The Guardian Brotherhood

I might have sounded hysterical over the phone when I was able to reach Harry. I don't remember much of the next instants - or hours, likely - after seeing the Triquetra symbol etched on the lawn, but by the time he Apparated home he sounded pretty frantic.

"What's going on? What's happened? Are you hurt?"

Seeing as I was only able to tremble in response without crumbling into pieces, he grew even more concerned and latched onto my arm, searching my body for evidence of a struggle. His hands were shaking as he cupped my cheeks. "Did they hurt you? Look at me, Hermione. Did they attack you?"

My mind kept going over the night's events. It hadn't been a Death Eater, nor a group of them. I hadn't been attacked. I knew that now. I wanted to tell him that, so badly, but every time I rose my eyes to reassure him, they fell onto the window and I was left even more speechless. Something was escaping me; it was just at the tip of my fingers ... if I could just ... I'd never felt so much magic before, centered around one person, and yet ... there had only been one. I had felt that. And yet it was so much more, and I felt panicked as I tried to make sense of everything that had happened in those instants that felt like hours but were possibly just seconds. Maddening.

The Triquetra symbol. We had invented the spell to cast it, Harry, Ron and I. Oh, the symbol itself wasn't hard to draw with a wand, but the spell that accompanied it ... Thinking of it now took me back to the morning of the last battle, the last morning that the three of us were together. Throughout the War, we had used a stylised triquetra to represent the Light side. Our troops wore the symbol proudly, knowing it represented our unity, as a band of rebels, in hope, faith, and love. When we set up camp somewhere, Harry and Ron always wished to mark the place with their presence, if only for a few hours. So I, along with their help, had devised the auto-erasing spell that left no magical trace after it disappeared come morning light, and we started using it secretly everywhere we stayed. Just the three of us.

That morning, hours before battle broke out, we cast it one last time. A lot of feeling was put into the spell. We all knew this was it. The last stretch. The last morning before it was all over. We had all the information we needed; it was up to us to succeed. And we did, at that, but not all of us together.

It made no sense at all. No one else but the three of us knew the words to the spell. And Harry was at school when the spell was cast earlier. It certainly wasn't me. Unles ... no.

"Harry," I managed to choke out.

"Oh my God." I hadn't felt him leave my side. He was at the bay window, looking down where the symbol continued to smoke, as I knew it would until morning. I couldn't see his face, but the hand holding his wand aloft in case of danger shook in the moonlight as he lowered it to his side. His other hand went into his hair as a gusty sigh escaped him.

"Harry -"

A wild look swam in his eyes as he finally turned to me. "You stay here." And with a 'pop', he was gone.

I crumpled into my seat. Dammit, what was going on?

***

Against my better judgment, I stayed up all night wanting to be there when Harry returned. I knew where he'd gone: to that school of his, Syn Wyngyn. Seven years ago, after Harry came out of St. Mungo's more battered and battle-worn than I'd ever seen him, he announced he was leaving. No one knew where he was going, but I had an inkling it wasn't for a short trip to relax ... I knew it was going to be a long journey before he accepted the deaths of so many around us: Parvati, Lavender, Dean, George, Ron...

To this day, Harry still blames himself for their deaths ... Ron's most of all. In a way, his was hardest on Harry, even though I still cried for him at night. Harry had always had this idea in his head that he alone needed to protect those he loved. Ron knew exactly what he was doing, though, and never needed protection from anyone to do what was right. So, if he died in the end, it was his choice entirely. In honour and courage, above all.

When Harry came back after two years Godric knew where, still lost but much improved in mind and body, we stayed together, and started getting out together. I went to law school, Harry to Auror training, and then Syn Wyngyn.

Syn Wyngyn was a little-known training school and operations base offering much the same training as Aurors received at the Ministry, but there they trod much deeper in defense and espionage. If a comparison could be made, I'd wager Syn Wyngyn operated a lot like governmental associations such as the American CIA or the British Security Services of the MI5. All I knew was that Harry was a few exams and physical tests short of becoming fully operational. His Auror training had probably helped him climb the ladder faster. Sometimes he attended classes, other times he was scheduled all night for surveillance and field operations - assisted, of course.

The secrecy surrounding it all drove me up the wall on my best days. But he was with me, and while it was nice to have someone with me when I needed them, it had made me feel varying degrees of guilt at first. The memory of Ron and his one promise still fresh on my mind, I had felt disgusted with myself ... I couldn't face Ron's family without tearing up. But Harry was all I had anymore.

I suppose it was with this thought that I fell asleep in the wee hours the next morning. I didn't sleep well, and no wonder. My mind kept trying to make sense of the symbol just fading outside. It certainly couldn't wrap itself around what it implied though my heart and gut tugged and twisted.

Ron was alive?

***

I woke up just after eleven with a roaring headache. Still no news from Harry. The flat was as eerily quiet and as undisturbed as I'd left it. I sighed, pulling myself out of the rocking chair I realised I'd slept in. Several limbs cracked in protest as I straightened and I couldn't decide whether I felt better or worse after so doing. Sluggishly, I shuffled over to the kitchen, rubbing my sore neck, and decided to grab a muffin to quell my growling stomach. I reckoned I needed a good shower. My hair felt ghastly, my nightdress clung to my frame uncomfortably. As I entered the bathroom, the mirror over the sink just couldn't help a chipper: "You need a kip, sunshine."

Shooting the mirror a deadly look, it probably feared I'd smash it if it even quaked, for it remained suspiciously silent. I half-heartedly finished my muffin. I didn't need this. I didn't need a bloody mirror to remind me of the way I looked and felt. There were far more important things at this time! For years, I had probably believed a lie. Sure, an unimaginable lie, but ... How - no, I wouldn't cry, I would not cry.

Christ. A lie. But how? Seven years ago, I accepted the general conviction that Ron was dead, pulverised like the rest of Spinner's End. No one had ever really agreed when or how, but there it was. We all believed it, and it made it all the more real for everyone. And yet, as I stood there, looking at the dark circles under my eyes, I couldn't stop the sobs racking my body. I couldn't believe it. I wanted to, yet didn't. My mind couldn't wrap itself around those four words: Ron might be alive. It was insane, yet some small part of me - my heart, I decided - wanted to believe it. Desperately. Because all these years, I had never asked for proof. I just instantly believed that Ron's fate had rung out that night. How could you? a voice that wasn't mine reproached. How could I have done this to him? To his family? To his memory? Hadn't I loved him? Hadn't we promised never to stop?

What a lover.

It's your fault.

And suddenly, all these years of tears already shed caught up to me, stronger and more oppressing than ever. I gasped, trying to rein my emotions in, but helpless to them. Clutching the sink hard, knuckles white with the effort, I let it wash over me: seven years of pain multiplied tenfold bringing me sinking to my knees onto the hard tiled floor.

It's your fault. You let it happen.

***

My sobs slowly subsided, but I remained kneeling, my sweaty face pressed to the cold porcelain of the sink. My headache was back full on, fat tears still clung to my eyelashes, and I felt just as terrible as before. But I needed to get up. I needed to go to the Ministry and to Spinner's End. My conscience just couldn't take it anymore.

Pulling myself together, I stood and breathed in deeply, a woman as in charge as I could muster. I reached for the tap to splash my face when I felt something move in the room. Looking up, my eyes locked onto a dark shadow in the corner of the mirror and I shrieked, only to be immediately silenced with a huge, calloused hand.

"Bloody hell, woman, not so loud," the hooded figure said as I struggled to wrench myself free. At the sound of the intruder's voice, my heart stopped. I looked down. A freckled and scarred hand was keeping me from speaking. Slowly, he released me, and shifted into the light.

My knees buckled once more, and I reckon my eyes were as wide as saucers, because I could not believe what I was seeing. He stood back, eyeing me apprehensively as I clamped on the sink to keep from falling, and it was all I could do to keep myself from bursting into tears again.

You let it happen.

I was looking at the so-familiar face from long ago, yet it was like someone had made blatant mistakes rendering him from the millions of images I cherished in my memories. That scar on his ginger brow was wrong; the depth in those cobalt pools was strange, virtually unrecogniseable, and uncomfortable. He was taller still than the last time I'd seen him. Stronger. Bigger. That maturity, so present in the calm he exuded, was foreign. That weariness, as though he'd fought a thousand battles since Spinner's End, overwhelmed me. And while the more obvious features were right and completely familiar, the rest were wrong and frightening. I was looking at an attempted replica of Ron Weasley. "R - Ron?"

I turned around, half-expecting the vision in the mirror to fade, but there he still was, standing at attention and eyeing me with an unfathomable expression that unnerved me.

"It's me."

***

Harry slammed his way into the women's changing room, not seeing anyone nor anything, nor caring for the surprised shrieks his presence elicited as he ploughed past row after row of gym lockers. She should be here. Why wasn't she here? He hadn't been able to find her all of last night; she hadn't stayed at Syn Wyngyn, she hadn't gone to The Burrow for dinner, she wasn't at her flat - and Merlin, she should have wards around her flat, who knew who could barge in at any time of day? Didn't she learn anything from her training? - and it had driven him up the wall in a right state all night at Syn Wyngyn, doing idle research in witness accounts of the Second War with half a mind while the rest wondered where the hell she was.

And now... she should be here. She hadn't clocked in enough physical training hours last week. This week would be her catch-up one. Unless she was already out there, swimming laps or lifting weights...? He knew she liked doing her cardio in the huge Olympic pool. She could sweat all she liked without feeling it. Harry preferred lifting weights himself.

Oh, where was she?

"Harry?"

Too preoccupied by his inner blatherings, he hadn't been paying attention anymore to the task at hand: finding Ginny Weasley A.S.A.P. Doubling back at the sound of his name, he suddenly came face to face with her. She had changed into street clothes, as she was attending a class in Muggle Integration and Association later. A striped white-and-green v-neck woolshirt curved over her lithe figure, giving him the impression of a pale wood nymph, as blue denims hugged her thighs and reached snug little brown sneakers. She was clearly feeling like relaxing today, he decided, reaching her face and momentarily struck as he watched her wiping her gleaming neck, cheeks and brow. That was when he saw her peering up at him with a concerned frown. "Are you lost?"

She now reached up and tugged her wet hair free, drying it with the towel. Harry followed the trail of a lone bead of sweat down her temple and onto a white stripe of her shirt, watching it spread onto the now translucent fabric. Suddenly he jostled as he heard voices whispering down the lockers, and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Harry Potter ... did you know ... Ginny Weasley ... at Hogwarts..."

"What's he doing ... women's changing room..."

Women's changing room?

"Oh God!" he exploded. "I didn't - I mean-" Dropping his gaze - which he felt was intensely on fire - he was now very conscious of where he was standing. In the middle of a changing room full of very half naked women. He rubbed his neck vigorously before licking his lips and raising his eyes to Ginny's soft brown ones to avoid any other part of her. Clothed or unclothed. "I was looking for you all night. Where were you?"

Ginny looked at him a moment as though he were thick. "Home!" When he was about to point out that she wasn't, she chuckled. "In my new flat, you dolt, I moved in last month." Shaking her head, she returned to her locker and began rummaging through it in search of some object or other.

"Oh." Harry felt his neck heat again, then dropped his head and mumbled, "I, er, didn't mean to barge in like that. But I need to talk to you." He looked up then, all embarrassment now gone and replaced with a seriousness that unsettled even him. "Now."

She stopped sifting through her disorderly locker and shot him a stunned look, cocked eyebrow and all.

Realising his blunder - oh really, Harry, never drag a woman out of the loo... or changing room, as it were - he hastily added, "But, er, I can wait, er, outside. If you want."

Bloody hell, someone toss him into oblivion, but he sounded like an addleheaded teenager all over again! Internally cringing at himself, Harry decided that now was as good a time as any to make a hasty exit and post himself by the lone corridor that led to the equipment storage room and avoid any further mortification in the form of a female body for as long as it took for Ginny to walk out. Merlin on high, what a dunce he was.

Things were strange with Ginny. She was great and a terrific team partner, but too much had changed between them in seven years. He supposed his leaving after the war had ensured the odd indifference she constantly treated him with... and with perfectly good reason. Sometimes he wondered what his life would have been like if he hadn't broken things off with her in sixth year, if he'd gone back to her after the war. Coward, he thought, unable to keep the tone of disgust even from his inner voice.

But she'd still come, just hours before the final battle, blazing as ever though tactfully careful not to let her eyes linger too long on him. he'd caught her looking - once - while firing off last-minute instructions to the Order members.

Longing.

And then it was gone. A lost man he'd have been if she hadn't walked away with the rest. He'd felt deeply humbled by the fierce dedication with which she then threw herself into the fray. For a long moment he felt lost, scared, proud, all at once. And then it was all over, and Spinner's End was nothing but rubble, and something dark, suffocating, twisted his heart and lungs, keeping his breath locked in place. He was choking on pain. Who had survived? Had she? Had Ron? Had Hermione?

It was then he knew, without a doubt, that he'd never forgive himself if one of them had fallen. Forget nobility, forget the hero complex. These were the lives of those he loved more than anything. It was his fault if one of them had died.

Ron did.

He fled.

Not out of fear of the Weasleys' response, not out of fear of death itself. Hadn't he seen enough bodies fall for him, for his supposed cause? Ron's death was too much to confront. They'd been through too much for his death to be comprehendable.

He'd intended never to see the Weasleys again, like Hermione who couldn't bear to see their faces as they reminded her too much of Ron. but one night, after a long field practice, he bumped into Ginny on his way out of Syn Wyngyn's Greathall. No one knew exactly where the place was. Even now, Harry still didn't know. So it had come as a bit of a shock to see Ginny Weasley stumbling out of the designated Apparition ward in the Greathall.

Harry still remembered her pink-tinged cheeks as she showed him, dumbfounded, the anonymous letter that had come to her flat, and the translucent bubble bobbing just out of her fingers - a talisman for safe Apparition into Syn Wyngyn. From there, he'd found that it wasn't actually so hard to talk to her again. Besides, the next thing he knew, he was being assigned as her mentor, having graduated out of needing a mentor himself, and was helping her with the hardest subjects. In return, she started teaching him basic Healing.

And yet, he thought again, things were strange. Harry couldn't explain it; half glances, frowns, sarcasm, awkward touches and even faster retreats. He couldn't think on it too long, though; his senses must be alert in the course of any practice or during real-world field work. But then he always thought back, and damned himself right to hell. He was engaged, for Christ's sake.

Harry James Potter, you are doomed.

"Thought you'd be hiding here."

Harry winced, and chanced an eye open. She'd covered herself, as was evidenced by the dark school robes she wore over her her clothes. She was leaning against the wall behind him, grinning, though it wasn't quite reaching her eyes.

"That was-" he started.

Ginny hitched her bookbag higher over her shoulder, the smile disappearing. "So what was the emergency?" she cut him, not quite meeting his eyes as she asked.

Uncrossing his arms and straightening, Harry grabbed her elbow and led her to the giant swinging doors leading to Syn Wyngyn's main building. Empty classrooms lined up on either side of the even emptier corridor, with the occasional few lighted rooms. Shouts and cries erupted from a combat practice room. The pair automatically dodged a rogue Leg-Locking Jinx as they passed an open door, then veered left toward the student and staff cubicles.

Leading her toward one near the end of the hallway, Harry pushed her in, Unperturbed it, and turned to find Ginny staring at him with her arms crossed in front of his desk, expectant. He rather expected her to start tapping her foot impatiently. She did not look happy.

"Okay," Harry started. "First off, I'm not daft."

She snorted derisively, but gave no retort. It unnerved him, actually. Weasleys did not seethe quietly. Especially not this Weasley.

"It actually concerns you," he said carefully, and averted his eyes - again. "I thought you should know because... because it's about Ron." He paused, not willing to look up yet. Oh, she'd surely think him daft now, asylum material, please toss him in A.S.A.P. he's not right in the head. "I think it's about Ron," he amended. "I think he's alive."

Harry raised his head. He didn't know what he should have expected. A flood of tears? A mean left hook? Angry pissing words? Definitely not this awkward silence, nor the frail, vulnerable expression she wore now. Ginny Weasley was not defeated, it just didn't ring true. Her arms hung to her side. She sank onto his desk, blinked, and he saw her throat fight back tears, her chin quivering. The small redhead lifted her gaze to him as though she didn't understand his words. "Harry?" she asked, confused.

Harry walked closer and awkwardly knelt before her, taking her smooth hand in his large ones. He wanted to stroke it 'til she calmed, 'til things were much better and not so out of control. Merlin, but he didn't know what the hell was going on himself, but forced himself to explain. He'd hate himself if they were all hoping in vain, but he'd seen Hermione's haunted gaze, and it spoke volumes. There was also the evidence that had gone up in smoke the moment the sun dawned. "I saw the Triquetra tonight, Gin. It was real," he said quietly.

Her brows drew, and she bit her lip, burrowing her head into the crook of Harry's neck as he rose, holding her close. "No, no, it can't be him," she choked into his skin. "I can't be. He's dead - He's-"

Harry pulled off a weakly thrashing Ginny and looked deep into her eyes, reigning in a calmness that astounded even him. "He knew the spell. Him, Hermione, and me."

She drew in a gusty breath, tears falling freely now, and exploded. "He dead! How dare you!"

***

It killed him. It really killed him.

"He's dead! How dare you!"

She fought back when he tried to grab her fists. She was pounding his chest, his abs, his shoulders, anything she could fist her way into, and for a second he was scared she might succeed in killing him. Ginny was made of tough stuff, even more so now that she'd been trained to kill if need be. Well, it seemed she needed to kill him.

God, did he know the feeling...

When she aimed a bit higher than his chin, Harry decided he'd had enough. Growling low in his throat, he ducked the blow and clamped down on her wrists, twisting, backing her into the wall. There she hissed sharply, face distorting in pain, yet still she held on, fighting back, kicking him now that her upper body was trapped. Harry insinuated himself between her legs, pushing into her with his whole body, and stared, panting, into her face. He only fought half-heartedly, only deflecting her blows, only blocking her, never using blunt force to restrain her.

Ginny finally ceased combat, slowly, as though her emotional force was leaving her. Harry released her, and watched her sink onto the floor, hugging her knees, unseeing. Gingerly, he sat cross-legged in front of her and waited. Harry didn't know what he was waiting for, but he waited there and watched her silently. She should make the first step, he decided. And he silently congratulated himself on knowing her so well when she did, without any more animosity.

"W - where did you see it - him?"

She wouldn't meet his eyes anymore, as though their battle of wills had taken the fire from her self-confidence. Harry did not look away.

"I didn't see him. Hermione and I only saw the symbol. I think she saw it being spelled. She was in enough of a fright when I came home that.... I think she might have seen him, too. But he wasn't there when I Apparated in. I don't know what happened. All I know is, there was that symbol on our lawn."

She frowned, and sniffed. "Why would somebody do that? Ron wouldn't do that, it's not his type," she said quietly.

"Who knows?" Harry replied just as softly. "Seven years change someone. Who knows if it's his type anymore?"

She looked up pointedly. "People don't change so easily."

Rubbing his neck, Harry shrugged. "You'd be surprised," he mumbled to his folded hands on his lap.

There was silence for a moment, then, "Harry I - I'd like to know something..."

Holding his breath, Harry looked up into her eyes just as she looked away. He caught a glint of amber. He nodded wordlessly, not trusting his voice yet knowing she couldn't see him.

"Do you think ... please be honest ... do you think he could have survived? Do you think there's a chance he might have lived?"

"I want-"

"Answer me," she shook her head, glancing up, and this time he saw tears again. "No empty wishes, just answer me. Give me a theory."

Harry couldn't move for what felt like an eternity. He felt nailed down to the floor, body and mind. Scrambling through his fleeting memories, he couldn't possibly disprove any theory. Hell, even during battle he'd only been half there. It had been what he would today pin down as a pure desire for survival that had driven him. Adrenaline, if he were a man of science. He couldn't honestly tell for sure if he had seen his best friend go down - or rather up in dust - and that was what had maddened him for the longest time - perhaps still haunted him. Yet there was proof that he had no proof. And a perfect theory to boot. Perhaps the lack of proof was just that - no proof that Ron had died at all.

"Yes," he answered feverishly, bursting forth and collecting Ginny into his arms. He buried his nose into her chlorine-and-jasmine scented hair, emotion choking him though he needed to speak, needed to tell her he believed. "Yes, I think he lived. And I'll do anything to prove that."

He felt her smile into his chest. "You have no idea how much that means to me," she whispered.

They stayed embraced a long time, neither wanting to disentangle. When finally Harry's watch beeped the hour, he gently released her. "You have a class to go to."

"I'd rather stay here. Work on that," she blushed.

A foolish grin really wanted to work its way into Harry entire face. Astonished, he buried it deep. "Er, yeah. So, um, just a question, I'm sorry if it's not exactly ... tactful-"

She cocked her eyebrow in an 'oh please, as if you ever are', and he almost wanted to grin again.

"Right. Er. So did you ever see ... you know ... a green light ... or maybe..." He trailed off when he saw not a pissed off right hook or a flood of tears, but rather a thoughtful little look as she blinked back tears.

"Um, no, not that I recall." She was strong, she was. And he was damn proud. She licked her lips. "You?"

"No."

He saw her chest heave and her biting her lip with something in his eyes that spoke of hopes and dreams. His own chest beat a little optimistic rhythm and he really smiled this time.

"I'm going to be late," she said, her eyes never leaving his even as she retrieved her bookbag from where she'd tossed it in her rage on the floor.

He leaned on the wall and cocked his head. "Go."

***

I had dreamed of this moment so many times over the past, never really expecting him to stay on when I woke to my alarm, but yearning for him all the same throughout the day. Now, as I stood before a man who had been believed to be dead until last night, I felt strangely empty. In my wildest dreams, I came to at Spinner's End after the battle was over and found myself enfolded in Ron's loving arms; or perhaps Harry found him during his two years in hiding and they both came back to me, smiling and just as boyish as they'd been before the war took everything and our innocence. In any case, I had never, in a million years, lucidly envisioned what I might feel if Ron truly came back. And it was damn confusing trying to sort out exactly what I was thinking and feeling.

On the one hand, I felt immensely thrilled that Ron was alive. For real. He was here, he was flesh and bones and older and, while I felt strangely anxious around him, I still could feel my heart pounding, alive, in my chest. Ron's alive, really alive. Excitement ran through my blood, boiling it to a warm, fluttery feeling in the pit of my gut. I wanted to cry, I wanted to laugh, I wanted to hug him and kiss him and I wanted him to hold me.

On the other hand ... I didn't know what to think. Obviously, seven years had done a lot to change him. Oh, who was I kidding? We'd all changed a great deal, even Harry and I. But what frightened me the most was that the Ron I'd learned to know and love appeared to be ... gone. Physically, he was practically the same - bar a powerful strength and steely muscles that seemed to have bulged out all on their own, yet I had to remind myself that it had been seven years - but the buoyancy that had so been Ron ... I shook my head, and my eyes landed back into his penetrating eyes. Oh, could I recognise him? Could I recognise the Ron I'd known beneath the layer of grave darkness that shrouded him?

It was then that I realised that I didn't know this man at all anymore. Something about him was too ... poised. Ron didn't have poise, he acted impulsively, whether it was a calculated move or completely demented.

Backing up against the counter, I let him finish study me as I'd done him and waited.

He raised his eyes, and I felt restless under his stare. "This is really me, 'Mione," he said softly, and I found myself entranced by the deep sound that poured forth. "I was close to dying that night, Luv, but I survived."

I felt exhausted all of a sudden. Seven years ... How could we have been so blind? All of us? "How?"

The hard planes of his face softened, and I was given a glimpse of the old Ron. The next moment, I blinked and it was gone. Yet he was still looking at me, that strange depth in his eyes, like emotions held in check. "I was taken to a convent where I convalesced. I still live there... I owe them my life."

All this still made no sense. Here he was, so calm and collected, while my own mind ran frantic. It was so unfair! "Why didn't you show up seven years ago, when you were healed? Why couldn't you explain this to me then?" I passed a shaking hand through my hair and immediately regretted it, for it came back oily and stringy. But I had no care for that save for the little part of me that shattered when it looked like he was reluctant to speak. "It would have saved us all some..." I broke off half-whisper and lowered my eyes to my lap. I noticed I was still wearing my nightdress, and crossed my arms, feeling my cheeks heat in embarrassment.

I shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't feel so wary of Ron. I'd slept with him more times than I could count and, though we hadn't had the time to become as intimate as we would have liked, we had certainly explored each other. Ron knew me inside and out. He knew what tickled me, he knew what made me shiver, and he knew what made my toes curl. But now, now there was definitely something strange about him that made me shiver, and I couldn't quite place my finger on it.

Ron was quiet for a moment. He was still wearing the dark cloak, hood and all, and it unnerved me the same as the change in his then-exuberant personality. "I was too weak to get out for a long time," he said slowly, appearing to weigh every word. "But," and here he reached up and lowered his hood, releasing the dark shroud of darkness that had made him seem so stern and mysterious, "I hope you can forgive me."

Despite my discomfort, I almost reached out to drown my fingers in his shaggy ginger locks to push off the long fringe that fell just over his brow, but caught myself in time. Feeling disoriented, I settled for studying my bare feet. That had almost been too rash. "Ron," I said softly, not trusting myself to gaze back up into his eyes, "seven years ... that's awfully long. I don't know you anymore. Besides, I've changed..."

For a fleeting second, this moment seemed undeniably comical. Or rather, I wanted to find it funny. I wanted to find a similarity between this very moment and ... a bad muggle soap opera, for example. I found I couldn't. There seemed to be so much more hidden beneath the surface, so much that Ron wasn't telling me. I found it oddly frustrating, that he wouldn't trust me enough to tell me. Did seven years apart really change your dynamics so much? I felt hollow, and we weren't even fighting.

Ron's eyes rove over me, almost as immediately returning to my eyes, an uneasiness creeping into his apologetic smile. "I've spent a lot of time fending for myself, Luv," he said gently. "If someone understands change, it would be me. I respect and admire the woman you've become, 'Mione. In time, perhaps, you'll understand. Just know that beneath this façade, I'm still the same Ron, whatever you may find out about me."

My eyes widened of their own volition. "I would never-"

"Just remember," Ron said, and I thought for a moment that he was pleading with me. But how could I ever forget? Of seven years, not a day had gone by without memories of him stopping me in my tracks, making me cry at night. How could he doubt that I'd ever forget? He took a deep breath and, without my ever planning it, without remembering how I got there in the first place, I was in the circle of his arms and listening to his heartbeat as he buried his nose into my hair. This was Ron as I remembered him, gently squeezing me to his chest like he wouldn't ever let go. I was momentarily amazed at how big he'd become. Hard muscles pressed back into my body, firm yet yielding. "I just can't change who I've become anymore," he rasped next to my ear in a pained voice.

I pulled out a bit, and gazed up at him. I raised my hand, cupping his cheek, and let myself revel in the raspy whiskers on his otherwise soft skin. "Why are you telling me this? And now?"

Ron sighed, enclosing my hand, and held it tight as he lowered our hands. "Soon, Luv. Soon you'll understand." Then he looked thoughtful for a moment. I felt it, too, that surge of unexpected, though familiar, magic. "Someone's coming."

"I know."

He didn't comment, but Disapparated just as Harry Apparated into our flat. "Hermione?"

I didn't realise I'd been standing petrified in the loo, staring after where Ron had been mere seconds ago. His visit hadn't explained a whole lot that could be strung into any sort of sense, but there it was. The most obvious answer had been answered to me the second he'd revealed himself to me - bar that, I'd known almost without a doubt that Ron was alive when the symbol was conjured the night before. But more questions now pressed themselves into my mind.

Harry had gone spare one day when I walked into our flat and found our neighbour - a frail, flaky old witch with an odd taste for garlic and onions - chopping bats' livers in our kitchen after a bit of grocery shopping. The next day Harry was poring over his textbooks, several chapters ahead of his class, I assumed from the numerous bookmarks, and built several of the strongest Anti-Apparating wards. Harry and I were thus the only ones the wards recognised and authorised to Apparate without mishap. So then ... how had Ron done it?

"Ah, there you are." Harry smiled a red-eyed, pale-skinned smile when he saw me in the loo, and yawned greatly. The smile dropped off his face when he really saw me. "What's wrong? Have you seen a ghost?"

I blinked at him twice, then grinned, trying to appear more relaxed than I really felt. "Maybe I did. So what did you find?" Nice save. Anything else to worry over, and Harry would likely break out in hives.

Harry, not suspecting a thing - or rather more preoccupied with something else, I'd wager - scratched his head thoughtfully. "Not much, really, but we've our suspicions."

"'We'?"

"Oh, er, Gin and I." He stopped and scrunched up his nose, as though remembering something. "She started at Syn Wyngyn two years ago, give or take a few months."

I hadn't been in contact with the Weasleys in seven years. Mrs. Weasley said she understood my reasons when I decided to sever the ties I had with Ron's family, but I'd always wondered if maybe that had been the wrong course of action to take. I loved the Weasleys, though, and thought it was for the best. I hadn't wanted Ron's memories to keep haunting me whenever I saw them, passed by the mantle where numerous moving photographs stared back at me, or walked by his Cannons orange bedroom. Nevertheless, it did hurt to alienate myself from Ron's sister most ... She'd been my best girlfriend. Hearing about her now made my stomach turn. What had I done?

"Right."

There was an awkward silence - or so I thought it was. Harry was eating a grilled cheese sandwhich and I just stood there still icky and still ghastly. Great, I must have looked a right sight to Ron. Harry was just too used to it, I guess.

He finished a bite and pointed a thumb toward the general direction of the living room. "So it faded?" he asked conversationally.

Small talk. Right. Now I knew I really needed a shower. "Yeah, and as well it did. The muggles would have talked."

"Right." He licked his fingers industriously. That didn't bode well. What was wrong?

"So what do you think? About it?" 'It' was a touchy subject to both of us. Or rather, it still was to me until just after eleven o'clock this morning. 'It' was the Triquetra spell. We never talked about it even after Harry came back; all of its meanings of faith, hope, and strength had gone with Ron, it seemed, for Harry had only found pieces of them in me, and I in him.

Harry was silent for a while, and when he did speak again it was in a quiet, husky tone. "Did you see Ron die?"

"Er, no, I was unconscious when he ... went down," I replied clumsily. "Why? Did you find anything to suggest -"

"No, I just did a lot of thinking at Syn Wyngyn ... You know, I never went back to see that he was ... properly ... dead." I could tell the subject was difficult for Harry to adress. He kept fidgeting and looking anywhere but at me. "I just assumed that he was because I saw him get shot with a spell. But now I don't remember ever seeing a green light, or maybe I was just too busy to see -"

I smiled wryly and took his hands in mine. "--Or maybe you shouldn't rehash old mistakes." His eyes found mine, so imploring and fragile. "Or maybe you didn't see a green light," I added softly.

It cost a lot to see Harry suffer so hard for things he had no control over - not back then, not now, not ever. But I supposed he had to be concerned; where would we be now if not for Harry's intrinsic compassion?

"Maybe we should just let this -" I started carefully edging closer.

Harry shook his head, eyes wide, reminding me of the frightened little eleven year old boy on the Hogwarts Express who had no clue who he was and what he would one day accomplish. Just Harry. Hagrid had one day told me how Harry was when he learned he was a wizard. I reckoned that's what he looked like. Vulnerable. "I'm not letting this go, Hermione. I have to know."

And I understood. I understood the pain, having felt it so many times myself. That night - when Ron ... disappeared - haunted me for years, hurting me more and more every time I looked back on time. It felt so unfair that he should have been taken when we had been through so much together, had survived all of us thus far, had ... had promised ... I understood Harry's frank determination to find the truth, no matter what. I would have done the same.

And yet ... I knew. I knew the answer - or at the very least the most important one to Harry at the moment - to the puzzle. I knew Ron was the one who cast the Triquetra spell last night. It was obvious anyway - we three alone knew the spell - but Harry wanted to know for sure ... and I knew. I could tell Harry that Ron had come back to me inside this very flat only minutes ago, that he'd spoken to me. I had seen him with my own two eyes. I'd recognise him anywhere, anyhow. I didn't know how he cast the spell alone, but I could ask. I could tell him all that, and Harry wouldn't have to go through a surely maddening search for the truth.

I didn't.

He hadn't specifically asked me, but an unspoken plea had shone in Ron's eyes before he vanished that morning: I couldn't tell anyone. Though I didn't understand why I did it, I knew I'd die to keep his secret.

***

Things at the office were slow over the next day. Having just wrapped up an important insurance case for a potion leak that had caused a lot of grief to the Ministry and the British muggle government, I had been given a bit of a downtime. To keep myself occupied, therefore, I'd been keeping tabs on some of my older cases and writing invoices to bullheaded clients who were apparently reluctant to part with their gold. I was in the middle of writing one to a Charms research facility when a voice made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle in surprise.

"You didn't tell him."

I repressed the urge to screech madly as Ron shimmered in from thin air. I guess I really had been immersed in my work if he'd been standing there being invisible and I hadn't felt it.

"Good Godric, Ron, would you terribly mind knocking? It's what normal people do around here!" I shoved a stubborn piece of hair that had fallen in my eyes behind my ear, letting my heartbeat slow. It was annoying how he did it; the git probably enjoying scaring the shite out of me.

Looking at him properly, though, I doubted he found it amusing or fun. Ron's lips were drawn in a grim line. His eyes darted to the door the front desk witch had left slightly ajar. I shouldn't have been able to tell it was Ron; he was once again wearing a dark cloak, hood drawn up to conceal his face. I suddenly realised why I found him so startlingly different: Ron looked downright dangerous to me.

"I wouldn't exactly consider myself normal, but that's not the reason I'm here," he said with a wry chuckle to himself.

"What are you doing here, Ron?" I asked with a sigh as I fell back down onto my chair, folding my hands nervously on top of my desk. Ron made me feel all kinds of unfamiliar feelings ... Tense, guarded, confused ...

He seemed to consider me a moment, then pursed his lips. "Are you somehow trying to protect me?"

Confused, my head shot up and I met his eyes. Cobalt. They were narrowed in frank suspicion. They perplexed me, had me flustered as I shook my head, baffled. "What are you talking about?"

Ron sighed and ran a hand through his hair, the hood falling back to reveal brilliant red locks. He stood back, leaning on a bookshelf, eyeing my every move like a calculating hawk. "You didn't tell Harry," he clarified. "Why?"

I gaped for a moment, at a loss. My next words were stuttered as I struggled for a hold on my nerves. "I - I thought that's what you wanted?" Bloody hell, he had me scattered like a twitchy pixie.

His imposing stance eased, and he smiled a bit before turning serious again. "Good. I don't want you meddling."

I thought I felt him preparing to vanish - again. "I don't understand," I blurted out before the magical pull got too great and it was too late - again.

The air cleared of magic at once and I breathed out, relieved. Nothing made sense with this new Ron and I needed answers. He just stared at me, a peculiar expression on his face, like he'd just sensed something. Standing still, he looked expectant. Now was my chance to find out once and for all.

"I don't understand why you're hiding," I started. Once initiated, it seemed my blabbering wouldn't stop. But here he was, willing to answer every one of my questions. Excitement bubbled in me at the prospect. "I don't understand how you Apparated to my - Harry and I's flat. You should have splinched yourself. I don't understand how you could cast the Triquetra spell without Harry and me." I was going to add more to my interrogation, but quieted at his raised palm.

Ron looked at me almost apologetically and rubbed the nape of his neck as he pondered how best to answer my queries. "Excellent questions, Miss Granger." His soft teasing leer wasn't lost on me when his humouring gaze swept over my office - law books, case folders, court papers stacked in neat piles over the floor in a small corner of the room ... He was congratulating me without words on my becoming a successful lawyer, and my heart fluttered happily as he did so in his very own way. Then his face fell. "Unfortunately, they all lead to the same answer ... and I can't give it to you."

I gave a roll of my eyes and made an irritated noise, throwing up my hands in the air. My patience was starting to wear thin. "Right, so then why come back after all these years, throw us a bone with the Triquetra and give me hints that 'soon I'd understand'?" I asked shortly, nostrils flaring and voice raising a notch by the second. "Tell me, Ron, isn't that some mad crazy way to tell me a message? Believe me, I love cryptic messages, and I'd love to decipher yours, but you're making no sense!"

"'Mione-"

"Miss Granger?" came the receptionist's shrill voice, muffled through the door I hadn't realised had been closed. Ron was no longer looking at me in that pained, pleading expression. His face had changed. He looked frantic, as though, should the door open, he'd bolt at the first opportunity. "Is everything all right in there? I thought I heard voices."

Breathing heavily, I shot my darkest glare at Ron. "Yes, Clara, everything's all right. Another unhappy customer, I'm afraid."

"All right," the woman replied suspiciously, "but I do have a man here who would like to speak to an available sollicitor and I thought - I mean, if you'd--"

"Er, all right, let him in."

Perplexed, I raised a curious brow, but said nothing more as I stared at Ron who was slowly advancing toward me. He dropped his voice to a low whisper, his breath on my face. "For what it's worth, 'Mione, I'm not running away from you - nor from Harry or anyone else. I wouldn't be here if I was. But I have to hide, to survive." He took a deep breath and continued hurriedly, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Promise me you won't go looking for me. I couldn't bear to lose you ... Magic knows no bounds to some. Unleashed, it is deadly."

I shook my head as if to clear away old cobwebs, trying to make sense of Ron's words. No, decidedly, he was one undecipherable message after another. "What's that mean?"

But a loud 'pop' indicated that he had Disapparated.

At that moment, a short balding man entered my office.

***

He was flanked by Clara, who gestured him to a plush chair at my desk then gave me a short sheepish smile. I eyed her sharply, pursing my lips, as she exited without a word. Then, as the door clicked shut, I turned to the stranger with a smile I wanted pleasant. I wasn't really angry at Clara for interrupting Ron's nonsense. In fact, I supposed should feel thankful she'd disturbed us, for I would surely have gone insane with any more of his parables. No, rather, I was annoyed that I hadn't made any progress in understanding Ron's gibberish.

"Good morning, Mr ... Mr...?"

The man was old, in his forties perhaps, rather on the portly side, and I detected a whiff of something so strong I coughed. "Mr Clarke," he replied warily, eyeing the certificates and trinkets on the wall as if they would attack him.

I sat back down, folding my hands neatly and resting my chin on them. I liked to study my clients while I interviewed them; it set some of them on edge whether they were telling the truth or not. Those were the easier ones to break. If they didn't tell the truth, they were bound to slip up somehow. As for the tougher ones - usually they'd had a brush or two more with the justice system than the former kind - well, it took a bit more work, and they were no less enjoyable to pick apart.

"What can I do for you, Mr Clarke?"

He jumped a bit, but recovered fairly quickly. Casting a quick look at the door, much like Ron had during his visit earlier, he leaned over my desk and whispered, "I didn't do it."

That hit me straight in the chest. I should have laughed my head off - whoever was ever guilty when they had a lawyer? - but at the desperate tone in his voice, I thought better of it. This man was certainly not acting, and if he was ... well.

"What are we talking about, here?" I asked, opening a drawer and feeling around for a notepad and my trusted tape recorder. Clarke gave a small smile of gratitude.

"Two men - my assistants ... I am a magical historian. I cover everything from the humble druidic and shamanic beginnings of modern magic leading to the various mythical and authentic branches of magic of the twenty-first century. Someone killed them - I didn't do it," he said very quickly. His hands were trembling, his jaws working frantically as he worked to keep himself calm. "I didn't do it," he repeated quietly.

"Mr Clarke," I called softly. He looked up, startled, as though he had forgotten he was sitting in my office about to tell me what he was or wasn't guilty of. I offered a small, sympathetic smile. "Do you mind if I-" In the meantime, I'd finally closed my fingers around the small tape recorder I'd been looking for, and produced it in front of his wide eyes.

"What is that?" He was looking at my small portable recorder, a suspicious expression written all over his face.

I was used to this reaction. I did have to talk to muggles on a fair few occasions. In those cases, whipping out a Quotes Quill would have simply garnered too much attention and I'd have been in shite with the Ministry Obliviators as well ... so I used a small tape recorder, which muggle lawyers used all the time. I must admit, though, the little device had grown on me. Unfortunately, not all wizards trusted this muggle contraption. I prepared myself for the standard explanation:

"This is a tape recorder, Mr Clarke. Unfortunately, I do not have a Quick Quotes Quill at this time, so this will have to do for the moment. It will record your voice so I may use what you say in court to defend your case should I decide to defend it. In a way, this is better than a Quick Quotes Quill, as the judge and jury will be able to hear your own voice as if you were speaking directly to them. And your voice, sir, holds more power than what I could write down in your defence." I sat back, letting him decide for himself.

He was studying the thing, most likely deciding whether or not it was harmful, and when what I had said sank in and he accepted it would help him, he lifted trusting eyes to mine. "All right," he said.

I nodded, giving a small smile, and pushed the record button. "My name is Hermione Jane Granger, sollicitor for the firm Themis & Dike. It is ten fifteen on the second of September 2009. Please state your name, sir," I kindly invited Mr Clarke, carefully placing the recorder between us on the table.

He leaned in close to the recorder. "I - uh ... My name is Bert Hector Clarke." He drew back as if it made no sense to talk to a small metal box.

"Where do you work, sir?" I asked.

Still unnerved, Mr Clarke stared blankly at me for a moment, then recovered fairly. "Oh, er, I own the Clarke Research Facility in Bristol. Muggles come in once in a while, mostly I research medieaval history. Mind you, though, it's a complete waste of my talents ... "

Raising a sceptical eyebrow, I proceeded coolly. "Do you have muggle history schooling?"

"Oh, yes, I went to the Wizarding Institute for Muggle Professions. Great, uh, campus."

Nodding, I noted that, then looked back up, resting my chin on my joined hands. "So tell me what happened. Take your time."

For a moment I thought he'd surely be out the door, but the next instant he sighed. Shoulders slumping, he plunged into his explanation. "All right, but I'm warning you, it sounds far-fetched, even to me." He glared at me, attempting to detect a flicker of hesitancy in my demeanor. "I have the money to pay you, plenty, but you have to believe me. Please. I'm not crazy."

A bit unsettled by Mr Clarke's pleading, I gaped a bit. Never in my two years and a half of practice had I encountered someone so desperate to be heard and trusted. I found myself inexplicably drawn to this man who so obviously needed someone to understand him. To believe him. putting my hand on his, I felt how cold and clammy he was. I managed a weak smile in return to his imploring expression. "I'll do my best, Mr Clarke."

Clarke stared a bit longer, looking frail as he swallowed with difficulty, nodding imperceptibly. Finally he drew back. "There is a ... a man," he started awkwardly. "Came to my shop one night, after hours. I remember thinking he was a robber - his face was all in shadows, hidden, just wouldn't move. Scared me right off. So I though maybe a bit of magic..." He trailed off, eyeing the recorder nervously as if it would judge him itself. "I know it's illegal to use magic against muggle, but I-" He coughed "Well he was a wizard anyway, or something. No, maybe not." At my pointed look he continued, flustered, and fiddling with the trimming of his sleeve. "Right. I thought to frighten the bloke a bit, but he ... he absorbed it. Calmly. Like he did this everyday. Then he spouted some nonsense about evil Society legends. To be honest, I thought he belonged at the loony ward at St. Mungo's." He paused, then chuckled brokenly to himself. "The Society, I ask you. Do you know the legends, ma'am?"

"No, sir," I replied curtly. "As fascinating as I'm sure the stories are, I'm here for yours, Mr Clarke."

He gaped silently like a fish caught in a fisherman's net, then closed him mouth promptly and groped for the rest of his story. "Yes. So - naturally I didn't believe a word he was saying when he told me I was in danger."

"And were you?" I asked, tilting my head.

"Well, no! Or rather, I thought I was ... from him, if you know what I mean."

I snorted, smirking. "Okay, so who was he?"

Clarke slumped. I watched his expression shift from amused to fairly grumpy. "I don't know." He smacked the table with his fist, and shook his head. "I don't know. I asked him his name, you know, to alert St. Mungo's just in case he'd come loose, but they didn't know him and I certainly never met him." As an afterthought he added, somewhat derisively, "He calls himself Honos."

"Honos?" I'd heard that name before. Or read it. Drumming my fingers on the polished wood, I thought about the library, the aisle, the book title. "Honos..." Roman mythology, to be sure. The page of a book appeared in my mind's eye, and I concentrated on the words, the meaning behind the name. Clarke seemed unperturbed as he kept a string of recollections about St. Mungo's and his familial links there. Poor man, he was so nervous. Suddenly, I had it. "Yes! Honos is the Roman god of chivalry, honour and military justice! Sometimes called Virtus, he is depicted in art as a young warrior bearing a lance and the 'horn of plenty' - a cornucopia," I recited as though the textbook was right in my hands. Of course! How could I have not remembered?

Clarke, who had been cut mid-sentence explaining his family ties to one of the elderly Healers at the Deirdre Fianna ward at St. Mungo's, blinked up at me. "Er, if you say so..." He was pensive a moment. "It fits him, though. He's the one who protected me when..." He trailed off, his voice faltering when he realised what he was about to say. Next moment, he hid his face in his hands.

I bit my lip, knowing full well that what I was about to ask would come off as insensitive, especially considering his present state. I had to know everything, every last detail, after all. It was my job. I decided for a mollifying approach, hating myself already. "If you don't mind my asking, sir," I started softly, "how did he protect you?"

He didn't look, but I knew he had heard me from the way he stiffened his back. I stood up brusquely and headed for the door, opening it a crack. "Clara, a cup of tea, please," I called out softly. The slender brunette bustled out into the lounge. I turned back to Clarke. "I am sorry, Mr Clarke-"

"- Bert," he muttered hoarsely through his hands.

I breathed out, realising then that I'd been holding my breath, thinking I'd ruined everything with my potential client. "Bert. I am sorry. I have to know the facts."

He muttered something I didn't quite catch in reply.

"Pardon? I didn't hear."

Bert lifted his head from his hands and looked me in the eye, tormented. Clara came in at that moment, a bit flushed, levitating a cup of tea in front of her. She was shaking so badly that half the burning liquid sloshed over the side when it plopped unceremoniously in front of Mr Clarke, some of it landing on his white pharmacian's vest. He leapt up, hissing and rubbing the material where it had scalded his skin. "I'm so sorry, sir," she squeaked, and attempted a Scourgify that lifted only a tiny stain but left the rest. Clarke glared, his eyes glistening oddly.

"Leave it, Clara. Get back to work, I'll take care of this." The poor thing shuffled out, apologising all the way. I lifted the stains right off, all the while aware of his eyes boring into my skull. "Clara's new, she's usually not such a hazzard," I said with a false hint of a laugh.

"Last night," Clarke said shortly, "I was in my back office, cross-referencing an old legend - to try to see if it were in fact real, you know - when Leland and Danny - my assistants - were attacked. I heard their screams from the storeroom but I came too late. The fire had already killed them ... I should have died." He looked away and fell silent.

For a long while I was silent as well. I was vaguely aware of the sort of 'shh' sound of the recorder as it taped everything. Bert's emotion. His apparent guilt. Being alive. Merlin, I knew. Finally I shook my head as though it were full of cobwebs, and asked: "Have you talked to the Aurors?"

He snorted in his cup. "No. The bastard or bastards probably used my wand. I'd left it in my cloak pocket in the staff wardrobe down in the staff lounge." At my puzzled look he said vehemently, "I am a Magical Historican, not a Charms Master!" He hung his head, and it was a sad sight. "No, they'd probably peg it on me, because I survived. But it wasn't! It wasn't me!"

I started twirling my quill, thinking about the next step to take. The logical course would be to gather evidence to prove his innocence. So then, if we found his wand had been used, Clarke would likely be found guilty on that sole proof. The Ministry had changed; there were definite improvements, no doubt of it, but the government's way to dismiss cases quickly based on lack of sufficient evidence had not quite fallen away. I bit my lip. Clarke had said this Honos had saved him that night... Why? How?

"You don't believe me." The tone in which Clarke had spoken was accusatory. He turned away, disgusted. "I knew it. I shouldn't have come. I wasted my time here."

He was halfway up and getting ready to leave before I took a deep breath and blurted out, "How did he save you?"

He looked back, an indescribable expression etched onto his face. It was as if his eyes dared me to laugh. Anticipation hung heavy in the air. I was practically hanging onto his next words. He spoke carefully, with the air of someone measuring every word so as not to expose himself as deranged. "The fire exploded and suddenly the entire room was in flames. They never touched me. I was in the middle of the inferno yet I had nothing. Not a burn, not a boil. The floor where I was standing is still intact, and I remember seeing him standing close to me, in shadows once again. And then, I was Apparated to the Department of International Magical Cooperation ... and found you to plead my case to." He sat down heavily and stared as I stared. Then he cried out, "It's completely insane!"

I sat back, overwhelmed with this new information, and blinked repeatedly. Full-body Fire Shield? Unrestricted Apparation? Granted, the Ministry's Anti-Apparation charms weren't quite up to par with Hogwarts's, but still ... This was ... too much.

I was silent a long time, digesting everything Mr Clarke had said since the beginning of our impromptu session. I could feel his eyes on me, probably full of hope that I'd take his case into court. It was only when I heard a catch in the room, like a cat being hit in the stomach with a tennis ball, that I realised the tape recorder was still running. Well, not anymore. Clarke's eyes were on the foreign object, cringing as if he thought it would explode in his face. I reached out and turned it off. Silence hung in the air.

That was when what looked like a whole cohort of Aurors slammed their way into my office. I stood up, smirking serenely. "Gentlemen! May I present to you..." - my hand swept dramatically over to a dead frightened Clarke - "My client."

Borrowed, of course, from the genius that is JK Rowling.