Two Aurors & A Bookworm

Chapter Two: The Broken & The Finding

On my own, but mostly the savannah,

Where the tumbleweeds fade away and die,

Before the glassy sun burns a summer of crystals,

The glistering waters of the high seas

Of which was so far a place as of where vultures roam.

I looked around but you weren't anywhere...

"The Forever Friends" - Artur Hawkwing

He hissed, waking up at once.

Harry was watching him from his four-poster, curious and avid eyes, but scared as well... a green streak in the dead of night, as it was.

Won't the nightmares ever go away? Ron asked himself as he wiped the cold sweat that had broken out all over his sickly pale skin. And the headaches...he thought again as blood started pounding like mad in his head.

"You all right?" Harry asked clumsily, and Ron was (painfully) reminded that his best mate couldn't possibly know what to do or say, or how to act toward a person who had just had a horrible nightmare. Blame the muggles who raised him...

Ron groaned, dismissing his friend. "I'm fine." He turned over and shut his eyes, trying in vain to let peace seep into him.

But still Harry looked uncertain. Lately, or rather since Ron's headaches had started, Harry had grown further away as though it was all too much to bear.

"Do you... I mean, I could get Hermione for you if you like," he whispered sleepily as Seamus started kicking invisible creatures in his sleep. Once again Ron turned toward Harry's voice and was once again disconcerted to find two green gems glinting in the dark - how did he do it?

Could Hermione really help? After all, she had tried numerous times before, and no matter how good she was at any given spell or Extract of Whatever, there was no healing him, magic or potion involved.

But there was more to it, he knew it.

Ron twisted in his bed and sighed. "Sure, mate," he whispered back, "go get her." I doubt she'll be able to help at all... but it's worth another try, now, isn't it?

Ron was practically failing this year, hands down. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the professors' lectures, there would always be the pounding in his head - was someone trying to break through it? - as well as the incredible sensitivity that made his senses prickle; there was too much noise - whoever was shouting now? -, too many aromas to smell at once, it felt too cool or too hot outside, his eyes were burning, and images were randomly thrown around in his head: a faceless figure, a heated moment, happy clichés...

Hermione burst into the boys' dormitory - had she been awake all this time? - with her hair a wild mass of frizzes and her eyes bearing a brown haggard expression. Quickly she slipped into the vicinity of his four-poster and shut the curtains, casting a 'Silencio' to construct a barrier between them and the rest of the room, to shut them away.

Harry was never pleased to be cast away like this, but what exactly could he ever do to help his condition?

Hermione scorned Ron after quickly pressing her lukewarm hand onto his forehead. "You shouldn't be sitting up, Ron. Your headache won't get better this way."

Ron pushed her hand away, slightly annoyed. "Look, this one's been coming and going for the past two weeks. Whatever I do, it doesn't completely go away, Hermione."

She sat back, registering the newest update on his situation. "You never told me this. Maybe I should go see Madam Pomfrey and ask her about it." She started away, but Ron pulled her back and hissed at the searing pain banding at his temples.

"Don't bother." His stare was so disarming - how much he suffered - that she sat back down next to him.

However as she sat, her eyes filled with tears and she slowly sank into his heated chest, humid from the sweat that still clung to him. "Oh, Ron, I really wish I knew how to heal you."

Ron smiled painstakingly, cheek against her hair, and he smelled her sweetness. "You're doing more than enough, Hermione."

Without a word, she embraced him tightly and wound her fingers around the small of his back, hoping to send some of her cool warmth toward his nerve ends so that his headache would pass a bit.

Slowly he pushed her away and rested back against his headboard, closing his eyes against at least one unpleasant sensation. "We're not getting anywhere, now, are we?"

Hermione sighed dejectively. "I was hoping last weekend was the good one, but we found nothing, did we?" she said quietly before opening his curtain to peek outside.

Ron's voice was tight with anxiety when he spoke next. "Where are you going?"

Hermione closed her hand around the objects she was rummaging around for, then proceeded to close the curtain back around them. "I'm right here, Ron, don't worry. I just have to give you your medicine."

Ron groaned. "Remind me to never get ill again."

Hermione giggled quite happily despite the quite disagreeable situation. "Come now, it can't be that bad."

"I'd like to see you try some of this stuff... I really wish they'd start putting some tasty flavours in potions."

Hermione smiled distantly. "You know, muggle medicine is actually starting to taste better now..." she replied quite randomly, as if she were somewhere else rather than right next to him.

"Yeah, seems like its wizarding counterpart still needs some improving..." Ron muttered. "Never thought I'd actually compliment those ruddy old muggles on something."

"Hey, I resent that," Hermione cried, looking up from pouring half a cup of pain relieving potion and wishing she were able to poke him relentlessly at this precise moment.

Ron winked. "'Course you do. I like to get you all hot and bothered..." He then grimaced as he swallowed the contents from the cup. He settled back against his headboard, then sighed, waiting for the pain to slowly subside.

For a few more moments there was only the eerie silence of the night surrounding them - Harry had no doubt gone back to sleep - then Hermione moved to inch away.

Ron held out a hand. "Stay."

She complied.

When Hermione woke up on the weekends with Ron's freckled arm thrown around her hip, she would carefully remove his arm and slipped out, peeking out first to make quite certain that neither Dean, Neville nor Seamus would see her, and then she would make for her bedroom, stacking a heavy load of textbooks, dictionaries and thick volumes 'borrowed' from the library the night before.

She'd climb back up the boys' dormitory tower, opening the door to find the place just as quiet as she had previously left it. Hermione would settle back onto the warm spot that her body had left, leaning on Ron's headboard to read and translate a Latin volume. This was not for her personal enjoyment - although, who could possibly find this so unpleasant? - but she did it because she had to... had to find answers buried deep somewhere in these yellowed pages that smelled of Time.

Ron usually woke up the same way. A nightmare, sheer colds sweat all over his pallid body, moaning, seeking warmth and comfort. Hermione would set her quill down and twist around to capture his head between her cool palms, brushing the sweat off his face - his brows, his forehead, his temples, his eyelids - and pushing his damp hair away from his face... She was probably the only person who cared anymore.

His eyes would snap open, and deception would fill them. "Again?"

Hermione would gather him in her arms like her mother had often done when she had got ill, and press her lips firmly to his forehead. "There, don't worry," she would whisper as tenderly as she knew.

Presently Ron slowly sat up shoulder-to-shoulder with her, bringing one hand up to shield his eyes from the light for the moment. Then he looked to his right, where Hermione was watching him intently, like she always did. He knew what she thought, knew what she would ask before she even opened her mouth to utter her question.

Are you all right?

"I feel like shite. Like... I'm going to vomit and faint all at once."

Hermione sighed, folding her knees and curling in a tight ball, her nightshift falling over her legs in a leisurely manner. "God, I really hate this... I hate being helpless."

Ron looked at her very seriously now - the effort to keep his eyes open was incredibly demanding. He thanked the heavens or whoever was up there that it was a Saturday morning. This meant he wouldn't have to concentrate on hard tasks all day. This meant sleeping long enough so that he'd be ready to tackle tonight.

Tonight he and Hermione were to slip out of the Gryffindor dormitories, out of the common room, and straight to the Restricted Section in the library... just like every Saturday to date since the beginning of term.

Ron crept closer and gathered her in his arms despite the pang that chose to attack his head at this exact moment. "Hey, there. Don't go around thinking that. As I said last night, yeah?" You're doing more than enough.

Hermione sighed again, and then spoke, her words muffled by his blue- and white-striped pyjama top. "I guess you're right. I just don't know where to look anymore."

Ron grinned at that, and Hermione, for one second, recognised the old Ron, the cynical Ron she used to know. "Miss Know-It-All, who doesn't know something? You should feel real ashamed of yourself." He tssk'ed. "Now, now, we can't let you go on like this, yeah?"

Hermione shrieked, and though his head hurt like a colossal troll was trampling happily on it, he managed to tackle her down and tickle her sides.

Hermione was squirming and twisting to get out of his grasp, but he was far too heavy for her, so she resigned quickly to her predicament, pouting while occasionally giggling here and there.

They never noticed the curtain part next to them. "I thought you'd have gone back by now," the voice said with a twinge of frustration.

Ron froze and Hermione looked over Ron's shoulder to see a very brooding, very royally pissed-off Harry Potter. She gently pushed Ron away and sat up properly, arranging her night-dress so that it fell a little more appropriately, and brushed back a few loose frizzes.

Ron sagged down into his pillow as Hermione smiled the faintest of smiles. "What's wrong, Harry?" she asked finally, coming around to ask it.

The intruder rolled his eyes. "Had something to tell you but I guess I'm a little unwanted here." And then the curtains fell back, isolating Ron and Hermione from the exterior once again.

Hermione stared wildly at Ron, who looked too tired for wear, and grabbed her wand from under the pillow, casting a 'Sonorus' to reverse her previous spell on his four-poster. She leaned in and pressed her palm to feel Ron's forehead, then brushed her lips across his cheek. "See you tonight," she whispered before disappearing for the day.

Ron fell asleep right away.

"Will Madame be ordering anything?"

Hermione, startled from her rêverie, looked up to the serveur and set her Champagne glass down. Her memories were still raw on the surface.

However she did realise that Ted still had not shown up. Have I been stood up? Blushing, she raked a nervous hand through her short curls. "Well," she conceded aloud to her attendant, "I guess I'll order, then."

The waiter flipped a page in his pad and produced a pen, waiting.

"I'll have a Papillottes de poulet et tapenade, please."

"Will Madame have wine?"

"I'll have a dry red... Do you have some Châteauneuf-du-Pape?"

"Of course."

Hermione finally looked up into the waiter's eyes and was surprised to find they were an all-too-familiar shade of cobalt. But the hair wasn't right. The skin wasn't right. The build wasn't right. She shook her hair to clear it of those thoughts. "Thank you. That will be all."

Strangely enough, Hermione was not revolted to have been stood up for what seemed like the billionth time. She was not about to cry. Only sadness filled her mind, along with long-ago memories.

The library. A flickering candle. A scratching quill. The rustle of pages being flipped. A tired yawn.

They stayed up all night, sometimes until even as early as five in the morning. Researching. Looking deep into things to find the answer to the mystery. Trying to find a treatment that would work once and for all.

He never whinged. Always kept reading and gathering rather unworthwhile information that, in fact, he probably still remembered. He was quite lucid, to say the very least. This had surprised Hermione a great deal at first - she'd never thought Ron might ever be heading down to the library of his own free will. Who knew, really?

They found mostly nothing; a bunch of platitudes and essays on medical magic, which, now that she really thought about it, had probably sparked her interest in magimedical research.

In the beginning they had had no idea what they were after and where to find what they were after. The library was a big labyrinth and both of them were running around in it. Then it became more precise as Hermione found a Latin book tucked away in the deepest corner of the library. A book thick enough that it took Hermione close to a full year to translate it into intelligible English. A book that had probably existed even when the Founders had built the school. A book that had probably saved Ron's life during the Second Great Wizarding War to Voldemort and even now, in his current job as a Junior Auror.

Hermione had known by instinct that this book was the one, that only this book would finally uncover the mysteries behind Ron's persisting headaches. And she had been right.

After a year of carrying translating dictionaries to the library and back on Saturdays and re-reading her translations to understand what exactly it said, she found the treatment - or lack thereof.

This was before the War. Before he risked his own life in more than one way - he could get killed, yes, but there was more that the book implied. Before he ever went with Harry to Auror Academy. And yet the book said he could kill and, in an instant, die himself.

Until then, her only worries had been that they should pass their NEWTs and were in danger of getting caught being awake outside of Prefect after-dark duties and in the library and in the Restricted Section. She had constantly been a ball of nerves, wondering if that hand lingering close to hers was a pure coincidence or if she should jump to conclusions.

"Entrée, Madame."

Once more, Hermione was startled by the serveur, who wore a mask of total indifference to her erratic conduct. He served her wine.

"Oh, thank you. I had almost forgot."

He wandered away, leaving her to her thoughts again.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

"She Walks in Beauty" - George Gordon, Lord Byron.

Ron hated leaving, but he couldn't help it. Wasn't it one of the key components to the creation of his life?

However there were two components to his life that he'd never left, ever: his family, and Harry. Both of which were surrounding him right now. And Vi.

Ron liked to separate all three of them into neat categories: his family was the binds that tie - he adored every single last one of them -, Harry was the friendship, and Vi was the acquaintances. Simple, really.

Ron looked at his mother - he thought she had just asked him something - and was so breath-taken. Molly Weasley seemed so mature and erudite and authoritarian, but childlike at once. God, he loved his Mum.

Right now she was staring at him with equal interest, but with a glint that Ron didn't recognise at once. Then she glanced at Ron's sister, and Ginny smiled ever so slightly. His Mum then winked - when had she picked that up?

"Tell us, Ron. Whatever have you been up to lately? We only ever get the news from the papers, and Merlin knows they can't be trusted." Was she implying what Ron thought she was implying?

Harry Potter's Secret Heartache

A boy like no other, perhaps - yet a boy suffering all the usual pangs of adolescence, writes Rita Skeeter. Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought he found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-born Hermione Granger. Little did he know that he would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow in a life already littered with personal loss.

Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World Quidditch Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with both boys' affections. Krum, who is openly smitten with the devious Miss Granger, has already invited her to visit him in Bulgaria over the summer holidays and insists that he has "never felt this way about any other girl."

However, it might not be Miss Granger's doubtful natural charms that have captured these unfortunate boys' interest.

"She's really ugly," says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty and vivacious fourth-year student, "but she'd be well up to making a Love Potion, she's quite brainy. I think that's how she's doing it."

Love potions are, of course, banned at Hogwarts, and no doubt Albus Dumbledore will want to investigate these claims. In the meantime, Harry Potter's well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart on a worthier candidate.

Vi seemed deeply interested as well. Ron glanced at her but met a blank. "Er, well, Harry and I came back from France almost a month ago. We've pretty much been keeping it cool since."

This seemed to satisfy his sister. She turned to Vi and sparked a conversation about potions to repair split-ends. His mother, however, continued to stare at him silently, as if patiently waiting for her son to burst out with something, anything. She knew him too well, Ron knew that too well now. After all, she'd had enough practice already with his brothers, and his Dad hadn't been there much despite their near financial bankruptcy, and his job at the Ministry hadn't helped much.

But his mother was looking at him now like an owl preying. Ron had every reason to fear for his life - well, perhaps he should not exaggerate, but it did seem as such sometimes with her.

While the others were becoming engulfed in their conversations, his Mum simply stood and asked for a hand, of course choosing him of all brothers and sister present. "Ron, help me with the dishes?" And of course Ron hadn't the nerve to refuse - hadn't had it since that particularly scarring incident in the summer before sixth year. Harry and Hermione had joined the Weasleys and everyone else at number twelve, Grimmauld Place for the last half of the summer holidays, when Ron had refused to clean up the table after dinner, pretexting to having to talk to Harry and Hermione about something urgent. His headaches had already started, but weren't so painful and were much sparser than later, so it hadn't worried him the least bit then, he'd just been looking for a quiet moment with his friends to talk or hang out in one of the bedrooms. Molly Weasley had whipped out her wand and inexplicably sat him down so fast and hard that his arse had been sore for the next two days. Ron remembered the embarrassment: everyone at the table, friends, family and Aurors included, had become silent and had looked at either one of them for the next twitch or move. As it was, it was his Mum that, surprisingly calmly, said in a very clipped tone, "Ron, help me with these dishes." There had been no questioning her expression; she was furious.

Ron levitated the dishes and piled them into the air before directing them and the utensils over to the kitchen, following them closely behind. His mother was already at the sink, running the water and pouring a gooey liquid in the accumulating water, forming foam. It was then that Ron realised she was doing it the muggle way; she meant business.

"What are you doing?" she asked very conversationally.

Ron knew his mother well enough to read between the lines. She was definitely picking a bone at him. He decided to play along to spite her. "I'm bringing the dirty dishes in so we can wash them the muggle way," he answered rather sardonically.

Mrs. Weasley smirked to herself though her youngest son didn't see, as her back was facing him. "I see that." She turned around, quickly casting a charm that would take care of the dishes by itself, then sighed. "I also see through that game you're playing."

Ron frowned, confused. "Whatever are you talking about, Mum?"

Molly was staring past Ron at a space above his shoulder, seeing the same scene playing in a past time but for different reasons. "Ron, I may be a wid... an old woman, but I can see. I'm your mother for a reason," she said as though trying to apologise. That wasn't something to apologise for, Ron conceded with himself. "I can see you're both distant, unhappy. When was the last time you -"

"Mum!" Ron exclaimed rather loudly. The noise in the other room died. Ron's face reddened considerately and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Come on, Mum, that's... that's private stuff."

Molly did not blink. "Private or not, I'm fairly sure there's nothing to write owls about."

"Mum, please, that's personal."

She raised her eyebrow sharply. "Ronald Bilius Weasley, when was the last time you made love to Vivian? Made love, not just had sex."

Ron's face was crimson by now. "I can't believe you're asking me about -" He interrupted himself at another of her sharp stares. "Oh, I don't know, maybe last week... or last month... Mum! Come on, this is..."

"Strange?" Mrs. Weasley supplied.

Ron grimaced. "Worse. This is wrong. Just... wrong."

His mother sighed wearily. "You're spot on, honey." She had not been smiling through the entire ordeal, but now smiled very wanly. "Look, I'm not here to criticise anyone, least of all you or Vi. She's a very lovely and sweet young woman, but I don't see any chemistry or connection between the both of you. None," she added for emphasis.

Ron sighed, but kept silent. Merlin knew his mother was right, and no amount of soul-searching would prove her wrong.

"I love you, Ron, but if you're not happy today and weren't yesterday, not only will tomorrow be dull, but all the tomorrows after as well." She smiled faintly and reached out to stroke her son's cheek - he was a man now, she had to remind herself. "As your mother, I only want the very best for you."

Ron was rigid in place, almost cringing in fact for the effort it demanded for him to keep himself in check, but was too ashamed to look up into her eyes. "Why are you telling me this now?" he asked very quietly, the sounds from the other room a contrast to the dullness he felt right now.

Molly did not hesitate as she replied, "Because you've been lying to yourself far too long now."

And that was that. The great and esteemed Mrs. Arthur Weasley regained her seat at the Weasley's long wooden table and striked up a conversation with her youngest daughter-in-law about the newest brand of skin products for matured women.

Women. They knew you inside out, especially the ones who'd carried you for nine months.

Harry was grinning when Ron regained his seat next to his best friend. "What did you two talk about in there? I heard you shout."

Ron groaned, stealing a quick glance at Vi. "You don't want to know."

Rough Wind, that moanest loud

Grief too sad for song;

Wild wind, when sullen cloud

Knells all the night long;

Sad storm, whose tears are vain,

Bare woods, whose branches strain,

Deep caves and dreary main,

Wail, for the world's wrong!

"Rough Wind, That Moanest Loud" - Percy Bysshe Shelley

"I thought your mother was very enthusiastic," Vivian said as she hung her robes on the peg in their entrance.

She hadn't been expecting a response, Ron remarked as he closed and locked the door behind them. "I noticed," he replied.

Vivian turned sharply around, and Ron saw a scared, fragile girl instead of her. Dammit, that's my doing, he thought to himself.

"Anything wrong?" he asked finally, walking into their flat and lighting a few lamps. "My mother say anything... disturbing?"

She was still standing in the doorway, eyes like Sickles, regarding his every step in a very owlish way. "No," she rushed out. "Not at all." Then, rubbing her forearm quite uselessly, "She was quite nice actually."

Ron turned around and proceeded to their drawing room, picking up a sealed folder amid several letters - the Ministry owls must have delivered them during their absence - and then sat down quite contentedly. Inside he was a wreck...

Thinking it over, his mother had marked a point: Ron felt nothing, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

"Really..."

Paying no attention to anything anymore, Ron almost did not notice Vi, from the doorway, start to retreat. But he did.

"Wait." She stopped short and then turned to face him. "We need to talk."

Biting her lip, Vi shifted from foot to foot, and then nodded.

Ron sat up, stashing the folder away, and sighed, resting his sweaty palms down on his knees. A few moments later, he closed his eyes and stood up. "Okay. I know I have no right to hurt you, but I think we both know that this... we're going nowhere."

Vi stared past Ron, somewhere over his shoulder. Ron sighed and thought she was brave enough when a tear trickled down her cheek but she stood her ground.

"I haven't been the best husband, and I know you were expecting a little more in return. I'm never there, and when I am I manage to hurt you more than if I wasn't."

She smiled wanly through her tears. "Tell me one thing." Ron nodded, and she heaved in a huge breath. "Why do you always hide out in the office?"

"That's where my..." Files are, he was about to say. No more, he thought decidedly to himself. "I can't stand to lie." Ron breathed in. That felt so good. "And there's my past, too."

Vi bit her lip. Her eyes were smeared with black, but this was a moment where she wasn't about to be the scared little wife. "What about it?"

It was as though she knew, though she couldn't. She never had crossed the boundaries. "It's complicated."

Instantly Ron was hit with that memory.

"It's complicated. I spent all night making sure I'd got the meanings right... Do you want to know?"

"Are you kidding? Of course I do."

"Well, it'll come as a bit of a shock. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Ron grasped courage with both hands. "I'm an Empath. When I met you, it was your feelings I felt for you... as strange as that sounds," he added with haste and a grimace of disgust directed at himself.

Vivian stood frozen. "W-what?"

I never loved you. Crystal clear.

Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all
The friends, so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one,
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain hath bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

"Oft, In the Stilly Night" - Thomas Moore

Poor lad. I didn't know what hit him until much later, Harry thought as he looked over one of his favourite pictures of the three of them. But Harry was looking at the little Ron in the middle. It was a muggle photograph, and Ron's least favourite, ironically. No matter. The Ron in the photo seemed normal on the surface, but Harry knew that at that time it had been a tough one for his best mate.

Colin had taken the picture a few months before the final battle. Luna had written an article for her father's paper, giving an insight on the Golden Trio's friendship. Ironically, it was read world-wide, but didn't receive a lot of the honour that it should have got. Apparently, the article "lacked the noir effect that people eat right up." This, only to prove Harry's theory: people would keep reading articles about him but disregard the anti-Skeeter approach as a derisory pile of rubbish.

Luna had only gained her success when she covered the War. Being on the front lines as well as being one of the combatants instead of staying in the sidelines, she penned her political views, gave full coverage of the events, and even wrote a detailed diary which, for some comic relief, included some of her far-fetched theories on the future of the wizarding world, her attempts at love and drunken war jokes. Her articles were, if he dared say it, sad, satirical, poignant, comic, and romantic at once. After the War, when things got back to pseudo-normal and shoppes and glamour events sprung back to life, she was awarded with numerous trophies and medals, to all of which she had responded: "I'd thank my pen, but it was the warriors who wrote these lines, not me. They were waiting to write their stories, so I was their portal. And as for my attempts at love, well, I'd like to thank Roger, Thomas..."

Harry smiled with hardly concealed melancholy before muttering "Nox" and exiting his office. He started toward the Ministry's Great Hall, nodded politely to co-workers and other Ministry employees - how strange that, in his youth, he had disdained the Ministry and especially the Minister-in-charge... how the times had changed since the War - before stepping into one of the many chimneys lining one of the entrance walls and saying in a loud, clear voice: "Rosenbaurf Gramarye Libraries, Diagon Alley!" In mere seconds he was stepping out of the gigantic chimney and walking into the greatest library he had ever set foot in - even Hogwarts and Auror Academy's libraries did not rival with Rosenbaurf's.

The first time he'd set foot in a giant library like this, it had been at Auror Academy. Wall after wall of lined books classified in alphabetical order... He'd been lost before even trying to find the one tiny book he'd been searching for. Thankfully, Ron had been at his side and oh-so-familiar with the ways of gigantic wizarding libraries.

Hogwarts's had been a tiny library in comparison, so looking for a book had been quite simple, in reality. You basically thumbed through the shelves or looked through the three cabinets which hid little cards with either the book's title, the author's name, or its category - Potions and History of Magic, amongst others, but also Recreational Reading -, and its location. In other words, the muggle way, as Ron repeatedly reminded him. Not that Harry had known much about muggle libraries anyway. It was his muggle logic that had enforced his muggle behaviour years later: "go straight to those little cabinets, there, with the little block letters on each little drawer, and you'll find your book, guaranteed!"

But AA had been different. Instead of cabinets, Ron had happily dragged Harry straight to a little booklet of sorts. Harry had noticed several of them aligned on the reading tables, all blank save for when a student doubtfully wrote something in it.

"I don't get it. Are we supposed to write our journal in there?" he asked cynically.

Ron laughed and shook his head, muttering something that sounded like "those muggles..." and had picked up the quill next to the booklet. "No. Observe."

And observed he had.

Presently Harry sat at a reading table quite a ways away from a tearful witch who was most certainly reading fifteenth century romance, and picked up the quill at his right, dipped it in ink. "Subject: Ismaelah," he wrote at the very top of the first blank page.

"Return: 2 objects," it read, before listing two titles and drawing check boxes at the end of each title.

Harry ignored the first title, Curative Theories: When The Inner Gramarye Is Threatened, the only book Hermione had been able to find, but checked the second, Magimedical History V: Discoveries, Theories, Treatments. Immediately a book dashed over to Harry, causing him to start as he always did.

He then produced a folder marked with the usual Auror runes and identification, this one containing the disappearance dates. And, counter-checking the dates and their sightings from the weeks leading to their disappearances, his mind wandered again.

Sixth year had probably been one of his worst at Hogwarts. Because he had believed that his best friends had grown apart from him, even believed that something more than friendship had taken them away from him. He had never known whether to feel pained, angered or betrayed. Now he knew. He knew he should not have let it happen to him. He should not have let himself push them away so damn much.

He couldn't have stopped himself. Or, if he'd tried, he would not have succeeded. He had been far too gone. Pain had torn at him, secrets had burned in him like tiny spears; he kept being haunted by dark possibilities, whispers in the dark corners of his mind. Voldemort was planning, and Harry had felt completely helpless as he had watched those who would have understood him, or tried to help him feel strong, as they whisked away. And it had hurt. It had hurt... more than he cared to admit.

Ron had seemed too feeble anyway, and Hermione too preoccupied and worn-out... Scratch that, both of them had seemed preoccupied. Harry remembered the times he woke up on weekend mornings to find them both sleeping soundly still and a tangle of fatigued limbs, sometimes well past mid day.

Can't say I was too happy... Harry admitted to himself, getting back to his book and straying again nonetheless.

He hadn't tried very hard to stay closer to them. At that time brooding had seemed the better settlement. So he'd brooded, and every time he'd tried to shake some sense into his mate - he was failing miserably, after all - there would be another voice:

"Please, leave him alone," Hermione pleaded, pushing Harry away. Always away. Never in the know. Harry was getting sick of their fucking secret - why couldn't they tell him, of all bloody best friends in the world... Why not him? "He's going through so much lately," she added quietly.

Ron turned to face him before entering their NEWT Charms class. He needn't to say anything, his eyes spoke of their sleep deprivation - why? He closed his curtains around his four-poster well before Harry some nights.

Then Ron walked into the classroom and Hermione followed suit. They sat huddled together - probably talking privately about him, of course - while Harry sat next to Seamus, somehow wishing that Neville were here. At least the bloke had a small understanding of what Harry had had to go through in the past. But Neville had only managed to get three O's last year: Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts - Harry was so proud of the poor chap - and Care of Magical Creatures.

Ron had looked downright delirious on most days. Although he now very seldom spoke about his "ability", as quoted by Ron himself, Harry suspected that Ron had had hallucinations at the time.

It was very unclear to Harry was an Empath's capabilities were. Upon living the War next to Ron, he had to admit that they were greatly dangerous and not to be taken lightly. All in all, battling and risks of getting killed aside, Ron had risked his life by simply joining Harry et al on the front lines and killing adversaries.

But he hadn't known that until the very middle of seventh year, when he and Hermione and Ron had cast their grudges aside to become stronger together for the impending war and create a much more proactive Dumbledore's Army. He'd thought Ron to be dim, had believed their professors when they'd picked at Ron for his apparent stupidity. He shouldn't have. Look where he is now, that dim boy... Ron was just as intelligent and cunning an Auror as Harry was, if not even better than he was... but it was a wonder that Ron actually passed his NEWTs with outstanding marks. Just how much had Hermione helped him?