Harry Potter and the Birth of a New Sun

Harry Potter and the Birth of a New Sun

Chapter 37 - Alliances

~~~***~~~

It was dark, too dark for normal eyes, but Dakhil Barghouti could see as clearly as if the sun were streaming through the dusty windows. It was the first month of the New Year, and he was not feeling very hopeful after observing the fighting that had just taken place in Hogsmeade. With Dumbledore gone, things were certainly going to change. Still, Remus held his own, a good thing, but the girl had nearly been lost. Holding a heavy burden, he sighed, thankful to be home. Outside, the snow was falling and a blustery wind shook the shingles of the roof, rattling the whole of his home. Dakhil sighed. "It makes sense... waiting for the weather to warm," he muttered to himself, wondering if Severus would have the necessary influence. "Our timing will need to be perfect."

Dropping his bound package with a heavy thud onto the couch, he stepped over to the hearth and lit the fire with a flick of his wand. There was a shudder of shock that rattled behind him. It was no shingle, but the cringing fear of a newborn vampire - newborn by Barghouti's standards. He turned to consider the blonde youth seated, or rather bound on the couch.

"You'll have to learn to control your fear of fire," he said impassively, now walking over to the stove to heat some soup. He despised using magic to prepare food, it never tasted right, and he wondered if Draco had yet been properly fed since his turning.

"I'm not afraid!" spat Draco, his voice cracking from the swelling in his neck caused by Dakhil's chokehold. "Release these bonds and I'll show you!"

Dakhil did not respond until the pot on the stove began to simmer. He added another sprig of rosemary and then walked to the fire, rubbing his hands. He reached over and grabbed the poker, adjusting the logs by hand and then, as if spearing a marshmallow, he skewered the log and pulled it out of the fire. There was no grunt of effort, no shaking of the old man's hand as he held the burning log aloft. Bringing the fiery branch toward Draco's face, the cottage began to fill with smoke. Draco tried to shrink away, but his bonds held him tight.

"I see fear in your eyes, boy," he said smoothly. He muttered a foreign phrase and the bonds fell away and vanished. Draco immediately scrambled back up and over the couch. Dakhil began to laugh and tossed the log back into the fire. With a wave of his wand, the smoke vanished.

"It is clear you understand some things, youngling. There are few ways you can die. Fire, of course, is one of them. It will scar you and pain you and, if left unchecked, consume you utterly. Still, it is a tool to be used like any other. It has its place in the world as do we."

"I'm not one of you!" snapped Draco defiantly, his eyes casting about fervently for some chance for escape. Again, Dakhil did not respond. Instead, he moved toward the stove and began to stir again.

"Still, I suspect you're hungry. It has been some time since you have... fed."

"I... I don't eat."

"Don't be ridiculous! Of course you eat." Dakhil pulled down two bowls from a shelf and set them at a small wooden dining table. "Come. Sit."

Draco, who had been sliding his way toward the front door, quickly turned and tried to pull it open, but the door held fast.

"Not a very gracious guest."

"If I had my wand, I'd--"

"You'd what!" growled Dakhil, and this time the house rumbled with the thunder in his voice. He pulled in a breath and slid a chair out from the table. "Sit." Draco, reluctantly, obliged.

"I told you, I can't."

Dakhil pulled the pot over and placed it in the centre of the table. "Tell me, boy, have you had no training at all? You were turned purposefully, were you not? Who was your mentor?" Draco simply looked away. "I see."

Lifting up a bowl, Dakhil ladled in a thick ruddy broth. "Taste this, and then tell me that you don't eat." Draco rolled his eyes. Dakhil handed him a spoon. "Go on. I know you're famished."

Draco rolled the spoon in his fingers. "This is stupid. I haven't eaten normal food since--"

"Taste!"

Draco stabbed at the broth and brought the empty, but coated spoon up to his mouth. "There! Are you..." The flavours began to wrap themselves about his tongue. He paused a moment and then he dipped the spoon into the broth and tasted it properly. His head snapped up to look into Dakhil's smiling eyes. "What is it?" asked Draco.

"You know what it is," replied Dakhil. "Well, perhaps you don't. It's pheasant, with a few spices and a dash of red wine."

"Pheasant?" asked Draco incredulously.

"There are many ways to consume blood. While fresh certainly has its own panache, one must learn to try more civilized approaches. If you behave as a proper guest and eat, I'm sure you'll find they both have the same end result - a satisfied belly."

Draco didn't ask another question. He began to spoon the broth in, then quickly held the bowl up to his mouth and drank it down. Dakhil allowed him to do this but once. When Draco asked for more he had to promise that he'd mind his manners. By the third bowl, a bit of colour entered Draco's cheeks and the pangs of hunger had been satiated. Once again his eyes darted about the small cottage, but this time they were more curious than fretful. There was something calming about the soup.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"This is my home," replied Dakhil, walking his empty bowl to the cupboard. He uttered an incantation and the bowl was cleansed. He placed it on its shelf. "Are you finished?"

Draco looked at his bowl and, for a moment, considered pulling it up to his lips to finish it off, but stayed his hands. "Erm..."

"Take your time. We're in no hurry here, I assure you."

There was something in his tone that was reassuring, soothing and, for the first time in a long time, Draco relaxed. He finished the bowl and had enough manners to clean it himself and place it back in the cupboard. Satiated and a bit drowsy he walked to the window and looked out. There was a thick layer of snow on the ground and he could just make out the lights of another cottage or two some fifty feet away.

"Are we in Scotland? I didn't know you lived in Britain," Draco said, watching the snow fall.

"I don't. We're in northern Slovakia." Draco spun.

"That's not possible!" he exclaimed. "We... you Apparated, pulling me along with you. No wizard could--"

"No. No wizard could," interrupted Dakhil. "But I... we are vampires, boy. Surely you know that..." Dakhil stopped himself. He conjured a cigar out of thin air, shaking his head. He was about to light it, but then offered it to Draco. "Do you smoke?" A thin smile crossed Draco's lips and he reached out and accepted the offer.

There was a pause and then Draco said, "Thank you."

"Well," said Dakhil, conjuring another cigar. "There you have it." He lit them both with a flash of fire from his wand and this time Draco did not flinch. "I knew there was something about you worth keeping alive." He sat at the couch and watched the fire, blowing thick rings of smoke in the air. Draco paced for a moment, puffing on his own cigar, but then finally sat down as well next to the fire.

There was a long period of silence and, if not for the cigar in his hand, Draco might have slipped off to sleep. He looked about the small cottage with its run down appearance and rickety furnishings.

"Surely," he began, "with the powers at your disposal, you could do better than this."

"I have what I need," answered Dakhil, still staring at the fire. "Would you prefer a house elf, rubbing your feet?"

"No," answered Draco. And, in fact, he felt more at home here than he did in his parent's mansion. He swallowed. His neck was still sore from where Dakhil had choked him not six hours before, but the tenderness about his larynx was fading. "You know, you needn't have choked me to death."

Dakhil vanished his cigar and turned to face Draco. "Tell me, boy. I know you would have killed the girl. What about the child?"

Draco let out a puff of smoke and then considered the cigar in his hand, hoping perhaps that it might lend him an answer to Dakhil's question. Finally he said impassively, "She killed my father."

"And you loved your father?"

"She had no right!"

"And you did."

"I... I wasn't me. I wanted..." Draco's fingers tightened about the cigar and it crumbled in his hand. "Yes! Alright? Are you happy? I would have drained them... drained them both!"

"Well," said Dakhil rising off the couch, "you don't want to feast on flesh that has been struck down by the killing curse. That, I can assure you." His face wrinkled and his tongue thrust out in a sign of distaste. "So... you are a murderer. I wonder what Potter sees in you."

"Potter can go to hell!" cried Draco, unexpectedly irritated.

"Yes. I've heard him say the same of you. Curious. Perhaps you'll both go together. One can always hope."

Draco wasn't sure if Dakhil was being serious or sarcastic.

"Still, there is some bond between you two."

"The only bond we have is a common hatred of Voldemort." At this Dakhil turned back toward Draco and moved in close so that their eyes met and they could smell the smoke on each other.

"Draco, your grief... your hatred... they cloud your vision and your choices. You know little of whom you are and perhaps less of who you were. There is time, however, if you wish to take it, to discover who you will be." Dakhil waved his wand and was suddenly wearing bedclothes. There was a click on the far wall. "The door is open. Leave and, I fear, you will be lost forever. Stay and I will help you find your way. The choice is yours." From his sleeve he pulled a wand, Draco's wand, and laid it on the dining table.

There was whirl and Dakhil vanished, sinking into the floor below. Draco watched him as he disappeared. He grabbed his wand and briskly walked to the door and opened it. The snow had stopped falling and he could now clearly see the cottages that lined the street. Blankets of white made the buildings look like candy cottages, or iced gingerbread houses. The air was silent and still. He reached down and scooped up a handful of ice, forming it into a ball in his hands. Dakhil was right, he was free to go, but where? He was about to step out, but then stopped.

He threw the snowball across the street, falling short of the nearest house, stepped inside and closed the door. Shivering slightly, he walked over and warmed his hands by the fire. He would sleep well tonight and leave the rest for tomorrow.

~~~***~~~

Gabriella, wearing the white cloak of Voldemort, smiled as Harry looked at her blankly. She expected surprise and was well rewarded. Things were going far better than she had hoped. She had known that he would strike at her - a vision that had haunted her since he first fell ill from Draco's venom. That he would travel to the mountains to retrieve the cloak, well, that had been only a guess, but one that she was trained to understand. She understood that the Horcrux now wrapped about her was a powerful tool and, ultimately, they all fell victim to the lure of power.

An hour ago, she had wished that she'd never fallen in love with the man now before her. At first she thought, perhaps, it was the winter's cold, turning her heart, but she knew better. He was being consumed by hatred and a vanity of strength, willing to sacrifice all simply to be right. He had begun to comprehend the power at his fingertips - the dragon stone, the heart of Asha, was an endless well of such power. It could amplify his skills as a healer, but it could also help him decimate a village. With the abilities of the dragons waiting for his call, no wizard would be able to stop him. None that is save one - Voldemort. It would be a clash of titans and, if it were to take place in a city, it could mean that thousands would die. If the battle were on the grounds of Hogwarts, every student would be at risk.

That, of course, was why she was here; she was of the House of Hayk. Mama had known of Gabriella's feelings the first day she had set eyes on him; perhaps she had seen more. Sooner than she would have liked, Mama gave Harry the stone and, love him or hate him, Gabriella was bound to stay close and watch the stone and the wizard that would wield it to the end of her days.

Now, however, with Harry holding her hand, her fears and regrets were ebbing away. He had pledged to set things straight and his eyes showed only truth and love. If he could master those emotions and truly tap the stone's strength, no one need be destroyed but the Dark Lord himself. One day, perhaps, Harry would know the true depth of the relief that was now spreading across her soul. It meant the dawn of a new era. Gabriella had doubted, but Mama had been right all along.

"You're wearing it?" asked Harry in disbelief. He was weak from having lost so much blood, and it appeared to Gabriella that, while his wounds had healed, his mind was still a bit shaky. Nonetheless, this news helped to steady his thoughts. "Why, in Merlin's name, are you wearing it?"

"There was a chance," she said silkily, "that you would try to hurt me. I didn't want to strike back and I knew the cloak would protect me from your spells."

"I would never hurt you!" Harry protested.

"You just tried to stun me!"

Harry was almost shocked at hearing the words. It was as if that... that was a different Harry. "And how did you know the cloak would protect you?" he asked.

"In the Chamber of Death at the Ministry last year, Harry. You may not remember, but the lot of us were firing spell after spell at Voldemort and all it did was slide him further toward you."

"But Voldemort's cloak is black. What have you done to it?"

"It was never black. Not really. What you see is the cloak's natural appearance. He must have turned it black once he realized what he'd done. I'm not sure why he made such a choice. Perhaps he didn't want Anaxarete to see any good in him. An interesting decision, don't you think, to cast this particular bit of his soul away - all that was ever pure in Voldemort's soul? It's all here Harry, what little there was. The fabric is imbued with the goodness of Tom Riddle. Hence, the cloak is brilliantly white, for it only takes a little goodness to light the world.

"Voldemort must have been furious," she continued. "He cast a dying charm over the fabric, a simple one at that. Mama's used one like it before to colour my robes. His second attempt, the black snitch, I'm sure was more to his liking."

Harry stepped over and held the fabric in his hand. "Are you sure it's safe?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered, taking him by the hand. "It will, I believe, protect the wearer from any sort of... spell." Her voice wavered and her eyes revealed a flash of fear. She tried to control it, but it slipped out anyway. Harry's eyebrows furled. He was trying to understand and she hoped, with all her might, he would fail, but the look of fear now filling his own eyes told her that he remembered.

"The cloak!" he cried. "The vision of your death... you were adorned in white robes. Harry's face became pale. "It was no spell, Gabriella. It was a Centaur's arrow! Take them off; take them off now!"

He began to tug at the cloak and Gabriella obliged. "Harry, you need to understand," she said, trying to calm his nerves. "Visions... they have different facets, different meanings. We don't know--"

"We don't need to find out either!" he snapped, rolling the cloak in a ball and glancing around, trying to decide what to do with it. Finally, his mind settled on something and he smiled. "We'll burn it!" he yelled and he began to jog unsteadily toward the entrance. "I'll bet it won't survive dragon fire!"

"Harry, wait!"

Gabriella chased after him, pleading with him to stop, but Harry wouldn't listen. He burst through the entrance of the caverns and out onto the open courtyard, the frozen wind howling on the mountain. A few paces back, Gabriella heard the incantation in Slovakian. Harry let out a short cry and, just as Gabriella came through the opening herself, she saw him fall stiff to the ground.

"Stop!" she cried. "Hold your spells!"

Surrounding the courtyard, knee deep in snow, were eight of the finest members of the Votary. Katana was among them. All of them had their wands at the ready and one had cast the spell immobilizing Harry. They had been instructed to stop him, no matter the cost, if he tried to escape with the robe. Gabriella, her heart pounding, was relieved they did no more harm.

After she had explained what had happened and they released Harry from the spell, he stood up, dusting the snow off his trousers. Still pale, he was hardly able to stand. Yet, even in this weakened state, a few of the Votary stepped back, fearing retribution. Katana held her ground. She smiled, stepping forward, and waved her hand; the snow vaporized in a puff of steam. Harry reached down to pick up the bundled cloak. It was as white as ever, untouched by the muddy earth. Before he could reach it, however, Katana snatched it up.

"So you wish this destroyed by dragon fire, Primate?" she asked rhetorically. "I will see to it personally." Harry could hear Katana call to Talisan with her mind. It was a simple call for aid that all members of the Votary were capable of, not the ability to share open discourse as Harry could do, bearing the Ring of Onyx. Gabriella could see that Harry was struggling with his thoughts. He would stay to see the deed done, if she let it happen. It would be best if he got off the mountain and Apparated back to Sirius's castle. There, Mama would heal him properly.

"Harry," she said, taking him by the arm and pulling his eyes away from the sky. "You really must go. Your acts of contrition are not yet complete. First, you must see Sirius at the castle to rebuild what you have sundered and heal the soil stained with Anthony's blood. Then, you must see Cho to tell her the truth. Forgiveness will be hers to give or to withhold. You mustn't wait any longer. The darkness already knows she and your child are at Hogwarts. If you stay, it will be weeks before you're strong enough to fight. Mama could help you before the sun sets."

Harry looked at Katana and the white cloak, now tucked tightly in her arm. He glanced to the sky and could see the dragon Talisan swirling in for a landing. Another member of the votary, Groslick, a Russian wizard with keen blue eyes and a sharp chin, handed him a broom.

"Katana says you are more at home in air than on ground," he said with a thick accent. "Good for one who dances with dragons."

"Thank you," said Harry and then his eyes turned toward Gabriella. "Swear to me that you'll have Talisan burn the cloak with all her power."

"I swear."

"And you won't follow me," added Harry. "Swear that. I won't have you killed before my eyes, trying to do something foolish to save me in the Forbidden Forest."

"Don't be silly," she said, trying to smile.

"Swear it!" He was undeterred, his face filled with concern, and it warmed her heart.

"I swear," she said softly. "I won't follow you." Then she stepped over to him and kissed his lips. "Be on your way. The world is waiting." With great effort, he pushed up from the ground, but, once the burden of gravity had been lifted, his spirits rose as well. He smiled and, in a flash, disappeared over the ridge of the mountains to the south just as Talisan landed on a great rock near the courtyard."

"You do not lie, Katana," said Groslick with a whistle. "He flies like the wind."

Katana turned to Gabriella. "With luck he will see your mother before nightfall, but even she cannot heal his heart in but a day."

"You're right, Katana," said Gabriella, taking the white cloak from her hand. "Nor will he be able to leave the castle until the walls are rebuilt. That too will take time." Gabriella walked over to Talisan. "Incendiamos!" she cried, holding the white cloak above her head.

The dragon roared and spouted a great stream of fire directly at Gabriella. The swirling heat filled the courtyard and most of the Votary had to shield their eyes from its brightness. In a flash it was over. Gabriella was untouched by the flame, but so too was the white cloak above her head.

"I didn't think it would work," she said, more to herself than anyone else. She lowered the brilliantly white cloak and then slipped it on once again. Katana stepped toward her.

"But, Gabriella, you swore that--"

"I swore that Talisan would burn the cloak with all her power. She has. It didn't work."

"And now?" asked Talisan. "You break your oath by following him to the forest?"

Gabriella laughed. "Don't be silly," she said with a sad smile. "I'll be to Hogwarts long before Harry ever arrives. That's not following; that's leading!" It would take Harry weeks, perhaps months to set things straight, but she now knew in her heart he would fulfil his pledge.

She whistled and Talisan dropped down, allowing Gabriella to climb upon her long neck. Soon she was high in the sky headed east toward Hogwarts and toward her destiny, however grim it might be. The wind was whipping at her eyes, but it was not the wind that caused the tears to fall down her cheeks. She was travelling toward her doom, but she had no choice. It was, after all, her duty.

~~~***~~~

The rushing wind, howling about the castle windows seemed more mournful than ever before. The stones themselves looked heavier than normal and the whole of Hogwarts drooped with a forlorn feeling that had not left since the death of Dumbledore some two months earlier. Even so, the coming spring would soon bring with it new life, new possibilities, new challenges. Professor Dumbledore had not been the first Headmaster to pass, nor would he be the last. The institution and its students would continue forward, learning, discovering, stepping out ever onward and with a purpose that was, now, perhaps more meaningful than could be imagined. All knew that the darkness was moving in on them - this epicentre of magic within Britain. Signs about the Isle were ominous. Worse were reports within the last week, signalling the coming of vampires, werewolves and other dark creatures all pressing in toward Hogwarts.

Not only were the signs about Britain foreboding; so too were the signs in the heavens above. The great comet Ebyrth was bright enough for everyone to see, Muggles and wizards alike, even in the daytime sky. Students in Astronomy had been given assignments to track its progress. All now knew that the flaming white comet had just past the orbit of Jupiter and appeared, for all the arithmetic celestial calculations, as if it were speeding along on a direct path toward the planet Mars. The comet's trajectory was known to be erratic and unpredictable, but the signs seemed certain. No one knew what might happen upon impact, not even Professor Sinistra. "It would be," she said, "a cataclysmic collision, but no more dramatic than the one unfolding before us."

Never before had the students of Professor Barghouti paid so close attention and never before had he been so straightforward with them, teaching the moves and spells, the curses and counter-curses that they would likely need in the coming onslaught. His teachings were not so much about the learning of new spells, but rather the application of old spells in new ways. It was, for many, very much as Harry had taught them in the Room of Requirement, a touchstone for the students that made them comfortable and Barghouti used it to full advantage. Even other professors visited his classes, hoping to find themselves better prepared to defend themselves against the coming darkness.

He had been, surprisingly, a steadying influence after Dumbledore's passing, but was rarely seen about the school at night. Once, in passing, he had mentioned tutoring a singular pupil. All had assumed it to be Harry, until word came that Harry had been severely injured by Malfoy, barely able to move and certainly unable to use a wand. The unknown apprentice was a mystery, a riddle to be sleuthed, but it was a mystery that Hermione Granger cared little of.

Instead the brightest of all Hogwarts students had, since Dumbledore's death, withdrawn from anything that might attract attention to her. She had even stopped raising her hand in class with the result that Gryffindor was in last place for the House Cup. She cared little of house points and found herself unable to find cheer in much of anything. She attended Gryffindor's victory over Ravenclaw, but read a book during the whole match, even though Ron had saved seven goals. When Dennis caught the Snitch and Gryffindor had won, Ron glanced her way from the rings. Because of the cheers, her eyes had lifted up and, for a moment, their eyes locked, but the moment was fleeting and when their eyes broke, both were saddened by the encounter.

She had not been able to speak with him since he had attacked her in Professor McGonagall's bedroom. Speak to him? She could barely look at him. She refused to stay in the same room with him, unless it was for class, and she never ate while he ate, often skipping a meal to avoid contact. Madame Pomfrey said that it was affecting her health, making her more irritable and anxious, nauseous and light-headed, but Hermione refused to change her patterns, and wouldn't speak to anybody about what had happened the night that they, in her opinion, all had died. In a very real way, all who entered McGonagall's room that night left behind a part of who they once were and none would be the same again.

Having skipped another meal because Ron had been discussing Quidditch at the Gryffindor table with Dennis Creevey, Hermione found herself alone in the library. There were a few places, among the stacks, where students rarely wandered and, here, she was afforded some modicum of peace. Her stomach grumbled and a sharp pang stabbed at her lower abdomen. Her mind fleeted downward and she placed her hand on her stomach, but in an instant she forced her thoughts onto other things. She unfurled a roll of parchment on ancient arithmancy and began to study the intricate combinations and symbols. The sums... the sums were simple, but the transduction to lower-level magical meanings... the irrational behaviour of a spell at its foundation... before parsing and motion... the arithmetic constructs... power in amplification... her stomach stabbed again... motion in seven... chant by eight...

A tear fell onto the parchment and Hermione cursed herself for feeling.

"Stop it," she said quietly, with a sniff. Wiping her face roughly, she shook her head and tried to focus. "Transduction of the lower primary--"

"Hi," whispered a kind voice. "I brought you something."

Hermione looked up to find Ginny Weasley standing above her, a sandwich in one hand. She set the sandwich down next to the parchment.

"And a bit of a drink." Ginny pulled a bottle of ginger-ale from her pocket and placed it next to the sandwich.

Hermione looked around. "Really, you shouldn't be bringing food into the library," she said softly. Ginny just rolled her eyes as Hermione knew she would. Ron's sister had been trying to speak with her for weeks, but Hermione had been doing a respectable job rebuffing her advances. But either Ginny was becoming more adept at finding ways to get Hermione to talk, or Hermione was finding the need to talk to someone so great... In either case, Hermione's will was weakening.

"Not to worry, Hermione," said Ginny with a sly smile. "Madam Pince is... preoccupied at the moment."

Hermione was about to say something, but stopped short. Instead, she simply nodded and wrapped her hand about the sandwich. "Thanks."

"Simple enough," said Ginny, and she took the opportunity to sit as Hermione began to eat. She glanced down at the parchment and let out a soft whistle. "Arithmetic Constructs - The Ancient Transduction of Power to Magic. Sounds complicated."

"It is," said Hermione, taking a sip of ginger-ale. "The New Age of Arithmancy is just so tediously simple; it hardly keeps my mind busy. If I only read that text I'd--" Hermione cut herself short and took another bite of her sandwich.

"You'd what?" asked Ginny. Hermione remained silent, continuing to chew her sandwich and stare a bit above and to the right of Ginny's left shoulder, off into nothingness. "Hermione, no one knows what happened in McGonagall's office. Ron won't say a word. All we know is that Dumbledore died and that Voldemort escaped by taking control of Snape. I... I don't understand. Why won't you see Ron? Why avoid us all? I only want to help. It's all any of us wants to do."

Holding the bottle of ginger-ale, Hermione's hand began to tremble. As she set it down, the table vibrated, creating an eerily muffled rattle within the high stacks of books. She pulled her hand away and crossed her arms. Her breathing quickened.

"Hermione?"

The colour was leaving her face and, from nowhere, Hermione conjured a bag. Holding it tight over her mouth, she wretched. It lasted only a moment. With a wave of her wand the bag disappeared and she took another sip of her ginger-ale. The motion was effortless; clearly not the first time this had happened. Hermione knew Ginny would notice and she began to collect her things.

"I... I really must be going. I..."

Ginny touched Hermione's arm. "Going where?" Hermione jerked away, fear filling her eyes. She stood and Ginny stood with her. "Hermione, maybe... maybe you've a hundred reasons to leave right now. I only have one reason for you to stay. I love you. You know that, don't you? We... we miss you."

A tear dripped down Hermione's eye and she turned to leave. Her heart was aching. She felt so isolated, so alone, but it wasn't possible. She couldn't. She took a step and stopped. She looked back to see Ginny, tears filling her eyes as well. There was hurt in those eyes, anguish for a friend in pain. Hermione's heart twisted and in that moment of hesitation Ginny reached out to hug her.

Hermione had not allowed anyone to so much as shake her hand since the night Dumbledore died. When a first year ran about a corner and nearly knocked into her in the corridor, she flung him up against the wall, sticking him there ten feet in the air and silencing his screams. As Ginny stepped forward, Hermione had the strongest urge to do the same, but resisted, allowing her friends arms to hold her. Through the tears, Hermione finally reached about Ginny and hugged her in return.

It was some time before they sat, holding each other's hands, sniffing. Ginny resisted the temptation to prod, but instead waited patiently.

"Strange," Hermione finally whispered.

"How's that?" asked Ginny softly.

"You're as dear to me as any sister could be. And yet... you nearly killed me."

Ginny's eyebrows furled. She didn't understand.

"Well, not you... the Basilisk," Hermione answered Ginny's expression. Ginny let out a short gasp, but said nothing more. "And not really you. It was Voldemort's fault, right?"

"Hermione, I--"

"I've faced him, you know? Not just Tonks dressed up to look the part, but the Dark Lord himself. I've heard his high, cold laugh. I even sent a curse his way, only to watch it bounce off him... about as effective as a ping-pong ball." Tightening her grip about Ginny's hand, Hermione's eyes grew distant. "I watched Voldemort die that night, melt to nothingness." She laughed, a short maniacal chuckle that bristled the hairs on the back of Ginny's neck.

"I was so quick to tell the others to forgive... to embrace James when he returned. And then... and then I left him alone. I knew better. It's my fault and I've paid dearly for my mistake. I knew..." She shuddered. "Pray you never have a wand pointed at your face, when the wizard holding it utters the Killing Curse."

"Snape? He didn't!" Ginny gasped. But the sad smile still remained on Hermione's lips.

"Only Avada-. Only. You've heard the talk in the halls. Everyone thinks Voldemort had possessed Snape all along. It wasn't Snape who... who attacked me. It was Ron. So, in a way... you've both tried to kill me, brother and sister, but you both came up just a teensy bit short."

Hermione expected Ginny to pull away. In fact, she hoped it. But her friend held fast, refusing to move. It was in that moment Hermione's defences fell completely and she began to sob uncontrollably. Finally, through the tears, she muttered, "Ron... stopped him. For a moment I saw his eyes return, but just as quickly they were gone, consumed by red, vicious..."

"Hermione, what happened?"

"Voldemort controlled him, but Ron wouldn't let him kill me. Be-Before Dumbledore arrived with Snape and Barghouti... he... he raped me." Her voice was cold and still, a billowing hatred burning fire beneath the ice. Ginny's eyes filled with horror. She had known the oppressing power that Voldemort had over her will. That he could force Ron to such savagery... yes, she could understand.

"Gin, I can't stand to look at him. The one person I love more than anyone in the world, I despise above all. I want to hold him in my arms... I want him dead."

Slowly, Hermione began to reign in her swinging emotions. The tears had passed and the walls with which she had shielded herself with these last few weeks began to grow once more. Pulling in a deep breath, she sniffed, quickly gathered her things and began to leave.

"Hermione!" pleaded Ginny, but Hermione continued to wind her way through the stacks.

"I can't forgive him Gin," she said over her shoulder. "I won't."

"But wasn't it you that told him what it would mean to all Hogwarts for him to forgive James?"

Still looking over her shoulder, she called back, "And what would happen if all Hogwarts discovered that it wasn't Snape that killed Dumbledore. It was Ron Weas--" She slammed into someone, spilling her papers out onto the floor. She turned to see Ron standing there, his face expressionless.

"I didn't kill Dumbledore," he said with a dead voice. "I killed me."

Looking briefly at Ron's face, she wanted to scream, but quickly pulled herself together and bent down to pick up the papers she'd dropped onto the floor. Ron bent down to help, but she snapped at the papers he was reaching for.

"Go... away," Hermione said stiffly, quietly, teetering upon the brink of an abyss she dared not look over. When she stood, papers in hand, she had no where to turn. Ron was in front, Ginny in back. She wanted to send a curse, she wanted to hear what he meant by killing himself. And then, she made a fateful mistake. She looked up and gazed into his eyes. It had been the first time she had truly looked into them since... since...

"I wish it had been me," he whispered. "I begged him let me go." His eyes were dead, lifeless. The depth of despair there was greater than Hermione could bear. "He said... he said that, if I died, you'd blame yourself. I... I told him it was bunk. I guess... I guess I was right. He died for nothing." Ron turned to leave, but then stopped and looked back at Hermione. "If I could leave Hogwarts right now, I would, but I made a promise, see? I made a promise to a man who gave his life for mine and I won't--" Ron's lip began to quiver; he shrugged and walked away. "I'm sorry."

Hermione watched as Ron disappeared behind one of the stacks, walking toward the exit of the library. She wasn't sure if it was Ginny, or something else, but she felt a slight shove push her forward, a tug pulling from her insides out. Perhaps it was a nymph of spring rekindling the fires of her heart. For whatever reason, she took a step... and then another.

"Ron," she whispered.

She began to run.

"Ron! Wait!"