Against the Tide

There was already a crowd in the Infirmary when Hermione, Harry, Lupin and Padfoot entered. Madam Pomfrey was standing vigil over a bed as several people gathered around. From the cooing sounds coming from the group, Harry reasoned that Professor Gryffindor's family had come to visit.

Making his way through the crowd, actually elbowing several people out of his way, he finally came up beside Madam Pomfrey. "There's someone here who needs you," Harry said quietly, gesturing over to Padfoot. The Healer asked no questions but strung a large curtain over the bed the newcomers had chosen and disappeared behind it.

Harry paused a moment with Professor Gryffindor to congratulate her. The visitors were indeed family members, all four of her surviving brothers and their children and spouses. They didn't seem terribly impressed when Harry was introduced to them, seemingly far more impressed with a tiny little bundle of blankets that had woken suddenly, her large eyes blinking in alarm at the mass of people surrounding her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught Madam Pomfrey sliding back the white curtain from around Sirius and ushering him, in dog form, toward a private ward. Professor Gryffindor asked what was wrong with the dog, but Harry didn't answer. Removing himself from her family, Harry reached the door to the private room just as Remus and Hermione were ushered out and Madam Pomfrey shut the door soundly.

"What now?" Harry asked. Remus shook his head that he didn't know, and curled into an overstuffed armchair, happily allowing himself to doze. Hermione traveled over to speak with Professor Gryffindor. Harry, though he was exhausted, couldn't fathom sitting and trying to nap. He paced quickly toward the tall window through which late afternoon sunlight streamed. The day outside looked tranquil, as if the snow was untouched, and more, like it could never be touched. The path students took towards the Greenhouses was pristine.

Ron came into the Infirmary just then. Standing beside Harry, he too peered through the sunbeams at the perfection below.

"It's a good day, Harry," he said, laying a heavy arm on Harry's shoulders. Dipping his voice, he continued. "Dumbledore's gone to London to speak with Fudge. He's trying to get it announced that Sirius has returned. He hopes to have dinner with us and Hermione."

Harry nodded. "Yes, dinner." Madam Pomfrey re-entered the Infirmary just then, and Harry asked her what she was doing.

"He's in a sort of shock. It isn't every day that one has to re-assimilate into a life and a world one thought gone. I've given him a Potion to help him sleep. It has already taken effect."

"How long will he sleep?" Ron asked.

"As long as a day," Madam Pomfrey said. "He's in remarkably bad physical shape. After a year and a half with no food, no water, no actual sleep or exercise, I would expect him to be dead. But, it seems as if there was only a slow deterioration of his state. He's terribly underweight, but he led me to believe that was a pre-existing condition. Overall, I don't see why he shouldn't make a full recovery, if he takes his time about it." Ron and Harry nodded. "However, I don't remember that one ever bothering to fully recuperate."

A ghost of a grin spread colour to Pomfrey's cheeks as she moved towards a great medicine cabinet in the room. Removing some vials, she shook Remus awake and offered them silently. Remus thanked her, asked her a few questions about Sirius, and feel back asleep. The crowd beside Professor Gryffindor's bed had thinned to hold only Hermione, and it seemed the two were having a private conversation. Ron looked at Harry, and Harry frowned back.

"My sister is angry with you. You were supposed to breakfast together this morning."

"Er- right. I suppose I should go write her. What are you going to do?"

"Go to the dormitory and get some sleep, I suppose," Ron said, leading the way out of the Infirmary and into the school proper.

In the Owlery, Harry wrote a quick letter to Ginny, apologizing for missing breakfast. He didn't say why he had missed breakfast, and not because of security reasons. Harry felt quite alone, and he knew it was silly. He had never had so much before; great friends, good friends, a girlfriend he loved, a family who had as good as adopted him, and his godfather. But he remembered the pain of having no one and he felt a certain panic at the thought of losing any of the happiness he had.

Staring out into the sky as clever Hedwig winged toward the Burrow, Harry wondered why he couldn't just be happy. He always managed a few moments of happiness, snatched from the growing thunder, but it never seemed to last. The joy of returning Sirius had been immediately overshadowed by the remembrance that Harry had also resurrected Voldemort, and now must kill him. Neither had been quite dead, but neither had been truly alive, either. He didn't want to be so gloomy, he didn't want to brood. He wanted the damn war over with so he could be happy. But Harry couldn't imagine himself killing Voldemort. He had sometimes contemplated killing people, but it had always been in the heat of the moment. Killing Voldemort would be premeditated- it would be murder.

Throwing himself away from the window in disgust, Harry decided to see if Professor Gryffindor and Hermione had finished chatting. By the time he returned, the Infirmary was almost deserted, only Professor Gryffindor, reading, and Remus, still sleeping, remained. Madam Pomfrey had lit the sconces on the walls, and an eerie light filtered through the ward.

"Hello, Potter," Professor Gryffindor greeted him as he approached. She startled him a great deal, for she had seem absorbed in the text she read. Looking clear at him, she sighed. "Come now, Potter. You don't think I survive my job by letting people sneak up on me."

"Most people relax at Hogwarts, Professor," Harry shrugged, pausing to watch her daughter sleep.

"Her name is Bronwyn," she said, awestruck, then cleared her throat roughly, as if embarrassed to have let so much emotion into her voice. "I hope you don't relax at Hogwarts, Harry. I'll be leaving soon enough to make the world fit for living, but apparently, nothing is going to work if you get yourself killed."

"Apparently," Harry answered resignedly, realizing he wouldn't escape his thoughts. "So, you'll be leaving again soon? You intend to keep doing that? Appear, disappear. We all thought you were dead or captured, you know." Realizing suddenly that he was picking a fight with Gryffindor, Harry decided not to back off. "You know, my parents hadn't a choice in whether Voldemort wanted them dead or not. They hid! But you, you go and look for trouble. What will they tell your daughter?"

"It seems we both go looking for trouble, Potter," Gryffindor said in warning, her eyes narrowing. "I hope no one will have to explain my death, but if they should, I suppose it will be just as your parents deaths were explained: killed trying to protect their baby."

"That isn't the same thing at all," Harry said.

"No?" Gryffindor asked. "Well, it seems to be family tradition to die protecting the offspring. My parents both died protecting my brothers and I. My brother Max died in September, protecting his children. I always wondered though, what if I had never been born? Would my parents have lived if I had never been born?" She shot a look at Harry, one that told Harry she meant for the question to hurt- just as his had hurt her. "Do you ever ask that question, Potter?" Harry didn't answer. "Well, then, why don't you ask the question you really want answered?"

For a few moments, Harry rejected her suggestion. He didn't feel like talking, he wanted to argue. No, he wanted to duel, to fight. But just as quickly, he realized that he wasn't going to get a fight unless he provoked someone else, and he was too tired to bother.

"You probably know better than I what I want to ask," Harry said, sitting in a vacated chair.

"Imagine, a teenaged boy incapable of understanding or articulating his feelings," Gryffindor said dryly. "First, Potter, tell me who is in the private room?" Without hesitation, Harry told her the truth. "Ah, trust is a miraculous thing, kid. That information in the hands of the enemy would be disastrous. How do you know I haven't been turned?"

"I suppose I can't imagine you turned. Almost easier to see Dumbledore courted to the Dark side than you."

"Really?" she asked. "Now, to me, Dumbledore is the great incorruptible force in my life. In myself, I see faults, faults that the Dark side could exploit. But, though I know that rationally they must exist, Dumbledore seems pretty faultless."

"Dumbledore is too trusting and too sympathetic," Harry said.

"Really? So, you think he lacks judgment, is that what you're trying to say?" Gryffindor asked academically.

"No!" Harry exclaimed. Pausing, he remembered what he meant. "No, he doesn't lack judgment. But think, even he, as wise as he was, believed Sirius was my parent's Secret Keeper. As wise as he was, he didn't know Professor Lockhart was a fake, or that Pansy Parkinson was working with Death Eaters, that Professor Quirrell had Voldemort attached to his very head. He never saw any of that. Why not?"

"So, seeing Dumbledore make mistakes makes you question whether he is really wise?"

"No," Harry said quietly, "it makes me wonder if wisdom exists at all."

"Excuse me?" Gryffindor asked, clearly taken aback.

Not really knowing what he meant at all, Harry began to explain himself, badly. "Well, everyone seeks the Headmaster's opinion. All the really important people in the world seem to think him quite wise. But then, he misses little things, like Voldemort actually being in his castle, or the fact that there was no proof that Sirius committed any crime. Pure oversight? Hectic times, perhaps? But, if Dumbledore isn't wise, I can't think of anyone who is."

"Potter, you're judging what you can't understand."

"I know that, Professor, but its my life, isn't it?" Harry said, standing to peer at the baby again. So small. Harry had never been this close to a newborn before. "We all do what he says, without question. But, don't you think we should question him? Isn't it unfair to give all the responsibility to him?"

"What decision has he made for you?" Gryffindor hedged.

"Not a decision, exactly. He's defined my life, hasn't he, Professor? Made me who I am. Decided who I'll become- the murderer of Voldemort."

"What do you mean, Potter? Is this about that old prophecy?"

"So you know about it?" Gryffindor nodded. "Well, Professor, I don't want to become a murderer!" Harry cried hoarsely.

"You don't want to become a murderer, do you? Well, Potter, if you allow Voldemort one extra day, you'll become a murderer, but it'll be innocent blood you spill."

Harry glared at her while Gryffindor stood huffing. "Professor, I won't commit murder. And I won't be justified into it either. Stuff it."

Gryffindor swung herself out of the bed and stood in front of Harry. Uncertainly, he returned her disorientated glare.

"Potter, everyone who knows about that damn prophecy wishes there were some other way, but we also recognize the truth of it. Only you can kill Voldemort. For a long time, some thought you had, remember; and now, Potter, there isn't a single innocent person who doesn't wish you had killed Voldemort while still a child. If I had a chance at him, no one would be able to find the cinders of his body. But it isn't for me. It's yours."

"You say that so coldly, Professor. It's my life, and I'll do what I want."

Gryffindor shook her head softly, her eyes filled with pity. Then, explosively, her hand shot across Harry's cheek and the sound of a righteous slap reverberated across the Infirmary and through Harry's mind.

"You'll damn well do what you were born to do. Your right that it's your life, and you know just as well as I do that you won't want to live it if you squander a chance to kill Voldemort. Your too good for regret, Potter," Gryffindor ranted. Harry's jaw was broken, he was sure otherwise he would have yelled back. "You'll kill Voldemort, or he'll kill you, Potter. That's your choice- your only choice, kid. I don't like it anymore than you. Live a murderer, or die a murderer." Gryffindor pushed him away from her, out into the aisle. "Have fun."

**

Draco arrived early New Year's Eve at the coffee shop Hermione had chosen. Since seeing her two mornings before, he had done nothing but think, and he was sick of it. In the past, quiet reflection had allowed Draco to smooth out his plans; now, however, the more he thought about his situation, the more desperate it seemed, the more terrified he felt. And, the more he came to realize that no plan was going to see him through.

Blaise had agreed to marry him- or, at least, that was what they had told their parents. In truth, Draco and Blaise had decided to remain engaged for as long as they could, and hope that they'd be able to prove that a permanent relationship was unnecessary. For the first time ever, though, Draco had confided all his problems to someone else, and was surprised when Blaise had listened, understood, and decided he deserved help. It suddenly became clear why Weasley fancied himself in love with her.

Of course, the problem was, for Blaise to help Draco manipulate situations to a neutral status- neither favouring nor disadvantaging the Dark Lord, and therefore not drawing suspicion to him- everyone had to treat the two as if they really would get married. They had discussed it, but didn't think anyone they knew would be a good enough actor to pull the ruse off. Therefore, it would have to remain secret. That made Draco's life so much more difficult.

Blaise's parents had been ecstatic with the news; of course, they had arranged the match. Draco's mother, though, had not been so happy. Sure, she grasped the straits the family's finances were in, but she didn't seem to care.

"You're seventeen, Draco. You're too young to become engaged," she had said, a bitter tone of remembrance in her voice.

"Mother, you and Lucius were married when you were seventeen," Draco had replied.

"Yes," Narcissa had laughed dryly, "and look at me now." She stood from her sofa and walked to a mirror. "I'm a drunk, Draco. No- don't deny it. I'm a drunken, foolish, weak woman. I married the wrong man, and married too young to know it. My parents' had no concern for me, but, no matter how I've failed you, I love you."

"Then you know I love Sam, and that I'll do anything to keep her from knowing the true hardship other families face. And, if you love me, you know that I need to become more than Lucius!" Draco said vehemently. Rising, he had joined his mother at the mirror. "This is the only answer I can find, Mother. Please, don't compare my engagement to Blaise to your marriage with Lucius. Blaise is a very kind girl."

Narcissa had turned to face him, had stroked his cheek and ruffled his hair. Indeed, her eyes were glassy and blood-shot, her skin the flushed, yet curiously ashen tone of an alcoholic. "Draco. Dear son. I was not suggesting that Blaise would make you as miserable as Lucius often made me," she said softly, still ruffling his hair gently. "I was suggesting that you would make Blaise as miserable as your father made me."

With that, she had left the room, and had avoided him until he had left to meet Hermione. He was thinking about her words still, wondering what they meant. Although, in truth, he knew. His mother may be drunken, foolish and weak, but she hadn't failed Draco. His mother's life was a shell, broken by long fought betrayals. If she thought that Draco was anything like Lucius, it was not she who had failed, but Draco who had failed her.

She hadn't simply married the wrong man, but she'd had the wrong son. Or rather, Draco had become the wrong son. Just when she had needed him most, when Lucius had been sent to Azkaban, and even before his death, he had turned his back on his mother as a useless artefact. He had given her no support or understanding, and had assumed her inability to function without his father proved her to be shallow and stupid. Instead, she had been overwhelmed by responsibilities she could never have expected to face.

And so, even while Hermione was taking her seat across from him, Draco was reflecting on his life, and wondering why he wasn't the son he should have been.

"Draco?" Hermione asked as she waved her hand in front of his eyes. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Just wondering why I'm a failure," he replied truthfully.

Hermione didn't seem to believe him. "You wanted to speak to me?" she asked, stirring cream into her coffee. She looked tired but pleased, no doubt due to the news that Unspeakables had retrieved Sirius Black from behind the veil of death. Draco had no proof, but he was quite sure it had not been Ministry employees to rescue Potter's godfather.

"I wanted to explain about Blaise. You need to understand. Her father wanted a match-"

"And you wanted the money. Yes, Draco, I understand perfectly," Hermione said dully. "Now, is there a reason I've come out today?"

"You don't understand, though!" Draco insisted. He wished, desperately, that he could actually tell Hermione the truth. That annoyed him- sometimes it would be nice to not care about others feelings, especially when he couldn't afford the truth. Instead, he could only repeat the decided-upon truth of the situation. "He would have married her off to anyone! My great-Uncle Polonius asked for her, and he's decrepit. Blaise and I thought this was the best solution for both of us. She wouldn't have to marry Polonius, and I would receive the money necessary to keep Malfoy Industries alive until the war is over."

"Draco, excuse me if I don't appreciate why I should care?" Hermione said bitterly. She sipped more of her coffee and leaned forward. "I broke up with you. Don't you remember?"

Oh, he remembered. Certainly, he remembered. "I'll never forget, Hermione."

"Well, it certainly hasn't slowed you down, has it, Draco?" Hermione accused with acid in her voice. "But that doesn't explain why you think I care about you deciding to marry Blaise. Poor girl, you don't deserve her."

"Popular sentiment, that," Draco sneered as he took a swallow of coffee. "Listen, Hermione, I just wanted to make sure you weren't angry at the speed that Blaise and I engaged." Coward... "It had nothing to do with you, but to do with circumstances."

"Draco, I know it has nothing to do with me. It isn't as if there was much between us, after all. We had only been dating for six weeks."

That took Draco by surprise. Had they really only been together for six weeks? He'd spent entire seasons trying to break through Hermione's shield, to accomplish it finally, just to have it last six weeks? He had dated Morag for more than a year. He'd promised to marry Blaise. But he'd only spent six weeks with Hermione? Apparently, quality was more permanent than quantity.

"Hermione, it- I don't want it to be this way, you know." He leaned in, peering into brown eyes he had always thought of as russet. They were miraculously unguarded, as if Hermione had nothing to protect against. The thought disappointed Draco more than anything. "Why is it like this?"

Hermione sighed softly, unhurried. "It probably has nothing to do with us. I'm told life isn't fair, and I suppose this is the meaning, Draco." She drained her coffee. "You and Blaise are getting married. You'll have children together, and grow to love each other. There is nothing about that to be upset with, and you shouldn't ruin it with regrets about the past that won't be changed. Focus on what is possible, Draco." She stood from the table, putting on her jacket and scarf. "Draco, just make it good for the two of you."

With that, Hermione Granger slipped out the door of the coffee shop and into the Muggle road beyond.

**

Tears streamed down Hermione's face as she dodged across the street, twisting to avoid vehicles. For two blocks she ran without purpose until she slipped on ice and tumbled to the ground. Her bag cushioned her back, but her head smacked the cement with determination. Whimpering, she reached around and felt the spot of impact. No gushing blood. Gingerly, she stood, and dug into her bag until she found the herbal drops that dealt well with headache. Immediately she felt the pressure abate.

Leaning against a brick wall, she began to laugh softly. No side effect of the remedy, Hermione was aware she might be becoming unhinged, just a bit. The last few days had been... difficult. Seeing Sirius had been the high point, and the Ministry's believable and credible explanation for his return had made Hermione feel better about her role in the rule breaking. Not that she regretted it, exactly, but Harry had been so moody that she needed something to be happy about.

Her parents had gone mental when she had returned that night, after sneaking from the house in the early morning. When she had refused to tell them where she had been they had tried to ground her for the rest of the holidays. While Hermione understood their concern, it was out of hand. They'd been treating her like a child all vacation, as they had the summer before, and they hadn't learned their lesson. They'd even tried to take her wand away- naturally, they hadn't managed.

It didn't matter to Hermione what they wanted or didn't. She could have easily stayed at Hogwarts over the holidays, or gone to the Burrow; both had been better options than returning to her parents home and trying to patch things up. But she had felt guilty, really, for the way she had left things over the summer, when she had stormed out of the house after one fight. It hadn't been mature of her, but she was learning that her parents weren't ready to give her any freedom, and therefore wouldn't notice how mature she could be.

She had been away from them too long, she understood. They still saw their little girl, and why shouldn't they? She'd hardly spent more than a week at a time with them since the summer of third year. And it didn't help that even over her holidays she was busy and they had no chance to really discuss things. They were really upset that she planned to go to the Dragon's Keep after Hogwarts, and wouldn't be coming to stay with them while she "established herself." Her mother thought she should take one of the Ministry positions that she was offered and forget about further study. It rankled that before they learned she was a witch, her parents had filled her head with ideas of Law School or Medical School and semesters abroad, but now, no further study was needed.

No. Not for a successful career, perhaps not. But for her to be happy, Hermione needed to learn as much as she could. She wanted to learn something interesting everyday. And if she wanted to go to the Dragon's Keep, she would. No amount of parental disapproval would keep her from it. If Draco's anger hadn't changed her mind, nothing would, really.

And, of course, Draco was still an issue. Hermione pressed her hand to her forehead, checking to see that this was not, in fact, a hideous nightmare. Have I really given my blessing to Draco and Blaise's engagement? It was a wild thought, but she did want them both to be happy. Draco couldn't go into something like that with regrets; it wasn't fair to any of them.

Deciding she had recuperated long enough, Hermione pushed away from the wall and began to walk, slowly this time, down the street, enjoying the brisk attitude of the shoppers patiently waiting for evening, when they would all go to their parties. Hermione would have dinner with her parents, and then would head to the Burrow, where Harry and Ron and Ginny would also be, and she'd pretend not to be upset.

Browsing as she walked, Hermione enjoyed the variety of storefront windows. Some had decorative finishing's, festive and bright. Some trendy shops clearly eschewed any taint of capitalism that their less evolved neighbours radiated. Some shops had sidewalk set-ups, and Hermione ran her fingers along thick sweaters and pretty scarves. Some shops had books piled high up the windowsills, effectively blocking any light from within, and some shops-

Backing up a few paces, Hermione cocked her head and peered into the murky depths of the bookshop called "Tolliver's Treasures." On the door, a plaque promised "Ancient Manuscripts and Translations". Checking her watch, though knowing that nothing would stop her, Hermione pushed open the door. It couldn't be only fate that had brought her down this path, to this shop, so soon after learning Professor Lupin had done translations in a Muggle bookshop.

The musty smell of old books assaulted her, but gently, as if calling to her especially. There was very little space to maneuver, but Hermione was used to cramped libraries and used bookshops, and slid carefully to beginning searching the stacks.

The variety was amazing and well organized. Though the shop was tiny, they seemed to cover the major works throughout any era: the Enlightenment, the Romantics, and the medieval period. Most she had read, but every once and a while she came upon something she hadn't found time for yet. Sighing, Hermione managed to make her way to the clerk at the till and asked where she could find the ancient manuscripts. It had become her habit to search for Runic scrolls wherever she could; several old bookshops held translations and even tattered original Runic scrolls. It had surprised her at first, until she came to realize that few Muggles knew how to properly translate Runes, while many were passed on through families. These scrolls were often sold when an old family came into hardship.

The clerk, an older, balding man in a wrinkled suit led her into a backroom where he kept the manuscripts. "Don't touch any of those," he indicated to a collection behind a glass case, "without asking for assistance. They're delicate. However, I do have a copy of them, and a translation of most, just there," he said, pointing at a filing cabinet next to the case.

"You don't mind my looking?" Hermione asked.

"No. Nothing terribly valuable here any longer. Important, sure- but when has importance ever mattered in value?" the man snorted. "All these are almost untranslatable. Had a fellow who could work most any Rune out, but he left a few years ago." The man looked at Hermione with a squint. "Can you read them?"
"Uh- yes. Some, at least. My parents are scholars, you know." Hermione flooded her mind, grasping for a purpose to her parents being scholars. No one had ever actually left her alone with the scrolls before. They hadn't even let her touch any, just read through plastic that made it very difficult to understand the Runes. "This isn't their field, but I spent a lot of time in libraries."

"Uh-huh," the man said, uninterested. "Call if you need help."

Alone, Hermione began to browse the catalogue as professionally as possible. It was very difficult, of course; there were always so many interesting scrolls and manuscripts that it pained her to only be interested in a certain sort. However, she had a method to her madness, as she was looking for an elusive mention of a counter-curse. So elusive, in fact, no one could prove its existence.

As she had theorized, it was not just fate that had brought her to the store that day. Indeed, as she read entrances into the catalogue written in a scrawling script she recalled from several essays and exams, this was the shop where Professor Lupin had been employed. She didn't necessarily appreciate fate controlling her life, but she did appreciate the amount of work that the discovery had eliminated. Now she could start with the manuscripts he had not catalogued or translated, and work from those copies.

Without wasting time, Hermione dug in. Sorting into two carefully organized piles, she categorized the possibly helpful from the useless. It was amazing how many driveling love letters had withheld the test of time. "Honestly, Bernice, I don't believe Lord Stanley cares for you," she muttered as she placed the aged parchment to the left pile. Glancing at the next parchment, she chuckled. "His wife certainly doesn't care for you. This must have been before Howlers," she muttered, noting the still common Curses Bernice was threatened with if she didn't stop swearing her undying love to Lord Stanley.

By closing time, Hermione had found three parchments that held possibility. Rather a good days work, sped along by the translations that had been done of many of the scrolls. If something in the translated works had mentioned a counter to the Killing Curse, Hermione knew Professor Lupin would have mentioned it long ago. The copies she had studied of the three parchments suggested that the Runes and language used were very old. It would take days to translate them, but each scroll held the Runes that indicated the Killing Curse.

"Closing up in a few, young lady," the clerk told her. "Find anything that interests you?"

"Uh, yes," Hermione said slowly. She had intended to make magical copies of the copies, but now, with the man watching, she certainly couldn't. "It's only, I don't have much money."

"Well, those three are worth..." the man said, checking a catalogue stored in his brain, "'bout seven hundred quid."

"Oh. Yes, of course." There was no way she could pay that. She supposed she could ask Dumbledore to purchase them, as she did do the translations for the Order, but that would take time. "I don't suppose I could return tomorrow, look at these copies again? Their fascinating."

The older man peered at her. "It's the words you want? Not the original parchment?"

"Oh, no. The copies are fine- though I would like the opportunity to compare them to the original, just to be sure they were properly copied."

"They were. Had them sent out to a special place to make the copies. Perfect replication, down to the ink spots." The old man scratched his head. "Can't remember the last time someone was interested in the work, and not the provenience." The man peered at her again, and picked the copies up from the desk. "Ah. The translator I had, years ago, could do nothing with these. Can you make anything from them?"

"A bit, here and there. I think, with enough time, I could translate them completely. I've some really rare resources."

"Well, come on, then. Got an all-in-one at the till. I can make copies, send faxes, and ring people up, all from one little contraption. Marvelous."

"I don't- do you mean that I may have a copy of these?"

"Yeah. No hurt in letting you have a copy, is there? Copy ain't worth a thing, without the provenience, and you'll have a hard time convincing people that the copy is the real thing."

"I can't thank you enough. I can't!" Hermione exclaimed, repeatedly, as sheet after sheet printed from the machine. "I can't!"

"Better get on with you," Mr. Tolliver said. "New Year's Eve and all that. Imagine you have plans."

Groaning, Hermione looked at her watch. "I'm late for dinner with my parents." They were not going to like this. "I'd better go. But thank you so much, Mr. Tolliver."

"Your welcome," he replied. With a fun smile, he added, "Say hello to Remus for me, won't you?"

"Oh, I will," Hermione promised, the words falling out before she realized. "I mean- er, what do you mean, sir?"

"Go, young lady, or your parents will worry," Mr. Tolliver instructed as he closed the door on Hermione, and locked it tight.

**

Harry sat between Ginny and Ron on the stairs, waiting for guests to arrive. It was New Year's Eve, and the Burrow was decorated festively. Ron and he had spent an hour decking the halls, while Mrs. Weasley and Ginny had been out in the garden, placing long-lasting Warming Charms, so guests would be able to walk in the snow. It was to be a lovely evening. Percy and Isabelle were currently enjoying the sun in Spain, celebrating their marriage by allowing the rest of the world a break from their airs.

It was a good night for Harry. While Sirius was unable to attend, he had been moved from Hogwarts to St. Mungo's non-life-threatening ward, and the Healers suggested he could be discharged within a few weeks. The Ministry had promised him a pile of Galleons, apologizing for having thrown him in Azkaban when he was innocent. While Harry wouldn't be able to see Sirius often once he returned to Hogwarts, there was enough for him to celebrate.

In all, Harry thought the year had gone well. Though he had stormed from the Hospital Wing after his argument with Gryffindor, he was beginning to understand her side of things. If he didn't kill Voldemort, not only would he die, but many other, more innocent people, would. He wasn't sure he was ready to kill anyone, but he felt less confused. Harry wondered what the chances where of Voldemort dying of old age before June.

A few adults had arrived already, work friends and their spouses of Mr. Weasley's, as well as several people Harry recognized as being very important members of the Ministry.

"Dad's important now. Before, they may all have liked him, but we ever had the money to hold parties," Ginny explained. "We'd always go elsewhere, usually to the Bones'. But now, everyone comes here. Madam Bones told Mum she was really happy not to hold the party, as it was a lot of hassle. She doesn't like parties as much as Mum." The doorbell rang again, ushering in even more Ministry employees, and Ginny sighed. "Of course, somehow, between Dad and the boys, they've managed to take over every social circle in society."

"Except the Death Eaters," Ron said. "Only Percy's popular enough to have them attend his parties," he grumbled.

"Ron! Don't even joke about that," Ginny admonished. Ron had been off all day and the day before on how he reckoned Percy was in with the Death Eaters. At first, Harry had been horrified, assuming Ron had had some sort of vision that told him so. But Ron was quick to admit he just thought it made sense.

"He married one, didn't he? Had Marcus Flint stand up for him as best man. Invited the Notts and the Parkinsons and the Malfoys, didn't he?"

"They're all good friends with Isabelle's family, Ron," Harry had pointed out.

"Yeah, but if it had been any of the rest of us, we'd have told her no, that we wouldn't have Death Eaters at our wedding. And then, when it's only a few stragglers left, then the attack happens? That makes perfect sense, strategically. Attack after the guests are gone."

Harry had to admit he had his doubts about where Percy's loyalties were. Not for a long time had Percy acted in a way that reminded Harry of the Weasleys; but it didn't make sense for him to join the Death Eaters.

"Well, it makes a bit of sense," Ginny had admitted grudgingly. "He was always really ambitious and a bit ashamed of the family. I don't mean to say I think he has joined them, but that it wouldn't knock my world about if he did." Ginny paused. "But he won't," she finished, sounding quite confident.

Now, however, was a time to celebrate. All the Gryffindor seventh-years had been invited, though whether Seamus and Parvati would come- still not speaking to each other after breaking their engagement- was to be seen. Others, like Luna Lovegood, Susan Bones, Morag MacDougal, Regan Miller, the Creevey brothers, and Abagail Twist had been invited as well. Even more were expected to come, joining their parents. Ron and Ginny had declared the upstairs living room as a place for the younger people, and they intended to administer their very strict 'no parents allowed' policy.

The party began around nine, and soon the Burrow was bursting with people. Charlie and Tonks had finally admitted to Mrs. Weasley that they were involved and had arrived as a couple. Bill had a girl with him who no one had ever met before, but it did seem Bill had more girlfriends than anyone know about. George had a date, a pretty brunette, while Fred had arrived without, and now was chatting up three different girls at once. Ron was charming Susan Bones in one corner, while Harry and Ginny snuck their way to Ginny's room and celebrated their first year anniversary privately.

When they returned to the party, Hermione had arrived and was talking to Morag, Neville and Luna. Soon, Ginny and Hermione ushered all the young people upstairs and into their private sanctum. Ron winked as he pulled bottle after bottle from the ridiculous hat he had insisted on wearing that evening. Apparently, the twins had helped Charm it.

Talk focused around the Hogwarts Hornblower, as everyone in the room was a part of it, as well as politics.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you, Harry," Morag promised, "but the Scottish Branch of the Ministry has been shut down."

"That can't be right!" Harry protested. "Dumbledore would never let it happen." Several others who were listening nodded.

"Fudge acted alone, decreed it this evening when no one was around. Guess he thought that he'd sneak it in." Morag snorted. "Don't need to tell you, but the clans are thinking about war."

"But we've already got one war," Dennis Creevey slurred aggressively. "You can't go about starting another," he accused Morag, shaking a half-empty bottle of whiskey at her. His brother distastefully claimed the bottle from Dennis's hands. "No more for you. Your not a nice drunk."

Morag grinned quickly at Colin, but answered Dennis anyway. "I don't mean a real war, but we're really angry. The British Ministry, for centuries, suppressed us by force, wouldn't allow us to be independent," Morag announced, as if speaking at a rally. Regan Miller, a good friend of hers, shouted "Shame!' "But we kept at it, working hard to gain the institutions we need for our independence. Now that we're ready to have our own Ministry, to bring in the legislation and decrees to have our own Ministry set up, Fudge unilaterally takes our voice away," she declared, looking each of her audience in the eyes. "We have to do something, haven't we, Dennis?"

Dennis nodded, and belched, and made a rush for the loo. Morag began to laugh, and soon the party moved on to better subjects, such as the Quidditch World Cup, held that summer in China.

"I can't wait to see if Ireland repeats," Ron said. "There heavy favourites."

Seamus agreed. "No doubt they're the best in the League. They have a new Seeker this year, too, said to be amazing. Just two more qualification rounds, and they'll have a place at the finals."

"Have to get past Bulgaria, haven't they, though?" Susan Bones asked. "Krum's good. Chudley's doing fantastic with him, aren't they?" At this, Harry was certain Ron was about to propose marriage, but she continued, "Too bad, innit? Appleby was poised to finally take control of the League."

"Appleby? Are you mad, woman?" Ron roared. "Appleby hadn't a chance against Chudley before they signed Krum."

"What! How can you say that?" Susan shot back. Before they could continue, Hermione stood on a table and whistled.

"Downstairs, everyone. The New Year starts in five minutes." Slowly, everyone made his or her way downstairs; Harry felt Ginny slide into place beside him while he stood in a doorway. She nudged him in the ribs and pointed toward a dark corner. "Isn't that Morag and that Scratch fellow?" she asked.

Harry craned his neck and peered into the corner. "It's Morag, anyway. Probably is Scratch, after all. The man has a thing about shadows." He peered back down at Ginny, hearing the countdown take place around him. Smiling, he leaned closer.

"Happy New Year, Gin."

"Happy Anniversary, Harry."