The Guardian Brotherhood

Fierce.

An inhuman amount of magic, like thousands of tiny spears badgering away merrily all round my skull, had me lurching. Sight was becoming blurry, like a black void closing in on me. Air, sparse. I felt like I would never wake up if it kept on. I wanted to cry, but couldn't. I wanted to scream. I didn't care if I made myself hoarse in the process. But I couldn't, either. For one frantic moment, I knew I was dying.

I think it's clear I'm still alive. If not for an Auror coming in to collect evidence, I would probably still writhe and wish I was dead rather than suffering that onslaught from hell.

"Miss? Miss Granger!"

A cold, clammy hand touched my cheek. Jolting, I pried my eyes open.

I was still in the research lab. Someone had dragged me as far away from that hellish spot as possible, and leaned me against the lab's wall of bay windows. My clothes were now wrinkled and full of soot and coal.

"Wh - what happened?"

"Oh thank Merlin!" Clarke cried to my right, sounding relieved. "You gave me a fright back there. One minute you were fine, then the next you turned white and started shaking like a leaf. Blasts, I thought that was it. I kept calling but you wouldn't respond. So Auror Buchanan moved you here."

"I... thank you." What else did you say to someone who saved your life? A stranger, at that.

"I'm Auror Kyle Buchanan, from the Arson division," a deep, husky voice rumbled near my face. Only then did I focus on the man. Short black hair bound at his nape. Long chiseled face with high cheekbones. Golden-brown eyes stared back unblinkingly at me. The man exuded hard, untouchable masculinity. I wouldn't like to be in his line of fire on a bad day.

Wriggling, I scooted out of his reach and sat up, blinking. I could feel his piercing gaze, ever moving, following me like the lion considering his next meal.

"Aurors came in this morning after workers found the place wrecked," he announced matter-of-factly after an awkward moment. "What I can't figure out is what you're doing here, Miss Granger."

It was said with such contempt and casualty that I just knew Auror Buchanan was restraining himself out of sheer curiosity. In any other case - say, if I'd been awake and he'd found me snooping through the place - it would have been a totally different story. I'd be toast by now. About to be ruthlessly crunched to crumbs. As it was, he'd found me in a dead faint and certainly not snooping in his presence. But...

Merlin's pants, he probably thought I had something to do with the fire. He was probably just curious to know why Clarke had let in a murderer and why I'd fainted just before the killing blow! Just excitement, your Honour. Sheer bloodlust saved the poor man.

"It's not what you think," I blurted before thinking, then groaned inwardly. Congratulations, you've just completed making a sorry cliché out of yourself. "I mean, sorry, I'm Mr Clarke's attorney."

I was pretty sure thrusting out my hand would be ignored; I therefore refrained.

The dark Auror hadn't moved a muscle. If anything, I would have said his face might have become grimmer.

"I was here collecting evidence," I advanced carefully.

He arched a thick brow. "Obviously, that's an Auror's job. Why wasn't it picked up this morning?"

Good question. I suspected they just hadn't cared about a bunch of books, but that might have just been me. No, in fact, I was pretty sure that was it. And the fact that I'd had Clarke with me to say who had been working on what prior to the fire. "Perhaps they thought you'd prefer the honour?"

His lips stretched in a thin line, but that was the extent of his reply. 'Doubt it. Bastards,' it clearly said. He was certainly a wordly man. "Did you touch anything?"

"Nothing that couldn't be helped." When I was certain his eyes had just turned to dark whisky and threatened on full black, I backpedaled. "I might have stepped into some dust or other but no, no prints. Wand, that's it."

He nodded almost imperceptibly. "Good. Now be nice and let me do my job with Mr Clarke." His eyes glinted ferociously as he said this, sweeping the room with a calculating predatory eye. 'Mine.'

That couldn't have been a cheaper blow. I felt my face heat up and just couldn't help it: The Granger temper just... exploded. "Now look here, Kyle, I have permission from Mr Clarke to question him and find out all I can about what happened -"

"You said so yourself: You can question him." His eyes narrowed in challenge.

"Don't you dare question my methods!"

He huffed. "So now collecting evidence falls into the questioning category? Pardon if I've lost my field handbook, but that certainly was never in there."

Well, he was right, but I wouldn't give him the pleasure of admitting it. "I was questioning him here to perhaps trigger memories when I found the investigation had obviously not been fully carried out. I merely took it upon myself to collect what I would have needed anyway." Good save, I thought, then looked up.

A mocking, derisive smile stretched the Auror's face. It didn't quite reach his eyes. They were cold. "Obviously, Miss Granger, you haven't been in the practice very long, so I'll cut you some slack. But I'll ask you very nicely to hand over whatever you've pawed through, and I won't breathe a word." He didn't say what else he'd do if I didn't hand it over. I had a general idea.

Clarke, who'd been quiet until then, glancing between the two of us as we parried back and forth, seemed to come out of a stupor. "I let her take them."

"Thank you, Bert," I said, never leaving Buchanan's dangerous eyes, "but Auror Buchanan doesn't care."

"Bert, eh?" Something seemed to change in Buchanan's demeanor. He didn't exactly relax, but some of the tension seemed to leave him, replaced with... sensuality. Thick, dark lashes lowered over murky eyes, suggesting a come-hither look beneath them. I'd never met a man so dangerous and openly carnal at once. Frankly, I didn't care to meet another. This Kyle Buchanan filled my share of them for a long, possibly eternal, while.

It was clear he thought of me as men once thought of women: There, to be used, and useless. A prize.

Jerk.

I sent him my iciest glare yet, that only served to make him laugh.

Huh. So maybe I hadn't made myself clear. I would.

"Hermione Jane Granger. Hogwarts Prefect. Ten Outstandings, one Exceeds Expectations in O.W.L. levels. Harry Potter's best friend, tactician, and member of the New Order of the Phoenix during the Second War against Voldemort. Oxford graduate in Law. Passed Bar three years ago. Junior Associate at Trembles & Katchersky, dealing with wizard and muggle clients alike. Need I say more?"

"No thanks." He glared speculatively. "So it would seem you've enough sense to handle those items with care... Tell you what, how about we share?"

"Share?" The thought was appaling. Did he seriously expect me to willingly Duplicate ancient, priceless texts for his sharing pleasure? I heard Clarke's sharp, outraged hiss. Jesus, that just wasn't done!

Auror Buchanan tsk'ed irritably. "Is there a parrot in here?" He rubbed his face several times. "I'll work with you," he finally ground out. I thought I heard him add 'Merlin help me' under his breath. I certainly thought it.

***

You might wonder what had me fainting. I didn't forget, though I wanted to, very badly.

Magic, that's what had me going down headfirst. Oodles and oodles of magic, like I'd only felt once before: In my front yard, the night the Triquetra was struck to the ground. Residual magic, this time, but just as potent, if not more. It had nauseated and awakened me at once, almost as if somehow it was a fundamental part of magic that I'd always known but was too hidden to comprehend.

Someone who knew and honed that elemental magic had used it against or to protect Bert Clarke. Or both. Or perhaps there were two of them. Or maybe I was completely off the base.

I didn't know.

And that scared the living bejeezus out of me.

***

"What a pleasure." Surprise laced the words of the tall, lightly shrouded woman, but she recovered quickly. "What brings you here, Honos?"

The hooded man bristled visibly. He wouldn't correct her. But he wasn't taking care of Brotherhood business now, therefore the pseudonym should apply while he could be however 'himself' as he could be.

Looking around the darkened hallway, making sure none had followed him, the young man pushed past the pale woman, into the small cell.

The interior was spartan, lacking any homeliness that might have made the single room inviting. He supposed he shouldn't point fingers, as his wasn't in any better a condition. He sighed. "I've a dilemma."

The elfin face raised a well sculpted, intrigued brow. "Has your training not prepared you for anything that might come along?"

"Not exactly for this sort of thing, no," the man called Honos retorted quietly, sitting onto a hard-backed chair.

The woman said nothing, regarding him sceptically.

The young man drew his hands into a nervous knot, wringing them, and stared down balefully. "I might have made a mistake two nights ago."

She stood rigid, but her voice was just as mellifluous as ever. Soothing. That was why he'd come to her. "Your first mission?" she inquired.

"Yes."

She was silent a moment, mulling over that thought, then calmly folded her hands over her robes. "It's perfectly natural for one's nerves to get the best of them, especially as... you are a special case, Honos."

Didn't he know that...

"Regardless, your emotions might have unbalanced your mind. You will see into it?" Her gaze pierced into him, he just sensed it.

"Of course," he answered without looking up. Afraid to.

She inhaled. "Well then, what is the nature of your dilemma?"

Honos opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Nevermind. Nothing he could say would make the kind, though coldly detached, Council member understand his plight. Worse, answering to Brotherhood laws, she could legally have him removed from his duties for an indeterminate amount of time and, at the moment, it was simply impossible. He had to make sure nothing went wrong. He'd already failed once; he couldn't afford to lose anymore.

Honos finally rose, and answered truthfully. "I'll work it out on my own, thanks."

Without another word, he left.

Mistress Aine of the Council of Elders watched the young Guardian's retreating back with a sceptical eye.

***

"Where's Weasley?" Tom Hopkins's voice came from behind Harry in the Entrance Hall of Syn Wyngyn. Harry's talisman Bubble had just popped out when Tom had Apparated in just behind him. He was now looking over Harry's shoulder. "Weren't you supposed to be, er, investigating something today?"

"Yeah," Harry answered without feeling, "as part of her train -"

"POTTER!" That voice boomed throughout the Hall, reverberating off the walls. The din of conversation around them had interrupted. Harry's Director of Operations-slash-Dean of Academics was in a downright pissy mood. "IN MY OFFICE. NOW!"

Chaos in the Entrance Hall resumed as if nothing had disturbed them. Harry pocketed his wand in his jeans under the field robes he was wearing - which looked a lot like muggle jackets - and cleared his throat. "Right. I'd better go."

"Hey, wait up." Tom easily caught up with his bulky six-foot-and-some frame and long legs. "I'm heading that way myself. So. Why the long face?"

Harry chuckled wryly as he marched dully toward... whatever was onto him beyond his boss's door. "Trust me, I don't even get it. One minute we're fine and the next we're hexing one another like hell just broke loose... I have no idea what came over me."

Hopkins shrugged. "Oh well, I'm sure you'll get over it. From what I hear, Hermione can be quite the tomcat, but it's not like you haven't survived the Dark Lord. She can't possibly be that bad... What?"

Harry had halted, thoroughly rattled, then shook himself. "Er, nevermind. I wasn't - nevermind." They resumed walking.

"O-kay. So why haven't I seen Gin yet today?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "We... broke off after training." That much was true. "She headed home to study afterward." That, he wasn't one hundred percent sure about, but he'd wager she was home, at least.

"Damn. I envisioned a nice dinner today - her, me, and my cuisine -"

"- That she'd once again refuse," Harry jabbed, chuckling. "Admit it."

Hopkins made a laughing-glaring face, unable to keep a straight face. "What's wrong with my cooking?"

Harry snorted. "Nothing - if you like burnt food."

"Ouch." Hopkins punched him. "That's low."

Harry shrugged, smiled. "You asked for it, man." Then he sobered, eyeing the closed door before him. "All right, into the dragon's den. Woohoo."

Hopkins winked, and whooted along. "Break a leg, meister. I'm off to find my certainly-not-life partner."

Harry shook his head, sniggering after his friend's antics even as he knocked on the director's door. It opened by itself.

The office was littered with pile upon pile of documents, sheets, and folders arranging and reorganising themselves as memos came zipping into the large office to pluck themselves onto specific piles.

"Potter," the thinning man behind the massive oak desk acknowledged him without lifting his nose from reading a document or other. "Sit."

Harry obeyed. Only then did the director lift his gaze.

"It's come to my attention that you were absent from duty last night and all of today with Miss Weasley." He folded his hands on the desk, searching Harry's face. "What's going on?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing at all." Harry needed no reminder that Mr Keeny was an expert at deciphering body language after twenty-five years at Syn Wyngyn, and a few more before that as an Auror. He supposed he might have spoken too quickly. Or shifted his eyes. "I just thought Ginny - Miss Weasley might gain a lot by learning straight from field work."

"And what were you teaching her?"

"Er, investigation. Her teachers haven't gone too deep in the subject yet, but I hope we can work on that together."

There was a non-commital noise from Director Keeny. "You do know it's highly irregular for student teacher-and-junior teams to go out on the field so early." It wasn't a question.

Harry nodded. "I do. I just hoped to hone both our investigative skills. I know mine are better than hers, but I still need to work on it."

"What is your investigation?" the director inquired, keenly interested. It wasn't everyday that a student teacher wanted to improve their skills, let alone advance in his junior's training.

"We're trying to find someone who's been missing for seven years."

Keeny's face fell. "Potter, you can't believe that person is still alive after -"

Harry interrupted before they got into the numbers. Twenty-four hours, forty-eight hours, days. Weeks, maybe. Months, perhaps. But years? No. "- I'ts a sound investigation. Risk-free. We don't find him, we go home and forget about it. Simple."

But somehow, Harry had a niggling feeling that nothing would ever be simple again with Ron Weasley.

His boss's lips drew in a thin, grim line, then he nodded. Once. "I don't want a word on this, are we clear? Whatever you and Miss Weasley do is strictly confidential."

Harry understood. If word got out that Harry Potter and his junior trainee were given the green for such unorthodox advancement, hell would be a saving grace compared to what would come.

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded before rising.

"And Potter?" The director's eyes followed him sharply. "Do not miss classes again. Or duties."

"No, sir."

***

I booked the smallest of the conference rooms at Trembles & Katchersky for our inspection. By no means was it 'small', though. The table in the largest room held about seventy people; this one could hold twenty easily.

I had to lie to reserve it. Something about trying to settle out of court with my newest client and the D.A. Auror Buchanan had had to Transfigure his robes for the occasion. I still didn't picture him as a lawyer. I still heard the awful chant Lawyer! Liar! Lawyer! Liar! in my head.

As we settled down and I pulled my briefcase onto the table, Mr Clarke cleared his throat uneasily. "Please, please don't harm the texts. Some are as ancient as the Picts and Celts."

Runes, I thought excitedly, and smiled. Now what a challenge. "I promise they won't come to any harm."

"Let's get started already," Buchanan growled impatiently.

Wasn't he supposed to investigate the source of the fire? I wondered quietly even as I Levitated one of the texts and lay it in front of the Auror. Perhaps it was just like he said: I wasn't supposed to 'paw' through these, so he was making sure he at least got a look and understanding of what had been going on before the fire. That made sense. It was exactly what I was doing myself. After this, let him look for prints and DNA and... whatever else.

I Summoned a own text randomly - it ended up being the one Clarke had been working on - and marvelled at it. Earlier, I hadn't paid much attention to it. The right page was relatively well kept, and illuminated. Some of the gold foil had either lifted or 'bled' from the heat, but the designs were certainly impressive. "Twelfth century Insular art?" I inquired to Mr Clarke, pointing to my book.

He squinted from the distance, and nodded.

I'd seen and deciphered a few insular texts in my Ancient Runes class, toward the beginning, as practice for what was to come. Most had been in Primitive Irish, or ogham runes. Others, but fewer, in Irish, Scottish, Manx, Welsh, Cornish, or Breton. I wasn't fluent by any means, as Gaelic was a difficult tongue, but I'd learned to decipher certain words. The characters and script were very peculiar in the Insular period - certainly nothing we'd see today, even with the best scribes.

"All right." Buchanan turned pages carelessly with his wand. "What does this book say?"

Clarke turned a shade of puce and vaulted toward Buchanan's book, certainly wanting to pet it. "Let me..." His fingers inched toward the pages, but did not touch. "Ah... this was Leland's. He was researching the mythology of Valhöll, or Valhalla." At Buchanan's cool stare he ploughed on. "You know, warriors' heaven? In Norse mythology, only the bravest and noblest warriors were selected by the female Valkyrie and given eternal glory and afterlife in Valhalla where they forever rejoiced with contests amongst themselves and ever-replenishing meals, until the Ragnarok when Odin would summon his armies for the Last Battle, as it was called."

I could tell Buchanan was unimpressed. "Sounds very epic."

I thought to give him my mind, but instead gave Mr Clarke my two Knuts' worth. "Some people believed that legend meets reality. Werewolves, berserkers, vampires, harpies, the like - supposedly 'dark' half-beings. Some say they were created by Odin in wait for the Last Battle, until he Called them."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Buchanan snorted.

Clarke visibly bristled. My patience was wearing thin, too. "Maybe," I said, "but it's still the mythology of a People. When the Vikings came to the Celtic Isles, they brought their stories with them into Gaelic mythology. They mingled with the Gaels. Some say William Wallace was a Berserker. Some say Jack the Ripper was a vampire. The name Valhalla was dropped from Gaelic folklore, but Celt warriors believed in a celestial kingdom for the brave - guess why honour in battle was so prized among the Gaels? The Valkyrie were dropped from Celtic legend, but war goddesses abounded in their folklore, and women battled in their own right."

Clarke was appraising me silently, making a delighted face. Christmas had come early for him.

I blushed. "I listened in History of Magic. Then took a Myths & Legends elective in university," I breathed from the tip of my lips.

"Whatever," the Auror said from across the room. "So it talks about Valhalla. Anything else?" Buchanan made a note on a small pad.

The historian turned a deep shade of red. "It talks about legends and essays on Valhalla," he said tightly. Turning to me, he continued smoothly, with a twinkle in his eye that hadn't been there a moment ago. "Some research has been conducted to find where the realm might be located."

"It's a goddamn myth," Buchanan hissed between his teeth.

Clarke chose to ignore our 'guest'. I was really proud of him. "I'm not familiar with germanic languages," he began, "but some have said that Valhalla translates into English as the Hall of the Chosen. Some think that Valhalla is on Earth, located in a hidden realm called Asgard. So, you see, some historians would just be delighted to find that realm -"

"If not to find the slain heroes, then to discover that glorious hall," I said, thoroughly awed at the prospect, and whistled low. On the one hand, wouldn't it be fantastic to meet those great fallen heroes? Yet, on the other, why disturb their eternal peace and uncover their secrets? Besides, regardless of whether such a god as Odin or such an army of fallen warriors ever existed, I was sure it would be better to doubt than to uncover the truth. Some legends were better left untouched.

"Exactly," Clarke replied, all smiles. "Personally I'm more interested in uncovering truths on paper, but there you have it. Man's thirst for the unknown, whether dangerous or not... Legend meets possible reality."

On a grand scale. "Have they found anything yet?" Buchanan arched a suddenly interested brow.

The historian shook his head. "Not from what I've read or heard."

I breathed out, not knowing I'd been holding my breath in. "Well, I would have certainly been surprised if they had. I'm sure Odin is shrewder than a few eager historians, pardon the insult.

Clarke laughed and left Buchanan's side, the book still untouched. "None taken, m'dear. I like your wit. So, which one did you pick?" Adjusting his spectacles over his nose, he looked over my shoulder at the damaged book before me. "Ah. Mysterious Magical Orders: From the Druids to the Nazis and Beyond. That was my text that night. The one rescued from a muggle garage sale." He looked up, stroking his beard thoughtfully. A shadow of something mournful shone in his gaze, then was gone just as quickly. "Did you know the Nazis hired several wizards and witches during the Second Muggle World War?"

I nodded. Of course, who didn't know that? Then I rolled my eyes inwardly. Probably everyone but me. "Yes. Grindelwald, for one. He tried to get Dumbledore. Er, the French witch Sabelle Trompine was coerced into working for them..."

He smiled. "Good. Very good. You'd have made a fine historian."

"Oh, I'm not much with past figures; I need to be able to 'know' who I'm studying, not just facts," I said with a little shy laugh. But it sure stroked my ego to know I hadn't lost my knack for remembering little tidbits here and there.

Clarke shrugged and turned back to the book. "Ah, yes. The prophecy." He straightened gravely and looked me in the eye. "I was deciphering this prophecy when the fire flared." He pointed to the page I'd been admiring before.

I bent closer over the page. A thin vellum sheet made of cowhide that had been skinned, stretched, dried, and cut, it matched those of most of the first section of the book. Some of those pages had had to be redone in a later century perhaps: Some were made of parchment, introduced in the medieaval period, some of paper, introduced later during the Renaissance.

The newer half of the book, penned or typed after Renaissance's flourishes, dealt with the newer magical orders or organisations.

The page I was looking at was of the 'ancient' category, carefully inked by hand, perhaps by a wizard monk, using organic inks: Ochre, hawthorn, gallnuts, etc. The gold foil, painstakingly laid on the page, illumed the capital, letting the eye appreciate the penmanship used in the illustrations. Drawings and woodcuts adorned the outer margin, beautiful in their own right. I was sure the page along would be worth millions in the manuscript market. So much artistry had gone into the page: Tanners, scholars, scribes, illustrators, woodcutters, binders... Too bad these arts had been lost to time since the Guttenberg press - except perhaps the woodcutters and later the engravers - in favour of quantity over quality. I was of a mind that books had more soul when they were created from the hands of men for whom bookmaking was an art and passion.

Auror Buchanan cleared his throat pointedly, catching me off-guard. I jumped a mile, recovered, and smiled sheepishly. Right. Business.

Ignoring the Auror's insolent yawn, I bent back over the book, and read.

***

He'd seen many a childhood acquaintance do it in the muggle school days. Never understood it. Or perhaps it was because there hadn't been anyone friendly enough - or, in any case, wanting that badly to be friendly with him after what Dudley would subject anyone to if they got close enough to see the midget in the corner at recess.

Harry sighed. Auld lang syne, and even then he didn't particularly care. Not when the after had been so good and complicatedly uncomplicated.

That was when present-day Harry smiled privately, leaning on the wall adjoining a noisy room. Complicatedly uncomplicated. Now that was an expression for it. Especially as insanity coated the walls of his life for six years while he was at Hogwarts. But those had been good years. Uncomplicated in its frenzy of dark lords, deceptive teachers, and ferrets, not to mention some of the meanest to weirdest to most lethal creatures he'd ever seen.

Yeah, that had been good.

But the point was, no one had ever waited on him after class. Ron and Hermione hadn't counted - they'd lived in each other's pockets ever since the mountain troll and trounced around together forevermore. Unless you counted waiting after Hermione after her Arithmancy class, which neither he nor Ron ever did. They did have limits. And Ginny? Well, he and Ginny had given a whole new meaning to 'healthy loving'. On both accounts. None of that lovesick puppy thing he'd often seen other guys pull at the expense of a healthy dose of male chromosomes, and yes, sure, some healthy teenaged loving never hurt. End of story not long afterward.

So waiting on her now like a BFF or a LSP (one misread letter and you were a far cry from lovesick puppy, weren't you?), neither of which he was, sure turned the tables on him years after Hogwarts. Go figure.

He figured he was a masochist, judging from how his last encounter with Ginny had ended. But he was here straight on Dean Keeny's orders. And how fucked up was it that he actually believed himself even as he knew it was a poor excuse for a lie? Very, he thought bleakly. But it couldn't be helped. He absolutely had to be there when Ginny exited that classroom. Whether he ended up Bogey-Bat hexed before he had time to get a word in or not.

And say what, bastard? his oh-so-helpful mind demanded smugly. It knew just how unlikely Ginny was to even try to listen to him. The woman was a force to be reckoned with.

Jesus, wasn't he training to cope with ruthless murderers and the lot? But the fact was, he reckoned he'd take a Russian mafiya wizard any day over getting all over Ginny in mortal verbal combat on any of her bad days. Which should prove interesting in a few seconds as class had clearly just ended. Harry heard things being shuffled and shoved bonelessly, and feet trampling tiredly closer.

Tiredly. So maybe she'd worked out some of her steam. Unlikely. The Weasleys were a resilient bunch, courtesy of some obscure Pictish-Norse druid warrior ancestors.

The bland and unstately white institution door slid open and revealed feet trundling past him as he kept his half-mast gaze firmly rooted to the floor so that he looked just the spitting image of a long-waiting BFF or LSP. If he was recognised, the junior students either didn't care anymore or were too sorely comatose from Cursing class. One or two limped uncomfortably on recent bruised legs. None wore Ginny's nondescript white sneakers. When that fact registered and no one else came out, he looked up and rightward sharply, thinking he might have missed her.

And came face to face with a weary- and wary-looking redhead leaning lightly on the opposite jamb. He'd been so busy studying shoes and pretending to doze that he hadn't heeded the soft hesitating and shifting noise as it happened. Damn.

It all happened in a millisecond or so where he was sure surprise, embarrassment, irritation and self-directed anger flitted over his features. In that moment he saw hers and summed her sole expression in one word: Impassive. Couldn't tell if it masked anger, indifference or, he doubted it, amusement. He'd seen it often enough on her in the past few years, but it ever astounded him how he couldn't read Ginny like a gladly open book anymore.

The next moment, she uncrossed her legs, still staring unblinkingly at him as though studying a peculiar subject. He might have taught her that skill. Merlin knew that in top form he could handle the best of them single-handedly. This one was no regular subject, though. She walked past him, hitching her bookbag higher over her hip, and threw over her shoulder, "Well, tell me what you want, then."

***

Well, wasn't it his luck? No plaguing Bat Bogeys... yet.

Harry swiftly followed Ginny down the labyrinthine maze of Syn Wyngyn that felt like home to him, coming just after Hogwarts and just before his house at Number Eight, Belmore Avenue, Manchester. He liked the house well enough, but it had the disadvantage of looking uncannily like Number One, Privet Drive. Hence why he preferred Apparating straight inside the walls or walking home late at night. Some memories just scathed. He'd let Hermione do the choosing. She'd needed a stable, familiar setting; he'd needed only a place to kick back and relax in once in a while after a day at school or work. Harry thought he might need ale and the telly once he sorted through this particular mess.

He went right to the mark. "Keeny approved our project."

Intelligent amber eyes covertly cut to him.

"So we've got the green light on trying to make sense of what's going on, except, er..." Here he reached out and tugged her backward by the elbow. She backtracked silently, though he noticed her obvious discomfort as she pulled her arm free. Harry ignored it and dropped his voice. "Walls have ears, so we'll have to keep this to ourselves."

To any outsiders, 'project', 'what's going on' and 'this' might mean nothing. To Syn Wyngyn regulars, however, it might refer to an illicit love affair.

It was no secret that one of the unspoken golden rules at Syn Wyngyn prevented trysts. You were instructed to become each other's shadow, but to keep your hands to yourself. Of course, many observed that prudent rule, but gossip traveled like wildfire. Harry had one too many times stumbled upon a close physical encounter to know that it did happen.

Bottom line was, he'd deliberately made his conversation with Ginny sound sneaky for a reason. Walls did have ears, and next thing he knew, gossip would fly all over the place in hushed tones. It was preferrable to the truth actually coming out, that he and Ginny were starting an investigation that would be sure to raise the ire of his comrades. He only hoped Ginny had been here long enough to know of Syn Wyngyn's thin walls as well.

Ginny's eyes flashed when he continued. "Wouldn't like everyone to know, now would we?"

"No, we wouldn't, so what'll we do about it?" she asked in silky tones.

He grinned. That was his girl. "Your place or mine?"

She didn't miss a beat. His breath hissed out of him as she slinked closer, her mouth next to his ear. "Mine. No prying ears. No sudden appearances. Quiet."

She was... better than he could have anticipated. His body tauted at the sensual suggestion in her voice, her body, the smell of her and her hair, but he quickly reminded himself that this was all make believe, made to make others believe they had it going behind closed doors. "Perfect," he said with a stiff smile.

The fact that they'd once dated wouldn't hurt the rumour (and betting, if he knew his mates well) mill. The fact that they'd ended so abruptly and for reasons unknown would stregthen it. And, last but not least, the fact that he was currently engaged to another woman would just have it implode in thousands of happy wagging tongues.

Perfect, as it were.

***

"So now what?"

Harry flopped into Ginny's sofa and let out a sigh. Then rubbed his tense neck. Hard. The earlier moment had been... weird. And loaded. But nothing more than a trick, that he knew. "Look, before we get into this, I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

His hostess sat opposite him gingerly as though warming to a dangerous beast, all sexual pretense gone but for her sprightly scent. "I played along with your gossip game," she retorted tightly, as though it should be obvious she was over it. But something in her shifting glance belied the fury she'd felt earlier.

"Yeah, and I'm built with a handle in back." His mouth settled in a line. "I wasn't thinking, Gin."

"Me neither. It's okay."

"I could have hurt you." Or worse, he thought guiltily, thinking of the spell he'd unconsciously thrown at her. Worse, he didn't even remember which one it'd been.

"I had it covered. And I could have hurt you, too."

His eyes crinkled. "That you cold. But it doesn't make it all right. I wasn't angry at you."

When he saw her hesitate to reply, he was at a loss.

"Er, and you were angry at me...?"

She shook herself as though to shake cobwebs. "Um, no. But - yeah - no."

"Well that made sense," he said after a moment, hoping to lighten her embarrassment. "It's all right I guess; I'm an arse."

He hoped she wouldn't agree.

She frowned. "Of course not. You're mighty insufferable, though." She managed to say it without a smile.

"O-kay." Was there something he could say in return? Like You've the sharpest temper I've ever seen?

"Oh, do shurt up." Point in case. "Could we get to Ron, please?"

Harry thought she was far too eager to change the subject. "What's bothering you?" he asked softly.

Silence, and when he thought she'd deflect it with another change of subjects, she finally replied. "You."

"Pardon me?"

She pursed her lips and shook her head suddenly, dismissively. "Nevermind. What's on the agenda?" she asked quickly.

"No, wait." Harry stood and crouched in front of her. "What's going on, Gin hon?" he asked, thoroughly perplexed.

Ginny lowered her head, avoiding his direct gaze. "Please don't call me that," she said tightly. "Look, I'm just knackered, all that stuff about Ron and school and stuff. I'm all right, really." Lifting her head, she managed a tight-lipped smile.

"Are you sure you don't want a raincheck? We can work tomorrow if you like."

"Rain...? Oh, no." She sat up and crept away. "No, let's do it now."

Harry frowned, stood back up. "Sure?" he asked warily, and was met with a firm nod.

"I won't break." But something wasn't right, though he wouldn't call her on it again and bruise her pride.

"All right. Keeny's approved this, on the condition that we keep this private and abort if nothing comes of our search. Oh, and we don't Syn Wyngyn hours. That goes for school, too."

She nodded her understanding; she'd never missed a class. "So where do we go next?"

Harry sighed. There was so much they could work with, he thought sarcastically. "We're hitting the library. Let's find out what other people are saying about the Last Battle." He'd never cared much for what other people had seen or done during the War, but in this case, someone else might have seen something he or Hermione or Ginny hadn't. Because they must all have missed something significant if he had the right of it.

Something on the battlefield of Spinner's End, right where Ron had fought those last moments, hadn't sat well with Harry, as if something huge had happened between the moment he'd seen his best friend get shot and when he'd turned back to find Ron standing no more. Something undefinable.

***

It was in Gaelic. Having had no formal training in the ancient tongue, but rather a deep passion for the language and peoples themselves, I could only try to guess what the prophecy said.

"Can you read Gaelic, Miss Granger?" Mr Clarke said, breaking my concentration. He was gazing at me, wonder and admiration in his expression and tone. I'd flummoxed him on that, too, I could tell. Any idiot could remember mythology and old legends, but learning a nearly dead tongue? I had a feeling telling him I was a fair Latin speaker would probably send him straight into a happy heart attack, so I refrained. I needed the man, after all!

"Not well, but I try."

He sighed happily. "Good! I'd have married you right off on the basis of being too perfect to miss."

I could feel the colour rise high on my cheeks as he gazed back down onto the vellum sheet, humming merrily. Right. So perfect...

"Ah, see," he said, pointing a hovering finger over a stanza, in which I recognised the name of Wotan, also known as Odhinn, "this stanza refers to Odin's army. Now I remember why Leland was studying Valhalla. A few weeks ago we were sent this sheet by itself by Owl Post, without a return address. I contacted all my historian friends; no one knew who might have sent it."

"Perhaps an acquaintance? A donor?" I interjected, though made note of finding the sender later. The Owl Post made note of every owl employed, as well as the sender's name. It shouldn't be too hard to straighten that out.

Clarke shrugged. "Either way, we pored over the sheet; Danny translated it on a separate sheet - lost in the fire, I'd wager, but I think I can manage translating it on my own this time. We found Odin's name through it all and Leland went off researching Valhalla to compare its legend to the one described herein - not quite similar, as far as I could tell, but I'm not an expert myself. The only similarity I found with what I knew of Valhalla was between Odin's army of dead warriors and those magical protectors that this legend makes out to be Odin's children."

"Who?" I asked, more perplexed now than illuminated by his fascinating story. From the corner of my eye, I could feel Buchanan's wandering gaze settle and still on us. My skin prickled uneasily, as though it awaited dreadful news from Clarke, or rash action from Buchanan. Old myths had always thrilled me, made my blood boil for more, as though it craved for stories that explained my past, or others' past. But now? I shivered, and not in gleeful excitement.

"The Guardian Brotherhood." He stroked the sheet's edge; there the vellum seemed to come to life, as it did from the exchange of oil from hand to cowhide, the colourful Celtic designs gleaming with sudden light. "This appears to be the one prophecy, told hundreds of years ago to their first Circle of Elders, and then scribed by their lorekeeper to be protected. The prophecy itself was smashed, hence why no record survives, only myth and legend."

"Except for this," I said, mesmerised by the sheet's uniqueness.

Clarke nodded. Nothing else moved within the room. "Now you understand why I included it in Mysterious Magical Orders."

I was still thinking silently about it all when something didn't quite sit right with me. I shook my head, frowning, thinking aloud. "Why would it get to you now?" I asked, ripping my gaze away from the sheet and studying my client's face now. "Do you know something about the Brotherhood? Do you know if it has enemies?"

There was a loud bang at the far end of the room, setting my head spinning, but it was only Buchanan, veins popping out, murderous and intent stare suddenly right in my face. "All right, that's it, no more fantasies. Give me this." He reached out toward the open tome, wildness in his eyes, and nostrils flaring when I pulled it toward myself at the last second. Very silkily he leaned down, and smiled a nasty one. "I see you've keen reflexes, Miss Granger. Also a keen mind, but do not fuck with me. I would make life very difficult for you."

I smiled, not kindly. "Men, Mr Buchanan, are an impatient sort. They think they have all the power in the world. They do not."

"Ah," he replied with a raucous laugh, "but I am no mere man." He paused, as though weighing his words for effect, and then a wicked smile stretched his lips. "I am an Auror, Miss Granger. You would do well to remember this."

I sat staring up at him, a position of weakness to be sure, but comforted myself in knowing that in a few minutes' time I'd have deciphered one of the possible reasons why all hell had broken loose on Bert Clarke. "One more moment. Surely you can spare that much time?"

He grunted low in his throat and let me roam the text a little longer. I doubted the man even understood Gaelic, but with a Scottish surname like Buchanan, you never knew. The next moment I Levitated the heavy book, complete with inserted insular Gaelic text, to Auror Buchanan's side of the table. "I believe you have an arson report to get to," I suggested sweetly. "Mr Clarke and I have some business to attend to."

He watched me closely as he gathered the book into a bag and moved on to the mahogany door I gestured to. I knew I'd be seeing more of him - or rather, since Mr Clarke would be spending so much time with me building his defense against the Aurors' culpability claim, I would see Buchanan a hell of a lot more than I wished to. As soon as the door closed behind him I sensed a short magical burst beyond - anger, perhaps? Buchanan had seemed to me to be on a short fuse - what the hell was the Department of Magical Law Enforcement getting into with such disrespect of the common person? But I let it drop. Not my fight.

"Didn't you want to know what it said?" Mr Clarke asked breathlessly. Obviously our confrontation had made him anxious. "The text! Why did you let it go?"

I turned to him, smiling slowly. "It's all in here," I said, tapping the side of my head."

***

The man called Honos sat upright, reeling from the visual spell, and caught himself on the bedpost. "Shit."

Did the woman do anything right?

***

There was... nothing. Nothing of value, that is. Reports of Harry's success in battle and personal accounts of people present on the battlefield aplenty. But, nothing on good ol' Ron. it was as if no one had even seen beyond their own bubble and Harry Potter, their saviour and messiah. It was as if his best friend had never existed. I was here on the night of the Legendary Last Battle. I threw this spell and that and then saw with mine own eyes the one with the scar, Harry Potter - as if they didn't already know who he was by now - defeat Lord V - well, the Dark Lord for the Last. Time. I drank myself to the ground and lived to tell this blah blathery blah tale. End of Story. Thanks be to you. goodbye. And thanks for the Ten Knuts. I'll spend them on my next drinking binge.

Harry was beginning to think that coming to the Elaine Ved Libraryes had been a mistake. Sentence after sentence after word began to look the same to him. bits and pieces kept echoing in his mind. The Dark Lord stood tall... inhuman eyes staring back at Harry Potter... shrouded... The spells met... battled... Harry Potter... vindictive... won.

Harry blinked. Jesus, he didn't need rehashing; he needed answers.

"Hey," Ginny suddenly breathed, jarring him from yet another unofficial Harry Potter biography. At least that last one had been well penned. "That's it." She lifted her eyes, and they glowed within. "This talks about Ron."

Tripping over his own feet, Harry managed to join her on the other side of the table. "Where?"

She smiled and gave him a leering grin. "You know, you're the teacher; you should be the one finding this stuff and being all higher-than-thou about it. As well as being a pain in my arse, which you are of course. So, you just need to work on -"

"Spare me the bullshit," Harry growled, though he couldn't help but appreciate her spunk. "Where?"

For mere answer, she pointed. He read.

"Chapter Twenty, When Harry Potter "Lost": 1998 was the year that saw the end of Harry Potter's destiny as saviour against the Dark Lord. What, then, came next for the wizarding world's poster man? For nothing seemed to wait for him at the end of the line - had he even made plans to survive? Rumours circulate about the content of the lost prophecy which bound the Boy Who Lived to Lord Voldemort all those years ago: Was one destined to die at the hand of the other? And, if so, did Harry Potter believe he stood a chance at the time? Many seem to think he did not, for did he not disappear after the Last Battle?

"This kind of behaviour, says magipsychologist Gerard Butterworth, suggests a withdrawal. Did something affect Potter so that he could not live with constant reminders of what he had lost during the War? Butterworth suggests Potter's friend Ronald Weasley, who disappeared during the last moments at Spinner's End. No body was ever found, and Everhard Whitney, who fought in the battle and witnessed Weasley's disappearance, was as baffled as anyone was when Weasley disappeared out of nowhere. 'Snap! One second he was there, the next he weren't. And he weren't even hit or Disapparated away. I'd have recognised that, I would. There's no explanation for it. But it were mighty weirder with all the chaos around us.' Weasley, Butterworth explains, could have been the trigger for an emotional withdrawal that Potter..."

Harry trailed off and cleared his throat loudly, breaking the spell of awkwardness that clasped him. "Right. Well. No great help, but it does support what we were thinking. He didn't Disapparate - I remember Whitney, he's not a liar, and he knows his spells - and he wasn't hit."

Harry didn't realise he was raking his hair until Ginny's hands stilled his. He looked up and met her understanding gaze. "So what do we do now?" she asked.

He was sorely tempted to just close his arms around her until this was all over. Merlin knew the toll this was taking on her. But he sighed, and stood. "Let's go meet Whitney. Maybe he can shed some light on this all."

***

Something had been bugging me since meeting Buchanan. No, actually, it had started bugging me when he'd insisted on being with me when I studied the books with Clarke. He'd been nice enough - relatively - until I'd admitted to collecting the evidence in his place; then, all hell had broken loose. Granted, a mere lawyer didn't usually do an Auror's dirty work, but I hadn't seen anything wrong in helping his investigation along - hell, I hadn't touched anything. A little gratefulness had never hurt anyone.

And it wasn't like he'd had to be there when Clarke and I had discussed the books. I was a professional, for God's sake, not a clueless ten year-old twit. But I'd chalked it down to the famed Aurors' Paranoia.

It still bugged me, though.

I'd written down, word for word and from memory, what had been written on the manuscript for Clarke and myself, and then set off toward the Aurors' Department. The good thing about it was that we were on the same floor. The bad thing was that the lone receptionist was swamped. I didn't mind.

When I entered, she looked at me wild-eyed, as though afraid I'd ask her to triple speed. "Just a moment -" She grabbed a handful of memos whizzing round her head, read them, Duplicated them, and sent the originals by owl toward, I suspected, Aurors working undercover on the field. Then she filed the copies, and turned to me. "Good afternoon. How may I help you?" she asked with a strained smile, trying not to notice the multiple memos being constantly added to those already flitting by.

"I'm looking for Auror Kyle Buchanan. Is he busy?"

She blinked a moment. "Buchanan?" We haven't had a Buchanan since I was here. Let me check if he might be on our field list..." She rolled toward a cubicle shelf behind her and then shrugged as she scanned the names. "No, I'm sorry. He might have worked with us before, though. Your best bet would be to verify with Employment downstairs. Is he a friend of yours?"

I gritted my teeth. "Something like that." What a lying SOB. "Thanks anyway, I appreciate."

As soon as my back was turned, I heard memos being snatched once more from the air.

Next stop: Ministry Employment, Level One. They'd know if Buchanan was truly the cockroach that he was.

"Buchanan, hmm, Buchanan..." the clerk, a wiry bespectacled man, said, sifting through his records when I asked. "2006. This should hold the list of all employees working for the Ministry this year. By alphabetical order, please," he told the thick black binder. "B, B, B... ah, Bailey... Berstone... Bolton... Buchanan." He paused. "You said Kyle, right?"

"Yes," I replied, trying to see over the counter.

He frowned, then looked up, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "No Kyle Buchanan at all, but a Kelly Buchanan up in Magical Transportation...?"

"No..." A thought occured. "Can you maybe look through previous years?"

"Sure." He smirked. "Long-lost sweetheart, eh?" he asked off-handedly.

What was up with that? "Not really. Please..." I motioned to the shelfful of records.

"Yes, of course." He scrambled after them, returning with a pile.

Minutes later, they found him. Or one Kyle Buchanan, in any case.

"He lived in Glasgow five years ago. Worked for, ah yes, the Auror Department. It says here he..." He stopped and read silently, then looked up with a sober expression. "Er, he was working undercover on a secret operation, and one day he disappeared. They never found the body. I'm sorry. Were you close?"

"Disappeared?" I exclaimed. "I saw him."

A pitying expression came over the clerk. "Ma'am, would you like me to -"

"Thank you."

I returned to my office, and thought for the longest time. Dammit, this day went from bad to worse. And I needed some sleep. When it was all I could do not to dig a hole through my head, I went out to breathe. Walking outside usually cleared my brain. This time, despite all the walking I did, I couldn't help but feel like something cold and huge was closing over me.

Danger. I couldn't explain it, but female intuition wasn't something to simply ignore.

***

I had to talk to him.

He'd better have a damned good reason for having lied about being an Auror.

Unfortunately, now that he didn't work for the Ministry, I had no idea where to find him. Great. Wherever he was, he was probably laughing his arse off about fooling a female lawyer, praising himself like the sexist bastard he was. I'd been so stupid to intrinsicly trust him.

So where was he, now? Still in London? Probably not. But something nagged at me again: If he wasn't an Auror, then what were his motives for wanting those books?

That clamp went nuts again, and I sat down on a nearby park bench.

Shit. That was it. Something about the books had interested him, but what? I scrounged through my memories, trying to remember, and coming up empty handed. He'd seemed... bored, superior, even, about the whole ordeal.

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. "Seemed" was keyword, here. I ran through my memory tapes again. What had stood out? When had his demeanor changed? A slight movement, not enough to give him away at once, but maybe... something.

And I opened my eyes, suddenly seeing clearly. When I'd been admiring the manuscript, the prophecy, he'd cleared his throat, eager to get things rolling! When Clarke had been telling us - me, really - the story, I'd felt his eyes still on us. He'd been eager to know who or what the prophecy referred to! And then, before he'd left, he'd banged his fist on the table and been eager to leave with the book!

Merlin, Circe and Amergin, we were in deep shit. I was in deep shit. I should have been able to tell something was off with this man - that's what we lawyers did all day. But, really, had I imagined that I was being played? Not a moment. I was ready to bet on that. He'd played his Auror part to the tee - because he'd been one before.

So the prophecy was interesting to him... Now, the question was: Could he read Gaelic?

I sincerely hoped not. But someone - two someones - could: Myself, and Mr Clarke.

He hadn't come to me. He likely wouldn't, under any circumstances. I might be a woman, but I was a lawyer. He wouldn't take the chance.

***

He was there. I wasn't surprised.

"Miss Granger! We were just talking about you," Mr Clarke greeted me with a warm smile; Buchanan, with a cool glare.

"Really..." I said speculatively, advancing into what had previously been something of a warzone the last time I'd been there. It had since been cleaned up somewhat. The coal dust that had covered the floor was not mostly gone, save for a small perimetre around the point of source. "Who cleaned up?" I asked absently.

Clarke's smile staggered, but remained. He was trying very hard not to notice where they were. "Some Aurors came in earlier, I was told, while we were all talking. Auror Buchanan here tells me they're moving along quickly through the investigation. Hopefully this will all be over soon."

I turned to Auror Buchanan, all teeth out. "Auror? I paid a visit to the department a little while ago. They said you were gone," I said meaningfully, sweetly. "Do you care to explain?"

Clarke's eyebrows bunched up. "I don't understand. He was with m-"

Buchanan held up a hand, effectively cutting him off, then glared my way. "Let's have this conversation in private, Miss Granger."

I almost snorted derisively. Barely held it in check. "Of course." I led the way past the glass windows and through a narrow corridor, then whirled, waiting.

"Temper unbecomes you, my dear," Buchanan said smoothly, a wolfish grin stretching his lips.

I visibly bristled. "Answer the damn question, Buchanan."

He shrugged casually. "Very well. I was an Auror, once, then left the force. End of story."

Oh, I wouldn't let him off so easily. "Who are you working for now?"

"Does it matter?"

Ya think? "Oh, yes."

He paused. "I'm with a new agency."

I crossed my arms. "Humour me, Agent Buchanan."

He hesitated, met me head-on. "Syn Wyngyn," he said slowly.

I felt like someone had head-butted me.

Buchanan leaned lazily against the wall, studying his nails in a disaffected manner. "I don't know what's in the book," he continued, carefully studying me, "and I really don't care, but I've been told to find it and so I have."

"Why did you tell me you worked for the Arson division?"

His smirk was all toothy, but far from friendly. "So I wouldn't get the twenty questions like I'm getting now. Besides, I was with Arson before. I'm good with fire. Except Syn Wyngyn has me, now. Tough luck."

It still didn't sit well with me. Something told me I was right. "Why should I believe you? Again."

The challenge was clear in his eyes. "Or you can believe me and get out of my fucking face." With that, he shouldered his way past me, leaving me with two options. Sometimes the hardest choices were of the true-or-false variety. Or life-or-death. I had a shivering doubt that maybe I was treading delicate ground, here.

I glanced at my watch, and heard my stomach groan. I was done here. It had been a long day.

***

Everhard Whitney didn't shed light. At least, not verbally.

The heavyset bearded man had been in the middle of enjoying an afternoon game of Quidditch on the Wireless when they rang his front door. He'd greeted them fairly happily, shoving empty beer cans off the tea table so they could have a spot of tea. They declined politely.

"We were hoping we could ask you a few questions regarding the Last Battle," Ginny offered next to Harry, sitting on the edge of the couch - there were crumbs where she would have normally sat.

Whitney cast a suspicious eye at her. "You a reporter?"

"No," Harry answered, "she's with me."

Ginny tried not to acknowledge the tingles running down her spine as he said this. "My name's Ginny. Ginny Weasley."

It was obvious he had an inkling who she was, for his eyes flickered. "Weasley... You're the youngest? Short tiny little thing with a mean wand?" He studied her thoroughly, not waiting for an answer. She was speechless anyway after such a blunt approach. "Yeah, that'll be you," he concluded with a satisfied nod.

Never underestimate the power of memory, Ginny found herself thinking. Even with alcohol thrown in the mix.

Harry suppressed a smile with difficulty, then straightened. "Whitney. Look, we're here about Ron Weasley, Ginny's brother. Is it okay if we ask some questions? It looks like you're the last one who saw him."

Whitney's obliging smile waned. "Lot of people that night, Potter. The place was swarming with cockroaches. What I saw - I can't be certain about anything."

"You gave that interview," Ginny pointed out.

He grimaced. "Press distorts everything. I said I thought I saw him go out like a candle. Don't mean anything in court." He threw up his hands. "I was battling three Death Eaters, for God's sake."

Harry nodded. That was something he understood all right. One Voldemort had more than equaled a share of his minions. "No one's questioning your part that night. You did great."

Whitney's cheeks reddened at being hailed by Harry Potter. "Thanks."

"It'd be nice, though," Harry continued thoughtfully, "if we could examine your memory. Would you mind?"

Whitney shrugged. "No problem, Boss."

Harry reddened himself, ever the humble man. "Hey, none of that anymore, yeah?"

"Sorry." Whitney's shaved head dipped, shiny and flushed.

Throwing a little grin at Harry - yet another fan - Ginny then sobered. "Do you have a Pensieve nearby?" They should have thought about that, she thought with a little inward kick.

"Um, yeah. I'll be a second." He dragged his portly frame around the flat, then reappeared a moment later with a portable Pensieve. "Sometimes I just want to forget, you know?"

Harry knew. He'd considered just trashing the damn memories shortly after the Last Battle, only to realise that most of them had had some good in them: Cold, rainy, scary day awaiting the enemy, not knowing when or if they'd strike today - his friends had been there through it all.

Ginny knew. Broken family, broken heart, broken tears. Because of different people, she'd wanted to forget who she was, even. Stop the pain. Become invisible. Bring back the dead. But she'd held on for dear life, always knowing that she would come around. She had. She thought.

"There it is." Whitney was holding out a phial.

"Let's do it," Harry said.

They did it, holding hands and tumbling together through the memory.

At first, they heard and saw nothing but mayhem under a starry sky. Then, they saw him, a Whitney with pale hair and rough whiskers, shooting spells at one, two, three darkly robed figures that weren't close to letting up.

"There," a present-day Ginny pointed, and Harry turned. Sure enough, he saw himself, a younger, less jaded version of himself who looked on the world so idealistically. An innocent, fresh-faced young man who'd been thrown into the mix from day one. The Boy Who Lived.

Next to him but a few steps off, Ron fought like a tiger, deflecting just as much as he flung back. Looking on now, Harry felt pride tightening his heart. Then he heard Ginny's soft sniff, and instinctively turned to collect her in his arms. He couldn't help it. Just held her until her tears subsided. When she lifted a hand to swipe at her eyes, he held her loosely, and both of them watched the scene unfold before their eyes: Ron was hit, fell hard, losing his grip on his wand, and...

Disappeared.

***

"What was that all about?" Ginny asked, holding her voice in check as they appeared in the entrance of Syn Wyngyn. Ron's disappearing act had broken her all over again, but she held on. Harry wished he were that strong the first time, even.

"Dunno," he replied quietly, then raised his voice as he spotted someone beyond Ginny. "Hey Hopkins."

Tom, in a gloomy mood it seemed as he walked with a reluctant gait next to his "ugly" partner, glanced over and grinned, the change in his face spectacular. "Oi there, you're both off-duty tonight, what are you doing here? Not that I mind," he finished with a wink Ginny's way. "Weasley, always looking mighty fine."

She arched an otherwise unimpressed eyebrow. "Thanks..." Then she turned to Miranda Anto, the tall brunette at his side, with a warmer smile. "How's the ankle?"

Miranda rolled her brown eyes. "It was such a stupid misstep, too." She glanced down wryly at her left boot. "Feels better now, though. Thanks."

"Anyway," Tom cut in forcefully. Obviously he disliked Miranda for all his ill treatments. Ginny had never understood the guy, but Harry seemed to like him so she stuck on. Miranda was nice enough, the only positive about Hopkins in any case, but wasn't exactly a bombshell, and that was exactly what he constantly bemoaned. Serves you right, she thought contentedly, then glanced contritely at Miranda. Sorry hon. They often ran the mill together, or spotted one another at the weight machines. If anything, Miranda was perhaps the closest to a friend she had at Syn Wyngyn. My life is sad, she concluded.

"So what are you up to?" Tom continued, looking, Ginny realised, straight at her. She wanted to groan aloud, stomp her foot and tell him to thump tail elsewhere. When would he get the message?

Harry answered for her, evasively. "Oh, you know, training..."

Tom grunted grimly in reply. "That's tomorrow," he sounded resigned, looking at Miranda like she was the rat and he didn't want the plague. "You've some place to be? I'm ravenous." This he directed at Harry, evidently counting on the fact that two men surely equaled steak for dinner.

"Actually," Harry started hesitantly, cutting a glance her way, "we've some work to go over -"

To hell with it. They'd been over it all day. They deserved a break. "Dinner wouldn't hurt," Ginny proposed. "I'm wiped, myself." Then, because she didn't feel like eating dinner alone, and she definetely didn't feel like waiting for her food at a cheap restaurant, she blurted out, "Hey, why don't you all come over? I can whip something up quick."

Tom's eyebrows shot up suggestively. "Keep talking dirty, sweetheart. I like that pottymouth of yours."

Harry coughed, thumped the back of Tom's head. "Dude, shut up. Really." Then, to Ginny, "Yeah, sure, sounds good. Then we can talk about that thing," he said with emphasis on the last word.

Lowering her brows, meaning anything really, Ginny replied, "Yes, that thing..."

Miranda arched a sceptical brow. Obviously, gossip ran rampant in the building. Ginny wanted to laugh aloud. She and Harry? Quickly, she sobered at the thought. Ah, yes, she and Harry...

***

Dinner at the Weasleys' had always been fantastic. Bit peaky? You deserved enough food for an army. Having been raised with the best around him, and yet not "deserving" all that opulence, had made the experience at Molly's a feast for the senses. Ginny had evidently learned from the best, he learned later. On their way over to her flat, they'd stopped at the local grocery store while she bought the necessary for whatever she'd planned off the blue. Of the four of them, Harry had seemed the less outlandish. Of course, they'd all, at one point or another in their lives, been among muggles, and taken Muggle Integration and Association classes at Syn Wyngyn, besides. Yet, they were all curious and excitable, trying to see how the refrigerators worked, and how the cooked chickens stayed hot all day. Thankfully, Harry didn't have to confiscate any wands, but they attracted unnecessary attention anyway with their antics.

When they finally faced the cashier, Harry butted in before Ginny could start counting her muggle money which, he'd seen when she'd pulled out her wallet, was mixed with wizards' money. "Here," he handed the girl his credit card, earning him a wistful half smile. Wish I had a man to take care of me like that, he clearly read on her face. Okay, so maybe he was being nice and gallant after all.

Tom rolled his eyes goodnaturedly as he signed the cashier's copy, then shoved the receipt in his pocket and grabbed the plastic bags in one fluid motion.

In the end, he was happy to have been gallant and would have done so again in a heartbeat. Shrimp béchamel on crispy nests. He loved shrimp béchamel with a passion. The sauce was thick, the shrimps slightly crispy, the nests full of melted goat cheese and brocoli. He was in heaven.

"I reiterate," Harry said between long, savoury bites, "you should have been a chef. You and your mum both."

"Béchamel's not that hard," Ginny replied humbly, her ears turning pink to match her rosy cheeks. "You stir, it's ready. Voilà."

Miranda groaned both in pleasure and in annoyance. "Easy for you to say. Mine turns liquid every time. I even burned my soup once. It's like a curse. I'm a menace in the kitchen."

Tom broke out in a fit of chuckles. "You burned your soup? Holy hell, you are bad."

She eyed him back crossly. "I make a mean milkshake, though."

Ginny nodded. "I second that. Kiwi and strawberry, be still my craving heart." Fanning herself with her spoon, she grinned deviously. "Beat that, Hopkins."

"Uh," he floundered, "steak?"

The girls rolled their eyes. "All right, I'll give you that. A lot of men burn their meat," Ginny conceded. Then she turned. "Harry?"

Harry, who'd been silent until then, smirked. "Pastries. The Dursleys at least liked that about me. Think danishes, croissants, cakes, the likes."

Mouths agape, the girls just stared. Then Miranda groaned. "Okay, you definetely win. Nothing beats a man who can bake and doesn't screw up. Oh Circe, I think I'm in love with you." The announcement was so surprising that everyone burst out laughing.

"You disgust me, Potter," was Tom's guffawed reply. Harry flashed him a perfect set of teeth. Just then, his mobile went off. Fishing it out, he looked at the caller ID and stood up. "Sorry, I've to answer this." With another quick slurp of - yum - béchamel sauce, he was off to the next room.

Ginny watched him go even as Miranda started on her favourite cakes.

***

"Hey, how are you?" Harry asked, knowing Hermione was just checking up on him. She often called him after work to see if he'd be home when she got there.

"I'm all right, it's been a busy day, to say the least. I just wanted to know when you'll be home. I can never remember your schedule," she said between two yawns.

He laughed. Schedule? What schedule? As far as he was concerned, he was around the clock even when he slept. He could be called in any time of the night or day. As for school, well, that was fairly regular. "I don't have a schedule, Hermione. And, er," he passed a hand over his face, "I dunno when I'll be home. I'm having dinner and then Ginny and I have to work on a search case."

"Oh, well, sounds fascinating," was her unfascinated response. "I won't wait up, then. Have fun and... say hi to Ginny," she suddenly blurted.

He smiled indulgently at her effort. "Will do." He paused. "Listen, you didn't s-"

"No, Harry," she answered quickly. "Good night."

"Night." Frowning, he disconnected and stared at the phone. Where are you, Ron?

***

It had been a long day. By the time I got home, I was nearly boneless and wanted to curl up and let sleep claim me. God knew I was that tired. It was a miracle I'd even Apparated safely. I didn't know if sleepiness somehow screwed with Harry's wards, so I'd Apparated just outside his fixed perimetre.

The lights were out in the house.

I hadn't done that, had I?

Shrugging, I discreetly took out my wand and unlocked the door - another completely-paranoid-Harry mechanism that recognised our wands when inserted in the hole of the lock. From afar, I looked like anyone unlocking my door. The trick was to Reduce your wand, and ta-dah! Open sesame!

I let myself in, feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the darkness - I hadn't turned off the lights - and shrugged out of my tailored jacket. There had to be an explanation. Maybe Harry had come back some time during the day for a quick lunch? Maybe he'd forgotten a change of clothes after a spot at the gym? Had he gone to the gym? Harry's days were so unpredictable that sometimes I couldn't help but feel a little disoriented myself. If he liked his life that way, well then, by God, I couldn't understand him.

Have you ever?

No, I couldn't say I ever had.

"Hermione."

Shrieking, I missed the peg, but glanced into the living room and expected him.

"Sorry." He sounded rueful, but she appreciated the warm tone of his voice. "I didn't want to surprise you like last time." A hint of a smile played with the shadows. His hood was up, but concealed nothing of his face to her.

Placing a hand over my still-beating-too-fast heart, I shook my head in bewilderment. "What are you doing here?"

All amusement died from his face, all hardness in place for something she wasn't looking forward to. "I told you not to get involved," he growled accusingly. "Save Clarke's arse in court if need be, yes, but leave the damn details to me!"

I laughed, a harsh, snorting one. "You didn't tell me anything, Ron. How was I supposed to know your mind?" Then, suddenly, something clicked in what he'd said. "You sent Clarke to me, didn't you?"

He seemed hesitant a moment, then ran his hand over his face. "Yeah. Shite."

Standing so far away, I had no idea what was playing over his features. "What?" I stepped closer, squinting in the darkness to see him. I felt like the mouse that tries to scurry in front of the cat for the cheese. "What's going on?" Gosh, I was tired of asking this one. I would officially remove it from my vocabulary once this - whatever this was - was over.

His voice was grim when he answered with another question of his own. "Do you happen to know what the book Mysterious Magical Orders is?"

"Yes..." What the hell did that have to do with anything?

He came out of the shadows then, closer, until his face, with all its brutal hardness, was right in mine. "Where is it?"

I'd never heard him take that tone before. It was so surprising, so frightening, that shudders shook me as I replied, "C - Clarke had it when the f -"

"Yes, I know," he interrupted with a faint grimace. "Where is it now?"

As he closed his hand over my wrist, I watched, as though from above. Intent and tension stretched his face and all of his body taut. He wanted that answer, wanted it so bad, like... Something depended on that lore book. What? What was it?

"Syn Wyngyn," I answered as calmly as I could.

He released me, swearing. "Fuck, you told Harry?"

"No!" I replied against what I knew would be a verbal onslaught. "No, I didn't, except Auror Buchanan - only he's not an Auror at all, he says he works on Syn Wyngyn time - came to Clarke's office when I was there picking up evidence."

Facing away, he snorted derisively. "Leave that to the real Aurors, they wouldn't know what to look for anyway." With a deep breath, he turned back around, gentler as he addressed me again. "I told you not to get involved, Hermione. It's too dangerous."

"What am I involved in, anyway? Now that I'm knee-deep in it?"

Ron grimaced, rubbing his face wearily. "I'm not going there."

Throwing up my hands in a helpless gesture, I huffed. "I'm not a little girl, Ron, not after the war. Let me in. I've tough skin."

He gazed at me for a long, pregnant moment during which I hoped, wished I could understand what Ron feared. Because, I felt it, something stopped him.

"I can't."

"Or won't."

"Can't."

"Why?"

"I swore."

That made me grin. "Then swear some more. Breaking the rules will come more easily," I said, stepping closer into his comfort zone. His hands fell tomy hips almost as an afterthought.

"Hermione..." He sighed, closing his eyes. There was a long moment of silence, then he sighed, as though finally giving in. I should have been more prepared for less. "What do you know of the Legend of the Guardian?"

"I know it's a prophecy regarding Odin or his troops, and that the original record of the prophecy was smashed, probably to keep their secrecy." I paused. "How am I doing?"

"You're - great." He sounded astonished that I would know so much, and with reason: Most people never learned of the Guardian Brotherhood itself. I was lucky I'd even learned it from Mr Clarke. Shaking his head in dismay, Ron was muttering beneath his breath. "Damn, this is all wrong." Then, focusing back on me, he continued, "Do you know where this Syn Wyngyn is? I need to get the parchment back."

"Are you kidding? Harry won't tell me. I don't think he even knows where he goes himself. The place is probably Unplottable, Untraceable, and Scrambled. Welcome to the new millenium," I finished sarcastically.

Apparently in deep thought, stroking his whiskered chin, Ron was muttering once again. I only caught the end of it. "That's why I can't find it." Then he jostled back to the present, and replied to my comment, grimly. "Oh, I know all about that, don't worry. Half the time I don't even know where I am."

I couldn't help it. "Where are you?"

I read exasperation on his face. Smart arse. "With you," he replied nonetheless, matter-of-factly.

"Oh, thanks," I replied, "and I'm stupid."

He offered me a quick, self-satisfied smirk. "You know I can't tell you."

Merry-go-round. "Then tell me something: Since you sent him to me, did you save Bert Clarke from the fire as well?"

Ron's eyes grew wide, shifty. "What? No."

Arching an expressionless eyebrow, I jabbed him hard in the chest. "Liar. You're talking to a lawyer, remember." I was going to go into a long-winded argument about how lying didn't get past me - more notably, his lying - when I stopped myself, eyes widening to the size of saucers. "Oh Merlin, you did. That - that spot was full of concentrated magical residue -"

"What?" Ron was slowly backing away.

"I feel magic, remember? You used to say it'd be our saving grace." I stared into his eyes, deep wary blue pools. "It was just like before you cast the Triquetra! And before you Disapparated from my booby-trapped house." I stared, hard. "Ron, tell me what's going on - what are you - or help me God I'll go nuts."

He touched my elbow. "Hon, I -"

Jerking away, I yelled in his face. "God damn you!"

"Easy..." Soothingly, Ron started rubbing my arms, and I went limp from exertion. Would this day never end? I was ready for a break. "Okay, look," he continued, "it will all make sense if I can find the parchment."

Quietly, I added my two Knuts. "I doubt Buchanan speaks Gaelic, let alone reads it. Hardly anyone does anymore."

"Yeah?" Ron asked, stilling, and I looked up to see steely eyes staring back at me. "Humour me."

I thought about the possibilities. Buchanan had lived in Glasgow, Scotland, according to his file at the Ministry. Hadn't there been an educational reform? Didn't all schoolchildren learn Gaelic in school nowadays? Had it been implemented in Buchanan's time? Had he gone to a muggle school before, I supposed, Hogwarts? Or did he have family living further north in the isles where Gaelic was still largely spoken? "Oh, shit," I quickly summed up, seeing where logic led. There was just no way of knowing if he did speak it. And if he did, then... What?

"Yeah. Where's Harry?"

"With Ginny," I answered offhandedly, then saw his eyes stir speculatively. "They're partners at Syn Wyngyn," I clarified. "He's her student teacher, or something. Like a tutor."

"And..." he deadpanned, obviously seeing adultery where I did not. And besides, Harry and I... well, we were engaged, but it wasn't exactly chocolate and roses love.

"It's nothing like that," I defended once more. "Harry said they're having dinner with some friends and then they have to work on a search case."

A grin split his face, making him look... younger. Goodness, how I missed his cockiness. "I'm great at that. Found you, didn't I?"

Rolling my eyes at him, I headed toward the kitchen for a semblance of supper - salad? "Yeah, be a macho now. I'll be right over - wait." Pausing in my steps, my eyes closed in on my jacket on its peg in the entrance.

"What?" Ron was looking around, alert, searching for danger.

There, in my pocket, was the prophecy I'd scribbled on a sheet of paper. Striding toward it, I yanked it out, and strode back toward the dark-robed man in my living room. "Here, take this," I said, handing it to him.

"What is this?" he demanded even as he took it. Warm, long fingers brushed over mine. Wariness played in his eyes as he beheld the piece of scrap paper in my hands, oblivious to my shiver.

I left my hand there, useless, if only to feel a hot tingle course down my spine in spurts. "The prophecy," I whispered.

He took it gingerly, holding it at reading distance. His eyes met mine, astonished. "How did you...?"

I shrugged, hugging myself against a cold draft. I felt suddenly bereft without his fingers grazing mine. "Hey, memory is my forte."

He stared unblinkingly for a long moment, then glanced down at the paper, and swore. "Shite, you're not supposed to have this."

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

Go-round... "Or what, Ron? You'll die a horrid death? Well, guess what? I've been there, done that, mourned you and all, and still you're here, flesh and blood, and dammit. I want you to tell me now. What happened to you that night?"

Some time during my tirade I'd advanced toward him until we were nearly nose to nose. I hurt all over again, I was annoyed with his game of hide-and-seek information, and most of all I hungered for him. I yearned to pull back that hood and sink my fingers in his hair, and I was only now beginning to realise that I wanted to cry out in frustration, for nothing seemed to go right. I wasn't supposed to mourn him anymore, and yet on a basic level I mourned that we could never be the same as we'd been before; Ron wasn't supposed to be such a confusing puzzle; and I wasn't supposed to love him anymore. Harry and I...

Ah, you and Harry. Now what's to be so concerned about?

Because he was there for me.

Tears of frustration welled up in my eyes. It was Ron I'd wanted to comfort me. Ron I wanted to be there for me. Ron I'd envisioned a whole future with. I'd been an idealist, a romantic; when Ron "died" that night, I'd needed someone to convince me to go on. Harry hadn't been there at first, he'd had to heal by himself, but then he'd come back. I'd acted strong for his benefit, but we both knew that was all it had been: An act.

Ron seemed to sense everything at that moment. He hovered over me, nostrils flaring with suppressed emotion, and yet he stared dully at the paper now in his hand. And gave in, finally. "This did. The Brotherhood."