius speaks up from the back.

"Followed by an explanation as to why you felt it was appropriate for you to descend into our
home at eight in the morning with no invitation, no warning, all while bringing with you a bevy of
individuals who have better things to do than cater to your flimsy whims." Madam Longbottom
snorts into her tea cup. "We can finish the morning with an acknowledgment that the only reason
you aren't in a holding cell on charges of disrupting the peace is the concern and respect for my son
and his wife from every person in this room."

The quill cracks in Skeeter's fingers.

The tension in the train compartment is palpable.

Much like the end of last term, but in reverse. Every mile we get closer to Hogwarts, the antsier
Harry becomes. We're barely out of London. I'm ready to throw him off the back of the train.

Despite slightly magically reconfiguring the space, there's not enough room for Harry to pace, or
practice sword forms to kill off his excess energy; this is thanks to Neville, Luna, Ron, the Twins,
and the two of us amassed together.

Not to mention the trappings of all our new, or in Neville's case, finally acknowledged stations that
means we're in twice as many layers as we would normally wear.

So, instead, Harry's whole being is practically bouncing with suppressed restlessness.

Which isn't all that suppressed, because Ron has already threatened to put Harry in a full body bind
unless he chills out and stops popping his knee up and down.

The door to our compartment slides wide and my jaw falls open when Draco throws himself
through the entrance before slamming it closed behind him.

He slipped from the ministry cars this morning via one of the three invisibility cloaks Mundungus
Fletcher found for us in the back streets of London, and we haven't seen him since.

"Um," I stutter, watching in amused fascination as Draco collapses onto the bench closest to the
window and leans his head on his hand against the glass.

"What are you doing here?" Harry hisses, standing up to look out the window in the door. "This
wasn't part of the plan."

"Fuck the plan," the Slytherin says dramatically. "I hate the plan, the plan was ridiculous, and I'm
done following the bloody plan."

"Great," Ron mumbles. He closes his eyes as if in prayer. "Just what we need. Another drama
queen with a short temper."

Harry and Draco both glare at him before Harry turns back to the pouting blonde. "The plan was
for your safety, Malfoy. You shouldn't be seen with us!"

"Look," Draco says in a huff. "I took the oaths. I swore my fealty. I picked a side," his voice is
rising along with his anger, as he leans away from the corner and presses in towards the middle of
the train car.

"I don't need your hero complex twisting in the wind over this. I made my own decision. I'm here,
okay? Deal with it. I should have declared my defection in that damn interview this morning! I
don't want to hide behind your fucking back, Potter. I will not die dithering behind Granger's
fucking skirts, too scared to do more than puke in a corner! I want it known publicly, when the
Dark Lord goes down, that I was on the right side this time! Plus, the fact is that you need me, so
suck it up!"

Ron's back hits the cushion behind him, taken aback by Draco's vehemence.

I am too, for that matter.

His fit about being in the interview with us makes a lot more sense at least. Draco seems to realise
he lost his cool because he pulls at his cufflinks and straightens out his hair.

"Besides, Granger needs me," he announces with his nose in the air. "If I leave her alone with you
oafs for too long, all my hard work will go to ruin!"

"Thank you?" I hedge, still trying to decide whether I've been insulted.

Harry rotates his shoulders and flexes his hands.

"You know, Malfoy, you once broke my nose on this very train. I think it's time I returned the
favour."

Well then. Harry's decidedly insulted.

"If this is how we treat our allies, then the Dark Lord has no chance," Draco says snidely.

"I'm gonna—"

"If Draco gave an oath of some sort, should I give an oath too?" Luna asks out of the blue, popping
her head out over the top of her Quibbler.

"No!" Harry shouts, throwing out his arm as if to physically stop her.

"I did," Neville taunts. "I gave an oath of fealty."

"I did too," Ron adds.

“As every Light-sider should,” the twins say in sync.

Luna’s eyes twinkle in a way that tells me her oath is on its way. Harry looks like a heartbeat from
crying in defeat.
"Okay," I say, rising from my seat.

I grab Harry by the wrist and yank him back onto the bench between Ron and me.

I turn to Malfoy, who I'm now concerned might be grooming me to take over as some sort of Dark
Queen? Perhaps he and Winky are planning my rise to Wizarding Overlord (lady?) together. But I
don't really want to think about that right now.

"What Harry meant to say was we thank you for your support. You've been and will be, I'm sure, a
wonderful ally. Also, stop with the backhanded insults, before I flat out backhand you, mmkay?"

The door slides open, and Pansy fucking Parkinson strides into our compartment, giving us a
disdainful sniff before dropping onto the seat by the window across from Draco.

Great.

This day just keeps getting better and better.

She immediately pulls a nail file out of her pocket and starts to file her nails while the rest of us
stare at her dumbly. She huffs another loud sniff, looking at where Draco is sitting in a
compartment full of Gryffindors.

"Really Draco, the Mudblood? Potter, I can understand. Aligning yourself with your enemy's
enemy and all that. How very Slytherin of you. But why must that mean we're stuck with his
Mudblood too?"

Neville rises to his feet and stands over Pansy menacingly. “Watch your fucking mouth,
Parkinson,” he seethes.

Pansy pauses in her litany of insults to look Neville up and down.

"Longbottom is...acceptable this year."

She points her file around the other members of our party.

"The gaggle of gingers, though? The girl is pretty enough, but her brothers are all ghastly."

Ginny isn't even in the compartment with us! How did she get dragged into Pansy's tirade?

Draco slips back into his pompous persona like it's a second skin.

I'd almost feel sorry for him, except for I know, either from weeks with him at my side or maybe
from the connection granted through his oath, that the pompous persona is his second skin, and it
protects him like a set of armour.

"You can't get one without the other, I'm afraid," he says in a dry drawl. "They come as a set."

He looks at Harry expectantly.

"Well, Potter. Do it."

"Do what?" Harry asks, genuinely confused.

Draco makes a ticking sound in irritation.

"Threaten to cut her tongue out with your sword."

I look at Malfoy dumbfounded and ask sarcastically, "Aren't you the one who told him he couldn't
keep threatening to kill people? Like, all of four hours ago?"

Draco looks at me like I've sprouted a second head.

"In all our long acquaintance he chooses now to start listening to me? Besides I didn't say to kill
her. I simply said to cut out her tongue. Trust me you'd be doing the entire world a favor."

"Honestly, Draco," Pansy simpers, batting her eyes waspishly. "I thought you'd grown to like my
tongue."

Draco shudders, Harry gags, and I think I might actually be sick.

"If you're not going to cut her tongue out," Neville says, inching closer to Pansy while reaching
down his thigh to come away with a gleaming five-inch blade. "Can I?"

He flips the dagger several times in his hand, doing a trick or two, and silence falls in our
compartment as all eyes turn to Neville.

"Ooooh," Pansy says, licking her lips and jutting her tits forward. "I'm not sure whether I'm
offended that you bore a weapon in my presence or horribly turned on. The lion has claws."

"Draco sure does," I say with a bland smile and a wink. "If you ask him nicely, I'm sure he'll show
them to you."

Pansy whips her head in Malfoy's direction.

"Draco? What does she mean by that?"

"Nothing that I'm aware of, I'm sure, Pans. You know Muggleborns. Horrible sense of humour.
Can't understand a thing they say. Shall we go find the others?" he asks, rising from his bench and
giving me a scathing look.

Nev sits back down with a knowing grin. No sooner does Malfoy stand to leave than the sliding
door to our compartment opens again, admitting two more Slytherins.

"There you are!" Blaise Zabini cries, looking around the ever-shrinking compartment.

Theo Nott, a tall, blue-eyed, well-built boy I'm not sure I've ever heard speak slides in after him.

"I told you he wasn't with the Greengrass girls," he says in a low voice, staring unblinkingly at
Draco.

"Yeah, but Potter? Who saw that one coming?"

"I did," Theo replies, and his half-smirk and unwavering eye contact are distinctly unnerving.

Harry sits up straight beside me, lifting his hand to grab the wand at his chest. Zabini's mouth
keeps moving, but I stop listening as I zero in on the boy staring at my second.

My nerves racket through the roof at the way Draco watches Theo watch him. Draco is wearing an
expression I've never seen on him before. Aloofness, tinged with something I can't identify. Nott
pays no mind to Harry, or Ron or Neville for that matter, each silently bringing their weapons
within easy pulling range.

Instead, he goes straight to Draco, and seeing as there is very little room left on the benches, sits on
the floor between Draco's knees. Draco's hand seems to twitch in his lap before making a fist and
then shoving it into his pocket.

Huh.

"Up, Pans," Blaise says, gesturing his hand for her to stand, and the black-haired girl rises to her
feet without comment to allow Blaise to take her spot before sitting herself down on his lap.

"Where are Crabbe and Goyle?" Draco asks, keeping his voice as dull as possible.

"Tormenting First Years," Blaise answers, adjusting Pans on his lap and making her squeal in a
way that has my face scrunching up.

"You're here, why?" Draco drawls, sounding utterly bored.

"Because you are, obviously," Blaise says flippantly. “Why are you?”

"Draco took an oath," Luna says in a breathy voice, still behind her magazine. “He’s pledged to
support Harry in the upcoming war.”

“Ah, dammit,” Pansy pouts, slouching down on Blaise’s lap.

"Interesting" Blaise says with a gleam in his eye and a hand around Pansy's waist.

Theo stays silent, but leans his shoulders deeper into Draco’s lap.

Interesting indeed.

“Why’s that?” Ron asks, with just a smidgen of aggression in his voice.

His hands are gripping his opposite forearms, and his thumbs are running gently over his wands.

“Well,” Blaise says, in a tone that they must have all learned from the cradle. “It explains why he
was so insistent that we swear to him this summer. The day before he disappeared matter of fact. I
thought we were being used as leverage, so Draco here could present himself to the Dark Lord as a
hot commodity with followers in his pocket, but now I see I had the wrong Lord. We weren’t being
sworn into the lower echelons of You-Know-Who’s ranks. We were being tricked into yours.”

"Crabbe? Goyle?" I demand, sounding like a demented parrot of Malfoy.

"Out of play until the end," Nott smirks. "Blood oaths are such useful tools, don't you agree?"

Draco's smile slides across his face in a slow, taunting arc. Just like that, we have over half the
Fifth Year Slytherins in our pocket. The ones with Death Eater fathers.

"I told you I was a good ally to have."

“What is it with purebloods and oaths of allegiance!?” Harry huffs in disgust.

“It’s the only way you can keep them in line,” Theo snidely replies.

The remaining Slytherins have left by the time I finish with my Prefect rounds. I was able to talk to
the Head Girl, Rebecca Thomson, and ask that I do my rounds with Neville or Draco for the time
being.
She gave me a strange look, and who can blame her.

It’s no secret that as far as everyone at Hogwarts knows, Draco and I are bitter enemies. When I
promised to explain why in a few days, she agreed without much complaint.

Harry is alone except for Luna, who appears to be asleep stretched out on the bench across from
him. His eyes are closed, and his head is against the wall, but there's still a high strung tension
running through his body. His knee is bouncing like crazy.

"How'd you convince Ron to leave you unattended?" I ask quietly before I take a spot beside him.

"It didn't take much convincing. The twins, who left shortly after you did, came back with Lee to
announce that Ginny was cuddling up with Michael Corner. Besides, I'm not alone. I have Luna."

I laugh lightly at that, knowing the truth of it. Poor Ron. He's going to have a rough couple of years
with Ginny's dating life.

"Where's Nev?" he questions me.

"Still patrolling. He got caught up talking with Hannah Abbot."

"How long do you think we have?" he whispers even lower, leaning in close to me.

"Long enough, depending on what you have in mind," I whisper back with a smile.

He leans in to steal a kiss, but I change directions before he reaches my lips and slide from the spot
beside him onto the floor. I'll have to be quick about it, but then again, I doubt it'll take very long.

I call Harry's cloak to me, and it flies from his pouch on his hip. I slide it over my shoulders and
head until I'm entirely hidden from view. A silencing charm, muffliato, notice-me-not, and
glamour later and Harry simply looks like he did when I came in, along with a sleeping Luna.

Merlin, Hermione! You're not gonna...

I flick the button on his jeans and quietly pull down his zipper, then slip my hand into the fly of his
trunks before freeing him from his confines.

His dick thickens before my eyes, and I pump it once or twice before lowering my mouth to his
length. I know his body as well as I know my own by this point. While on my Prefect rounds, I
found myself longing for the taste of him and the way he would swell in my mouth. I never
dreamed I'd get the opportunity so quickly, though.

He feels so much bigger suddenly, thick and heavy in my hand, but maybe that's the fear of getting
caught that makes the edge that much sharper. Don't move, I tell him, then bind his wrists to the
bench with a sticking charm just in case.

Fuck, Mi, he wines, and I grin underneath the cloak.

Harry hisses through his teeth when I wrap my lips around his tip and take as much of him into my
mouth as I can.

Be quiet, Harry! I admonish him when he whimpers from the back of his throat, but even in my
head, I don't sound angry.

I just throw another silencing charm on him, and his moans echo inside my mind instead. I love it
when he makes those noises. Already, it's building at the base of his spine. I watch him through my
 lashes as he fights to keep his reactions contained, his eyes flicking between where I'm invisible on
my knees between his thighs, to the unlocked door and the witch asleep across from us.

As much as I love following rules, I'm self-aware enough to know I like breaking them just as
much. The thought of possibly getting caught on my knees for my husband just flat out does it for
me.

Him too, if his panting and trembling thighs are any indications.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, he pants in my head, as I work his cock as fast as possible.

His dick twitches in my mouth as I pump his base in my hand and swirl my tongue against the
head, pulling back the skin.

Harry is shuddering, and it's intoxicating and powerful, and right before he explodes in my mouth, I
suck him back against the back of my throat.

I gag, which only makes Harry moan louder, but I don't have to worry about making a mess either.

When his release is done, I let him slip from my grip, then kiss the tip of his cock one more time
before I tuck him back into his trousers. I take my seat beside him again before breaking the
charms and pulling the cloak from my head.

"Feel better?" I ask, giggling at his blissed-out face.

"Orgasms always make me feel better," comes from a dreamy voice on the other side of the train
car. "Excellent form of stress relief."

"H-how?" I ask in a panic, fighting down a blush.

How could she have known?

Luna isn't even facing this direction, and I had enough charms on me that Dumbledore himself
couldn't have seen what I was doing down there.

"Don’t have a clue," Harry says with resignation. "She's right though. Best stress relief there is."

Chapter End Notes

Comments make me happy!!! Especially as I'm planning on working on MOD pretty

heavily these next few weeks! Inspire me ❤️❤️❤️
 Chapter 48
Chapter Notes

I had JUST pasted the chapter into A03 when this BEAUTIFUL edit was gifted to me
from Maggie as an early birthday present.

Isn't it gorgeous? Thank you Maggie!!

(May the 4th be with you! The only reason my husband married me, I'm sure. I share a
birthday with Star Wars day.)

I've been watching a ton of historical action movies and series lately, and has anyone
noticed that Wizarding robes are basically clothing between 900-1500 lol?!
 Harry

"Are you ready?" Hermione asks, squeezing my hand while the carriage comes to a stop in front of
the castle.

"As I'm ever going to be," I sigh, looking out through the window at the image of the castle bathed
in moonlight.

"Meaning no," Ron says with a laugh, "but you don't have a choice in the matter."

I groan in frustration and then reach for the handle on the carriage, but Nev shakes his head and
beats me there.

"I need to go first."

Not this.

Not now.
I don't have the patience to put on any more of an act than pretending I don't want to scream all
night long.

"Really?" I ask in a dry tone. "We're doing this?"

"Really," Neville insists. "Professor McGonagall was right about one thing. So was Malfoy.
Everything you've done thus far has been with a very specific purpose. The titles and the way
you've presented yourself…since," he seems to choke on his tongue.

Since .

"Every conversation you've had has been to present yourself as someone to be listened to and
reckoned with. It's even more important now that we're out of the Townhouse and back amongst
the public. I'm assuming you weren't Lord Potter-Black—" his eyes flick to Luna with her head in a
book.

She's not paying attention, and even if she were, she seems to know everything anyway, strange
seer that she is. I distinctly remember her telling me she's glad they sent us back all those months
ago.

"You know, last time?"

Mi bursts into laughter, and I huff out a chuckle.

Neville looks distinctly uncomfortable. It's the first time any of them have acknowledged what
happened last night and what was revealed.

"No. I didn't even know I had an entire inheritance simply sitting there gathering dust, waiting for
me to claim it. Not until we went to the bank this summer. Sirius was never cleared, so I was never
adopted and never accepted either of the titles. Cedric was killed in the final task. The Ministry
told the world I was a disturbed, publicity-seeking imbecile and Voldemort was for sure dead, and
Ron and Mione were constantly fighting because neither could work up the courage to kiss the
other."

Mione scoffs. Ron chokes. Neville bites his tongue.

"By this point last time, I was the laughingstock of the Wizarding World while Voldemort built an
army. You lot were the only ones who would talk to me. Hell, I didn't even know that the nobility
still existed outside of Muggles. If I wasn't in school then I was hidden away, and it's not like that
sort of knowledge is taught at Hogwarts. Though, it makes a lot more sense now why Voldemort
named himself a lord."

"I wish you'd stop saying that name," Ron mumbles under his breath.

Maybe we should.

After all, it's how we got caught. If Riddle placed a taboo on his name last time, there's a good
chance he'll do it again. I'll mention it to Dumbledore.

Neville gives a sharp nod.

"This won't be all that different then," he jokes with a smile. "Once word gets out about the new
peerage and the Bond, people are either going to obsess over you or hate you."

"So yeah, no difference," I snark.

Mi squeezes my hand again.

"The Weasleys and Longbottoms have always been allies in service to the Potters, at least back
when such things were done. Gran says from now until all this is over, we live by the Old Ways.
The grandparents that have been alive since the 1800s will love it. That means when you speak,
you expect to be obeyed. You don't cringe when Dumbledore dips his head to you–you demand it."

His voice gains strength, a lifetime of instruction hidden behind a shy exterior finally pulled to the
surface and put to use.

"From here on out, if we're in public together, I'm to take the lead. Ron, as your second, will be at
your back. One of us will always enter a room before you— always . And we will always be out in
public together because you are never to go anywhere alone. It doesn't matter if you're using the
loo, someone will be standing behind you and to the side."

Merlin. Not only does he sound like his Grandmother, now, but he sounds like Nate too.

Worse yet, he sounds like Draco.

One morning, we got a horribly long lecture that boiled down to how the first through the door is
usually the first person to die. Never lower your defences.

Between Gran and Nate, it sounds like I'll never be allowed to enter a room first ever again.

"Please tell me you're kidding," I beg, but I can tell from the gleam in his eyes he's not.

"What do you think Gran was pounding into my head this morning? 'Etiquette when in service to a
lord ' was her mantra. Better get used to it. I'm more afraid of her than I am of you and she wants us
to emulate the times when the King appointed the council and the only one more powerful than us
was him."

This is not what I had in mind when I said I wanted Nev to gain confidence.

"But all the bowing and scraping?" I whine. "I thought that was relegated to blood purity. Isn't that
why Riddle told the world he's a pureblood? I'm not a pureblood lord. You are a pureblood lord."

"I am," he concedes, "or I will be shortly. I'm a pureblood son born of a pureblood family who has
had a seat on the Witan since the age of Arthur, and my Grandmother, the Minister for Magic, bent
the knee to you . That's the point, Harry. That you and your heritage are worthy of the same respect
as Malfoy is. It's a distinction that we're all willing to die for. Gran told me, in no uncertain terms,
that my sole duty from now until You-Know-Who's body is burned on the pyre, is to be the shield
between you and death."

Bloody fucking hell I hate this. Panic eats at my stomach, tasting like acid-laced fingers clawing up
my throat. The point is I don't want anyone to die. Nobody except Riddle.

Neville isn't done yet.

"The most magically powerful wizard in Britain is a half-blood with a Muggle-born Mate. The time
has come to pick a side, and we need to give them a reason to pick yours. Suck it up, my lord."

With that ominous declaration, Neville pushes the door open and steps outside.

I wait for his signal, then sigh as I climb from the coach.
"I'll give you tonight," I tell him, "but I'm not playing this game all school year. I refuse to be as
pompous as Malfoy!"

"Help Hermione from the coach," he instructs, rolling his eyes and scanning the crowds of students
disembarking from their carriages. But before I reach for her he meets my gaze and wraps his hand
around my wrist. My stomach clenches in terror. When he speaks, his voice is low, meant for my
ears only.

"This isn't a game, Harry. These aren't roles we're playing. It's your new way of life. Our fathers
would have held these positions, just like our grandfathers did before them. Now it's left to us. I
know it's against your nature. Rather than growing up in this world, you were raised to blend into
the background, and being thrust into the light with The Boy Who Lived mantle only made that
inclination stronger.

"But you came back to do things differently this time, and accepting your place in society with
grace and learning to wield your fame for good is about as different as you can get. Look at the
way the Malfoys use their power to get what they want. That same power is within your grasp.
You only have to be brave enough to claim it, and you're the bravest person I know."

I flinch, knowing all too well how the Malfoys use their considerable influence.

"It's not the power that makes someone good or evil, Harry. It's how they wield it. We're with you
in this, as we have been and will be for everything. So yes, you will be playing this part all year
long, and every year after that. Because in the grand scheme of things, people calling you lord and
ceding to your authority will be the easiest part of the fight to come."

He waits for me to acknowledge I understand, then returns to watching the crowds around us.

One of his hands is behind his robes, fingering the blade at the small of his back. I knew he would
grow to become a formidable wizard. I just somehow never realized his strength would be used
against me.

I breathe out deeply through my nose, pushing away every displeasing thought currently rumbling
through my mind and instead focus on the few things I have any real control over.

"Allow me to be of service, my lady," I say with a joking bow when Hermione pops her head out
next.

She grasps a hand around my proffered fingers and gingerly climbs from the carriage. There's a
double-take or two when I link our fingers together, but I resolutely put it out of mind as Neville
assists Luna from the coach.

Ron takes up the rear, his shoulders pulled back and spine straight. He used to slouch, so long and
lanky that he unconsciously made himself smaller.

Not anymore.

He's still long, but now he's broad as a dragon tamer.

Winky has scabbard sketches already completed for when his broadsword arrives. We're searching
for a magical one. Nate sent out feelers about having one made, but magic or not, Ron didn't spend
two months learning to wield a blade for nothing. There are plenty of creatures a sword will kill, no
magic required.

By this time next week, there'll be two of us walking the hallways with swords strapped to our
backs.

Ron doesn't move until I start walking, Neville at our front. I come to a halt on the bottom steps of
the Hogwarts entrance, staring up at the castle.

Neville, with some weird sixth sense he's garnered over the last eight weeks, comes to a stop as
well. With a foot on either step, he looks back over his shoulder. Students winge and grumble as
they flow to the sides to avoid where I'm blocking the walkway.

"I'm not sure I can do this," I confess with my heart in my throat, thinking about being trapped
inside these walls and at the mercy of people I no longer trust.

We aren't trapped, Harry, Hermione says for me alone. We could leave right this instant if we
wanted to. We have backups of our backups, ways to communicate with Sirius and Remus, and
several methods to leave the grounds. It'll be okay.

Pick a colour, she advises and I close my eyes and picture the blue of the sunset over the Quidditch
pitch–when you're as high as the clouds and it seems like the sky goes on forever. Then I will my
heart out of my throat.

"Yes, you can," says Neville in a gentle voice before pushing ahead and leading the way up into
the castle.

He doesn't even give me a chance to respond.

It's either follow or get left behind. When did Neville become bolder than me?

But I guess he's always been brave.

He's simply smart enough not to get dragged into situations that'll get him killed. The first time he
did, following me into the Department of Mysteries, he made it out at my side in one piece.

He deserves more credit.

Hermione squeezes my hand and I can feel her disillusioned rings on her fingers.

"We'll be fine."

Famous last words. At her urging, I pick up my feet and march up the stairs.

The entrance hall is ablaze with torches and the echoing footfalls of students stomping across the
stone floor. The doors leading to the Great Hall are thrown wide, and students file in to await the
Start-of-Term Feast.

My stomach clenches at the sight of the four house tables and the enchanted black ceiling, devoid
of any stars. My gloom reflected back at me from the magically reflected sky.

I used to love sitting at the Gryffindor table.

It was the first place I ever felt like I belonged.

Now, I hate the thought of Malfoy and Luna and every other person I know will join our fight
being so far away.

Hermione is right. House tables don't exactly foster school unity.

No wonder blood purity is still such an issue. You put the majority of the purebloods in the same
House, then don't allow them to socialize with any outside their ilk.

The Great Hall is chaos contained, as students bustle from table to table, shouting to be heard over
hundreds of voices and sharing stories of summer. Eyes follow us as we make our way haltingly
through the bustle, stopping here and there when one of our names is called.

At least the stares aren't hostile this year.

Curiosity is more like it.

Don't forget envy and lust, Hermione adds to my thoughts with a snigger. You look very fanciable,
Harry. All you boys do. I'm probably the envy of the Hall this evening. That, or they all hate my
guts.

Boys surround Hermione.

My paranoia has spread amongst our friends, that's for sure.

I'm surprised Mi is tolerating it, to be honest.

Hermione is holding my hand, Ron's arm is around her shoulders, Neville is walking in front of us,
his hand behind him to grasp Hermione's other fingers and clearing the way forward, while the
Twins have taken up the rear.

They weren't even in our carriage. Simply blended in behind as we hit the entryway.

Luna, I feel behind me, between us and the twins.

I meet Nate's eyes across the room where he's seated at the teacher's table, and he smirks at me,
noticing how without conscious thought we've taken a position of defence.

The only Weasley not with us is Ginny, whom we haven't seen since we departed the Express.

On the one hand, it's incredibly annoying, Hermione answers my non-verbal query. But on the
other hand, I kinda like having my own personal guard.

I laugh out loud at Hermione's mental admission, and some of the tension finally releases from my
shoulders.

"I'll see you guys later," Luna says dreamily as she drifts off to the Ravenclaw table.

Hermione slides onto the bench in the middle of the Gryffindor table, and the others take seats
around her.

I remain on my feet.

"Stay here," I say, leaning down towards her but my eyes scanning the head table. I turn my face to
meet my wife's eyes. "I'll be right back."

"Harry?" she questions, and I swear she rubs against the inside of my head like a cat.

"I'm going to go have a little chat with the Headmaster."

Her immediate worry eats along my spine.

She lifts her hand to cup my cheek, and I swallow back my fear of everybody seeing and instead
lean into her touch. Catcalls and whistles fill the air from those close enough to see until Neville
snaps at someone to shut the fuck up.

Well.

"You shouldn't go alone," Nev says, already rising from the table.

Ron follows him.

I open my mouth to tell them to keep their bums on the bench then swallow back my rebuke. This
has all been for a reason…

"Fine," I concede. "Ron, with me. Nev, stay with Mi. Start spreading the word about the meeting
after the feast. Tell people it's McGonagall's request. That'll make them more willing to wait for
us."

"My lord," Nev and Ron say as one, as if they'd been practising while my back was turned.

Deep breath, Harry. Deeeep breath.

Inheritance rights and creature rights and stripping blood purists of their positions of authority.
Preventing Riddle from getting a foothold in the Ministry. If I have to be a lord then they're gonna
have to pay for it.

Ron takes his place behind me and slightly to the side, just as Neville told him to. Even our school
robes have been altered slightly at the behest of Winky. Ron and I both wear vests over our shirts
and the cape Ron was kitted out in this morning still trails over his back rather than the traditional
Hogwarts robes.

"Please don't bite his head off," Mi pleads. "I don't want to start off the school year with you in
detention for the foreseeable future."

I chuckle under my breath.

"I'll do my best."

I bring her hand to my lips and drop a kiss onto her palm before I turn and straighten my robes.

"You okay with just standing back and watching?" I ask without looking behind me.

"What? You mean you don't want me to help you duel Professor Dumbledore?" Ron mocks.
"Consider me gutted. Believe it or not, I did receive the same lectures that Nev and the Prat got
growing up. Or, some version of it at least. We're Sacred Twenty-Eight, even if we've never been
titled. Too involved with our Muggle counterparts when the wizard/Muggle split took place. We've
always lived close to Muggle boroughs and warded our neighbor's homes. If Playing Prince is the
path we're taking, then I know my role in the game."

I slow my stride to allow Ron to step beside me. He lowers his chin and I drop my voice so no one
will overhear.

"Nev says it's not a game. It's a way of life."

Ron shakes his head, eyes sweeping the gathered crowd.

"For once I have to agree with the ferret on something. This, '" he says, sweeping his hand down
his high-end clothed body, "may be how Nev was raised, but it's most certainly a game, and
whoever plays it best wins. Which is why my dad's office is a broom cupboard. I'm sure you've
noticed by now that Weasleys don't do well with rules. Difference is that until my family absorbed
the Boy Who Lived, we had very little reason to observe the niceties. Now we do."

I almost trip over my feet trying to hold back my laugh. I don't think I've ever heard a more
accurate description of my time with the Weasley clan.

My heart is thundering in my chest as we make our way to the head table, dodging curious glances
and hellos as we go. My house rings are visible on my fingers, even if the wedding ring is not, and
it's making me dizzy the way people's eyes flick to my hands, then my face, then away again
before they get caught gawking.

I'm the only Head of House currently enrolled at Hogwarts—at least until Augusta is officially
sworn in—and I'm…well… me . With an entourage much larger than just Ron and Hermione this
term.

Tomorrow is going to be a thousand times worse. I don't know what I was thinking, agreeing to
come back to school. Hermione better realize how much I love her.

I do.

I take a fortifying breath as we hit the open space between student seating and the professors’ dais.

We're still missing about half the teachers at the head table.

Neither Professor Grubbly-Plank, whom I'm assuming is making her way across the lake with the
First Years, nor Professor McGonagall are anywhere to be found.

Flitwick is probably with the choir, prepping them to sing. But Snape and Dumbledore are sitting
side by side, their heads bent together and talking in low voices.

Snape snaps his jaw shut and glares at me as I breach the stairs for the Professor's dais. I feel it as
he attempts to breach my defences, but my Occlumency shields hold strong, and I smirk in his
direction.

There's no way Remus could have gotten close enough to Snape to obliviate my outburst from his
memory. Snape, for sure, knows I'm from the future. I haven't decided what to do about that yet.

It's a problem for another day.

Dumbledore smiles as I approach, already partially lifted from his chair.

"Headmaster, may I speak with you for a moment?" I turn to look Snape in the eye. "In private," I
add in clipped tones. I can feel the anxiety pulsing off my best friend behind me.

Dumbledore rises from the table before I finish asking my question.

"Of course, my lord." He looks at the man beside us. "Severus, if you'll excuse us."

My lord.

It's really started then. Hermione is right. They should teach a class on wizarding culture First Year
at Hogwarts and not just the basics of magic.

"Certainly, Headmaster," Snape says with elongated vowels and ice in his voice. "I'm sure Lord
Potter has need of you, to save him from whatever mess he's made for himself this time." His eyes
flick over my shoulder. "I see he has his nursemaid with him as well."

Dumbledore closes his eyes and breathes heavily through his nose before pushing in his chair.

Ron kicks the back of my foot.

"Harry is fine, Professor, when we're out of the public eye."

Another dip of Dumbledore's head.

"I think this way then, Harry. We'll be less disturbed back here."

I follow him to the hidden door that leads to the antechamber, where the other contestants and I
met after our names were drawn from the Goblet of Fire last year.

So little has changed since I was last in this room, yet everything is completely different.

Most overtly, the man standing in front of me.

Once, I thought of him as a saviour. The grandfather I never had, trying to protect me from myself.
Now though? I don't think he's a villain, but I don't trust him anymore. Not like I once did.

Ron walks no further than the entryway, taking a position directly in front of the door. He grips one
wrist in the other hand and stands stick straight with his shoulders back, looking anywhere but at
us.

"So, my dear boy. Did you pull me aside as a witness while you admired the furnishings, or did
you have something you wanted to say? As fine as the stonework is, we do have other things to see
to tonight."

His flippantly dismissive tone catches me off guard. He's usually more placating than that,
especially when he knows I'm upset.

Good.

I don't have the talent to mince words anyway.

"I want to know how you could possibly justify putting Hermione at risk like this? The excuse you
gave Professor McGonagall about Mi's last name changing is bullshite and we both know it. It
would take you less than a minute to adjust Hermione's name on the rosters."

He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he does so.

"Speak plainly, Dumbledore. No word games, no twinkling of your eyes, no flattery or other
misdirections. Convince me why you think this is the best thing to do."

He breathes in harshly through his nose, before giving me a small smile.

"Don't be foolish, Harry. It doesn't become you. Yes, I could change her name on the roster, but her
name makes little difference in the grand scheme of things. The Bond has certain requirements, and
one of those is physical closeness. Do you believe I'm not aware of Lady Potter-Black's nighttime
jaunts before you knew of your Bindings? I can't have you coupling all over the castle, and I can't
have your wife sneaking in and out of the boys' dormitories every morning and night. You must
share a room. Your union, blessed by Magic, must come out, for both of your sakes."
I laugh darkly at the excuse. Playing to teenage boy's hormones.

Smart.

"You're saying you're announcing the Bond so that we can shag?" I ask bluntly.

"Don't be crude."

The old man looks like he tastes something foul.

"But essentially, yes. You wanted the truth, and that is the truth. I know you've figured it out for
yourself, the intricacies of your union. It's not only physical. It's emotional. Magical. You must be
close to her for your well-being as well as hers. That closeness comes at a cost. It is going to cause
rumours and innumerable complications. Complications that would rouse even the mildest man to
irritation. You are not a mild man. Excuse me, Harry, if I don't quite trust your temper."

I almost laugh at that.

Almost.

Ron does , smothering it swiftly.

"Since I can't have you or Lady Potter-Black," he pauses and sends a significant look towards
Ron's position by the door. "Or others for that matter, hexing every person that insinuates your
impending parenthood, the easiest thing for all is to give the reason for your young marriage. It is
for your benefit, first and foremost, that we announce the Bond."

"No. It's not! Convenience for convenience's sake is not a good enough excuse for putting
Hermione in danger, and you know it. Don't you feel bad at all, about putting a target on my wife's
back?"

His shoulders sloop slightly, so small I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't taken to studying his every
gesture and pouring over in my head every interaction we've ever had.

"That is regrettable. But it must be done."

"For the greater good, huh, Dumbledore?"

His blue eyes flash, his back straightening just a tad. I can almost hear his brain whirring behind
his half-moon glasses, hearing that old motto slip from between my lips.

"The fact that this gives our side a stronger foothold is just an accidental benefit, I'm sure. The
Chosen One with a Bonded Mate , sealed an hour before Voldemort's return. A happy coincidence,
that its news will certainly move the public's opinion to our side of the aisle," I say in my best
Draco imitation.

He doesn't rise to the bait.

He looks down his nose at me, and once upon a time, I would have withered like a dead plant in
the sun under that stare.

But I'm not that same boy anymore.

He saw to that.

"What exactly are you accusing me of?" he asks with a curious lilt to his voice.
"I'm accusing you of using the information to your advantage and putting your schemes above my
wife's safety. You told me once, that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.
I'm asking you for that help now."

I take a step closer, my hands shaking at my sides.

"Help me keep her off of Voldemort's radar. Please, don't do this, Dumbledore."

His shoulders soften, but it's the only indication he gives that my pleas haven't fallen on deaf ears.

"I'm sorry Harry, truly I am. But it's quite out of the question. I know you loathe being the centre of
attention, and after last year, you wish nothing more than to slink back into obscurity. But, if I may
be so blunt, as wondrous as it is, the Bond makes you dangerous, and I can't have a threat as big as
the one you possess wandering the halls without giving fair notice. You're a magnet for trouble,
and it's only going to get worse."

That's...I let out a painful sigh and smack my hand against my leg.

"Me? You're blaming this on me," I say with a dead voice. "But you can allow professors with
Dark Wizards attached to the back of their heads, and Death Eaters in disguise–or not so disguised–
not only to walk the halls but have authority over children. Authority that they use to abuse,
demean, and demoralize any student who they see fit! You can allow underage students to be
thrown into deadly competitions which they are nowhere near prepared for—"

I cut myself off with a snap of my jaw. Ron has eased away from the door, coming to stand behind
me. A soft hand lands on my shoulder, offering silent support and a gentle rebuke.

Dammit.

I'm yelling and proving Dumbledore's point.

I suck in a shuddering breath and run my hand over the blade strapped to my thigh.

This isn't the time for that fight.

"Fine," I say with an even voice. "Announce the Bond, but don't mention Hermione and me—"

"Harry," he interrupts, but I keep talking over him.

I don't raise my voice, but I don't slow down either.

"Look, it's as simple as this: if you want Hermione and me to remain at Hogwarts, then you won't
announce the Bond between us. If you must, tell the students there's a set of Bonded-Mates in the
castle this year, but they've asked to remain nameless, for their privacy. Explain the dangers. Warn
them that if they mess with my wife, I won't hesitate to defend her by whatever means necessary.
But, again, don't name us, not tonight.

"Hermione and I have made arrangements, but we need a day or two for things to play out. It won't
be a secret for long, I promise. We'll tell Gryffindor House tonight, after the feast. The word is
already going around the table that there's a meeting in the common room before bed. Tomorrow
morning, on the front page of the Daily Prophet , there'll be an announcement about the first set of
Bonded-Mates to grace our shores in almost half a millennium, with comments from the Ministry,
Gringotts, and a handful of other prominent Light-side elements. It'll be worldwide news before the
weekend is out."
For the first time in my recollection, Dumbledore looks surprised.

Good.

It's time he realized he's no longer in charge.

What did Malfoy say? I can't brute force everything. I straighten my back as stiff as it'll go and
meet the headmaster stare for stare.

"I'm asking as a favour. I can't have it announced at the feast tonight. I'm sorry, but I won't allow it.
I know my limitations, or at least, I'm trying to. Five hundred people in my face, asking questions I
have no desire to answer? That's a hard limit. Let it play out in your mind, Headmaster. It wouldn't
end well for anyone. However, if we let the knowledge slip out in pieces? That, I can handle."

His eyes soften, as I confirm a weakness it pains me to admit.

"You're putting it into the Prophet? I confess to being shocked! That's a bold move, Harry. Bold
indeed."

"I'm tired... we're tired of being controlled. Even by those who think they have our best interests at
heart. You pressed my hand, as you very well know. Desperate times call on desperate measures.
Mi convinced me that there was zero chance of our Binding remaining a secret. Fine. I'll concede
the point. But if it's going to come out, it's not going to be announced by the great
Albus Dumbledore, with me hiding behind his robes. I understand I'm going to be the face of this
war, whether I want it or not. But I'll do it on my terms, not yours."

The Headmaster bows his head in a sign of acknowledgement.

"Very sensible."

"You announce the presence of shy Bonded-Mates at the Feast. Let me reveal that it's us in our
dorms, on our terms. They'll talk, of course, but Gryffindor loyalty runs deep. They'll keep it
contained as much as they can. Tomorrow, the Prophet will announce that Mates walk the earth
again, and not only are they not pureblooded or among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but that one is a
Muggle-born, and what does that mean for blood purists' bigotry that Magic blessed a half-blood
and the granddaughter of a squib with a singularly sacred Bond?"

His smirk is back.

"The public announcement should make enough of an impression to keep Wizarding Britain
thinking for a few weeks. We've made arrangements with Amelia Bones and the DMLE this
morning at breakfast for them to monitor our mail for curses and the like before it's sent on to
Hogwarts.

"Only a handful of students get the paper. By the time owls start arriving from home with parents
asking their children questions about us, classes will be in session, and it'll be much harder to pin us
down."

Dumbledore looks taken aback. And rather proud.

"That was logical and well thought out. Your delivery was flawless as well. Enough force to expect
to be obeyed but with enough humanity to make me want to do so. I also rather enjoyed the use of
my name to make your point and my title to seal the deal.

"I see your summer spent alongside Mr Malfoy has begun to reap dividends. Salazar Slytherin
himself could not have done it better. Mighty impressive, seeing as I gave you as little warning as
possible about the announcement, hoping to minimize your opportunity to do something rash and
foolish."

Once again, Ron attempts to smother his snort.

"I know you did," I mumble under my breath.

My lips tip up despite my effort to keep the scowl on my face.

"I'll be sure to give Hermione your praise," I say louder. "Naturally, the paper was her idea. I was
all for the rash and foolish route. Preferably, if it included hitting people. I almost got my wish
when Rita Skeeter showed up on our doorstep at seven this morning."

Dumbledore laughs out loud, delight bare on his face.

"A horrible way to start the day. Skeeter is a ghastly woman, to be sure."

"My spectacular wife is more than a match for her," I say with a smile, and Dumbledore laughs
again. His eyes take on a solemn glint.

"If I may offer some advice?"

I give the smallest of nods.

"Knowledge is power, Harry. I understand your need to direct the story, and I agree with it
wholeheartedly. But be careful how much you share. Do you think it necessary to announce Lady
Potter-Black’s heritage? Some secrets should be kept close to the vest."

I'm so sick of secrets.

"Some secrets, but not all. Frankly, I'm exhausted just thinking about it. Don't you get tired,
Dumbledore, trying to remember what lie you've told and to whom?"

I don't give him a chance to answer.

"Hermione isn't ashamed of where she came from, and neither am I. She didn't know her
Grandmother was a squib until the summer between Second and Third year. Neither did her
parents. When her Grandmother left the Wizarding world and married a Muggle man, she never
talked about magic again. The only reason it came out to begin with was Mi left a schoolbook in
the open and her Grandmother found it. Hermione is Muggle-born, but magic isn't stolen like the
blood purists would have you believe. It's part of her heritage. Maybe the knowledge that she has a
magical lineage, far back as it may be, will help people understand that."

“Excuse me, gentleman,” says Professor McGonagall, sticking her head briefly into the backroom.

Ron twists and pulls his wands dropping into a position of defence between me and the door. It’s a
long, thick and tense moment where the four of us seem to hold our breath.

Ron is shaking when he lowers his wands. However, he doesn't stow them away.

"Apologies, Professor."

A fight of emotions dances across McGonagall's face.

"Five points to Gryffindor," she finally says with obvious pride. "You do your house, both inside
Hogwarts and familiar, proud."

Ron blushes like he's been dipped in potion but then jerks his chin in that silent nod of respect
we've all grown so competent in this summer.

McGonagall's eyes tighten when they land on me, and my shoulders tense with the memory that at
this time yesterday, I was on my knees crying in front of her and she was stuck in the storm.

“The First Years are in position and the other students are getting antsy. I suggest you wrap this up
before we start the sorting without you.”

Her face softens just enough for me to see it, before pulling back into it’s usual no-nonsense lines.

"Thank you, Minerva. Lord Potter and I are almost finished. We will be out in just a moment."

Minerva bows her neck in agreement and departs from the room with a tiny smile.

“Harry, would you truly leave Hogwarts?" the Headmaster verifies, looking at me curiously. He
almost seems hurt at the prospect.

I look the taller man square in the eye.

"I don't want to be here to begin with. There are more important things for me to be doing than
attending classes, as you very well know."

His eyes flash, but he doesn't say a word.

"But Hermione thinks this is the best place for us for now, and I want her to be happy."

He runs his hand down his beard in a contemplative manner.

"Then, Harry, it will be as you say," he says with a jovial tone. "I will warn of the risk you present,
should some enterprising young student think to test the resolve of your Bonding to Lady Potter-
Black, but give no more than that. You are correct, of course. News of it will spread through the
castle like Fiendfyre, whether I announce it tonight or not. But, if we let it happen organically, it
will be much easier to deal with. I just ask that should a situation arise that catches your ire, you
use restraint and discretion."

Restraint.

Funny.

"I'll try; but I can't make any promises. Sometimes...sometimes I can't help it," I admit. "I react,
then blink and realise what I've done."

What is it that Dumbledore does? Give out scraps of information to make you feel like you're being
included while keeping the most important to yourself? My turn, I guess.

"There was an incident this summer, I'm sure you've already heard. With the Aurors. It's gotten
better, but..." I shrug.

Then there was the other incident.

I think about Ron unconscious on the floor, his magic floating above his head, and what little
provocation it took to make that happen. I'd never get close enough to Riddle to use that spell on
him. Not and live to tell the tale. But the knowledge that I could, at my discretion, strip my enemies
of their ability to harm us, is always in the back of my mind. How many people are going to make
me their enemy?

Ron touches my shoulder again, knowing where my mind wandered.

"All I ask is that you try, my dear boy."

He turns, then stops and looks at me again.

"What would you have done, had I agreed to not announce the Bond?" he asks me shrewdly.

"Nothing, except I would have known you had my best interest at heart," I reply, trying not to let
him see how upset I still am that he wouldn't put our needs first.

"The paper is coming out tomorrow no matter what. It's too late to stop that train. We’ve already
sent out word about meeting in the common room after the Feast. But, it would have been a step in
the direction of regaining the trust you've lost."

Dumbledore purses his lips, before seeming to rally.

"While it is on my mind–are you prepared for the opening session of the Wizengamot?"

My expression must be as blank as I feel.

"As both a Potter and the first to carry the Black title in nigh on fifteen years, you have a seat on
the Wizengamot. Two, to be exact. If you want your vote to count, which you do, then you must
attend. Especially the first meeting of the legislative session."

I open my mouth but shut it again when I fail to deliver an appropriate response.

Albus laughs, full out and lighter than I've ever seen him produce, before he schools his expression
back to something almost like pity.

"I suggest you sit down with Lord Longbottom, and perhaps Mr Malfoy as well, and put that
wonderful mind you share with your wife to work. You have some memorization to do before
Thursday next."

With a sigh of exhaustion, I bob my head, acknowledging that for all the work we've done, there's
still so much to do.

"Your cloak, I think, Harry. No need to start the rumour mill churning before the feast even starts."

At his suggestion, I jerk my chin in Ron’s direction and wait for him to slide up beside me. I pull
the cloak from the pouch on my hip and slip it around our shoulders. Fifth Year must have been
when it started getting too small to hide us all together. Add in the bulk we've gained this summer
and it's a rather tight fit.

I doubt many people watched us come back here with Dumbledore, and even fewer are waiting for
us to return. But better safe than sorry. The Headmaster tilts his head and gives me an inquiring
look.

"One last thing, before we part. Next Saturday, at six, for our first meeting, if that is convenient for
you?"

I almost tell him no.

He tenses as if expecting it.

"That's fine," I assure him. "I'm looking forward to what you have to say." While cataloguing
everything you don't. "Also, though he's sworn to be at Mione's side, I'm trying to protect Malfoy
as much as possible. If you could arrange so that in the two classes they share without me they
have assigned seats where Mione and Draco sit together, I'd consider it a personal favour."

"It will be done!" he promises before I've even finished. "Ready to brave the horde?"

I twirl my fingers to give him the okay then pull the hood over our heads.

"I'm going to start carrying one of the spare cloaks," Ron grumbles into my hair.

With a wordless acknowledgement, Dumbledore tips his head in our direction then makes a show
of opening the door. We slip out before him unnoticed, not bothering to become visible again until
I push bodily between my best friend and my wife.

Everything okay? Hermione asks, taking my hand under the table.

We came to an understanding, I reply, then face the teachers’ table when the Hall is called to
order.

"Was the Sorting Hat's song the same as last time, you reckon? All warnings and doomsday and
such?" Ron asks in a low voice, already shovelling food onto his plate.

"Word for word," I confirm, picking up a pitcher and pouring Hermione and me a drink.

She pulls out one of the vitamin potions and drips it inside my cup, though I don't really need it
anymore.

"As was Dumbledore's little spiel."

"That's kinda freaky, right?" Ron confirms, and a shudder rips through my body, like a ghost
walking over my grave.

"You have no idea," I tell him, leaning in close so we aren't overheard.

"Every time it happens, I get all dizzy and nauseous. It's not happening as often anymore. The de ́
ja ̀ vu shite. Probably because we've already changed so much. It was awful when summer first
started. But it's still batty as hell whenever something repeats."

"Mental," Ron agrees, shaking his head.

"Why are there so many firsties this year?" George asks through a mouthful of food.

I lean forward over the table, taking a look at the number of little people littered up and down the
benches.

George is right.

There are more than usual.

There were only twelve in Gryffindor in our sorting. It looks like we have close to thirty now. I
didn't realize there were so many during our last go at this year. Though, I did have other things on
my mind at the time.
"It makes sense," Hermione chimes in. "The war was over; people were celebrating life. I bet the
next few years will have more children enrolled than normal before it evens out again."

"Gross," Ron whinges. "So, what you're saying is, all these midget's folks were shagging twelve
years ago."

Mi huffs and rolls her eyes.

"Yes, Ronald. That is how babies are made. Your folks had quite a few of them. Think about how
often your mummy and daddy must have shagged."

Every Weasley within earshot gives Hermione a scathing look.

"Not cool, Mione!" Ron hisses, looking like he might be sick.

I can't help laughing at the disgust on his face. He drops his fork onto his plate as if he can't
contemplate eating after that.

"So whenja two hook up?" Seamus asks, pointing his fork between Mi and me with a bite of food
still on the end.

I stiffen in my seat, but Hermione just shrugs around her glass of pumpkin juice.

"End of last term," she says with a bored voice. "We got married in the Great Hall. Don't you
remember?"

Neville spits juice out of his mouth, spraying half the table and Ron chokes on his food.

I have to pound on his back, flicking my head back and forth between my purple best friend and my
wife. Silence falls around us at the table until Seamus bursts into laughter.

He bangs his hand on the wood, rattling the dishes, and laughing so hard his eyes start to water.

"Tat was a good one, Mione. Ya almost had me there. Married in the Great Hall," he peters off,
saving all his air for his chuckles and wiping at his eyes.

Everyone else joins in with the merriment, those that know the truth with grimaces and harsh
painful laughs and nasty looks at Hermione as they try to regain their composure.

"Yeah. Funny!" I snap, giving her a hard stare and trying not to boil over.

"Oh, lighten up, Harry!" Mi says grinning, swatting me lightly on the arm.

The rest of the feast passes in playful banter, until the Headmaster rises to his feet and the tables
clear of the mostly empty dishes.

My heart thuds out of my chest, and I tighten my fists when sparks start to dance over my palms.

"Now that we've all had our fill of that delicious feast, we have a few start of term notices to go
over. All first years should know that the Forbidden Forest is strictly off-limits, and a few of our
older students would do well to remember this as well."

Usually, knowing that I was one of those students would make me laugh, or at least smile good-
naturedly. However, I'm trying so hard not to puke, the feast twisting around in my stomach like
snakes, that I can't even work up a grimace for him.
Try not to look like your world is caving in, Hermione sends me. It won't be bad as all that.

Yeah.

Says her.

"Mr Filch, our caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four-hundred-and-sixty-second
time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in the corridors between classes, nor are a
number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr
Filch's office door.

"We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor
Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to
introduce Professor Smythe, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"I'm going to throw up," I say out loud.

"It is rather horrible, isn't it?" Hermione agrees, her head tilted to the side to repel the word for
word speech from our last Fifth Year.

"Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of
House as usual."

The Headmaster takes a deep breath and looks at all the students.

"As everybody knows, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining
strength."

Unsurprisingly, the tension levels in the Great Hall rise precipitously as students lean closer
together, taking comfort and strength from their friends.

"I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous the present situation is, and how much care
each of us at Hogwarts must take to ensure we remain safe. The castle's magical fortifications have
been strengthened over the summer, and the Ministry has assigned a contingent of Aurors to guard
the castle and its grounds morning and night. I urge you, therefore, to abide by any security
restrictions that your teachers might impose upon you, however irksome you might find them - in
particular, the rule that you are not to be out of bed after hours. I implore you, should you notice
anything strange or suspicious within the castle and its grounds , to report it to a member of staff
immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves, always, with the utmost regard for your own and
others' safety."

Dumbledore's blue eyes sweep over the students before he smiles once more.

"Last but not least: we had an auspicious event occur at the end of last term in this very Hall, and
we were all quite unaware of the fact until just recently. Hogwarts is playing host this year to
Britain's first set of Bonded-Mates in nearly four centuries. Gringotts and the Ministry have each
confirmed the validity of the Bond, and it has been sealed into the official record books."

Immediately the tension breaks, with gasps and cries of delight scattered throughout the Great Hall.

"Fred!" I snap, and point my head towards Seamus, who's sputtering in shock and pointing at me
and Hermione. Fred grabs him by the back of the neck and shakes him like a dog.

"Shut up until we get back to the Common room," Fred hisses into his ear.
"What?" Seamus says, still gaping like a moron, looking between us and Fred. "Oh yeah!" he
babbles excitedly, realization dawning on his face. "Yeah! Sorry, Harry! Me bad."

He's vibrating with excitement in his seat.

My eyes scan the other students, looking for I don't know what. Anything that indicates they know
it's us, and are going to make a move to assassinate Hermione in the middle of the Great Hall.

Ridiculous, I know, but I can't help the panic that's crawling up my throat and the way my palms
itch from nerves.

Please don't kill anybody , she begs, her eyes doing a similar sweep.

I can't make any promises, I admit, trying to keep my face comparable to those around me.

Dumbledore raises his hands, and silence blankets the Hall as if he cast the charm.

But even Dumbledore isn't that good, because as soon as his hands lower, a simmering level of
chatter breaks out between the students again.

"The couple has asked for privacy, so that they may speak to those closest to them first, and
acclimate to being back in the castle with so many people. Those of you raised on bedtime stories
of Bonded-Mates know how overwhelming the Bond can be, and a thousand questions from a
thousand students will only make that worse.

"I know it's exciting, and you will be able to tell your grandchildren that you were there when the
Bond was sealed or attended school with the pair. But, it is my duty as your Headmaster, and their
friend, to warn you that should a Bonded-Mate feel there is a danger to their Other, nothing in this
life or the next will stop them from protecting their Bonded."

Dumbledore waits while the rising gossip dies back down again.

"The connection between Bond-Mates is sacred. It is a magical binding that cannot be broken.
History is littered with stories of those that attempted to get between Mates, or to harm a Bonded-
Mate, only to pay the price with their lives. It is a fascinating subject, truly. Madam Prince has
added several books to the Hogwarts collection for those who would like to verify the romanticism
of the overprotectiveness of Bonded Mates, and the punishments dealt to those that have
challenged them."

"Who is it?" someone yells, and a hundred other voices follow.

I meet Draco's eyes from across the room, and he tilts his chin, a silent acknowledgement that he
has Hermione's back.

The Headmaster smiles brightly, and shakes his head in refusal to tell.

"That is for them to announce and for them alone. Have no fear, however, that you will anger them
on accident by not knowing their identities. All who gazes upon their Bond will quickly realize the
truth of it. Should a student, or teacher, for that matter, attempt to amuse themselves by eliciting a
reaction from our Mates, neither I nor the Aurors roaming our hallways, will be able to protect you.
Please keep in mind that in the Wizengamot, a Bonded-Mate cannot be held responsible for their
actions when defending their other half. Some things are stronger than mortal men, and the
connection between Bonded-Mates is one of them.

"Now!" he says, smiling after that ominous warning. "Your beds await, as warm and comfortable as
you would wish. Off you go! Pip pip!"

The room explodes into noise, the scraping of benches across stone floors and the excited babble
of hundreds of students trying to guess the identity of the Mates.

Not one person looks at Hermione and me.

The band wrapped tight around my chest, squeezing my lungs until I can't breathe without getting
dizzy, loosens its hold some.

I can handle Gryffindor House.

Seamus jumps the table and hauls Hermione in for a hug.

She bursts into surprised giggles, not even able to hug him back before he's laying a kiss on her
cheek and taking off through the crowd, hurrying to catch up with Dean.

"See!" Hermione grins. "I don't know what you were so worried about."

It's not the Gryffindors that make me nervous.

Hermione stands on the bench and starts calling the Gryffindor first years over to us.

"Fred, George, go stop students from heading to bed, would ya?" I tell them. "We're going to help
the Prefects with the Firsties. As soon as we get there, we'll make the announcement."

The twins both nod, and with Lee between them, take off towards the common room.

"Ah man, do we gotta?" Ron complains. "The midgets are so squirrely."

"Yes," I say with a laugh.

"Be nice to them!" Hermione admonishes, looking down at Ron. "They're already scared of you."

Terrified looks more like. Their eyes keep darting to Ron and me, then flicking away again with
pink cheeks and a hitch in their breath. I find it kind of amusing this time, rather than it making me
furious.

It's a long walk up to Gryffindor House, not being able to take the usual shortcuts.

Hermione thinks we should get them used to the regular path before we show them the
passageways. She's right, of course, but it feels like it takes forever until we get there.

"Mimbulus mimbletonia," Nev says with a huge smile at me over his shoulder when we get to the
portrait, and the little ones watch with awe as Ron demonstrates how to climb through the portrait
hole.

The common room is awash with noise, a hundred bodies taking up space and trying to talk over
each other. The twins catch my eye, then stand on the knee-high sitting table between the cluster of
couches.

My heart is in my throat again, nerves instead of fear. Hermione's heart is pounding. All eyes turn
to the twins as they try to bring order to the turmoil.

"Quiet you lot! We have an announcement to make!"

"Where's Professor McGonagall?" someone asks, others standing on tiptoes and looking around.

"She didn't call this meeting, we did."

Complaints start in earnest, as some of the older students turn to head towards the stairs to their
dorms.

"Fine," Fred says. "If you don't want to know–"

"Who the Bonded Mates are, then..." George teases.

Squeals of excitement erupt around us.

"Too late to back out now," Ron mumbles, leaning down and whispering into my ear.

"I don't want to back out," Hermione replies delightedly, grinning as wide as I've ever seen her.

She wants to scream it from the Astronomy Tower.

Her smile makes me smile, even if I'm terrified.

"If Fred and George are finally announcing their marriage," Angelina jokes, "then most of us
already suspected!"

Laughter breaks out among the Gryffindors, as George gives Angelina a forbidden hand gesture.

They jump down from the table, and motion for me to take their spot. I take a deep breath, my
hands shaking like crazy and my vision blurry from how dizzy I am.

"They're not announcing their marriage. I am," I say as I take a step onto the table, then hold my
breath for the explosion.

I'm not disappointed. It's like a blast wave of sound against my face.

"No way!"

"You're shitting me."

"Of course, it’s fucking Potter!"

"It's Lord Potter, you wanker!" one of the twins yells back. "If McGonagall refers to him by his
title, you lot better as well!"

I lift my hands in a pleading manner, and the room falls, if not silent, then as quiet as I think it's
going to get.

"First, I need you to promise to keep what we're about to tell you to yourselves. It's going to get out.
We made an announcement in the paper. But if a friend from another house asks a question, just
tell them no comment, okay? We're Gryffindors! Brave of Heart, and we protect our own!"

A roar goes up from the crowd and fists rise into the air, the older students grinning, the younger
students looking at the teenagers towering over them with awe and a little bit of wonder on their
faces.

I lean down and grasp Hermione's hand, yanking her onto the table with me.
She laughs and almost falls right off again, until I gather her in my arms. Immediately the chatter
picks up, comments and questions running rampant.

"It's fucking Potter and Granger!" Seamus yells, jumping up and down.

I yell right back at him.

"Nope, Seamus. Her name isn't Granger. It's Lady Hermione Potter-Black. May I introduce you all
to my wife, Bonded by magic itself."

The room explodes into noise, ten times as loud as it was in our kitchen all those months ago.

It's louder than when we celebrated as a House the day I won the egg, louder than when we won
house Cups or Quidditch championships. Questions come flying from every direction imaginable,
and I laugh from the sheer ridiculousness of it. I cannot possibly be heard over the deafening noise
in the common room.

Not so surprising though, nobody looks surprised.

Excited, as if it makes perfect sense.

Because it does.

I still can't believe we didn't see it before. I kiss her deeply, because how can I not when she looks
so lovely and screams of delight and encouragement rip through the air.

"Go, Harry, Go!" someone yells, though I have no idea who.

Those who ignored the meeting summons are drawn back down from the dorms simply by its
sheer intensity. People pull at us from every direction, and I hold Hermione closer to me, and try to
bring some semblance of calm into the disorder.

Hermione hides her face in my shoulder, while the Weasley's attempt to bring the room back to
order.

I can't help but laugh at the looks on people's faces: excitement, disbelief.

One of the Seventh-Year girls is openly weeping into her best friend's arms. Their enthusiasm is
infectious. I lift my hands again, Hermione's arms still tight around my waist, her cheek against my
chest.

The talk dies down, but not as far as before.

"Does anyone remember me completely losing my head when they called the contestants for the
final task last term, and I responded by climbing over the table?"

“Yes!”

“Oh My God!”

“I remember!”

“I saw it!”

I nod in agreement and grin.

"Well, I kissed her, because I figured if I was going to die, then I didn't want to die without having
done it at least once."

"Took him long enough!" Hermione shouts with a laugh and every girl in the room laughs with her.

"The light!" Lavender squawks, bringing her hands to cover her mouth.

"The light," I confirm. "That was the Bond, sealing. But because Hermione and I were both raised
by Muggles, we didn't know until the bank told us after summer hols had already started."

Another round of questions breaks off at that, some people flat out laughing at us.

Parvati is fanning Lavender, who's had to take a seat on the stairs to keep from passing out,
apparently.

Ron decides to get his two cents in.

"If you think you guys are surprised," he hollers, from where he's perched on the edge of a couch,
"you should have seen their faces."

Laughter erupts en masse at that announcement.

"It's true," Hermione confirms. "We went to the bank with Harry and his Godfather so they could
finalize Harry's adoption, only to be told there's no point, because Harry is already emancipated,
married, and legally Lord Potter and Black. Don't ! ask me what my parents said when we told
them!"

Groans and peals of giggles scatter amongst our audience, as a hundred people imagine telling their
parents that they accidentally got married at age fifteen.

I wait until it calms down again before I continue.

"As amazing as this has been though, we need your help. You all know Voldemort is back. He
wants me dead, more than anything. This means that Hermione is now in more danger than you
could possibly imagine."

Tension filled quiet falls like a sheet.

"We'll need your help to control the rumours. If your parents send you owls asking questions, tell
them you don't know. If your friends ask you what we do when we're hanging in the common
room, tell them it's none of their business. If they ask us about our dorm, tell them to bugger off."

Colin Creevy, of all people, is the one that asks the awkward question.

"You guys are going to share a dorm room?" he asks in his puberty altered voice, squeaking before
he clears his throat.

"Of course they are, morons," Ron says rudely, and Colin blushes a horrible shade of red. "They're
married!"

"We're in the head students' dorm since Gryffindor doesn't have a head boy or girl this year. That
information you had better keep to yourselves! It's locked and warded, so don't think that you can
sneak in and use it to snog in private!"

Another wave of laughter and guilty looks breaks out over our friends.
"Last year, during the Twi-Wizard Tournament, you lot were the only ones who had my back. We
need you again this term."

Cries of support and 'you can count on us' reach us from all corners. Hermione brings her thumb to
her eye and wipes away a tear from under her lashes.

Ignoring the hundred-plus students around, I kiss her on her forehead and feel her sigh against me.

"One last thing before we let you go. We're starting a Defence Club. The first meeting will be the
second Saturday of term, hopefully. You're all welcome to join. That, you can tell your friends
about. We've already gotten it approved with the Headmaster. First Year to Seventh, everyone
needs to be ready for what's coming."

"You think you can help us with that?" McLaggen sneers.

Patronuses? I ask Hermione, looking into her eyes.

It's Patroni, Harry. But yes, always impressive, she agrees with a little smile.

We face the room again and pull out our bonded wands.

"Expecto Patronum," we say together, and our mated deer explode from our wand tips, cantering
around the common room.

We've never done the charm together like that. The deer are almost solid.

Almost real enough to touch.

Oohs and Ahhs and a 'holy shite' escape our friend's lips as the deer rub up against the students
before disappearing into thin air.

"How many of you can do magic that advanced?" George smirks. Three people raise their hands.

"So, Saturday?" Lee Jordan asks in an excited tone.

"Saturday," I agree.

I jump back onto the floor, take Hermione's waist in my hands, and lift her delicately from the
table, never taking my eyes off her gorgeous face.

We're swarmed by half of Gryffindor House, asking questions and offering their congratulations.

Five minutes I tell her silently as she's pulled from my arms by most of the girls in Gryffindor.

It's time for bed for the rest of the castle, but I still have shite to do tonight. I let Ron and Nev
answer questions for me while I watch Hermione from across the room.

She's glowing. She's positively beautiful.

Okay.

Ten minutes.

I don't mind watching Hermione quietly celebrate that she got the guy. Especially since I got the
girl.
 Chapter 49
Chapter Notes

Happy Mother's Day!!!

Sorry about last week. My entire family was sick and home from school/work, and
that’s the only way I keep the day's of the week straight ♀️ Then when my alarm
went off, I hit dismiss and went back to the Wheel Of Time.

On book five, but I already read book six (out of order cause it's one of my favs lol) so
by Tuesday I'll be on seven. If you haven't read them, you should! Perrin is my
favorite character, followed closely by Mat. Perrin reminds me of Neville, actually. I
don’t usually read while I'm writing, because I get sucked into the series and stop
writing. Not enough time to do both. But I love the WOT, and needed a changeof pace.
You should all read it with me!!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

 Hermione

The door to the Head's dorm shuts with a resounding thwack, and I lean my back against it, trying
to get my bearings.

I thought I'd grown accustomed to the effect Harry has on the people around him and the attention
that follows in his wake. However, this was the first time (and undoubtedly not the last) that I was
the centre of attention too.

It's...a lot.

Like, a lot, a lot.

I lean my head against the door with my eyes closed in a half-hearted attempt to gather my
thoughts.
"Well. That was—"

Harry interrupts me, and my eyes snap open. He gives me a playful scowl.

"Painful? Horrendous? Laboriously awful?"

I push off the door and move towards the sitting room, where Harry is yanking at his tie. I can't
help my eye-roll at his winging. Harry links his arms around my waist and pulls me into his body,
nipping at my lips.

"When did you become so loquacious?" I ask him playfully, linking my arms over his shoulder.

"When I started sharing a brain with you," he tells me dryly, then dips his head to kiss me
soundly.

His hand starts at my hip, then slides down my thigh, only to hit the edge of my skirt and work its
way back up again. He moans like a kid who's just been given his favorite treat when he finds the
tops of my stockings. Winky told me when she bought our uniforms for the term that as a married
woman, tights were no longer appropriate for me. It's stockings and garters from here on out.

"Are you trying to kill me?" he mumbles against my lips.

My backside hits the edge of the couch, and with a lift from Harry and a hop from the tips of my
toes, I'm sitting on the back with my legs spread and Harry making himself comfortable between
them. His hands slide up the outsides of my thighs and push my skirt up to my hips.

He grins when he sees the lace tops of my black hose and the thick suspenders connecting them
with the belt hidden under the waist of my skirt. His fingers caress me reverently, and he delves
into my mouth, sweeping inside with his tongue. I cup the back of his head with my hands and
tangle my fingers in his hair. I consider mentioning the six other matching sets Winky purchased
me and the set embroidered with the Potter crest, and Harry jerks in my arms then melts into my
touch as he plucks the image from my mind.

My stomach twists deliciously, his desire mixing with mine.

By the time I'm done kissing him tonight, it'll look like he just hopped off a broom, black strands of
hair sticking out in every direction. His fingers squeeze my hips, then his thumbs slide over my wet
satin panties.

"Don't get used to it," I sigh when his lips trail down my jaw at latch onto the spot below my ear
that makes my stomach clench and my toes curl in my shoes. "You know I prefer trousers to
skirts."

"Such a shame, that," he whispers before catching my lips in a kiss again. "But since I get the
feeling you're no longer wanting to wear them, why don't I do my husbandly duty and help you
take them off."

"That sounds like an excellent idea," I sigh into his mouth. I give his hair a gentle tug and his
enjoyment pings across my nervous system. "But—"

"We have plenty of time," he assures me.

Plenty of time. We have things to take care of once the castle settles down, but it has been a
stressful day, and—
"You guys should really get a room."

The sound of Ronald's voice, a mixture of nausea and amusement, ends our little impromptu
rendezvous as quickly as it brewed. My stomach muscles flex in frustration at promises unfulfilled.

I think he's trying to interrupt us on purpose at this point.

Harry drops his head to my shoulder and mumbles to himself about beheading trespassers. I start in
surprise then swallow back my giggle as I worry for a moment for Ronald's safety. I pat Harry on
the back, and he helps me slide down from the furniture, straightening my skirt as I go.

"Bugger off, Ron!" Harry grumbles, fixing the front of his trousers before turning to face his best
friend. "This is our room!" Ron walks around the kitchenette opening cupboards, an apple already
in his mouth. "What are you even doing here, anyway? Don't you have your own dorm to set up or
something?"

Ron shrugs, flipping a knob on the tiny three-burner stovetop. I'm sure he has no idea how it
works. For that matter, I'll have to ask Winky to show me how to use a magical oven before I can
attempt it. Or maybe Dobby, since Winky probably wouldn't teach me simply out of principle.

"Dobby already set our stuff up," Neville says, following Ron into our room. I get a glance of
students trying to peek inside our dorm before Nev shuts the door behind him. He starts examining
the head suite too, but tries to do so inconspicuously. "Brought most of our personal set up from
home. Even made our beds. Without your four-poster, Harry, there's a lot more space this term."

Harry's irritation at constantly being interrupted tickles over my skin like a trail of ants.

Both boys have already changed from their uniforms, Ron into a tight, long sleeved shirt and jeans
of higher quality than he's ever worn before, with Nev wearing a pair of Gryffindor sleep trousers.
If the way his trousers lay against his leg is any indication, he has a knife around both calves as
well as the ones still on his forearms stored with his wands.

Boys.

"Congratulations," Harry says in a flat voice. He turns to give Ron a dark glare. "I regret telling
you both the password to our dorm. I'm changing it as soon as you leave."

Neville blushes uncomfortably, but Ron just rolls his eyes, used to Harry's melodramatics.

There are two entrances to the head's suite, one from inside the Gryffindor common room and one
from the hallway hidden behind another portrait. In an abstract sort of way, I knew that this room
has always been here but had never given it much thought until today. Winky's elf wards shivered
over my skin when we passed the threshold to our private space. Harry and I will each have to add
our own wards, our family wards, but the elf wards now leave an impact.

Professor McGonagall was right. It's more like a flat than a dorm room. The seating area looks like
a miniature version of the common room, though Winky has changed the furniture with our
personal stuff from home. An oversized black couch sits with two cozy red reading chairs with tiny
tables set beside them.

I'll have to ask what she's done with Hogwarts items.

The fire is already roaring in the fireplace, the hearth large enough for flooing. The floo is locked, I
believe, for travel, but we can use it for communication. The kitchenette even has a small stove.
The walls are painted a cozy cream, though they've been worn down with time. The Gryffindor and
Hogwarts crests hang on tapestries, as well as the new Potter-Black family crest Harry designed.
Scattered around the space are both magical and muggle pictures, mostly taken of us this summer.

I pick up the one with Winky and Dobby beaming for the camera and rub it with my thumb.

Rugs in shades of black and grey and red and green cover most of the floor. Winky, because this
entire setup has Winky written all over it, did a fantastic job.

Neville flings himself down in an armchair and pulls a book from somewhere on his person. I hear
him mumbling about missing the microwave as he flips through this term's Herbology text.

The edge of the sheath sticks out from his trousers.

"My back is killing me," Harry complains, twisting his neck this way and that. "They held us
captive forever."

"It wasn't that long. You just like to whing," Ron jokes from around his apple.

In truth, we were probably fielding questions and receiving congratulations for close to half an
hour. Not that we actually said much. I barely had time to utter a single word before another person
was cutting me off to ask a variation of the same question.

It was like giving a press conference.

"They're happy for us." I say. Harry gives me a knowing smile. A blush colours my cheeks, but he
already knows what I'm thinking anyway, so I might as well say it out loud. "It was kinda nice,
being the centre of attention, for a reason outside of being the resident know-it-all, or for you
dragging me into trouble."

I cross my arms over my chest and attempt to give Harry a stern look.

Harry looks up from pulling the zipper on his boots, smiling at me from down below.

"I resent being blamed for all the trouble we've caused," he says playfully. "You aren't as pure and
innocent as you want everyone to believe. If I remember correctly, the DA was your idea, as was
the hex that bloomed over poor Marietta Edgecombe's face."

Ron's head whips in our direction, and Neville looks at us from over his book. "That's a story I
haven't heard yet," Ron encourages, but I pointedly ignore him.

"When we created the DA last time, it was against the rules, so we held it on rotating days and in
the Room of Requirement. The witch double-crossed us, but Hermione hexed the sign-up sheet for
the club without telling anyone. When Edgecombe gave us up, she had the word SNEAK written in
boils across her face. It left a permanent scar. Even makeup wouldn't hide it all."

"Wicked," Ron breathes.

"That's kinda scary," Nev chips in from the chair.

I stick my nose in the air and give Harry my cheek, but Harry pulls me against his front and smirks
down at me from under his glasses.

"She deserved it!" I hiss, and Harry laughs into my face before dropping a kiss onto my lips.

"Yes, she did," he whispers against my skin. "What you did to her was a deviously beautiful
thing."
He releases his hold and begins to strip out of his clothes.

"Honestly, Harry. Right here in the sitting room? Don't you think you should remove your clothing
where our friends aren't forced to watch?"

"What?" he says, looking around the room. "We shared a dorm for six years, Mi, and we lived in a
tent with Ron for one. If they don't like it they can go somewhere else."

"Four years," Neville says without looking.

Ron pushes himself up onto the counter. "I still don't think it's fair you hold things I did in another
timeline against me," Ron complains.

"My point—" Harry says with annoyance, and I bite my lips so as not to smile. "—is that they've
seen my arse before."

He flips open the buckles across his chest and sheds his outer robe before he slides the scabbard
down his arms. He flings the sheath across the couch and starts on the buttons of his vest, then his
shirt, yanking it from the waist of his pants at the same time he loosens his tie. As soon as his shirt
is off, he throws that on the back of the couch too.

"Have I mentioned how much I hate these stupid uniforms?" he asks rhetorically, not even looking
at me.

"Says the person who was just admiring my school skirt."

Harry grins, and I avert my gaze when a blush blooms over my features.

"You're leaving a trail of clothing everywhere," I lecture. "You've become a spoiled prat with
Winky and Dobby waiting on you hand and foot. I'm going to tell her not to pick up after you
anymore."

He bends to touch his toes, stretching out his back muscles that have been pulled long and tight
from hours with the sword strapped to him. My neck bends sideways in sync with his back,
watching him draw and curve as muscles earned by hours of hard work flex and bunch before my
eyes. I have to shake my head to clear it when I realize I've taken a step closer to him.

That.

That right there is why the Headmaster insisted we have our own space. Harry may still be narked
about the whole thing, but I, for one, totally understand, and am rather grateful for the ability to
ogle my husband in private.

My eyes flick to the two shadows that trail us everywhere. Private-ish.

Harry pulls his arms behind his back and stretches again, and I scrunch my face when his joints
pop disgustingly. It's not as if he's not accustomed to wearing the sword for hours at a time, but
usually, he's doing more than simply sitting or standing in one spot.

The chances of me talking him out of wearing it at the school are slim to none, but he's going to
have to adjust if he insists on keeping it on his person at all times.

"I do," he says, replying without being prompted.

"Stop reading my mind!" I say in a huff, not stomping my foot.

"Stop projecting so loud then," he replies, his standard remark every time we have this fight.

I pick up the scabbard from the couch and hold it in my hands, turning it over and over. I really
don't like the idea of him wearing it around the castle. It's just asking for trouble.

But maybe...

"I'm not leaving this suite without it," he says, looking for the room that holds our stuff.

I follow him out of the sitting area and into what Winky has already set up as our sleeping
chambers. Our bed from home is here, adjusted in size to fit the smaller space. There are matching
wardrobes in a corner, and Harry hightails it over to them, checking to see which one holds his
clothing.

Though the bed frame is the same, the hangings have been changed to Gryffindor red, the sheets to
some sort of soft cream colour, and swatches of this fabric hang on the walls, bringing warmth to
the stone.

"You know this is bullshite, right?" Ronald grumbles, and I look over my shoulder as he follows us
into the bedroom. Nev comes in right after and takes the armchair Winky wedged into a corner.
"That you get an entire house to yourself, even inside the castle? Sometimes it really sucks to be
your friend."

Harry gives him a flat look.

"It's not a house. It's the head dorm. Two of your brothers lived here too. I don't see you getting
angry with them. Try a little harder in classes the next two years and maybe you can live here
next." Fat chance of that happening. "Besides, I'm sharing a brain with Hermione, remember."

It must be an argument they've had before.

Ronald stares at me hard, and I'm about ready to open my mouth and snap at him when he finally
looks away.

"Yeah, okay," he says sullenly. "You win."

"Excuse me!" I thunder as Nev and Ron burst into laughter. Harry comes up beside me and drops a
kiss onto my cheek, trying to placate me and failing miserably.

"Don't worry," he says quietly. "I like your brain."

I've never!

Harry shoves his trousers off his hips, and I roll my eyes before turning my attention to the
scabbard in my hands.

"Winky?" I say, and "in the library Mistress," comes from the other room.

I take my outer robe off and drape it on the bed, then push off my shoes before following the sound
of Winky's voice. She's changed the secondary room into a library/office space, with bookshelves
lining the walls, top to bottom, and our table and chairs, plus the couch from our bedroom arranged
artfully in the middle. There is a pile of portraits sitting on the table, and on closer inspection,
they're Hogwarts portraits, silenced yet still yelling at the edges of their frames in anger at having
been removed from the wall.
"Ummmm, Winky?" I ask, and she stops in her book organizing to tip her head in my direction.

I point to the muted portraits on the table, and she gives them a disdainful glance.

"We's don't want Hogwarts pictures on yous walls. Winky will take them to storage and brings the
pictures from home."

Ahh.

"Good call, Winky," I tell her with a smile.

"Thank you, Mistress," she says, pleased, giving me a tiny curtsy before returning to her task. I
smile when I see she's wearing a miniature Hogwarts uniform, complete with a pleated skirt and
outer robes.

"Actually, Winky. I need your help for a moment if you don't mind."

She immediately floats her stack of books to the side and tottles to beam in front of me. I ask for
her help as little as possible. It still makes me uncomfortable, no matter that it makes her happy.
Honestly, she tells me what to do most of the time. But even if I'm still squiggly about giving her
orders, it's nice to see her smile.

I sit criss-cross on the floor, and Winky comes close enough so that we're looking eye to eye.

Using a severing charm, I remove the scabbard's leather from the pieces that slip around his chest
and shoulders. I grab his wands from the holsters, then let the leather fall to the floor, and shove his
wands into the bun at the back of my head.

"Can you help me find or make a new holster for Harry?" I ask the little elf. "I don't want him
wearing the sword down his back, but he won't leave it in his bag or in the room."

I squish my face and attempt to shrink the sword down, not at all convinced it will bend to my will
that way. I sigh in relief when it does. The sword shrinks to the size of Harry's wand, almost a
replica of Neville's knives.

"If he insists on wearing it, and he's already accustomed to the over the shoulder draw, can we have
another holster where he could wear the shrunk sword across his chest like he does his wands? The
sword would need to be over his right side, as he pulls the blade with his left hand. If we angle it
right...."

"Harry, come here!" I yell, pushing back to my feet.

Winky climbs onto the table to give her better height. Harry appears a moment later, wearing jeans
and a long sleeve shirt almost a duplicate of Ron’s.

"Yeah, what—WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY SWORD!?" he yells, eyes going wide
as he sees the ripped apart scabbard, his wands shoved into my hair, and the miniaturized sword of
Gryffindor resting in my palm.

"I'm trying to help you," I say stubbornly.

"Yeah, How? By turning it into a toothpick?" he snarls and tries to yank it from my grasp.

I hold it to my chest and turn to the side, so he can't take it from my grip.

"Oh, bugger off. It's just shrunk for ease of use. You can make it the right size again on demand, as
you well know. Now stop complaining and come here."

Ron follows him in.

"What in the bloody hell are you doing?" he gasps.

Oh honestly! You'd think I'd ripped apart a book or something. I'm only trying to help!

"Harry looks ridiculous wearing the sword down his back. I'm designing him a new holster."

"She shrunk the Sword of Gryffindor," Harry says over his shoulder, radiating irritation.

"She WHAT?" Ron squawks, storming over to have a closer look.

"Exactly," Harry says with relish, giving me a vindicated look.

"Yes, yes. I'm horrible. The Muggleborn once again defiles wizarding tradition. Now shut up and
come over here!"

He doesn't stop complaining, either in my head or under his breath, but he does come closer with
his hands at his side.

"What?" he asks, irritation clear in his tone.

"You look like an idiot with the sword peeking out over your shoulder. Not to mention, wearing it
all day in class is going to be horribly uncomfortable."

He looks gorgeous with the sword peeking out over his shoulder. Disgustingly, unfairly handsome.
But the uncomfortable part is true enough.

I place the scabbarded sword on his chest, moving it around until it looks like it's in a good
position.

"Pull it," I tell him, and he rolls his eyes and does so.

We spend several minutes moving the sword this way and that until Harry can pull the blade and
resize it in one fluid motion. Winky sits on the table with a pad of muggle paper and a pen in her
hands, making notes as we find a configuration that works best.

"Wands too," Harry says finally, and I stick the scabbard of the sword to him with a charm and pull
his wands from my hair.

"I like the cross-chest draw," Ron says, removing a wand from one of his forearm holsters and
holding it against his chest. "Do me next."

It's Harry's turn to stick his wands in my hair.

I unstick the scabbard from Harry's chest and swell its size just a smidgen to mimic Ronald's
thicker broadsword, then latch it to his shirt next. It takes another few minutes of Winky giving
instructions and Ron practising drawing the sword from across his chest before Winky and Ron
both seem satisfied.

Honestly, I should have sent Ron to his dorm to grab his practise sword from his trunk.

Winky sticks her pen behind her ear and hops down from the tabletop.
"I's have it, Mistress. Yous want them tomorrow?"

"What?" I double-take, looking at the little elf. "It's much too late for you to work on it tonight, and
you've already done so much today. Why don't you and Dobby take the rest of the night off.
Whenever you have some free time will be fine. Harry can wear his spare holster until it's ready."

Winky stares at me, and I swear I see the cogs in her brain working overtime.

"It is as you say, of course. Winky is very tired. Dobby," she calls, and Dobby pops into view,
holding a stack of cushions. He's wearing a boy's Hogwarts uniform, Potter written across the back
of his robes.

Harry barks a laugh then swallows it down painfully.

"Yes, Winky," Dobby says from around the black throw pillows covering his face, almost falling
at her feet. "We's tired," she instructs him, batting her eyes.

"We is?" he questions, his face scrunching up in confusion.

"Yes. We is. We bes going to the kitchens, then we's be having some free time."

"T-t-together?" he stutters, his face pink and his big bat eyes so wide he can probably see the
ceiling without tipping his head.

"Yes. Togethers."

The throw pillows disappear, and Dobby, almost drunk with delight, stumbles over to Winky, who
rolls her eyes and curtsies before they both pop away.

"Wow," Ron breathes, and I glance at him and see almost the same dumbfounded expression from
Dobby's face plastered on Ron's. Neville is shaking his head over Ron's shoulder. "Little dude has
it bad, doesn't he?"

"Yup," Harry agrees, scratching at his head with a smile. Then he meets my eye. "You caught that,
right?" he asks, a smirk on his face.

I sigh in resignation.

"Yes," I say dejectedly. "The quip about having free time."

Harry drapes his arm around my shoulder, and I place the still shrunken sword on a shelf before
letting him lead me into the sitting area. It's almost midnight, but I don't want Harry walking
around the castle until I'm sure most everyone is asleep.

"So, who's coming with me into the Chamber?" Harry asks, pulling me into the crook of his arm
when we settle on the couch. I knock his feet off the table, only for him to place them right back on
top.

Neville whips to look at Harry, and Ron scrunches up his nose.

"Is the Basilisk still in there?" Ron asks, and Harry gives him a bemused expression.

"I think so?" he says hesitantly. He presses his glasses further up his nose. "I mean, yeah, I would
assume so. I didn't have any way of removing it and I didn't tell anyone else how to get into the
Chamber. Even if I had, I'm the only Parseltongue on the continent besides Riddle himself, to the
best of my knowledge. Why?"
Ron makes a disgusted face.

"I'm just trying to clarify if you're asking me to go into a pit where a dead and probably rotting
giant snake has been decomposing for the last two years. Now that we have, you're on your own."

Huh. I sit up in Harry's arms, my mind whirring a thousand twists a minute.

"That's an interesting question though. Would the Basilisk decompose?"

"Why wouldn't it?" Neville questions.

He's curled up in the same chair he was earlier. I stare off into the fire, thinking about the
possibilities.

"Well, it's a magical creature, for one. It was alive for...potentially over a thousand years in the
bowels of the castle. What did it live on that entire time? Or was it in a magical coma, and
something Riddle or Ginny did woke it up? But still, it would have had to feed, wouldn't it? Does it
have a way in and out of the castle that we aren't aware of? Perhaps we should all go down and
take a look," I suggest.

I flush when I realize the guys are staring at me with slack jaws and glazed-over eyes while I was
ranting.

"I'm going to pass," Ron says astutely, giving Harry a look.

"What happened to that Gryffindor courage?" I taunt him.

His face hardens, and his ears pink up.

"I'm not afraid. I'm disgusted. There's a difference. Besides, the less people that know where the
entrance to the Chamber is, the better."

"You already know, though," I tell him pointedly. "You've been in it before!"

Ron just shakes his head, like I'm the one being ridiculous and not him.

"Why are you going into the Chamber anyway?" Nev asks.

The fire dims in the hearth, and I wave my hand and send another log into the grate.

"Couple of reasons," Harry says. "See if it's possible to collect more venom, for one. Maybe see if
we can hide the jars of magical cores in the belly of a rotting snake. Even if every person in this
castle knew how to get into the Chamber, the odds of someone willingly slicing open the massive,
venemous snake are in my favor. I can think of no better hiding spot than that."

Nev and Ron are already nodding along in agreement.

Someone knocks on the door leading to the Gryffindor common room, and Ron rolls his eyes
before getting up, unasked, to answer the door. My heart jumps up my throat wondering who would
be at our door this late.

"It's the twins!" Ron hollers, even though they aren’t that far away.

I can see the twins from the couch leaning against our door frame, their shaggy hair and untucked
school shirts giving them a devil-may-care attitude.
"Come on in guys," I gesture, then turn my attention to Harry. "I'm going to have to check the
library for a spell that allows me to know who's at the door so I don't have to answer it if I don't
want to. I'm terrified of Lavender trying to corner me alone."

With her preoccupation with boys and sex in the last timeline, I can only imagine her enthusiasm
for asking me about my sex-life this time. A shiver runs through me, and Harry gives me a
confused smile.

"We can help with that," the twins say as one.

"You can?" Ron says curiously.

"Of course, we can."

"We had to develop a warning system—"

"—with Mum snooping around—"

"—to tell us when she was on her way."

George (I think) takes out his wand and twirls it in a circle, and a scrap of paper appears before me.
I snap it from the air and look at a warding configuration that announces who is at the door.

"You can adjust the distance at which the warning alerts—"

"—but don't put it too far—"

"—otherwise it'll go off all day."

Harry leans over me and looks at the warding with a rueful smile.

"That would have been handy to have when we were living in a tent."

That...is an understatement.

The twins drop onto the floor in the sitting room.

"Sorry to bother you so late—"

"—but with the announcement going out tomorrow—"

"—we thought you'd want these sooner rather than later."

"Want what?" Harry asks, eyes flicking between the elder Weasleys sitting before us.

One of the twins holds up their finger telling us to wait.

Fred(?) pulls the bag off his shoulder and places it on the dark knee-high table he and his twin are
sitting beside. George removes a leather-bound journal, secured with a lock across the front, and
Fred pulls a long silver chain from around his neck and passes it to Harry. There's a charm dangling
from the metal, and my eyes widen when I realize it will fit the clasp on the diary perfectly.

Want to know how to tell them apart? Harry whispers in my head.

Yes! I exclaim, and Harry chuckles.

Fred always talks first. Watch.

"Hey, Fred," Harry says, and the one on my left looks up distractedly before turning back to his
task. "Yeah?" he says without giving Harry much attention.

"Nothing," Harry replies, grinning at me.

Now, wait to see...

That can't possibly work.

Watch! He insists.

Next comes a hand-held wireless, smaller than any magical wireless I've seen before.

"Here's the spell to change the password," Fred says, passing me a scrap of paper. Fred. Just like
Harry pointed out. "Burn it after you memorize it. The current password is Weasley," says George.

Wow. I'll be damned. I had no idea.

Lastly, Fred reaches into the canvas bag and pulls out a plastic Tupperware bowl filled to the brim
with buttons. He peels the lid off and places it to the side.

"They're crude, but they'll get the job done."

"What are they?" I ask, picking one up and examining it.

There must be close to one hundred buttons, and none of them are the same at first glance. There
are a dozen colours and a dozen sizes in every combination imaginable. "Listening devices!" Fred
says, grinning ear to ear. "Or buttons, as the case may be."

"We know you didn't tell us what you wanted them for—"

"—but it's a safe assumption—"

"—that you'd like to have them in place before tomorrow's paper deliveries—"

"—if at all possible."

Ron gives a confused glance, poking at the clear plastic holding the pile of buttons. I flip the
journal over in my hands and run my thumb over the lock.

He transfers that confused glance to his brothers. "Um..."

Fred begins their explanation.

"We were trying to decide how to hide a listening device in a home like, for example," he gives me
a shrewd look. "Malfoy Manor. You have to imagine that the House Elves do all the work, but that
a woman like Narcissa Malfoy knows every nick-knack and bobble in her home."

"Dobby, and whoever will be helping him, will be able to turn our devices invisible, but what
happens when an elf who isn't part of the Order goes to dust that room and accidentally knocks an
unknown bubby off a shelf. It will immediately raise the alarm."

Harry and I share a glance, not having thought that far ahead.

"After you told us about Skeeter and her Animagus form—"

"—we thought about making our devices look like actual bugs, but that was quickly dismissed
too."

"People like the Malfoys would never tolerate a bug in their house."

"But a button?"

George pops the lid on the Tupperware and picks up a small, round, satin-covered button. He flips
it on his thumb then catches it before displaying it between finger and thumb.

"Who would ever question finding a button? Even if it fell to the floor at Voldemort's feet—"

"—don't say his name!" Ron hisses, and Harry rolls his eyes but nods his head.

Harry twirls his finger and indicates that yes, we'll stop saying the name for now. The twins sigh
with identical exasperation before continuing with their story.

"Even if You-Know-Who were to pick it up with his bare hands—"

"—the worst he'd do is lecture the Malfoys for keeping an untidy house."

George winks at me, then drops the button back into the tub.

As the twins talk, Harry and I moved closer and closer to the edge of the couch until Harry falls to
his knees before the table.

Goosebumps break out over my arms at the power contained in the Tupperware in front of me.

"Bloody hell," Harry breathes.

He jams his hand into the tub, letting the buttons fall between his fingers when he lifts it out of the
container.

"That's brilliant!" I agree. "Absolutely genius."

George grabs the second, much smaller book and flips it open before handing it to me.

"Each device is listed by shade and colour."

"When the elves notate where they hide it in the house—"

"—a separate section in the record book will appear for them."

Talking with the twins always gives me a headache. I look at Harry and he's grinning like a loon.

"I don't recommend using them all."

"We haven't spent as much time testing them as we'd like—"

"—and we’re not sure about cross interference."

"Key," Fred requests, and Harry hands it back to him. "Journal," George says, giving me his flat
palms, and I place the journal they gave me on his hands.

George places the book in the middle of the table, then picks up a button and hands it to Neville.

"Go place this somewhere in the dorm and tell us where you put it."
Nev climbs to his feet and practically skips to the library, yelling needlessly loud. "I placed it next
to the bookshelf!"

George opens the ledger and writes the location next to the appropriate line. The journal glows red
before a tab appears at the side between the pages. Fred places the key in the journal lock, and
together the twins say "Weasley," while George points his wand at the lock.

It slides open silently.

Fred flips to the tab.

Fred lifts his voice and says, "Say something, Nev."

"Like what?" he yells back.

"Talk about what a ninny Ron is."

"Ron is such a ninny!" Nev yells back.

The twins continue to bandy about insults, but I'm no longer paying attention. Instead, I pull the
book in front of me and watch as every word they say appears on the page.

"It's spelled," Fred says, "so as not to run out of pages."

"But still, if you attempt to record everything, that book is going to get very thick, very quickly."

"Our suggestion is to listen for several days, then set up the filters."

"Bring it back, Nev."

Nev reappears, and the twins deactivate the device.

"Filters?" I prompt, already running through a list of places to put the buttons.

"Filters."

"List a predetermined set of keywords—"

"—and the device will keep a record from an hour before and an hour after."

"Otherwise, they'll stop recording when noise in the listening range stops—"

"—and start again when the noise starts."

George taps the tiny wireless.

"You can also listen to it live. Each button is set up to a frequency, just like our communication
mirrors."

"That's amazing," I say enthusiastically.

"How wide is the listening range?" Harry asks.

"We didn't want it so big that conversations from different bugs would overlap and jumble—"

"—but big enough that we wouldn't miss anything."

"So, about twenty square feet."

I turn to look at Harry.

The Malfoys drawing-room was much larger than that.

So, we put a button in every corner—one on the chandelier.

We need to call Draco. I want it set up before the release tomorrow.

"Anything else we need to know?" Harry asks, and the twins, much more perceptive than people
give them credit for, immediately reach into their bag.

"Just one," Fred says, and George drops two plastic Ziploc bags full of bangles on the table.

"You shouldn't have," Ron says sarcastically.

The twins share a guarded expression, then pull out yet another booklet.

"Even before we knew." They look at Harry significantly. "We knew, you know?"

I smirk, and Harry nods his head ruefully.

"We've been working on them all summer—"

"—wanted them finished before the Azkaban raid—"

"—but the animagus transformation messed with the magic."

Fred pulls open the baggie, and George reaches in for a bangle. He rustles through until he's found
the one he's looking for, then gestures for my wrist.

"It opens," Fred says. George pops the clasp I didn't even see, then he snaps it closed around my
wrist. "Then," he whispers a spell with his wand on the metal, low enough that I miss the words. It
heats momentarily, then settles into a gentle hum. Within seconds, I forget it's even there.

Fred hands me the second ledger.

Fred Weasley, Married Dorm-Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts, Alive

George Weasley, Married Dorm-Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts, Alive

Hermione Potter-Black, Married Dorm-Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts, Alive

"It's a tracker...." I breathe, showing it to Harry.

Fred whispers another spell, and like the diagnostic charm healers use, a list of active trackers
appears in thin air.

Amazing.

"They'll work for the elves as well—"

"—adjust to the size of the wearer—"

"—and as of yesterday—"
"—continue monitoring while in animal form."

George sticks out his foot, lifts his trouser to show one around his ankle and promptly transforms
into the fox. I glance at the ledger again to see his reading has changed to indicate his change. The
bangle is still around his leg.

George Weasley, Married Dorm-Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts, Alive-transformed

"That's—"

I'm out of words. I'm never out of words. My jaw sits unattractively on my chest, and butterflies
twist in my chest at how important these just became to us.

"Brilliant," all three of my boys say as one.

George transforms back with a smile on his face.

"They'll continue to transmit—"

"—even after death—"

"—until the counter charm is spoken."

I decide not to linger on that terrifying thought. We haven't told the others about the list of people
we lost last time.

Rising from my seat on the edge of the couch, I walk to the other side of the table. Stretching my
arms as wide as they'll go, I link an elbow around each of their necks and wrap myself around them.
They make a huffing sound as I force them closer together, and Harry and Ron laugh at the twins'
strangled expressions.

"Thank you!" I tell them as sincerely as I can. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Don't mention it," the twins garble.

I let them go and fall back onto my heels, and together they rise to their feet. Fred gives a playful
salute to Harry as George ducks a half-hearted swat from Ron.

"We'll leave you to it."

"Darkness is ticking."

It is at that. Now we have another task to complete before we find our beds tonight.

"Wait!" Harry calls and reaches into the bag. It's hard to estimate how many trackers there are in
total, but as each is thin and fairly plain—sleek black and silver except for mine, which has a
flower etched into the band—there could be close to one hundred. He looks past us all, seeing into
the future that's yet to come. "Lee was pretty deep in it, yeah?" he seems to ask no one.

"Very, yes."

Harry grabs four bangles and passes them over to the twins. "Link up Gin and Lee, and anyone else
you think appropriate. We can't do it for everyone, but…" He shrugs, and I know he's thinking
about Angelina. "I'll make sure the rest of the Weasley's are in the book by the time we start
classes."
When the twins open the door, there's no one left in the common room to peek into ours.

"You asked the twins for listening devices?" Nev breaks the silence.

"The elves can get in and out of Malfoy Manor," Harry says without looking up from the
instructions for the tracking bracelets. He reaches over and plucks a wand from my hair. "On top of
that, Malfoy has a personal elf, not sworn to the family. She's loyal to him alone. She's already
helped us sneak stuff from the Manor."

"That seems like a huge lapse in security," Nev says incredulously.

He moves to sit next to Harry when my husband gestures for him. Neville holds out his hand and
allows Harry to snap a black bracelet onto his wrist without being prompted.

"The hubris of purebloods," I say, trying to determine how many devices we'll need.

"You know Ron and I are both purebloods," Neville says with amusement.

"Barely," I reply.

"I'm debating whether to be insulted by that," Ron says with entertained irritation.

I look Neville in the eye.

"Can house-elves just walk into your homes willy-nilly?"

"Only the ones keyed to our wards," he concedes. "But that has nothing to do with my blood status
and more to do with the fact that my Gran acknowledges the power of other magical beings."

I slump my shoulders in defeat.

"Fine. The hubris of bigotted arseholes then," I amend, and Ron snorts.

Harry slaps a bracelet on Ron, and I glance over long enough to see his name join the list of the
others.

"You want to do this tonight, yeah?" I confirm with Harry.

"Absolutely. But we'll need Draco and Missy," he reminds me.

I pull my communication mirror from my pocket. I turn to Ron and Nev, who are comparing the
runes on their tracking bracelets.

"Are you guys staying for this, or are you heading to bed?"

"Staying," Ron and Neville say as one.

I flip open my mirror and type in the code for Draco. It takes him forever to answer.

"What in Slytherin's name could you possibly want this late?"

His hair is messier than I've ever seen it and the pale expanse of skin I see confirms he was
probably asleep.

"I thought now that we were out among the public I was to be treated with respect at all times?"

The three beside me huff while Draco all but growls and rolls his eyes.
"Pardon my rudeness, princess. Now what the fuck do you want?"

I want to tease him more, but maybe now isn't the time.

"The twins got the listening devices finished." His eyes go wide, and he looks to the side before
giving his attention back to me. "We thought maybe you'd like to hear what your parents think
about tomorrow morning's Prophet."

I can see him sliding from his bed.

"I'm on my way," he says excitedly.

"Wear your cloak! I don't want you in detention the first night back."

"Yes, Mum," he drips sarcastically before he snaps the mirror closed on my face.

Well.

Harry stands up, leaving the bag of bangles on the table.

"It's going to take him ages. He'll probably press his slacks and wear a three piece suit."

I watch as Harry walks into our sleeping chambers and comes back, fastening his pack around his
hip and thigh. He pulls out his invisibility cloak and tosses it around his shoulders until only his
head is visible. He throws out his hand, and his firebolt slaps into his palm.

"Where do you think you're going!" I demand, climbing to my feet and putting my hands on my
hips.

"I'd like to go to bed before dawn," he says dryly. "I'm going to the Chamber of Secrets while we
wait for his majesty."

Neville immediately stands up.

"I'm going with you. Even at midnight..maybe especially, we move in pairs. You don't go
anywhere alone."

Harry nods and twirls his fingers in the universal sign for 'yeah yeah,' then meets my eye over the
back of the couch…Are you ever going to tell Draco about the Horcruxes?

The question takes me by surprise. I hadn't really thought about it. It's always just been the three of
us, for our protection and for the safety of anyone who might be tortured for the information. But
Draco was given a pureblood education that the three of us certainly missed, and his other
knowledge has already come in handy. I'm sure Neville received that same education, even if he
isn't as up in your face about it.

Until now…

I don't know. I admit. Maybe? Should we?

Harry looks to Ron, who, with the intuition of boys rarely apart since the day they met, shrugs a
shoulder and tilts his head.

Go for it, he seems to say.

I'll tell Neville tonight then. We'll search the Chamber while you deal with the Slytherin and the
 elves.

He turns to face Nev.

"Come on then. I don't want to be at it all night."

Neville beams and his hands do their usual (or at least now customary) slide across all his hidden
weapons, ensuring they're in place.

"I'll get the spare cloak," Harry sighs in resignation.

"I've always wanted to go into the Chamber of Secrets," Neville says excitedly, and Ron barks out
a laugh.

Maybe we should have brought Neville along for all our adventures.

Chapter End Notes

Happy Mother's Day!!! Come join our group! Facebook.com/groups/wickedwhispers

 Chapter 50
Chapter Notes

Happy Sunday!!! I will be taking the next two weekends off; I think, lol. There's
something going on next weekend, though at the moment I can't remember what it is,
and the weekend after that, we're going to Vegas! It's the first time the hubs and I have
had a weekend away without the children since the children were born.

As I delve deeper into my interpretation of wizarding culture, I'm going to start adding
pictures to give you a better vision of what I'm seeing in my head. I hope you like it.

Please comment, and Kudos! It fuels my writing.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Hermione

Harry comes to a halt in the doorway to our sleeping chambers, taking me in with wide eyes. I'm
sitting up in bed, leaning against the back of the four-poster, one of my bluebell fires floating in the
air.

"I thought you were asleep," he says quietly—almost whispering, afraid to disturb the stillness of
the night.

"I tried," I tell him honestly, marking my page and closing my book.

I did try.

For ages, it seemed.

I think maybe I slept a little?

But this is the first time in months I've gone to bed without him. The few times I made it to our
room alone, he always showed up soon after. Almost as if he was called to me like a beacon.

I could feel him tonight; league's away, it seemed.

He was separated from me with wards in-between us and the knowledge that he was no longer
simply an apparition away. Whatever was happening in the chamber was tense, and I did my best
to stay out of it and not distract his focus.

But even the meditation techniques Nate taught us to help centre ourselves for duelling couldn't
quell the itchiness that crawled over my skin, like beetles dipped in acid, from being so far away
from him.

I wouldn't, ever , in a million years, give any validation to Harry's paranoia about being back in the
castle. It isn't smart to feed the lions, after all. Or give credit to paranoid obsessions. But yes, fine,
it's going to be harder being here than I had initially anticipated.

We need to get used to it, though, and tiny doses of separation in a school setting are as good a
place as any. We won't be together every day for all eternity. Forever is a long time. Eventually,
we'll be forced to spend a night apart.

I'm just not looking forward to when that day comes.

"No," Harry says, shaking his head wearily and then shrugging out of his holster. He taps his
temple. "I thought you were asleep. You've felt like it for at least an hour. You're only this quiet in
my head when you're sleeping, and sometimes not even then."

Oh.

I hold up my book so he can see the worn cover and place it on the side table.

"I was reading," I tell him needlessly.

"Ah," is all he says in reply. He tugs his shirt off over his head and drops it to the floor.

Pride and Prejudice.

It's one of my favourite books. I know it so well, backwards and forwards. I don't really read it
anymore. I feel it. I watch it play out in my imagination like a dream.

Harry climbs onto the bed and immediately collapses face first. He moans in exhaustion, and I feel
his muscles shake when he lifts onto his elbows and rolls over onto his back. He's still wearing his
jeans.
"That bad, huh?"

He blows out hard, his lips making a funny noise. I slip his glasses from his face and run my
fingers over his brow and down the curve of his nose. His shoulders immediately begin to relax.

"I told Nev. I told him everything. The prophecy and his part in it, the horcruxes. Mortimer.
Everything."

I run my fingers through his hair, smoothing it away from his eyes.

"How did he take it?" I prompt.

"About as well as you could expect. You were right. He already knew about the prophecy.
Augusta went so far as to get a pensive, and showed him the entire interlude from the moment she
rushed from her office to find me pressing Umbridge into the floor at swordpoint. Suffice it to say,
he too, was unsurprised with the 'from the future' outburst. He's been carrying around a scribed
copy of the prophecy in a disillusioned, only opened with Longbottom magic pureblood trinket."

Called it.

That's really the only explanation for Nev showing up the second week of hols with a bag in hand,
two days after Harry showed the orb to his Grandmother. Invitation from Harry or not.

I'm momentarily discombobulated that Nev has been carrying a copy of the prophecy on his
person. Especially with the lengths, Harry went to in order to destroy the original. But the
likelihood of Neville's copy ever seeing the light of day is so small that I push it out of my mind.

"The rest freaked him out. He's—" Harry thinks about it for a moment. "Determined. Almost
frightfully so. I half wish Gran hadn't told him that the reason his parents were tortured was
because of a prophecy that could have been about either of us." Poor boy. "We searched that damn
chamber top to bottom for that bloody diadem. Nothing is in there, except a dead snake and now
the jars. I stabbed it in the mouth again, and wearing dragonhide gloves filled several vials of
venom. Then using magic I shoved the jars down its throat. He's actually in really good condition,
considering it's been dead for years now."

"We should ask the headmaster about using it for potions ingredients then, and anything else it
might be good for."

He lifts his brow at me.

"Are you going to butcher the creature?" he asks dryly. "Because I'm certainly not."

A shudder runs through me.

Okay.

Good point.

"I put the new ward the twins gave us on the passageway," he continues, "so if anyone tries to get
into the chamber from the girl’s loo, we'll know about it."

"Smart," I tell him, and Harry gives me a tiny smile.

"I simply tried to think about what you would do."

He's silent for a moment, and so still, I would wonder if he's fallen asleep, except that I can feel his
thoughts running rampant.

"I don't know which of you had it worse," I say. "You? Who was given all the information doled
out in pieces, but hit with the horror anew every time. Or Neville? Who got it all in one dollop, but
then has to deal with an excess of horrible knowledge all in one go."

"I'd have rather had it all at once," Harry says unnecessarily. I already knew that. "But," he
concedes after a moment, "I wondered the same thing. It was a shock to the system."

"Did he try to fight you for the title of Chosen One?" I ask him, only half kidding. On the one
hand, who would want to deal with that nonsense? On the other, well, there are plenty who would.

Harry smiles but doesn't open his eyes.

"Funnily enough, he didn't. He told me—" Harry rubs at his chest. "His Gran said that I might have
been chosen to land the final blow, but nothing said we couldn't get there together."

He takes a steadying breath.

"She would rather tell people that her grandson kept the Boy Who Lived alive then see him die as
the Chosen One. Made him an unbreakable vow that she would do anything within her power to
see Riddle dead at Neville's feet."

Wow.

"That's…"

"Yeah," Harry sighs.

They think I'm terrifying. Remind me never to get on Augusta Longbottom's bad side. We sit there
for a moment, a twirl of emotions twisting from one to the other.

"The prophecy thing," he breaks the silence. "Prophecy means a lot more to them than it does to
you or me. Nev agrees with the conclusion everybody else has."

Great. That .

That I am the power, ‘ he knows not ’. No problem. That's not an insane amount of pressure or
anything. I can handle that easily.

Right.

"Do you want to try to sleep?" I ask him.

It's the wee hours of the morning, but we could still eke out two or three hours if we tried now.
Harry shakes his head no.

"Do I want to? Yes. I'm desperately tired. But you still want to be in the Great Hall before the owls
arrive, yes?"

I nod my confirmation. It's Saturday, thank Morgana. But just because it's the weekend doesn't
mean we have nothing to do. Our days of lounging under the big tree reading and napping and
playing chess for hours are merely a happy memory. Not to give weight to Harry's paranoia, but it's
true to say anytime we leave these quarters, we're walking amongst potential enemies. Spies.

That won't stop—even with Riddle dead at our dark-haired duo's feet. Neville's parents are proof of
that.

So yes, I need to be in place before our Bond is announced, filing away every reaction I can.

"If I try to go to sleep now," Harry mumbles. "I'll wake up with a headache and be worse off than
simply pushing through. I'll just put a couple of extra pepper-ups in our pockets. How did your end
go?"

I smile broadly.

"Well, now there's a story for you! Missy, Draco's elf, is absolutely adorable."

I scoot closer to Harry on the bed and thread the fingers of both hands through his hair and over his
brow.

"Missy wears clothes too, apparently, because Draco has a thing against the elves in rags."

He lifts his brow in question.

"I know, I know. It's just like Draco. Doesn't mind that he owns a magical being, but doesn't want
her to look uncouth and accidentally give the impression that a Malfoy dresses in anything but
couture. He summoned Missy, and I called Dobby and Winky, and Missy took one look at Dobby
and burst into tears, throwing herself into his arms."

I fail at smothering a snigger, and Harry opens one eye to look at me.

"I thought Winky was going to have a stroke. Then I was worried that Winky was going to rip poor
Missy's bow off her head. Missy apparently misses Dobby quite terribly."

"Were they," he hesitates, the thought forming in his head before it makes it from his mouth. "You
know, dating," he asks hesitantly, "or whatever, before he was freed from the Malfoys?"

I giggle lightly.

"I have no idea how elf courting rituals work. I don't think so? Poor Dobby seemed oblivious to the
drama taking place around him. By the time we were done explaining for them what we needed,
Winky was holding Dobby's hand, Missy was sniffling and giving Winky the side-eye, and Dobby
looked like the only thing keeping him rooted to the ground was Winky's grasp on his fingers."

Harry gives an adorable little snort, his chest expanding with the effort.

His very bare, very firm, very defined chest.

We have two hours until our alarm goes off, and we've at last found ourselves very, incredibly
alone...

"Not that Dobby's love life isn't a fascinating conversation, and don't doubt for a moment that we
won't circle back around to this discussion, but how did the actual mission go?"

Poor Dobby. In the middle of a love triangle and doesn't even know it.

"Really well," I confirm for him. "Excellent. They got buttons in all of the public spaces and in all
of the bedrooms that they could. Missy didn't feel comfortable trying to get one into Riddle's
sleeping chamber, and I can't say that I blame her. Dobby offered to do it, but Winky told him in no
uncertain terms that he wasn't to take the risk.
"I reached out to the twins to ask for a duplicate ledger and wireless. The ledger they were able to
provide right away. They made two and kept one for themselves, the sneaky bastards."

Harry makes a face like that makes perfect sense to him.

"We'll have to owl for another wireless for them to spell. In the meantime, I flooed with Sirius and
Remus and sent the entire kit and kaboodle over to them through the vanishing cabinets. I kept
enough bangles for Draco’s Slytherin sycophants and two or three left in case we need them later."

"Brilliant!" Harry whispers, his breathing slowing in his chest.

I lift the charmed necklace from under the nightshirt I'm wearing, a quidditch shirt that has Potter
across the back.

"The necklace the twins gave us will buzz if the charm picks up a handful of keywords; Elder
Wand, Death stick, Horcruxes, Hallows, Department of Mysteries. Azkaban. Longbottom or
Minister. For now, it'll record straight through for a few days while we work out the kinks."

"Not Potter or Potter-Black?"

I shake my head, then remember his eyes are closed.

"No. I didn't want it buzzing me every few seconds. Snape says Riddle's ranting is getting worse as
of late, remember? It's only going to compound when they finally raid the prison and realise what
we did. I added Bonded-Mates, but I'll take that off in a few days. I just want to hear what he says
tomorrow.

"Someone will be watching the ledger twenty-four-seven, or as close to it as we can. Riddle doesn't
seem like much of a sharer of information. He tells his sycophants what he wants them to do
minutes before they're required to do it. But even if we can get just a few minutes head start on
him, that might be enough. I trust Remus and Sirius to warn us if an attack is planned on either of
us."

His breathing is slow and deep, but he's still not asleep.

The band of his trunks peeks out from around the waist of his jeans, riding low on his hips without
his belt and the multiple holsters he now wears for his multitude of weapons.

There's a straight line of soft black hair starting below his navel, leading right into his pants.

I look back at the clock. Four forty-five.

"Are you sure you don't want to sleep?"

"Mm-hmm," he breathes softly. "Keep talking. It's nice."

I close my eyes and concentrate on Harry.

The way he feels, the heaviness of exhaustion that coats his very membrane. It's occurred to me
that Harry doesn't need much sleep, whereas I...do.

Let's put it like that.

I'm self-aware enough to realise that I'm not the most pleasant person to be around if I don't get
enough sleep. We should be in opposite positions right now—me, depleted, him running his
fingers through my hair.
"About what?" I ask distractedly.

I focused on Harry so hard earlier, following his movements through the chamber, wanting him
with me but not wanting to disrupt him.

"Maybe about why I felt Theo Nott oath to us tonight."

Oh. That.

I'm wondering if I didn't steal some of Harry's strength.

On accident.

Harry, for sure, has more control over our connection, which is bollocks, because, on the best of
days, he's emotionally disturbed. The only explanation I can give is that years of abuse have given
him control over his mind which most of us could only dream of. But while he never takes from
me, I seem to be siphoning something from him constantly.

His anger, his memories, now his energy.

I picture it in my mind, imagine his life force swirling with blues and greens, and kind of give into
it.

Harry takes a deep breath and blinks at me like a newborn babe.

"Better?"

His lips tip up in a slow smile, and gah! I'm such a girl.

"Better," he says, closing his eyes, but not as heavily as before. "Keep talking to me," he says
again.

Talk.

That I can do.

"So Draco and Theo? Totally a couple. And Theo is a sarcastic arsehole. Perfect to keep Draco on
his toes."

Harry opens his eyes to stare at me, disbelief bare on his face.

"Yup," I confirm, laughing.

"What about him and Parkinson?" Harry asks, twisting his neck to see me better. "Though, they did
seem on the outs on the train this morning."

I get to my knees and crawl to the foot of the bed to start working off Harry's jeans.

"Completely fake," I tell him, grinning ear to ear. "They are betrothed," I concede. "Were
betrothed?"

I shake my head, giving up trying to understand pureblood marriage rites.

"From the cradle apparently. As you can imagine, pureblood scions aren't allowed to be gay. I
think we can all agree that until your little intervention last term, Draco was resigned to falling in
line and doing his duty. Yet, some of these he does less enthusiastically than others."
Harry snorts.

"But he spent the summer with you, listening to you preach the merits of following your heart and
other such rubbish, and now..." I shrug.

"Rubbish?" Harry says through a laugh.

I scowl and immediately grin again. I try to muster up anger in my belly as I tell the story, but all I
can do is smile.

"So, they've had these two-way journals since they were boys, right? Magical walkie talkies is how
I think of them. You write in one and it appears in the other. Somewhere around Third Year, they
spelled them so that it required a drop of their blood every time you wanted to read it. That way, if
one of their fathers were to pick it up and open it, it would simply look like a bare diary. If I had to
guess, I'd assume that's when the feelings started, because why else do you spell a diary to only
reveal the words of its mate with your blood?!"

My husband makes a face of disgust, but I think it's rather romantic.

Okay.

It's super romantic. It's like Romeo and Juliet. But with blokes.

Hopefully, they don't both die tragically at the end.

"Purebloods," he grumbles under his breath, leaning upon his elbows to watch as I hook my fingers
into the waistband of his pants. "I tell you all that, to tell you this. Theo knew where Draco was all
bloody summer!" I tell him, and Harry's jaw drops.

The shock on Harry's face is worth it, and I feel the echo of his adrenalin burst, pop like a firework
in my chest.

"I know!" I exclaim in response to his unvoiced incredulity.

I quickly divest Harry of his trunks, tossing them off the side of the bed. I stopped sleeping in
knickers ages ago. No point, really, when they always ended up on the floor or ruined. I join Harry
on the bed again, straddling his thighs. His prick, never one not to preen under attention, thickens
in my hand as I rub my thumb around its tip.

"That bloody bastard!" Harry hisses.

He collapses back into the softness of the mattress, the comforter crumpled under his back.

"He knew all of it already! Draco's turn to the light, his new obsession with Muggle pulp culture.
Theo even told me that Draco has deemed Ron tolerable! Tolerable! Can you believe it?"

Harry continues to chuckle.

"Ron will be so pleased," he says dryly.

"He knew everything except us being Mates, which I told him last night. Tonight? This morning?"

I shrug and lean down low to take Harry's cock in my mouth to moisten it with a swipe of my
tongue. Harry groans deep in his chest, fisting the blankets in between his fingers.

"Though I don't think he knows about the prophecy," I continue while pulling away as if I never
stopped. "I wanted to yell at Draco, but he looked so wobbly. It was adorable, and weird, and about
a thousand other things. I don't know if they're, official , official, but I think it's safe to say we're
going to be seeing a lot more of one Theodore Nott."

"If he's already sworn to Draco, there was no need for him to do it to me as well."

No need for any of this nonsense…

Giggles escape me, and I tip forward until my forehead lands on Harry's chest.

"Merlin, I thought Ron was going to cry. Draco told Theo to drop to his knees, which made Ron
visibly uncomfortable. Then Theo starting babbling about how he always knew his Dragon ," I
snort through my nose, "was an exhibitionist. By that point, Ron was squirming in his seat. For a
moment I honestly thought Theo was about to perform an unmentionable act right there in our
sitting room. But it was obvious he was just putting on a show to make the other boys blush, which
he did spectacularly. He gave the Riddle pledge to you and the fancy one to me."

Until my death or you release me from my oath. Harry is already rolling his eyes.

I climb astride his body, lifting my nightshirt out of the way, and line him up with my entrance. "I
really like him," I say of Theo. Anyone who can discomfort Draco is someone I want to be friends
with. Harry grips my hips in his calloused hands and holds me steady as I slide down his length.

"Great. Just what we needed. Another snake to encourage your deviousness. The Wizengamot
won't know what hit them."

It takes me two tries to sink down through the eruption of laughter.

"I needed this," I sigh in bliss when our connection is complete.

Mental, emotional, and physical.

The Trinity.

Three seems to be a magic number in our life. The Golden Trio, the Deathly Hallows...

"I know it's only been a day. Less than, technically. But it feels like it lasted the length of a week."

My head falls forward on my neck, and my hair tumbles around my face and shoulders, hiding me
from Harry's view. He immediately reaches up and gathers its mass in one hand, pushing it over
one shoulder.

"You know I don't like that," he says in a gruff voice, even as his eyes roll up in his head. "I don't
like it when you insinuate that the Bonds have forced us into anything. Especially this."

He puts just an infinitesimal amount of pressure on his fingertips, so little I wouldn't realise if I
didn't know him as well as I do. But I know the man beneath me better than he knows himself.

I begin to rock my hips.

Not a lot.

Just enough that I can feel him move inside me.

Once I'm upright, I remove my hands from his chest onto the mattress by his head, but Harry
promptly grabs me by the wrists, places them on top of him again, and then runs his hands up my
arms.

"I don't want to squish you," I say breathlessly, already lost to the sensation of Harry inside me.

He huffs out an incredulous laugh and reaches to run his fingers over my cheek.

"Luv, you weigh like eight stone. Nine tops. You couldn't squish me if you put all your strength
behind it."

Any other time, I'd put magic behind it and squeeze him until his eyeballs popped, but I can't be
bothered to prove the equality of the sexes right now.

"It's not the Bond, Harry," I tell him, moving my hips backwards and forwards and side to side.
Rotating on top of him until I feel him in the deepest parts of me. "Can't I just like making love
with my husband."

He smirks at me, cocky and young and...I sigh when his fingers trail from my face, wrapping
around my throat.

They don't stay there long, but I've been thinking lately I might want to pop open that bondage
book we have.

I like the idea of being held at Harry's mercy.

"Merlin, Hermione," Harry says, his hips surging beneath me. I make a keening sound when his
cock stretches me wide, the force of it unexpected. "Don't think shite like that so loud. We're liable
to never leave this room again if you do."

"I'm not missing the announcement becoming public," I admonish him, but admittedly, I don't
sound as forceful as I should. I'm so not ready to think about facing the rest of the castle yet.

Harry's so strong underneath me.

So bloody solid.

I feel his heart thumping away under my fingers, where my hands are pressed into his chest. Harry
doesn't try to take control. He doesn't use his hands to force me where he wants me. He allows me
the pleasure of slowly working myself on his body and lets the euphoria build at a leisurely pace.

I slide my hand up his chest to wrap around his throat as he did me, and Harry's eyes roll up in his
head.

"I see I'm not the only one with fantasies of being collared, my dear."

Harry grips my hips tight between his fingers and thrusts hard into my core.

"So long as you're the one holding my leash," he says, breathy and tight.

Merlin.

I rock my hips against him, and Harry sighs in contentment.

"I don't think we need this anymore, though I do love seeing my name splashed across your back. I
never knew I was such a possessive bastard until I saw you in my quidditch jersey. Now I want the
world to know I own you."
They will, in about three hours' time.

That should not be so hot.

He rucks his hands up the shirt I'm wearing and, in an impressive show of abdominal muscles,
leans up just enough to pull it off and over my head, dropping it somewhere to the side.

It was all the more impressive because he's still supporting all of my weight. His hands cup both of
my breasts, squeezing them softly and plucking his thumbs across my nipples until they're tight and
stiff under his gaze.

"Have I told you recently how brilliant you are?" he asks me. "Because this was a brilliant idea."

I huff lightly and open my mouth to answer him but release a breathy moan that's immediately
silenced when Harry surges up to catch my lips with his. I collapse against him when he brings his
back to the mattress, his tongue twirling with mine.

"You're so bloody beautiful," he nuzzles against my ear, trailing his lips along my throat.

My hands slide automatically around his head. His hair is sweaty and sticking up in every
direction, and I thread my fingers through it and hold his body close to mine.

My chest flutters with butterflies when his voice trails deep and husky into my ears. I clench my
muscles around him, and my stomach tightens, and twists as the tension in my body rackets up until
I can barely breathe.

Harry's mouth sucks a mark into my neck before he moves and starts the process over on my
shoulder. There's a hand on my ass, guiding my motions as I slide up and down his length, the
sounds of my gasps and moans only outdone by the sounds of my hips slapping against his.

His other hand has found my clit, pinching and pulling and flicking until I'm a mewling, panting
mess on top of him.

Soon there's not enough space between us for him to tease me anymore. I grind down on his
fingers, pinned against my slit and rough against my clit. My breasts slide against his chest, and
Harry grunts with every thrust inside me. When he kisses me, I swear our soul flows between our
bodies. Even with my eyes closed, I can see our magic start to glow through my lids.

My orgasm starts from the outside in. Goosebumps erupt on my skin, and shivers rake my body as
I fall apart around Harry. He follows moments after, moaning as he stiffens and spills his seed.

Harry rolls, his arms tight around my back until he's on top, and I'm arching underneath him. He
leans back on his heels, still inside me, fingers trailing nonsensically over my breasts and hips. I
open my eyes to see him looking over my head, and I twist my neck to see what he's looking at.

The clock.

"We have plenty of time," he says huskily and to himself.

Then he spreads my legs and lets his mouth trail down my body.

I'm still not tired, though I have no illusions that it's anything but pure adrenaline keeping me on
my feet by this point: adrenaline and Harry's magic.

I throw a Vitamix potion somewhere in the vicinity of Harry and listen for the tell-tale slapping
sound that says Harry caught it from the air. I'm not disappointed. I throw a second bottle at an
exhausted-looking Nev, who doesn't come anywhere close to catching it and instead grumbles
under his breath when he scoops it from the floor.

Ron catches his as well, but seeing as he's about to be Keeper, it's what I'd expect from him. With
the Fifth Year Slytherins in our pocket, he’s not likely to suffer from the same amount of torment
he experienced in our last go at this year. He’s a fairly good player when he’s in form. I might even
remake the Weasley Is Our King badges. We need something good to come from this year, and
Harry and Ron bringing home the Quidditch Cup sounds like just what the doctor ordered. He slips
his bottle into his pocket. He probably got the most sleep out of all of us.

"This isn't Pepperup," Nev says, looking at the green liquid through the vial.

Harry has already drunk his, and I roll my eyes at his continued habit of taking whatever I give him
without at least asking about its contents first.

"It's Vitamix," I tell him. "Illegal for sports, but I don't think Nate will give me a detention for
keeping you awake during training. Hopefully, we can nip upstairs and take a nap before we're
desperate enough for the Pepperup. I don't really want to listen to steam shooting out of your ears
all morning, and the Vitamix is better for you anyway."

Nev gives the vial in his hands a shrewd glance before shrugging and throwing it back. He makes a
disgusting face, and a violent shiver rips through his limbs before he smacks his lips and bright
pink colours his reflection.

"Excellent," he says with a smile, and oh, Merlin, I've created a monster.

"Do we really have to go?" Harry asks though he's already rising from where he was stretched out
across the couch.

"Yes," I huff, summoning my bag to me. "I want to get there early, before the papers arrive."

"Fine," he says in a resigned tone. "At least we have Nate today."

He's delusional if he thinks two hours of training with Nate is a good thing, but I don't have the
heart to disillusion him. I'll let the sweat and verbal abuse take care of that for me.

I already wrote out a study schedule for us, based on our timetable last time. We'll start the DA in a
week or two, but our first public training in the castle is set for noon this afternoon. Without going
into the Room of Requirement, there's no way to keep our newfound skills a secret, and Nate thinks
the best direction is to start outside with no warning and see how fast and far word flies.

Winky already has a new scabbard ready for Harry. She instructed him to wear it today, and if it's
comfortable, she'd make several others.

"Just—" Ron starts, then stops when a yawn is ripped from his throat. "Just so I know, is Winky
going to be picking out our clothes every day from now on? By the time we got back from the loo
this morning our trunks were locked and these," he waves his hand between him and Neville, "were
laid out on our beds."

Oh.

Neville's clothing isn't all that different from what I'm used to him wearing outside of class. Well-
pressed blue trousers, loafers, and a button-down with the sleeves rolled so you can see his arm
sheaths. Everything is snug and sleek and suitable for both a Muggle runway or a meeting with the
Minister of Magic.

Ron, on the other hand…well.

There's always been more than one reason why I fancied him. He's for sure a prat, but he's a fit
prat.

Black boots. Snug black jeans, and a beautiful silver tunic/shirt that drapes and buttons over one
shoulder with sleeves again pulled up to show the weapons on his forearms. The tunic isn't very
long, ending just at his hips. Instead of a V at the top, the fabric crosses over his chest to form a V
at the bottom. Casual but obviously expensive. Comfortable but tight enough, he could fight
without his clothing becoming a hindrance. The silver beautifully offsets his penny-copper hair.

My eyes flicker back and forth between the two boys who look worlds away from the self-
conscious, uncomfortable teenagers I knew in my last lifetime. Even the way they simply lounge
there, shoulders back and arms relaxed, scream self-confidence that’s really rather fetching.

Harry's amused voice breaks my concentration.

"You're drooling, Mi."

Nev and Ron snicker under their breath.

Bloody wankers. Though I'd prefer Harry find my sudden admiration of men’s wizarding fashion
amusing when the other option ends with Ronald on the floor whimpering while hovering on the
verge of death.

Even Harry, arguably dressed the plainest of us all, seems to shine with the blazing emerald of his
simple, cotton, too-tight oxford that he's refused to tuck into his black jeans.

All three of them look disgustingly attractive.

Our clothing was laid out as well.

"Yes," Winky answers Ron's question while gathering our pre-breakfast coffee and tea
paraphernalia. "Winky's will be ensuring yous be representing the houses of Weasley, Potter-Black
and Madam Longbottom until I's be convinced you can do it by yous-self."

"So, forever," Harry says, and all three boys snort and laugh in crude acknowledgement.

"I can manage myself," Nev attempts to bargain with our bossy overlord. "I was raised for this, you
know."

She pauses, tray floating before her, and gives Neville a long assessing look.

"Yous Gran sent Winky a letter."

Ron snorts. Harry bites his lip. Neville stares down the creature a fourth the height of himself
before finally breaking and nodding his head.

Aaaand, that's the end of that.

"Cloaks," the little elf admonishes on her next pass through the sitting area. Cloaks and capes
appear across our laps. "Hogwarts Elf Mistress, Miss Juliet, tells Winky yous lot will be allowed to
wear your weapons in the hallways, but yous must keep them covered."
Huh. I actually hadn't thought about that. I'm sure that declaration could have only been sent down
via the Headmaster.

At least he's learning to pick his battles.

I do a quick count as Harry, Ron, and Nev pull on their outer robes. Between them, excluding the
Sword of Gryffindor, they have seven knives that I can see bare. That's not including the blades I'm
positive each of them is wearing on their calves or in their boots.

This is getting a little ridiculous.

"Do you honestly think you guys need so many weapons in the castle?" I demand, tapping my toe
and crossing my arms over my chest.

"I've been killed how many times on the castle grounds?" Harry asks rhetorically.

"How many death eaters, or accused death eaters, snuck into the castle the last time you were
alive?" Ron says, and Nev follows up. "Didn't Pettigrew share a dorm with us for years?"

Okay.

Yeah.

I can't even claim that the knives are worthless against magic because I've spent weeks watching
the boys use magic to manoeuvre into close-quarters combat and then stab each other.

Not to mention, that's kinda how I died.

"Besides that..." my husband drawls.

Harry's chin drops, and his eyes narrow at my legs. I follow his gaze. So do Neville and Ron.

I'm wearing chunky boots and tight trousers. A white shirt that I'm almost positive is silk. (A
combination I would never have worn in our other life.) A holster on each leg, all four of my
wands... aaaand the expandable fighting batons strapped to the outside of my thighs.

I quickly disillusion them.

Matchpoint to Harry.

I bet only Harry knows about the gun in its holster in the small of my back. I won’t help against
wizards, but I’ve been up close and personal with a werewolf right here in these hallways.

Bullets work just fine against them.

"I don't have a knife!" I say peevishly.

Honestly, I don't think I could carry a knife, not after what happened. When Harry chuckles, I join
them at the door and let them lead me down the hallway.

Nev in front.

Harry beside me.

Ron taking up the rear.

Every few seconds, a Gryffindor girl waves or winks or giggles, then drops their head to gossip
with their friend beside them. The boys all give Harry assessing glances as if trying to determine
whether he's actually happy being saddled with the bookworm at only fifteen years old.

Harry gives one of the Seventh Years a particularly aggressive expression before said Seventh
Year turns tail and runs.

My heart is in my throat, and I already feel myself blushing.

I wanted this. I did. I want the whole bloody world to know that Harry Potter is my husband. Now,
who's possessive?

But still...that is a lot of giggling.

We ditch the hallways pretty quickly and use the passageways, which makes me a horrible Prefect
because I should be ensuring that the First Years know how to get where they're going, but the
Sixth Year Prefects can do some of the work for once. I feel like, last time, as soon as I became
Prefect, all the other Gryffindors expected me to handle the workload, and that's not happening this
time around.

"Spine straight, Lord Potter-Black," Nev says under his breath. "Shoulders back."

Harry responds by rote, his posture both lengthening and relaxing simultaneously until he's
walking with an effortless swagger he certainly didn't have last year.

Then we bust through the final passageway, and the Great Hall is in front of us.

"Here we go," Ron says encouragingly.

We make it halfway to the Gryffindor benches before Harry pulls us to a halt.

Luna is already at the Ravenclaw table. She's sitting by herself and gives us a tiny wave when we
catch her eye.

Draco and his posse are at the end of the Slytherin's, sitting alone and without Crabbe and Goyle,
who are shooting Draco looks of confusion and hostility, respectively. Draco nods his chin, then
lets his eyes flick around the room before closing in on mine again.

"Fuck," Harry whispers with feeling, and, "stay here," under his breath.

Neville mumbles about how "we're gonna have to hex him so that his tongue burns every time he
says those words…" and then immediately falls into place behind Harry.

They leave Ron and I standing in the middle of the Great Hall like idiots as Harry makes his way to
the professor's table.

"What's he doing?" Ron demands, looking between Harry and me.

"I have no idea," I say, brows lifted and shaking my head.

"Then find out!" Ron says exasperatedly. "Do you share a brain with the git or not?"

Oh! I do!

I close my eyes and listen to Harry asking the Headmaster if it would be possible to add another
table where students from multiple houses could sit together without house prejudices getting in the
way.

Well damn! Why didn't I think of that?

"You'll see," I say as Dumbledore rises from the head table, his wand in his hand.

The old man smiles broadly and flicks his wrist. Without disturbing any of the students already
sitting at breakfast, the four house tables are shoved to the side, and a fifth appears directly in the
middle.

Exclamations of awe and surprise erupt in the Hall.

With another flick of his wand, ceiling hangings appear with the Hogwarts logo rather than being
House specific, mimicking the hangings that dangle above the other four tables.

Harry shakes the Headmaster's hand, then stops to talk to Nate before gesturing for us to sit in the
new seats. Nev startles when Dumbledore and Nate both show him the same nodding respect they
showed Harry, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at him.

He's done so well trying to educate Harry but struggles to take the advice himself.

"Only Potter could ask the Headmaster to give him his own table," Draco drawls, and I jump, not
having noticed the Slytherins slide up beside me.

He rolls his eyes in disgust, but he and Theo, Pansy and Zabini all slip into the new table. Ten
minutes into our first day in the castle and Draco throws our plans for his safety right out the
window. The line between Gryffindor and Slytherin is slim.

“What happened to keeping your distance from us, huh?” I demand. “You’re as bad as Harry when
it comes to sticking to a plan.”

Theo, bless him, is wearing the damn Green Power Ranger shirt. He lifts from the bench and takes
my hand like we've been bosom pals for a decade, and shoves me onto the bench on the other side
of Draco.

“We’re snakes, darling. We can take care of ourselves.”

I tense, waiting for any or all , of my Gryffindor guards to challenge Theo to a duel. All that
happens, however, is Harry and Malfoy rolling their eyes at the exact same time and in the exact
same manner.

Well!

"Luna," I call, and heads turn in our direction as the blonde witch rises from her spot.

Ron jogs over and grabs her plate and goblet, bringing them over to the new benches. She smiles
prettily at him, and he blinks a slow blink before blushing furiously.

"Mind if we join?" a deep voice asks, and Harry grins as Cedric and Cho walk up, Cedric taking
Harry's hand.

"Good to see you, Ced," Harry says, beaming.

It's so good to see him.

I'd forgotten about him with everything else that happened this summer. Emotion wells up in my
chest when I see the happiness and relief so clear in Harry's eyes that we were able to save Cedric
from that horrible fate.

"My lord," Cedric replies.

He's the first outside our inner circle (and those we're trying to impress) that's used the title simply
because it's expected.

Because Undesirable Number One is now His Honorable Lordship Harry James Potter-Black .

It's so hard not to laugh at the absurdity.

Every person who spent the last two months under our roof bites their tongues, waiting for Harry's
response. Cedric seems to sense it, eyes skipping around to evaluate whatever sinkhole he's just
landed in.

Harry takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, then releases in a slow, thick, and heavy
exhale.

"Thanks," he finally replies, shaking his head. "The title is…new. Takes a bit of adjustment. In
private, you're welcome to use our given names. Please ," he adds, rather desperately. "But in
public, I'd appreciate it if you'd use the titles. Apparently—"

"My Loooooorrrrdddd," Theo sing-songs from where the rest of us sit. With his elbow on the table,
he wiggles his fingers in a mocking hello.

Another calming breath.

"No," Cedric laughs. "I get it. Better you than him. "

Merlin! If that isn't the simplest way it's been explained all summer!

Harry sighs, then takes a spot in the direct middle of the table. Cedric takes Cho's bag from her
shoulder and drops both of their things at his feet before sliding into the bench next to Harry.

Cedric gives a bemused expression when Draco fills my glass with pumpkin juice, but he doesn't
comment on it, and my good opinion of him goes up.

"Good summer?" Cedric asks, smirking and flicking his eyes in my direction.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, wearing a pure male expression. "I had a good break. You?"

"Eventful," he says, hedging, not bothering to hide his smile.

Harry's hand drops under the table, and his fingers slide up the inside of my thigh to where my
holster is strapped to my leg.

Ron snorts, then coughs when his mouthful of food goes down the wrong pipe. He roughly wipes
at his chin, then clears his throat before he says, "What? So was ours, that's all I'm saying."

That silver shirt with Ron's red hair is truly a beautiful combination.

Shall I escort you both to an empty broom cupboard? Harry laughs into my head. Wanna test if his
shirt is as soft as his hair…?
Wanker!

I shove him from my mind, his laughter echoing behind.

"We're starting a duelling club this year," Harry tells Cedric with a chuckle while I fill both of our
plates. "Can I count on you joining?"

"Let the Gryffindors have all the glory?" he smirks. "Not on your life. Consider us in."

Heads look upward as owls swoop in, delivering the day's mail.

My heart is beating out of my chest, and my hands are shaking so hard I almost knock over my cup.
Three owls drop in front of us, holding out their legs. I grab the two with the Prophet logo on their
chests, and Harry offers Hedwig a crisper before pulling the letter from her leg.

"I don't want to look," Harry says, cringing, flinching at the rolled parchment in my hand like it
might explode.

It might.

Cho is watching our interactions with wide eyes, and Cedric's smile is getting wider by the minute.

It's then that I realise he got a paper delivered too.

I'm panting, my hands are sweaty, and I can't take my eyes off Cedric as he shakes the paper
straight in front of him. Cho gasps, and Cedric leans into her shoulder to tell her, "you owe me a
galleon."

"Damn!" she spits, then reaches into her pocket.

"Huh?"

Cedric winks at Harry, who looks as confused as I feel.

"I'm a pureblood, Potter. I saw the Bonding. I was already planning to contest the results of the
tournament when I saw you sprinting towards the cup so far ahead of me. I'd have won too if I'd
just landed a Bonded-Mate minutes before the maze. But then, you know," his smile falters, but
just a tad.

He shrugs. "I figured you deserved it. Nice picture by the way."

Harry laughs haltingly, looking at me and then back to Cedric before shaking his head in wonder.

"Then you knew before we did," I tell him.

Cho makes a sound of disbelief deep in her throat.

Noise has picked up around the hall as the handful of students to receive the paper read the
headlines and then turn to their friends.

From the corner of my eye, I watch as a Seventh Year Ravenclaw stands on a table to search us out.

"Okay. Let me see it," Harry says, holding out his hand but still looking away and cringing. There
are actually two papers, and I pass one his way without looking and straighten out the other
between us.
It's a special edition.

"Told ya," Harry huffs.

Harry takes one look at the Prophet stretched out in front of me and spits his pumpkin juice across
the table.

" Harry Potter! The Boy Who Loved!"

By Rita Skeeter

What a time to be alive! I write this, dear readers, sitting at the breakfast table of none other than
Harry Potter, newly appointed Lord Potter-Black, Lord of the Blackwater, The Boy Who Lived,
The Chosen One. We all know his name. We know what we owe him. As just a baby, he defeated
You-Know-Who and has sworn to do so again now that the Dark Wizard once again terrorises our
streets.

But today, dear readers, I'm here to announce a once-in-a-lifetime occasion. Once in several
lifetimes. Tears well in my eyes when I take in the sight before me. The love that practically oozes
from their pores. Bonded-Mates! And you guessed it; Harry Potter is at the heart of it. Literally.

Bound in magic, sealed with love, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, is proud to announce his
marriage and Bonding with none other than Lady Hermione Potter-Black 'nee Granger, Great-
Granddaughter of Antionette Chalamet Granger, the legendary French Alchemy Mistress.

The Bond has been confirmed with the Ministry of Magic by the Minister herself, as well as...

"I can't read anymore," Harry scoffs, pushing the paper back in my direction.

He lifts a piece of toast from a pile stacked on his plate, then drops it un-eaten with a look of
disgust.

"I see they skated over the fact that my parents are muggles, and my grandmother was a squib."

"Of course they did," Harry snarls with irritation.

"Here's the actual press release," Nev says, handing Harry the regular paper. "It's in the
announcements section."

Lord Potter-Black, formerly of Godric's Hollow, is proud to announce his marriage and Bonding to
Hermione Jean Potter-Black 'nee Granger on June 24th, 1995.

"See!" Harry says, dropping the paper onto the table. "That's so much better! Why couldn't she just
stick with that!?"

"Because she's Rita Skeeter," Ron says around a mouthful of food.

"You look like a lovesick puppy, Potter," Draco says, leaning over my shoulder and smirking at the
paper.

Harry leans close and puts his chin on my shoulder. "I don't mind being besotted," he whispers
into my ear.

It's a good picture.

I don't know when they took it.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table, smiling and talking with Augusta Longbottom and Molly. Sirius and
Ragnok chat in the background, and Harry stands at my side.

He smiles, staring at me with an expression that makes butterflies explode in my belly and pushes
a lock of my hair behind my shoulder before looking out of the frame.

Then the picture resets again.

"It's embarrassing, is what it is," says Ron, and every boy at the table breaks into agreeing
chuckles. "It sets a horrible precedent. Girls are going to be impossible this year, wanting every
bloke to act like the bleeding Bonded-Mate, and my dumbass volunteered as bodyguard to stand
next to them and watch him fall all over her all day long."

“There’s nothing embarrassing about liking to watch," Luna breaks through the grumbling. "A
voyeurism kink is fairly common, and they do shag an awful lot. Since I know you said we aren’t
supposed to walk alone around the castle, I’ll watch them with you, if you’d like.”

Silence blankets our group, ten sets of eyes snapping in Luna's direction.

"She is going to be soooo much fun!!" Theo croons, smacking his hand on the table, and an
explosion of laughter drowns everything else out.

Ron groans and collapses onto the table, hiding his face in his arms. Harry and I blush a fiery red,
and he tries to hide his face in my neck, but then—

—the charm between my breasts starts to vibrate.

Again.

And Again.

Ron, Nev, and Malfoy, almost obscenely in tune with us by this point, stare at me with widened
eyes when Harry's gaze flicks to the chain around my neck. Nev nods once, then reaches behind his
back inside his cloak to finger the knife resting there.

The others continue to chuckle, with no idea that the world is once more about to change.

Here we go...
Chapter End Notes

I've included a sample of the

clothing Winky is forcing on
our reluctant leaders and the
tracking bangles.
 Chapter 51
Chapter Notes

Sorry for the extended delay, guys! But we're back in business.
 Hermione

"Is this how you spent the summer?"

Theo's wry voice breaks through my concentration. I have a book on the Wizengamot in my hands
and a notebook on my lap. Supposedly to help build a plan for when we go in front of the entire
court next week. But I haven’t looked at my notes in ages.

"Because if so, I'm staying with you lot next hols." He waggles his hands in front of us in some
weird approximation of what's happening on the other side of the sitting room. "It's all rather
abrupt, but the sweat alone is worth the price of admission, in my opinion."

I swat at Theo lounging beside me on the couch but miss him entirely because my eyes are firmly
rooted to the show his boyfriend is putting on with my other halves—and what a show it is. I give
up my studying for the ruse it is and plop notes and book both at my feet.

We're barely through the first week of school, and already I'm slacking. What has happened to me
that a set of pretty boys pulls my attention away from my studies?

"Not this, per se, but yeah. Sweat was involved."

Most of our furniture is pushed to the side, giving the three men space to move.

Harry and Draco are both shirtless, with…yes…sweat dripping down their slim, muscled forms.
Ron is still wearing his vest, but it's so wet it's basically sheer and clings to him in a somewhat
obscene fashion. Being sleeveless, it does nothing to hide the flex and bunching of his biceps.

What started as an exercise in defending against multiple attackers at once has devolved into a free-
for-all of Draco, Harry and Ron, each desperate to be the last man standing.

Wooden weapons—two swords against Malfoy's six-foot-long fighting staff—twirl and clash so
fast I struggle to watch without my eyes going cross. Draco picked up the staff almost as swiftly as
Harry learned the sword. Faster, if you ask me. He twirls that stick like it’s a part of his body.
Simply an extension of himself. I’m desperate to ask if he’s somehow using magic to make it move
that quickly, but I don’t want it to seem like I doubt his natural capabilities.

None misses a step when our outer door opens, then slams in its bracket. Draco backpedals while
flicking his fighting staff hard and sharp both left and right, hitting his opponents on chest and gut,
respectively.

Harry grunts from the impact, and Ron takes the opportunity to turn his attack on his best friend,
using his bigger size to swing out wide in a very admirable attempt to separate my husband's head
from his neck. Faster than you'd think possible, Harry has ducked, lifted his sword to block
Malfoy's downswing whack, and thrown his leg out to shove Ron back with a foot to the thigh.

"Why aren't you in there, panting and dripping?" Theo asks Nev as the newcomer climbs over the
couch and squishes in beside me.

"I have no intention of ever finding myself in a situation where I wish I learned the staff or sword,"
he replies, gaze already following the melee. "Easier to look them in the eye while I slip a knife
between their ribs."

In every timeline I’ve ever lived, Neville has always somehow had the most common sense. Theo
spares a glance over my shoulder, looking impressed. His blue eyes glitter in appreciation.

"I like you more and more every day, Longbottom."

Fire blooms in Neville’s cheeks, but he doesn’t do more to acknowledge the compliment.

This time it's Harry's turn to attack; accepting a hit from Draco but using the momentum to grip the
staff in the middle and throw the blonde into the redhead, knocking them both off balance just long
enough for Harry to thwack the flat side of his practice sword against their arms.

"Did you come here alone?" I demand, glancing at Neville.

He's been the biggest strickler about walking in pairs. If he broke his own rule, there’s zero chance
we’re going to be able to keep enforcing it with Harry. Though in Neville’s defence, no one has
tried to kill him yet.

Course, he’s the Minister’s grandson, so…

"The girls dropped me off," he replies in that same distracted tone.

I have about five seconds to gather my curiosity to the tip of my tongue…what girls?!?! Before
Neville cuts me off.

"I thought those two weren't supposed to spar against each other?" he asks.

Meaning Ron and Harry because Harry’s sword is half the width of his best friend’s. But really,
when has Harry ever done what he's been told?

"They're not," I confirm. I don't bother to add the two of them going at it like this has become a
rather common occurrence. What girls?! "But notice the sword in Ron’s hand? He's using one of
Harry's practice swords rather than his own. It takes him a few swings to get accustomed to the
lighter weight, but…"

"Doesn't look like it's slowing him down."

No. It certainly does not.

Silence takes over. Or, well…not really. Silence from the peanut gallery. The other three fill the
room with a constant stream of grunts and curses and yelps as another hit is snuck under a sword or
staff. They're finally slowing, with their movements becoming loose and sloppy. But the strength
of their blows doesn’t lessen at all.

It's evident to everyone that at some unspoken moment, Ron and Malfoy both turned their attention
to taking down Harry together. They’re doing a good job of it. Without the aid of magic, it’s down
to simple brute strength, and Harry is still (and will always be) the smallest of them all. If they all
had swords, I’d still bet on my husband. But that staff…

Harry, bless him, is snarling like a lion while falling back and back and—

—his sword flies through the air with a final howl from Ronald, and Draco rams the butt of his
staff into Harry's chest, throwing him backwards, arms pinwheeling until Harry's arse lands firmly
in Theo's lap.

Bruises are blooming over the three combatants like flowers. Chests heave, Harry groans, and
Theo…

"This might just be the best present you've ever given me, Dragon," he purrs.

Theo unabashedly picks up whomever's shirt is closest to him on the back of the couch and begins
wiping down Harry's chest.

All Harry does is moan and attempt to curl up in a ball.

Draco leans heavily on his staff in a futile attempt to catch his breath while Ron collapses to the
floor like a marionette whose strings have been cut. He lays flat on his back, gasping, with all four
limbs in different directions.

I don't know whether to burst into giggles or begin slathering them all with bruise paste.

"Now that that's done," Neville says, lifting his bum from the couch and pulling his communication
mirror from his pocket. "I got a message from Gran. Lordship lessons start now. The Wizengamot
meets in two weeks, and you need to be prepared."

Harry, the love of my life, rolls off of Theo's lap, landing face-first on the floor, and groans for an
entirely different reason.

"Okay," Harry says, lifting his hands in the air, grasping the practice sword hilt and arching his
head back towards his bum. "How are we doing this?"

I've already run diagnostics, fixed Harry's cracked ribs, and, yes, slathered all three guys down with
bruise paste.

Theo’s head follows Harry’s movement. He almost falls off the couch, ensuring Harry’s lithe form
stays centred in his line of sight at all times. My eyes flick to Draco to gather his opinion of his
boyfriend openly and unabashedly ogling their once-sworn enemy. Draco merely meets my gaze
and rolls his eyes.

I get the impression Theo’s antics are not a new development between them.

Neville crawls over the couch, the heathen, and begins to prowl around in the kitchen for
something to munch on. I swear I hear him grumbling about the lack of a microwave.

When Harry straightens, Theo does too. He shakes himself with a whisper about all the pretty boys
—I can't say I disagree with that sentiment—and turns his attention back to the matter at hand. The
purebloods are leading what I like to call the Lordship Lessons. Theo and Neville specifically,
since the Malfoy line lost its nobility sometime in the 1600s. Not that it lessened their status in
society. If anything, it gave them more room to manoeuvre around laws and restrictions they’d
otherwise be forced to abide by.

"I thought we'd do a brief history of wizarding nobility and how the Wizengamot was established,
and then we'd jump into processes and procedures."

Ron’s shoulders slump, and he drops his head back to glare at the heavens before turning his gaze
on Theo.

"Bloody fantastic. You're one of them, aren't you?"

Almost immediately, hostility begins pouring off the Slytherins in waves. Malfoy's fists tighten on
his staff until his knuckles turn white.

"If you mean brilliant, gorgeous, and incredibly quick-witted, then yes, I am," Theo bites off with
his eyebrow lifted and a haughty tone.

The unspoken jab being that Ronald is none of those things.

"No," Ron replies dryly—either not catching or choosing to ignore the implied insult tossed out
with Theo's rebuke. "I mean someone who enjoys learning about pointless nonsense."

Pointless?!

Quidditch stats are pointless. Collecting Chocolate Frog cards is nonsense. Learning about our
history and culture is vital to our future and our place in society!

"Well, I think it's fascinating,” I say, with my chin in the air to show Ron how above him I am.
Which is pointless because he doesn’t care.

“Of course you do.”

He sounds more resigned than anything else. Our three fighters have changed positions now, with
Ron bare-chested, using his damp shirt to wipe the sweat off of his brow, and Harry and Draco
both slipping back into their undershirts. Ron climbs to his feet and stalks into our bedroom,
coming out with a green tee shirt that’s certainly too small for him but still large enough to shove
his broad form inside without stretching the fabric too thin across his chest. He takes his usual spot
on the red reading chair, elbows on his knees, irritation and resignation bare for all to see.

I don’t understand his frustration.

“It's just another form of battle tactics, Ron. We're plotting to move our pieces across the
chessboard. I thought, you know that this was your thing?”
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. He shoves his hand through his hair, pushing the
damp strands off his brow before clapping his fists together and all but growling from deep in his
chest.

“Yeah! On a board where I can't play!” he rips his fingers apart, gesturing wildly. “Where none of
us can go but you and Neville. You'll have no backup. No team. Surrounded by people we can’t
trust to breathe without trying to hex the lot of you. I might not remember it, but I’ve heard enough
of what happened before. He took over the ministry, right? He could already be trying to wedge his
way in now.” Ron’s head jerks to take in Neville, standing like a statue to my left. “I don’t care
how scary your Gran is, Nev. For all we know, You-Know-Who already has a plan to get to them
the minute you step foot on the grounds!” He turns back to me, almost pleading. “The last time you
guys fought Riddle without me, Harry was eaten by a snake!”

That makes every other person in the room double-take. I try to wave it away, but it does little
good.

"Eaten?"

"By a snake?"

"Dear Salazar. Please don't tell me it was the snake?!?!" Malfoy shudders.

“I know that was my fault,” Ron continues in a beseeching tone. “But the last time the three of us
were forcibly separated, we died! Isn’t that what Harry is always so worked up about? He’s gone
barmy, worried that you’ll die if he’s away from your side for more than a minute! Now you want
to walk into a possible trap without me! It’s bullshite, Mione. It's nutters. It's dangerous, is what it
is! We should do things together or not at all!"

That…

Harry meets my gaze over Ron’s shoulder, and my shock is reflected back at me with Harry’s wide
eyes and his mouth slightly parted.

“Ron, mate—” he tries, but his throat clogs up before he can say anything else.

I TOLD you your paranoia was going to wear off on them! I snarl into Harry’s head, but he just
looks at his best friend, a thousand emotions warring for control of his face.

He’s not going to be any help at all.

“Hey,” I whisper. I slide from the couch and onto the floor, all but crawling until I’m sitting back
on my feet between Ron’s legs. I place my hands on his knees, honestly at a loss of how to handle
this, and he places his hands on mine, his grip almost painful. “This won’t be like that. I promise.
It’s not a trap, and even if it is, that’s why we’re spending hours and weeks planning for it. Just
like the Azkaban raid. We’re prepared, Ron. We know what’s coming.” His brows lift in doubt. “A
little, at least,” I concede. “Trying to attack us out in the open in one of the most heavily guarded
wizarding establishments in the world would be nonsensical. Riddle might be a madman, but one
thing he’s not is stupid.”

The ministry is horribly under-protected, but no need to go into that now.

I twist my hands so our palms are touching, and he holds me even tighter. How many times has he
offered me comfort?

Usually, when Harry is dead or dying. Or missing or doing something irrationally stupid. Ron may
be an insufferable prat, but he’s always there with wide arms and a hug whenever I need him. But
boys don’t like to admit when they need a hug, so I take the issue out of his control and rise on my
knees to wrap my arms around his shoulders.

“I promise the next time we die, we’ll do it together, and it won’t be within the Wizengamot.”

Ron chuckles despite himself. He squeezes me tight, places a kiss on my head, then lets me slide to
the floor.

“The Weasel has a point,” Draco says, and I whip around, still between Ronald’s knees, prepared to
curse my second favourite Slytherin. Theo supplanted Draco the moment he made Malfoy blush.
“You’re walking into a den of vipers. The danger is simply more of a social and political nature
rather than blood and guts and torture.”

“Thanks,” Harry says dryly. He backhands Draco in the chest. “Helpful.”

“If it makes a difference,” Neville speaks up for the first time. “This session of the Witan will be
open to all. The swearing in of a new Minister can’t be done behind closed doors.”

He climbs over the back of the couch again to take my spot beside Theo. He's become a freaking
barbarian. I know his Gran taught him better manners than that.

“Besides that, Gran plans to put forth a motion that all sessions be open to public viewing. She
doesn’t believe in closed doors for law making. Or…I don’t know if she’s always felt that way.
But knowing what she does,” he shrugs, face pointedly looking at Harry, “and assuming things she
has no proof of but suspects anyway, she’s kinda on Ron’s side on this one. If there’s any scheme
to enslave Muggleborns happening, it won’t happen behind those doors.”

Ron is already nodding his head, reassured perhaps by the knowledge that he’ll at least be able to
be in the room with us or maybe that he and Augusta unwittingly see eye to eye about something.

My feet are going numb, and I readjust so I’m sitting cross-legged, still between Ron’s knees, now
facing the rest of the room. I’m just about ready to remove myself from this potentially awkward
location when Harry walks by and scoops up my papers from the floor, placing them into my lap.

I've got this; blows through my mind like a calming breeze.

"Come on, Ron." Harry jerks his head towards the inner door leading into the common room. "We
don't need to be here for the boring shite. I'll go with you to get some clothes that fit."

Harry bends down to drag his lips across mine. Ronald places his hand on my shoulder, leaning to
whisper "sorry" in my ear. Then he lifts his leg right over my sitting form and goes with Harry to
be someplace other than here.

The silence left in their wake has a tacky texture, with Neville’s eyes following the pair out and
Malfoy still on his feet, leaning his weight against his fighting staff.

All eyes turn on me.

"Do we need to talk about it?" Theo asks, genuine concern filling his face.

Do we? Probably. But that's a discussion for our trio alone. Not for the likes of anyone else.

"We're uncomfortably close," I mumble and attempt to avoid eye contact with the other three boys
in the room. Unimpressed faces stare back at me. Well! "I think Harry and Ron share a Soul Bond
—" I confess "—and Harry and I share a soul, so…"

Neville snorts loud enough to hurt himself.

"You know what?" I wave away their amused expressions. "I want to know why you keep calling
the Wizengamot the Witan," I declare.

Hopefully, putting the Ron conversation to bed.

"Because the Ministry based their entire government on the early days of Muggle parliament and
the British Monarchy," Neville says.

Theo takes over.

"The Witan was the original King's Council, which began during the reign of Alfred the Great.
That was in the late 800's to early 900's. It was his grandson who claimed the title of King of
England, First of his name. That was almost 600 years before the Statute of Secrecy. While it's true
magic and Muggle usually stuck to their own communities, there were Wizards on the King's
Council all the way through Queen Elizabeth the First's time.

"Her court was rife with magicals, being the daughter of a witch. It's one of the main reasons she
preached peace and allowed her subjects to practice their personal religions rather than force the
Church of England on them all. There isn't a ton of historical documentation about which members
of her courts were witches and wizards, but she for sure had a Goblin and a Veela.

"Wizards like to preach that there was always conflict between Muggles and us, but that's nowhere
near the truth. Arthur and Merlin are certianly the most famous example of Wizards being on the
King's council, but in no way were they the first or last."

"All of our titles were originally gifted by the ruling monarchs of England," adds Nev.

Draco moves to a corner, working the forms on his staff with his back towards us. Theo follows
him with his eyes but doesn't stop his lesson. It makes sense Malfoy doesn't particularly want to be
here for this part of the lecture. It goes against everything his family believes in. My question is,
why does Theo seem so enthusiastic about it?

The Notts are as dark as the Malfoys. Or were a generation back.

"I knew that the Potter Dukedom was passed through a Knight of the Round Table," I confirm.
"But for some reason it never occured to me to think that the title came from Arthur himself."

It makes sense, though. So much sense. It's why there haven't been new Nobility in the Wizarding
community in three-hundred years. Because we haven't had a Monarchy to grant them to us.

Quills, fashions, laws…everything just—stopped evolving when Wizards removed themselves

from Muggles.

"It was after Elizabeth I died when the conflict between our cultures started to escalate. Or really,
when Henry left Catherine for a Beauxbatons witch."

Theo talks with his hands, I've noticed, and his eyes light up as he delves deeper into his subject.
But this is an awful lot of knowledge for a Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood.

"How do you know so much about Muggle history?"

His face takes on a mischievous glint, falls, then rights itself into something sneaky again.

"There was a hidden room in the manor. Passed down from Pureblood wife to Pureblood wife.
Blood warded so only those tied to the ward can enter. My mother turned it into a library. She was
a student of life no matter the creed or culture. Before she died, she gave it to me."

I lift my brow.

"I'm not a wife," he nods in agreement, "but she suspected I'd never have one, sooo." Again, his
eyes flick to the corner where Draco squats with both hands on his staff. "My father isn't the easiest
man to live with. Sadism and alcohol make such a lovely combination, don't you agree? We've both
spent quite a bit of time hidden away with nothing but those books for company."

"I'd be happy to kill him for you," Neville offers from beside Theo on the couch. He has a knife in
each hand, flipping them over and over, hilt to blade to hilt again.

"I'll fight ya for it," Draco growls.

"All in good time, Dragon," Theo waves the threats away.

He sighs wistfully in Malfoy's direction before giving his attention back to me.

"The Wizarding community had no governing body until six hundred years after the founding of
England. The Ministry was founded in 1707. Wizengamot was founded in 1544. Even the Wizards
Council wasn't established until the 13th century, and for the most part, all they did was regulate
Quidditch."

I can't help but snort at that. Of course. All wizards seem to care about in any century are
Quidditch standings, and who has the bigger prick.

My prick is just fine, thank you Harry thinks as he and Ron come back into the room. Ron retakes
his seat behind me, wearing checkered sleep pants and a red hooded jumper. Harry goes to find his
practice sword. All it takes is me lifting my hand as high as my shoulder for Ron to take my fingers
in his.

"It's ironic, truth be told—and just a little bit twisted," Theo's lip curls in distaste. "The beginnings
of the Pureblood's power was granted to them by a Muggle monarch. Yet Purebloods use that same
power to marginalize and victimize Muggleborns and Half-bloods of lower station than
themselves."

"I'll thank you to leave me out of it," Ron says tartly. He physically leans away, as if he could put
distance between the way other purebloods behave and himself. "The Wesley's are blood traitors to
the core. The only reason we're still Pureblood to begin with is…" a dumbfounded look bleeds into
his face. "Well, I don't know, actually. Coincidence I guess."

"Because you breed like bunnies and at least one Weasley boy always married a pureblood girl,"
Theo supplies helpfully.

I can actually see Ron doing a tally in his head of how many half-blood cousins he has, and have to
bite my tongue to keep from laughing. I'm the only one with restraint. Harry almost lands on the
floor; he's snorting through his nose so hard.

Moving on…

"Policies and procedures? What do you guys know about that? Or do I need to go hunt down a
book in the library?"

Aaaaand that's when I lose Ronald. For the third? Fourth? time tonight, he swings his leg over my
head and goes to join the other two, who are back to lightly sparring.

"Oh no," Neville nods. "We know all that. While Muggle children are at school, we're stuck in
rooms with tutors, being taught our ABC's and who sits where in the Witan Chamber. Heirs are
encouraged/expected to be in session to watch proceedings. Otherwise, how will you know who to
curse and who to suck up to?"

"I was outside chasing gnomes," Ron smirks with a swing at Malfoy's head. Obviously thinking he
got the better end of the bargain. Even though that's not completely accurate. Ron's lessons were
simply an afterthought rather than the basis for his childhood.

Harry ducks a half-hearted swipe by Draco, then tosses his sword to the floor to signal his desertion
of the fight.

"What I'm wondering is how different this go-round with the Wizengamot is going to be compared
to the previous times I faced them?"

"How many times did you face them?"

Neville looks wary. Theo looks intrigued. Draco rolls his eyes.

"Twice."

"Neither was a pleasant experience," I add.

"The first time I was attacked by Dementors on summer hols, and Fudge hauled me in front of the
entire Wizengamot on charges of Underage Magic and breaking the Statute of Secrecy. He tried to
get my wand snapped and have me expelled from the magical community. I scraped by with a
well-placed lie and a technicality."

Draco sneers "typical," not quite under his breath.

"Age?" Theo asks.

"Fifteen," I supply. Theo slowly claps in appreciation.

"The other time, the three of us broke into the Ministry—for the second time, mind you—and I
ended up walking into a hearing where they were imprisoning a Muggleborn for stealing her
magic. I didn't react well."

"...heavily guarded wizarding establishments in the world…" Ron grumbles under his breath. "Yet
we broke in at 15 and 18. Bloody nutters is what it is. Broke into Azkaban. Snuck in and out of
Hogwarts. Filled with magic, and not one person knows how to lock a bloody door…"

I cover my mouth with both hands and pretend I don't hear Ron whinging.

Theo whistles.

"Let me guess," Draco dryly cuts in. "You made a scene, did your saving people thing, and left a
big fucking mess behind you."

"Right in one," I agree. "But what's worse is we were polyjuiced, and I was actually the scribe
assigned to that courtroom. The way that poor witch was shaking…" A shiver runs through me.
"Harry had the right of it. Plus, we got what we came for, so it all worked out in the end."

Harry snorts again. Best not to tell Ron we splinched him.

"Kinda," I hedge.

Malfoy rolls his eyes then drops his staff beside Harry's sword.

"Well!" Theo claps. "Going on that, I'd say this experience will be rather the same; only you'll be
on the other side of the courtroom." Splendid. "Each member of the Wizengamot has assigned
seats. Either inherited or because they were granted it through their position in society or the
ministry, situated according to rank. You've seen the horrible coloured robes they chose?"

We nod.

"Hideous. Luckily, you can choose your style and what to wear underneath them. Pansy will handle
that."

I choke on my tongue, but Theo doesn't stop talking. Like hell, she will!

"When Madam Longbottom takes her oath as Minister, Neville here will take the oath of the Witan
as his Head of House. Usually, a woman can't be a Head, unless in the case of the male heir being
too young to hold the title."

"Just another way the patriarchy subjugates its female counterparts!"

Everyone ignores me. Draco moves tighter into the circle, standing between Harry and Ron.

"That's where this gets fun!"

The gleam in Draco’s eye makes me feel like this will only really be fun for him.

"Potter will take his oath right after Longbottom as the newest Wizengamot member."

"Harry already took the oaths of Head of House. Or signed the paperwork."

"Not the oaths as Head. Oaths of the Witan. Like the Muggle Parliament. Scarhead can't hold more
than one seat, but thanks to Sirius, the title that should have gone to me as the only remaining
Black heir has gone to him." Malfoy and Harry lock eyes before Draco cedes and looks at me
instead.

"Sorry," Harry lies.

Annnnnd Draco turns his attention back to Harry.

"No, you're not."

Harry sticks his hands in his pockets and shakes his head.

"Not even a little."

"You could at least pretend, Potter."

"I must not tell lies," Harry replies, and I—I have no idea how he said that with a straight face.

"You just did, you wanker."

"And I've learned my lesson, haven't I? It's always best to tell the truth."

"Are they flirting?" Neville asks. I don't think Harry or Draco hear him. Too caught up in their
bickering banter. "Cause it feels like they're flirting?"

"You should have seen them last time."

I whip my head in Ron’s direction when he makes a noise of disgust.

"Do you remember?"

I almost fall over with excitement.

"I don't think so?" He scratches his chest. His eyes bounce back and forth between the other pair
depending on who is insulting whom. "I've just heard enough to give me nightmares."

Oh.

"This could be so much fun," Theo whispers, almost to himself. He's leaning forward on the couch,
an elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm. I know—like I know my own name—that poor
Draco will be teased mercilessly for what's happening right now.

"AS YOU WERE SAYING?" I cut in and am rewarded with a smug-looking husband and an
abashed looking…best friend? Is that what he is? Has Malfoy somehow become my best friend?

Don't tell that to Ron, Harry laughs into the back of my head.

Draco picks up where he left off. "Normally, a woman can't be a Head," he says again. "But since
you share a soul—"

It clicks.

"—with identical magical cores—" I supply.

"Harry can take his seat and, in the same breath, gift you the seat of Potter. Like that, you're both
Heads of House with equal standing in the Wizengamot. Granger is, in theory, a Duke and the
highest-ranked woman in Wizarding Britain, excluding the Minister herself."

That will make quite a few people angry. Riddle especially.

"Power gifted to me by my husband," I snarl.

"Oh, come off it, Mione," Ron flicks it away. "Pieces on the chessboard, isn't that what you told
me two hours ago? At least you get to play the game."

I fall back on my bum from where I'd risen in indignation onto my knees and attempt not to scowl
in anyone's direction.

"Why isn't any of this taught at Hogwarts?" Harry asks, still standing with Ron and Malfoy.

Neville takes this one.

"Hogwarts is a place of neutrality. All are treated equally." I scoff. "In theory," Nev concedes.
"Titled students and Heads of House are housed in the general population instead of in positions of
honour, nor are they given special treatment other than excused time away to handle business that
only the Head can do."
"Like the Wizengamot," I sigh.

"Which all circles round to why Riddle gave himself a title." Harry absent-mindedly rubs his scar,
and I find myself doing the same to a wound I don't physically possess. He sounds utterly
exhausted. "A title and a heritage with such immense power and fear that not one person
questioned him on it."

Draco and I lock eyes, and like magic, I know what he's thinking. "You know what you have to do
then?" he prompts, giving me all his attention.

Yes. Yes, I do.

"Take it all away from him."

Last time, Riddle had a year's head start to get his pieces in play. When it came time for him to
take over, he didn't even have to leave the comfort of the Malfoy's drawing room. This time, he'll
be the one in hiding with his face under the poster that reads Undesirable Number One.

"Do we do that by going in meek and mild or show up with shock and awe?"

"Shock and awe, naturally. It's dog eat dog in that Chamber," Theo purrs. "But if you play your
cards right, by the time you walk back out again, every person watching is either going to fear you,
want to fuck you or want to be you."

Silence falls between the six of us; all lost in thoughts of different directions. Like hell if Pansy
bloody Parkinson is going to get anywhere near my closet! Winky wouldn't stand for it!

I hope…

"You know," Draco drawls. "On the off chance that the Minister can't get the open council
approved, there is one way to get around Weasley not being able to join you in the Witan
Chambers. Especially if you're so enthusiastic about dying together. I can almost guarantee it
would make people want to kill you. If you wanted to make a statement, it would be a great way to
nark some people off."

Ron’s ears perk up, his entire body angling in Malfoy's direction.

"How so?" he asks, and you can tell it's a battle to not sound desperate but not to sneer in dismissal
like he usually does.

Draco’s smirk makes me shiver.

"Make the redhead the Potter heir."

The line between Gryffindor and Slytherin is thin, and all of my Slytherins smile, Harry included.
Theo stands, and Ron sinks straight down. He slouches on the couch, his arms crossed over his
chest.

Making the youngest Weasley son the heir to two titles…

"Potter heir?" I confirm. Not the heir for both.

Draco's smile becomes smug.

"I'm still the last remaining male Black."

"But you're not a Black. You're a Malfoy. I thought the reason so many of the Wizarding Nobility
titles had died out was that the titles didn't transfer out of the original bloodlines?"

"They don't."

A blood traitor and a disgraced scion, both non-descendant heirs to titles currently owned by The
Chosen One and his Mudblood wife…

Draco pulls two pocket-sized books from his trousers and tosses them into my lap. One is worn
around the edges; the silver trim rubbed completely away in some spots.

The Pureblood Prince, the title reads. Etiquette for Wizarding Nobility. Probably standard reading
for these guys right out of the cradle. The second tome is even smaller but twice as thick. The 441st
Magna Carta of the Wizengamot.

"Just because something has always been done doesn't mean it's required. The idea of leaving your
title to an heir, not of your line is so blasphemist they never even bothered to make a law about it."

Draco's parents have probably been planning this for him since the moment Sirius ended up in
Azkaban. Imagine their faces when he goes forward with their plan, only for the benefit of their
enemy and not the betterment of their House.

Neville stands and joins the other three—his face a mirror, eyes glittering over lips spread wide in
a smirk.

"Welcome to the board, Ron."

Ron scrubs his hands down his face in frustration.

"For once, why can't we follow the butterflies? Why do we always have to follow the spiders?"
 Chapter 52
Chapter Notes

Comments make me happy!!! Drop a line if you liked it, hated it, and everything in
between!! Thank you so much for reading and supporting me on this journey.
 Harry

The first sign that something is horribly wrong is my nightmare. Not a nightmare, but the
nightmare. I still have bad dreams, but not like this. Not of places I’ve never been, watching out of
eyes that aren’t mine.

Only I have been there, haven’t I? I took almost the same path he did, moving from person to
person. Though he was releasing the animals from their cages, and I was adding a hidden lock. He
strokes his finger down Bellatrix’s face like you would a lover. But he doesn’t love her. He doesn’t
love anything.

He’s excited about the chaos she’ll cause.

He’s ready for the blood she’ll spill.

Jokes on him, isn't it?

I already put a collar around his pet psychopath.

I wake up sweating and shivering at the same time. My skin is clammy, my heart is racing, and the
woman against my chest moans in her sleep. It’s not a pleasant moan. It’s the sound she made lying
on that drawing-room floor, blood dripping from her arm, twitching through the after-effects of
torture.

The second sign is the charm dangling from around Hermione’s neck. Its chain is shorter than the
amulet that holds our crest. It lays at the top of her sternum, whereas the necklace I gave her is long
enough to rest on the mattress. She’s asleep, bare, and whimpering in a way that brings tears to my
eyes. The charm is vibrating against my fingers where I cup her breast in my hand.

Even when I'm asleep, I can’t stop touching her.

That bloody charm, alerting that keywords are being spoken on our listening devices, is vibrating
constantly.

An overwhelming joyous feeling spreads throughout my body, but the happiness isn’t mine. It's his
. Distorted and warped, as if through a filter. It tastes bitter in my mouth, like bile crawling up my
throat.

It’s a feeling I’d hoped never to feel again.

“Hermione!” I hiss, shaking her awake.

As soon as she opens her eyes, the out-of-body sensation disappears. It doesn’t just flee. It winks
out of existence as if it was never there, to begin with. The connection, if that's what it was, ends
with her consciousness.

Then my communication mirror goes off.

I fall from the bed in my haste to get free of the covers.

Hermione looks around with wide eyes, propped up on one elbow and shoving her hair out of her
face with her hands.

“Wha—”

“Get up!” I cut her off, already yanking my jeans on over my bare arse. “He’s done it. Azkaban.”

My glasses and holster fly at me from the side table, and I let them hover in the air while I pull a
shirt over my head.

“How do you know that?” she demands.

Her legs are off the bed now, and she’s hastily trying to use the still-vibrating charm to unlock the
spelled journal.

“Dreamt it,” I say harshly, the words coming out clipped.

Her jaw goes slack, and her eyes widen in horror, her hand unconsciously lifting to her forehead to
rub at the scar she doesn’t have. I don’t have to be able to read her mind to know the thoughts
running through it.

Her aura presses against me, and she sees the dream herself. Probably dreamt it herself and didn’t
realize what it was, never having shared one of those nightmares with me in live-time before.

I turn to flee, but Hermione’s gentle cry of "Harry, wait!" stops me in my tracks. I freeze in the
doorway of our bed-chambers, keeping my back to her. I listen to the soft sounds of bare skin
sliding against smooth sheets, then her feet hitting the floor.

"Harry," she says again, coming around until she can cup my face in her hands. She touches me
like she would a startled horse, soothing it to calmness. My eyes close automatically, pulling her
close to my body and feeling her warmth sink into my soul.

"I'm not supposed to be dreaming about him anymore," I whisper.

"I know," she agrees quietly. "But it was different this time, yes?"

Was it?

She pushes a teensy bit, just a smidge, against our bond, the feel of her brightening in my head
before retreating to her usual glow.

It was.

"Yes," I confirm, then close my eyes to better remember it.

"Tell me how," she demands, gentle and firm all at once.

"It was...diluted, somehow. Like I wasn't getting the full dose."

Hermione, brilliant, amazing Hermione, nods her head in agreement. She's seen every nightmare,
every vision I've ever had. She's gritted her teeth and sat through the Harry Potter horror show,
analyzing every interaction I've ever had with the so-called Dark Lord. She knows up close and
personal what it feels like when that monster is in my head.

"Does your scar hurt?"

Both of our communication devices are buzzing now, but I ignore them for the woman in front of
me.

She already knows the answer.

"No," I confirm. "I have a headache," I tell her, and she immediately shakes her head, dismissing
it.

I always have a headache. A side effect, she thinks, of having a Horcrux in my brain for so long.
Maybe popping back in time so often. Third-year, apparently, she got them pretty bad too. Of
course, she was going back hours, and I'm being thrown back into the timeline, reborn.

"I stopped getting his echo, as soon as you opened your eyes," I tell her.

It feels important somehow.

She smiles at me tenderly, not showing any of the fear that's coursing through my body.

"That's because I won't let that bloody bastard have you," she growls before she lifts on her toes
and kisses me for all she's worth. Power surges through my fingers. My toes dig into the carpet. I
could fuel a thousand Patronuses from the feel of this kiss alone.

The floo bell starts to ring.

"Go get Ron and Nev," she says with a final caress, then shoves me out of the doorway.

I flee barefoot from the room and run for the boys’ dormitory taking the steps two at a time.

I thought the connection to Voldemort was gone with the removal of the Horcrux. Broken. But
maybe when you’ve been through what Riddle and I have together, you don’t need to share a body
to be linked.

Or maybe, the Horcrux was never the cause for the connection to begin with. Either way, this isn’t
good.

It stopped the minute Hermione opened her eyes, though, and that must mean something too. He
couldn’t possess me before, when I was thinking about the people I loved. She saved me again, as
usual. She saved us, since she’s stuck with me.

I burst into the Fifth Year dorm, uncaring about waking up the entire room.

“We need you,” I bark, walking first to Ron, then Neville, shaking them awake. I rummage through
Neville’s trunk, throwing a pair of jeans at him.

"W-w-what?" Ron stutters mid-snore.

He opens his mouth to snap at me, but as soon as he gets a good look at my face, his eyes widen
instead, and he hurries from his bed. Dean and Seamus sit up blurrily, asking half-hearted questions
I ignore. Nev scrambles awake without a word, and I turn and run back the way I came, hoping
Hermione will be dressed by now.

I stop in the common room, gathering my thoughts. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing. They’re
already back at the Manor, the breakout has already been completed. All we can do is hope to
gather information on what they plan to do next. I picture the trunk in my head, filled with
everything I don't want the world to know, wrap it in chains and add another lock. I don’t mind
having another way to spy on him. But I won’t let him get to Hermione.
“Toujours l'amour,” I whisper when I reach our door.

I skid to a halt in the sitting area to find Remus and Sirius striding into our dorm, the vanishing
cabinet expanded to its full height in the kitchen.

“About time you woke up,” Sirius barks at me, half-serious, half-exasperated. “We were calling
forever.”

Remus has the wireless in his hand, and I can hear chaos coming through the speaker.

“I was too busy dreaming about the breakout,” I say harshly, and Remus only stops for a heartbeat
before continuing his walk to the couch, placing the wireless in the middle of the living room table.
I take a deep breath and try to calm my runaway nerves. "I dreamt the breakout while it was
happening."

Sirius’s eyes go dark, his face shutting down to a worried scowl.

“Did... that happen last time?” Sirius asks, running his thumb and forefinger down over his beard.

I dip my chin in a single sharp bob, but the inner door to our suite slams open before I can answer.

“What happened?” Ron demands, looking around with horror in his eyes.

He’s still in his pyjamas, but is armed to the teeth. His new broadsword—(arrived this morning and
making a hell of an entrance at that. People thought it was a broom)—is even in the Winky-
designed sheath. He shines with its additional power. Nate couldn't find the type of blade he
wanted for Ron, but with a whisper here and a traded favour there—and while no one will confirm
it, I'm sure it included a flex of Dumbledore's specific brand of persuasion—Nate managed to have
a blade designed especially for Ron

It's a traditional Scottish Broadsword crafted in the old ways—a Mastersmith working with a mage
that heats the fire with magic while a full circle imbues the hot steel with magical properties—from
right here in the Highlands. It doesn't have the sort of magic that the Sword of Gryffindor has.
What does? But it's an amplifier with enough oomph that it makes him seem to glow.

Ron said when he touches it, it sings.

Mi had to threaten to owl Molly to get him to go to class rather than spend the day testing it out. An
afternoon of practice proved his shields are going to be nigh on unbreakable.

“Is it my parents?”

Both of his wands are in his hands, and he’s already half crouched in a position of defence. Nev
appears next, having taken the time to put real clothes on, clothes he can fight in, and he holds a
wand and a knife in his palms. His shirt is snug, his boots are zipped, and his weapons are bare for
all to see.

In any other situation, Mi would be swooning.

“Azkaban,” I say roughly, and a horrifying yelp through the wireless grabs all of our attention.

“ Stop whimpering, you fool!” Riddle hisses, and rage slides down my spine.

The whimpering doesn't stop. It only takes on a painful, half-smothered tone.

“My Lord,” Lucius Malfoy intones, deep and slow and seductive. “No other wizard alive could
have achieved what you did this night. You are remarkable.”

“Yes,” Riddle croons, his pride in himself evident. “ I am. Never forget it, Lucius. Never again let
your loyalty stray. From this night on, let no man doubt my power. I am, and always will be, twice
the wizard as Harry Potter!”

I think I’m going to be sick.

Eight sets of wands whip in the direction of our secondary door when the one that leads into the
hallway bursts open. Every person in the room falls into a fighting stance, Hermione on one knee
by the living room table with her weapons in her hands.

Ron takes his place beside her, shield raised for her safety rather than his.

Draco tumbles into the room, Nott a heartbeat after him.

"I felt Bellatrix trip the wards!" Draco pants, his eyes wide and his pupils dilated.

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Ron scowls, relaxing from his defensive position.

Draco, who is huffing after having obviously run here, gives Ron an obscene hand gesture. Nott
doesn’t say a word, simply shuts the door behind him, and takes a pose of relaxed amusement.
Draco sits in one of the reading chairs on the other side of the table, Theo moving to stand beside
and leaning on the arm.

“Did anyone expect him to move this fast?” Draco asks, taking in our grim expressions.

I shake my head no, and Hermione hands him one of the journals, flipping to the point in time
where Riddle left the manor and returned with the High-Security Ward of Azkaban as his guests

Draco whistles under his breath.

"Insanity can't be anticipated," Theo drawls, reading with distaste over Malfoy's shoulder.
Unconsciously, or perhaps completely sure of his actions, he squeezes Malfoy’s neck and kisses
the back of his head. "Surely, by now you lot have realized that."

The statement is horrifying in its accuracy.

Riddle was furious when our announcement went out and has done nothing but rage against us
since. It’s a damn good thing they didn’t set the alert to my name because it would have been going
off nonstop for days. As it was, Mione had to adjust the parameters so she wasn't vibrating every
fifteen minutes.

Hermione has done little in the week since besides stare at that damn journal, reading through the
outbursts and conversations, or dragging over our plans for the Ministry. Draco pulled Missy out of
the Manor House to keep her with him and out of harm’s way. Winky and Missy have come to a
delicate truce, putting aside their conflicting feelings for Dobby in turn for each attempting to earn
the title of best elf. We see her almost as often as we see our own elves.

But no, we had no idea the Bond would spur him into attacking Azkaban. He's railed against the
ministry and over the rucked-up importance of Bonded Mates and—sounding so much like Mrs
Black as to be disconcerting—complained about our muddy blood beseeching the name of Magic.

He whined about how long it was taking to get into the Department of Mysteries.
But then all of his rantings stopped. As if he put a taboo on the subject.

Now we know why.

I’m coiled tight as a drum, arms crossed in front of my chest, waiting for the inevitable explosion.
Hermione reaches over and turns up the volume of the speaker, but there isn’t much going on other
than whimpering and tears.

Ron, realising that we aren’t going to fight, at least not at the moment, goes and sits next to
Hermione, leaning his elbows on his knees. Nev takes the other reading chair. I stay on my feet. I
don’t think I could sit if you put a wand to my head and forced me.

“Why is it taking so long, Lucius?!” Riddle demands in a harsh tone, his impatience with his
servant causing goosebumps to break out over my skin. I recognize that tone all too well.

“Shit,” Draco says harshly. It’s a tone he recognizes too. “Has anyone heard my mum?”

“Not yet,” Remus says.

Hermione meets her second’s eyes over the length of the table. “I’m sure she’s fine,” she attempts
to assure him.

He gives a sharp nod, and Theo grips his fingers.

“I require Severus,” Riddle says, voice light, despite the venom in every word.

“My Lord,” Lucius starts, and Merlin, I wish this had a video feed like a telly. Lucius stutters, then
goes on. “It is only the second week of classes, my Lord. It might be...difficult for Severus to—”

He cuts off harshly.

“Indeed,” Riddle croons. “He is a faithful servant, and I have a need for him. I’m sure you too,
Lucius, would like to speak with him. Draco is at Hogwarts, is he not? I’m sure you are anxious to
get an update on your blood traitor brat.”

I feel like we’re all holding our breath before Lucius says, “Yes, my Lord,” in a low and humbled
tone.

The pause between comment and response is significant, and I look worriedly at Draco as Theo
takes a seat at Draco’s feet. Like a guard dog.

“So we had no warning this was going to happen?” Ron asks. “I mean we knew it was coming,
obviously, but I thought it would be months still.”

Hermione and Remus both shake their heads.

"Last time, it didn't happen until after Christmas."

I sometimes wonder if his old memories aren't somehow trickling through.

“We kept the wireless on when we went to bed,” Remus says. “Put it on the side table. We woke
up when they made it back to the manor. Realizing the prisoners still couldn't do magic even away
from the Dementors sent everyone into a panic. From what we’ve gathered, You-Know-Who went
to Azkaban alone and broke into the main wards to steal their wands. Killed any guard that he met.
He was forced to go back for help, when the Death Eaters he was freeing weren’t able to apparate
themselves. I looked through the night’s events that were caught on the buttons—”
“Me too,” Hermione adds.

Sirius continues the story.

“I didn’t see any mention of Azkaban or the Ministry. So it sounds like, in a fit of pique over being
outshined by Harry, he decided to free the Death Eaters without telling anyone.”

My head is starting to ache, the pressure building behind my eyes. Without a word, Hermione rises
from her perch on the couch, moving to the bedroom then reappearing with a potion in her hands.

Sirius watches me with a knowing expression as I drink the headache brew provided by my wife.
She touches my head, running her thumb over my brow and down my nose. Her other hand rests on
my heart, and I cover it with my own and give her a squeeze before she resumes her spot on the
couch.

Someone is crying through the speaker, a pitiful wail that makes my skin crawl with the
desperation pulled through their vocal cords.

“I can’t feel it. Why can’t I feel it?” someone begs.

A man. A second person shushes them, offering some meaningless comfort.

“They should be able to use their powers by now,” says a voice that I don’t recognize. “I could
perform magic within minutes of leaving the prison. Mind you, I wasn’t locked up for years, but
still…”

“Thank you, Amycus,” Riddle cuts sharply, and the talking immediately falls silent, leaving the
whimpers and wails to fill the space.

“So the Carrow twins are there,” I say, and Hermione makes another note in her book.

She turns down the volume on the wireless enough that the crying isn’t overwhelming.

I think about the headmaster and whether he should be privy to this. Our expected confrontation
Saturday was pushed to next weekend when he was called to London for a meeting with the
Minister. My anger boiled over, assuming he was once again putting me off until Nev confirmed
with his Gran that Dumbledore was giving testimony to visiting ambassadors from France, the
Muggle Prime Minister, and MACUSA. Maybe the Ministry is finally reaching out to its allies.

More likely, though, they're simply trying to assure the others that Wizarding Britain has it all
under control.

Right.

“Should we get Dumbledore?” I ask and am rewarded with half a dozen different facial
expressions.

Shock wars with resignation, and I feel the burden of leadership heavy on my chest. I flick my
thumb across my wand handle, ready to summon the Headmaster with a Patronus. To my surprise,
it’s Remus who shuts the suggestion down.

“If Snape has his head about him, he’ll have let Dumbledore know he was summoned before he
left. We knew this day was coming. We just didn’t realize it would happen so soon."

Our Bond was announced on the 2nd, and it's the wee hours of the 13th. Eleven days is all it took.
Thank goodness we got there first. That’s all I can think about. In trying to avoid much of the
damage Riddle caused last time, I’ve set things at a much quicker pace. Thank goodness Azkaban
has been rendered useless to him.

“How long do you think it will take for Professor Snape to arrive?” Hermione asks the room.

My question is, how much does Snape already know? Dumbledore knows what I did at the prison.
Did he tell the Potions Master? Or is Snape walking into the situation blind? I'm not sure which I'd
prefer.

Remus rubs at his eyes.

“It depends. If he can floo, immediately. When I worked here, only the Headmasters office had
floo travel. We want You-Know-Who to have access to Snape, but if it’s too easy, he’ll suspect a
trap. It’s too far to apparate. He’ll probably portkey. If he updates the headmaster first —”

A gong rings out over the speaker.

“Someone tripped the wards,” Draco says. “It happens whenever anyone without Malfoy magic
enters the grounds, whether they have ward access or not.”

It won’t take him that long at all.

Hermione looks impressed.

“Teach me how to do that tomorrow,” she tells him quickly before turning back up the volume.

Sirius is pacing the length of our living area, his hands entwined behind his back. He gives me a
tight smile, then goes back to looking at his feet, ears straining to listen to the wireless.

“My Lord,” a woman says prettily, and Draco’s shoulders perk up. “Mum,” he says under his
breath. “Severus has arrived.”

“You sent for me, my Lord?” comes the familiar drawl of Severus Snape.

He sounds curious but not subservient. Demure, yet apathetic. Whereas every other follower we’ve
heard has been on the verge of grovelling, Snape is almost aloof. The Potions Master is playing a
dangerous game.

"I have a need of you, my friend."

“I see you’ve had a productive night,” says Snape, and if I close my eyes, I can almost see him
standing there, his nose in the air, his hands up the opposite sleeve, feigning interest in the baker's
dozen of recently freed Death Eaters. “Congratulations, of course, on your accomplishment.”

If Riddle can hear the sarcasm in Snape’s voice, he doesn’t comment on it. Or maybe it's my
imagination.

“Thank you, Severus. It was quite a feat. The Dementors have tired of their meaningless existence
as mere guards and are awaiting our orders.”

Hermione’s eyes go wide, and she makes a note in her Moldy-Voldy binder.

“Unfortunately, our friends seem to be having some...difficulties—” and if his sneer were any more
pronounced, he’d hiss the word out, like the snake he resembles “—recovering their strength. I’d
like you to fix it.”
The word now is implied if not said.

“Which is why we sent for you.”

"As always, my Lord, I strive to be of service. I will do what I can. But I am not a healer. Perhaps
we’d best fetch one from St. Mungos.”

“I have faith in you, old friend.”

Shivers run down my spine. The words were all kindness. The threat behind them makes my blood
run cold.

Snape hears it too. His pause is heavy, weighed down with menace and peril.

“I strive to be worthy of it.” I picture him pivoting on his heel, setting to the task that’s been
assigned to him. “ What has been done, Narcissa?”

Mrs Malfoy clears her throat before she speaks, her voice strong and clear.

“Nothing, Severus. We had thought with time away from the Dementor's influence that their magic
would return, but it has not.” There’s a whimpering, then “Shhh, Bella,” Draco’s mother
distractedly coos, like one would do to soothe a child.

Conversation falls to a standstill as Pepperup potions are distributed and an Evenerate is cast here
or there.

Nothing helps.

As the tension rises on that side of the wireless, it crests in waves on our side. Sirius is still pacing
and shakes his head in the negative whenever Remus asks him to sit. My friends don't speak, but
make eye contact every few seconds before breaking away, gazes flicking to me and back to each
other. Communicating their unease and wariness through looks alone.

The wailing through the wireless only picks up in pitch as they realise something is seriously
wrong.

“ I don't understand. The animagus Black had little difficulty accessing his magic once he fled the
Dementors. He was even able to use his magic while under their care. He could transform. He
could…"

His voice trails off, and panic and fear grip my stomach.

"Muggle," Riddle hisses, and it's vile. Goosebumps break out across my skin.

"They've run the diagnostic," Hermione mumbles.

"Bella, pet. Come here."

I lock my knees as the pressure builds behind my eyes.

“Master, please!” Bellatrix begs. Hermione flinches at the sickly sweet desperation in her voice. “
I can’t feel it. It is gone. Please, Master, Help me!”

Hermione locks eyes with me over the back of the couch, her chest hitching in rapid little pants.

"Silence," Riddle snaps, and Bellatrix’s begging cuts off as abruptly as if Riddle stole his servant's
voice. "I grow tired of all the snivelling.

Nausea roils in my stomach, and my hands begin to sweat. I glance over the back of the couch to
see Hermione has Ron’s hand in a death grip.

"Do you think they'll figure it out tonight?" Nev asks.

Do you think he'll see what you've done?

I have no idea. I hope so, though. I wish I could see his face when the death blow lands and he
realises we've stolen his strongest allies. I need it to be done and the consequences clear so we can
move on to the next part of the plan. Whatever that may be.

"Legilimens," Riddle hisses.

Sounding louder from the silence that blankets her surroundings, Bellatrix starts to scream. It's a
keening, painful sound, like nails on a chalkboard leaving a trail of blood and fingerprints behind.

Someone, or several someone's, are breathing hard enough that the noise has a debasing obscene
quality as it comes through the wireless.

The sound cuts off so abruptly the lack of sound makes me jump.

"She's been Obliviated," Riddle snarls.

There’s rustling coming through the speaker.

"They all have," Snape agrees. There’s a woman snivelling in the background. "Interesting choice
on who you freed," he adds conversationally. I can almost hear their robes as, together, they glide
from person to person, delving into their minds.

"She asked, and I am a merciful Lord. Every pureblood freed is another who owes their loyalty to
our cause."

"Umbridge," I announce. "She was the only other woman in that part of the prison."

“Would you like me—”

But whatever Snape is going to ask is snapped at the root as Riddle begins his torture.

“Crucio,” he hisses, and someone starts to scream.

"Oh god," Hermione whispers from the couch. Her arms are wrapped around her middle, and she's
rocking back to front. "Ohgodohgodohgod."

There are other, more delicate ways to break through a memory charm, but torture is by far the
quickest.

Ron wraps his arm around her shoulders. Remus looks to do the same before he catches Draco's
eye and promptly stands up. Draco abandons his spot on the chair and moves to sit next to
Hermione, grasping her hand in his.

Theo looks moments from sicking up.

"You've no idea how much that hurts," Mione whispers. "Like peeling your skin off with a potato
peeler."
She might as well have shouted it from the rooftop. Ron kisses her on the side of the head, and I
see our places reversed, finally understanding what love her like a sister means.

The wailing drags my attention away from my best friend, comforting my wife.

The sound coming from the speaker is horrendous. Like it’s being ripped from the person
unbidden. They barely stop for breath, as their body contorts in pain, and that pain is made real by
the screams that rent the air.

“Inimicus domus meae, potestatem tuam capio pro mea,” Riddle repeats slowly.

“Enemy of my house, I take your power for my own,” Snape translates, with a curious lilt to his
voice.

“But what House?” Riddle asks slowly.

“He’s interested,” I say quietly, as all eyes turn towards me. “Curious. It’s something he’s never
seen before, and he thinks he’s pushed magic to the brink and beyond. He’ll investigate now, until
he’s figured it out. Until he discovers if he can use it. Imagine the glory it would give him, if he
could strip me of my powers for all to see.”

Neville looks suddenly terrified, gripping the edge of his seat. Ron looks determined. Remus stares
at me with awe.

I fight the need to be sick.

Riddle won’t be able to use it himself. It’s a Black family curse, requiring Black family magic to
power the spell. Even if Bellatrix could still use magic, the first thing I did was disinherit her. We
tested it, over and over and over again. He won’t be able to use it against me. That doesn’t mean he
won’t discover some way to twist something similar for his own.

"But Riddle wouldn’t use it as his first line of defence. Not against me. He needs to prove he can
beat me, before he’d strip me down. That spell would only be used when I’m beaten and bloody
and my body is on display. It’s the only way forward for him. The only way to prove once and for
all that he is better than me."

“I did not see the person who did it, did you?” Snape asks.

“Not yet,” Riddle says.

“Then that wasn’t Bellatrix,” Nev says, his voice tight and shaking. They haven’t tortured Bellatrix
yet.

The screaming starts anew.

Will they torture every prisoner? Did I leave my calling card for nothing? Will it be better for us,
or worse, if Riddle never discovers who stole his servant’s powers?

Snape and Riddle talk in between tortures.

“Whomever it is, they are disillusioned.”

A man roars in pain, the sound cut off in choking and gurgling.

“Dolohov was always weak.” “Do you recognize the voice?”

Does that mean they’ve killed him in the attempt to find the answer? I can’t muster up much
sympathy if they did.

“They are only choosing Death Eaters.”

A scream rips the air, and it’s a scream I recognise.

“But the Ministry stooge was not a Death Eater, my Lord. And the oath varies from person to
person.” “Whomever he is, he’s married.”

“Or he was,” Lucius adds, probably trying to sound helpful.

“Bella, pet,” Riddle croons, and my heart leaps into my throat.

“Please, Master,” she begs, and unlike all the others, she doesn’t sound afraid. She sounds
sacrificial, giving up herself to discover who has stripped her of her magic.

Her screams are almost joyous.

I’ve found myself behind Hermione, leaning on the couch. My fingers are digging into the leather,
and my panting has synched with my wifes.

Bellatrix’s screeching reaches a fever pitch, then morphs into a demented cackling that raises
goosebumps across my skin. Nausea roils in my stomach. Hermione rises on the couch, then crawls
right over the back, pressing herself into my side. Her back is to my front, and I wrap my arms
around her, using her as a grounding stone.

There’s a crash, a burst of shattering glass, and that bloody laugh continues through it all.

It’s the laugh that’s haunted our nightmares. The last sound we heard before we were wiped from
this earth before they sent us back to try again.

“Harry Potter!” Riddle hisses, and I’ve never heard my name said with such venom. His voice is
low, and only when six sets of curious eyes turn our way do I realize he spoke in Parseltongue.

“He knows,” Hermione says on a breath, then Riddle’s shriek of fury makes the wireless shake.

Pandemonium erupts from the speakers, screaming and fighting and spells exploding in every
which direction. Every person in our room jumps as if we’ve been electrified, gasping in surprise
and fear.

“Avada Kedavra,” Riddle cries over and over and over again.

“Oh god,” Hermione whimpers, clinging to my arms.

It should be impossible for a single person to kill that easily. But he does. He uses the spell like the
rest of us use A ccio; constantly and without thought. But he’s not just killing them. He’s torturing
people too. There isn’t that much screaming for something as painless as an AK.

I would know.

Riddle sounds out of breath when he finally finishes, and he’s hissing in pants through the speaker.

“How is it possible?” Riddle seethes, and he sounds so snake-like that I can’t tell what language
he’s speaking. “How did he get into the prison?”
There’s crying in the background and the keening wails of what can only be people dying. “
Narcissa,” Lucius hisses, and I’m hoping that means they’re both still alive, if only for Draco’s
sake. The Slytherin son closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath, his boyfriend still at his feet,
offering him silent support.

“I—” Snape stutters, clearly at a loss for words. So he wasn't forewarned. Probably for the best. If
I don't doubt his sincerity, Voldemort shouldn't either. “I do not know, my Lord. Obviously, this is
the disturbance the Prophet reported on this summer, but as to how…”

Riddle cuts him off.

“How is it possible that a mere boy was able to confiscate the magic of the strongest pureblood
witches and wizards alive?”

“I—”

“He did not bind them, Severus, he RIPPED IT FROM THEIR CHESTS! AND I WAS
UNAWARE!”

“Oh God,” Hermione breathes, and I wrap her tighter in my arms. Her heart is beating
uncontrollably, her breathing coming ragged.

“My Lord,” Snape tries again but is cut off with a strangled gurgle.

“I risked myself, exposed myself to the Ministry, for NOTHING! They are USELESS to me! You,
Dumbledore’s dog, knew nothing about it.”

My stomach twists and lurches at the danger in Riddle's voice. It’s only Snape. He deserves
everything he gets. But my fingers dig into the meat of my arms to keep me rooted where I stand. I
could stop this. I could save him from whatever torture he's suffering. I could send one of the elves
there now to pop Snape away before it gets any worse.

But that would defeat the purpose.

This is war.

“What is the point of having two eyes, Severus, if you don’t use them to see? Perhaps you are no
longer of use to me afterall…”

Snape cries out in agony, then the only sound through the wireless is anguished panting. I gag at
the meaty squelching noise barely concealed by the Potion Master's scream. Hermione’s knees
buckle. The only thing keeping her on her feet is my grip on her.

“From now on, Severus, I expect you to use your remaining eye to provide me with information
that’s useful.”

Snape's gasping is a wet and broken sound, but he manages a dignified response for all that.

“ Yes,” he says haltingly. “My Lord.”

When Riddle moves, it sounds as if he’s walking through puddles, his robes dragging in the rain.

“My poor Nagini would have loved to bathe in the blood. Come, Bella,” he says, and the crooning
noise he sings makes me want to gag again. “Perhaps I will find some use for you yet.”

Then the crack of apparition explodes through the wireless, and Riddle speaks no more.
There’s a flurry of movement, but it sounds distorted and coarse.

“Severus,” Narcissa Malfoy cries. “Careful with his head,” Lucius orders in tight urgent tones.
"How will we get him back to Hogwarts in this state?" Narcissa asks. "Severus is no fool," Her
husband replies. "He carries an emergency portkey on him. I believe it drops him outside the castle
gates…"

I block the rest of it out as they hurry to triage the injured Snape. I wonder if they three are the
only ones left alive.

Remus reaches forward and twists off the wireless, uncaring about listening any longer.

“I’ll go tell the Headmaster,” Sirius says, pale as a Hogwarts ghost. Sweat is coating his brow, and
his voice holds a tremble. “Snape will need attention when he gets back to the castle.”

If he gets back hangs in the air unsaid.

“I’ll head down to the gate, to await him when he gets here,” Remus promises, following Sirius to
the door.

It’s the best we can do. Any interference outside of this castle, and they’ll know we have a way to
see into that house. We just have to hope that Snape informed Dumbledore that he was leaving
tonight and that Snape is too hurt to question why Remus is waiting on his return.

“Grab Poppy too,” I add, “and McGonagall. You pass by Nate to get to the hospital wing. Just in
case there's dark spell damage. We'd usually go to Snape for that…”

Remus gives a sharp nod before they both hurry from the room.

“What do we tell the others when they ask how we know Snape needed assistance?” Hermione
asks, plucking the question from my mind.

She’s running her fingers over her non-existent scar again. I drop my hand from my forehead when
I realize I’m doing it too. I shake my head in exhaustion. I feel like we’ve run a marathon. Depleted
more in spirit than I am in mind and body.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. I have a meeting with Dumbledore this week."
Hopefully. "Depending on how that goes, I’ll give him more information.”

I won’t be able to win this war if I can’t trust Dumbledore, but I can’t trust Dumbledore to give me
the information I need to win the war. My head gives a painful throb, and I lock my knees so I
don’t collapse. Hermione gives me a knowing glare.

“I think we won that round,” Ron says wearily, trying to put more enthusiasm into his voice than
any of us truly feel.

“Hmmm,” I communicate, unable to voice anything else.

There's silence for a moment before Nott breaks the spell. "Well, Potter," he drawls. "You do know
how to show a man a good time."

I snort and almost smile, nodding towards the blue-eyed boy in acknowledgement that he did what
he set out to do and broke some of the tension.

Nev and Draco begin to give their opinions of the night's revelations.
 Hermione twists in my arms again and links her wrists around my back. I pull her to me as tight as I
can, burying my nose in her hair. I let the others fall away until the only thing I’m conscious of is
the weight of the girl against my chest and the feel of her heart against mine. Wishing I could crawl
inside her and never see daylight again.

True, the worst fraction of the Death Eaters are neutralized, and Riddle knows we’re coming for
him. He knows, in a way mere words would never show, that we are a force to reckon with.

He knows …and it's perhaps the most terrifying realization I've had yet.

Hermione kisses my neck then moves to sit beside Draco. Immediately, all his attention is turned to
her. I pull out my wand and conjure a full-size cot behind the couch.

"I don't want you lot out in the hallways," I say at the other’s curious glances. "Spread out between
the bed and the couches, here and in Mi's library."

If Hogwarts is the safest building in the country, then our room is the safest place in the castle.

Nobody mentions there are no hallways between our room and the other Gryffindor's. Or the
invisibility cloaks that ensure the Slytherin's safety. Theo moves from the floor and stretches out
on the bed, looking up towards the ceiling. Stepping aside so Malfoy can do what Malfoys do
best…plot.

I fear all we’ve accomplished is to wake a sleeping giant.

End Notes

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