Full Circle

Chapter Eleven

Everybody's rushing around
Trying to keep a hold on some peace of mind
All the time
And somebody's looking around
Trying to find something to believe in
To believe in

All the things they promised
You know they always lied
It's something
Something to believe in
You know it's something

I've been willing and strong all along
Through chilling times in a sea of heartbreak
Where you give and take
I won't give in to the promises
Until I find something to believe in

--Clannad, "Something to Believe In"

The Headmaster's office - or Headmistress's office, Harry corrected himself - looked much different than it did when Dumbledore was alive. The chair behind the desk was now covered in a deep green tartan, the papers on the desk were organised into piles that lined up precisely parallel to the edges of the desk (one pile was topped with a tartan-patterned biscuit tin), and a tiny set of bagpipes played softly in the corner all by themselves. But some things were still very much the same. One high shelf housed the worn and battered Sorting Hat, while the other shelves were crammed with dusty books an assorted odd implements, and Fawkes rested on his perch by the massive oak desk. The portraits of former Headmasters and Headmistresses lined the walls, including a new addition - a portrait of Albus Dumbledore in deep purple robes hanging just beside the portrait of Phineas Nigellus. Harry stopped for a moment to admire the skill of the wizarding painter that had managed to capture every tiny detail of the man, down to the twinkle in Dumbledore's blue eyes, and he rested his fingers briefly on the frame in a gesture of greeting.

"You're a bit early, Potter," said Professor McGonagall, flicking her wand at the bagpipes. They made a horrid wheezing sound as if someone had punched them, and then fell silent. "Professor Snape is still occupied with his second years at the moment, but he'll be available shortly."

"Thanks for letting me use your Floo, Professor," Harry said, sitting down in one of the smaller tartan-covered chairs in front of the desk.

"That's no problem at all, Potter," she said briskly, conjuring up a tea service and offering him the biscuit tin. "Ginger Newt?"

Harry started to say no, but he remembered the last time she'd offered him a Ginger Newt and he'd tried to decline. "Sure, thanks," he said, taking a Newt from the tin and biting its head off.

"It wouldn't do at all for you to be seen visiting Professor Snape now that you are no longer a student," said McGonagall, pouring out the tea. "No one but staff has access to the school Floo system, however, and I am continually monitoring it for eavesdropping, so it is completely secure." She handed him a cup and looked at him thoughtfully. "Though, I suppose since you are no longer a student, it would be appropriate for you to call me Minerva, if you wish."

Harry blinked. "Er, well, it feels odd, so I'll just keep calling you Professor for now, if you don't mind?"

"As you wish," she said, not looking at all offended by Harry's continued use of her title. She took a sip of her tea and set the cup down on her desk. "I'm actually glad you're a little early, Potter. Returning the school to proper order has taken more time than I anticipated and I haven't been able to participate in certain activities as much as I would care to. I just wanted to say that -" She broke off abruptly, fiddling with the biscuit tin.

"Professor?" said Harry, scooting to the edge of his seat.

"I just wanted you to be aware that the decision to keep certain things from you these past several years was not necessarily agreed with by all parties involved," said McGonagall, with a quick but meaningful glance up at Dumbledore's portrait.

Dumbledore said nothing, but merely stroked his beard.

"Oh," said Harry. He was surprised at how much that simple statement meant to him; to know that perhaps everyone in the Order wasn't conspiring to hide things from him as much as he thought they were.

Suddenly businesslike again, McGonagall swept away the biscuit crumbs with a flick of her wand before glancing at the large ornamental clock above the mantel. "Professor Snape should be in his office now, Potter. Floo powder is beside the clock."

Harry swallowed the last of his Ginger Newt and reached across the desk to put his hand on top of McGonagall's older, thinner one. "Thanks, Professor," he said.

She patted his hand and began clearing away the tea things. "You'd best get moving. I don't think Professor Snape looks kindly on tardiness in former students any more than he does current ones."

Indeed he did not. When Harry slid through the Floo and landed in Snape's office, Snape raised an eyebrow at the clock on a far bookshelf. "You are thirty-four seconds late, Potter. I see my efforts did nothing to improve your punctuality."

"I didn't know that was the point," Harry said, dusting the soot off his robes.

"Have you been taking the potion I left for you?" Snape asked, walking around to the front of his desk and surveying Harry intently.

"Yes," said Harry.

"Any headaches, difficulty sleeping, trouble with your scar, or anything else that would indicate your weak mind is not healing the way it should?"

"No."

"I see." Snape gestured to one of the chairs placed in front of his desk. "Sit."

Harry sat.

"I am going to use Legilimency to examine your mind for any signs of damage. Do not waste my time by attempting to block me."

Harry started to reply that he really wasn't stupid enough to do that and he wished Snape would stop treating him like an idiot, but before he could say anything he heard Snape say, "Legilimens," and felt the foreign touch of Snape in his mind. It was far more uncomfortable than any of the other recent 'examinations', and he had to fight down the reflex to block Snape.

Finally Snape withdrew, pocketing his wand. He looked at Harry for a long moment, then walked over to a low cabinet behind his desk, taking out a bottle filled with what looked like Firewhisky and two glasses.

"Drink this," he said, handing one of the glasses to Harry.

Harry took the glass, frowning at the contents. Did Snape just hand him a drink?

"Drink," Snape said. "I would not risk the Headmistress's wrath by poisoning you. The inconvenience of hiding your body would not be worth the pleasure of removing you from my company."

Harry took a cautious sip. Despite his encounter with Firewhisky a few months back, he had no great liking for the stuff. "Er, are you going to tell me what you saw in there? Sir?" he added, as an afterthought.

Snape drank, then set his glass on the desk. "The treatment was not entirely successful."

"Not... entirely successful? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Harry nearly dropped his glass. All that... the flames, the blistering heat, the scorching feel of his mind being burnt to ashes... what had that all been?

"It means exactly what I said it means, Potter. Should I rephrase it monosyllabically so that you may process it better?"

"No, I'm processing just fine, thanks," Harry snapped. He plunked his glass down on the desk. "What I can't 'process' is why it wasn't entirely successful. And just now unsuccessful was it?"

"Most of the portion of your mind that was overlapped by the Dark Lord's has been repaired. It seems as if your mind was intact underneath, and destruction of the offending layer was sufficient. However..." Snape pulled his wand from his pocket, conjuring a red candle and a small block of light coloured wood about the size of a deck of Tarot cards. He lit the candle with a flick of his wand, and once it had melted sufficiently, he tilted it, dripping the red wax onto the wood. When the wax cooled, he handed the block to Harry.

"A crude analogy, but simplistic enough for you to comprehend. Chip off the wax and see what lies beneath."

Harry frowned, but chipped at the wax with his thumb. It came off easily enough, and soon Harry had a handful of wax bits and a small wooden block. "There's nothing there," he said, not understanding.

Snape closed his eyes for a moment, looking as though he was restraining himself with great difficulty from hexing Harry senseless. "Look closer, Potter. Does the wood look exactly the way it did before it was coated with wax?" he asked, opening his eyes to scrutinise Harry again.

Harry peered at the wood but saw nothing but a very faint pink stain where the wax had been. "It's er... a little pink?"

"Precisely. The colour of the wax has left a stain in the grain of the wood."

"Won't it come off?"

"Try it and see."

Two Scouring Charms later and Harry had only succeeded in making the pink stain imperceptibly lighter. "I don't suppose scrubbing it the Muggle way would work either," Harry said.

"No. Or if it did, it would damage the surface of the wood - it would no longer be smooth to the touch as it is now. It could possibly even leave splinters."

Harry stared at the little pile of wax bits he'd deposited on the corner of Snape's desk and then at the faintly pink surface of the block of wood in his hand. He wasn't sure whether he was more annoyed at the fact that Snape was comparing his mind to a block of wood or the fact that he seemed to be telling him that Voldemort had left some kind of stain on his mind.

"In case the obvious analogy hasn't made itself clear to you, Potter," said Snape, "the Dark Lord has left an impression on your mind that not even the deep and destructive type of hypnosis-Legilimency that Weasley and I performed on you can remove. I believe that enough of it has been removed that you will not experience the intermittent bursts of destructive magic that you have experienced recently, but their influence remains imbedded in your mind nonetheless."

"Great," said Harry, tossing the block of wood away and leaning back in his chair. "Just. Fucking. Great. Now what am I supposed to do?"

"If you would stop wallowing in your pathetic cesspool of self-pity, you would be able to see that this is not as bad a situation as you make it out to be!"

"That's easy for you to say, because you haven't got part of Voldemort's brain stuck in your head, now do you?"

Snape looked as if he wanted to take a massive amount of points from Gryffindor. "I do not. However, I am not the one responsible for his demise. You are. And if you would stop whinging for one moment, I would be able to explain to you that this influence on your mind has been weakened enough that you needn't worry about accidental magic, but it is strong enough that you can harness it and use it to your advantage!"

"Use it?"

"Are you a parrot or are you a wizard? Yes, use it. With this knowledge that has been left in your subconscious, you will be able to learn spells that took the Dark Lord years to master. In addition, you may be able to master those spells and use his own magic against him."

Harry sat for a moment, thinking about this. True, it had felt horrible when he had cast the spell against Kingsley, and the Killing Curse against Ron had been even worse, but... what if it was possible to harness that power and turn it against the very person who had given it to him? "If that's possible, why hasn't anyone suggested this before?"

Snape leaned forward slightly in his chair. "I had briefly considered the possibility when the difficulty first arose; however, I felt you would not have the ... fortitude necessary to develop these skills enough to be worthwhile."

"Felt?"

Snape made a small noise that could have indicated disgust or sarcasm; it was hard to tell. "There is a miniscule possibility that you might be trained in certain areas," he said grudgingly. "It is highly unlikely, and yet if you are to actually accomplish anything to fulfil this ludicrous prophecy, an effort must be made."

"And who is going to teach me?" Harry asked, although he was fairly sure of the answer.

"I will have that unfortunate duty," said Snape, looking as though the prospect of working with Harry was giving him indigestion. "Next Saturday, half-eight in the morning, outside the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy."

"What?"

"Did you think you were the only one to ever use the Room of Requirement as a training facility, Potter? Saturday, half-eight in the morning. Now get out. I have work to do."

Harry stood, wondering if perhaps this time, his lessons with Snape might go a little better. He wasn't a student any longer, and as far as he could tell, the idea for this kind of training had been entirely Snape's idea. He wasn't being forced into it, as he had been with Occlumency.

"Thank you, sir," he said, looking his former teacher in the eye. "For offering to work with me."

Snape scowled. "Do not thank me," he snapped, turning back to his desk. "Now get out, before I rescind my offer."

*****

Ron could hear Hermione rustling around behind him, but he didn't turn around to look at her. Instead, he pressed his forehead against his folded arms and waited. It was uncomfortable, lying on his stomach and clad only in his pyjama bottoms; not uncomfortable in a physical sense but uncomfortable because he felt exposed and defenceless. He knew it was stupid to feel this way, of course, since this was Hermione, and she wasn't about to hurt him, but still -

But she Obliviated you, didn't she? You didn't think she'd do that, did you?

"Are you ready, Ron?" Hermione asked, breaking into his train of thought.

He took a deep breath. "Sure."

"I'm going to assess the extent of your injury first," she said. Her voice was businesslike and professional; Ron supposed she must have picked it up at the hospital she told them about, working with the patients there. "And then we'll see what happens after that. Is that all right?"

"Okay." Ron felt the mattress dip slightly as Hermione sat beside him, and a moment later he felt her hands rest lightly in the space between his shoulder blades. They were much warmer than he expected, and her touch was soft, but it emanated a sort of ticklish sensation, as if something - several somethings - with many tiny legs were crawling all over his skin.

He shuddered.

Hermione pulled her hands away and the crawling feeling vanished. "Did that hurt?" she asked anxiously.

"No," he said, turning his head away from her. "Just felt a bit weird. Wasn't expecting it. It's okay."

She shifted on the bed. "All right. But if it does hurt, or it's uncomfortable at all, you must tell me straight away."

The ticklish sensation was still there when she touched him again, and it continued as she slowly moved her hands down his back, tracing along his spine with her fingertips. The closer she came to his lower back and to the damaged part of his spine, the slower her fingers moved. After a bit Ron couldn't feel her fingers anymore, but he knew she was still touching him, because that tickly, crawly sensation persisted over the rest of his back. He lay very still, trying not to think of spiders or anything else with more legs than strictly necessary, not wanting to interrupt whatever it was that Hermione was doing. She wasn't saying anything, and he didn't want to look stupid and ask her to explain.

"I'm going to have to, er... go under your pyjamas, just a little bit. Is that all right?" Hermione was clearly embarrassed under her professional tone, and I was glad he wasn't looking at her just then.

"S'ok," he mumbled against his arm. "I won't feel it or anything, so I wouldn't know."

"I thought I'd ask, though," she replied.

"Right," he said, a little more bitterly than necessary. You didn't ask before you Obliviated me, did you? he thought, but didn't add.

He heard her take a sharp breath, like she was about to say something in reply, but she kept quiet. Ron squeezed his eyes shut, regretting his tone. They'd agreed to act as normal as possible, but he couldn't stop sniping at her.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She didn't reply for a bit, and he wasn't sure she'd heard him at all. Finally he felt her sit back, and the tickling sensation faded away. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather do this at St Mungo's? I think it might be better if there are real Healers around with experience with your injury, in case something unexpected happens."

"You are a real Healer, Hermione," he replied gruffly. "Just a different kind. And no, I don't want to go to St Mungo's. If word gets out what you're doing, Voldemort's going to be after you even more than he already is."

"All right, then," she said. "I believe I know what needs to be done, so..."

Ron took a deep breath. "Okay."

Hermione put her hands on his back again, between his shoulder blades, and moved them lower as she had before. He didn't feel the tickling sensation from earlier, but more of a glowing warmth as her hands travelled along his spine.

And then it stopped.

"Ron, you have to relax," she said.

"I am relaxed!" he insisted.

Hermione huffed. "No, you aren't. You're incredibly tense. I can feel it, you know."

He bristled at that. "Yes, I know you can. Of course I don't know if I'm relaxed or not."

"Ron! Will you calm down already? I'm not going to hurt you or anything!"

He didn't answer. He knew she wouldn't hurt him, but he couldn't stop thinking about the Memory Charm. She hadn't meant to hurt him then, had she? But she had, nonetheless.

"Do you want me to try again?" Hermione asked, sounding a little hurt.

Ron immediately felt guilty for resenting the Memory Charm - she hadn't meant to hurt him, and then there were the lengths she'd gone to, and was still going to, to help him be whole again. "Please," he said softly.

He couldn't tell exactly where she'd placed her hands, but he felt the warm glow from them spread over his upper back, and he let out a long breath. Was it working? He couldn't tell. He wished she'd say something, tell him what was going on.

"This isn't working," Hermione said. The warm glow disappeared from his skin and he felt her slide away from him.

"What's wrong?" He turned his face to look at her, afraid to move any more than that.

"It's... I don't know, it's like you're resisting me, or something," she said, twisting her hands in her lap. "I can't really feel what I'm doing. It feels like something is keeping me out, somehow."

"Oh," he said, looking away. "I'm not doing - I mean, I know you're trying to help, I wouldn't try to mess that up -"

"But you're resisting me anyway, Ron," she said. She shifted a little, tucking her feet up underneath her. "I told you, you were tense. I could feel it. And I can't feel what I should be able to feel - it's like trying to pick up a piece of thread with gloves on. It feels all clumsy and wrong."

"I'm not doing it on purpose!"

"I didn't say you were!"

"You're acting like I am!" Ron shouted, propping himself up and turning awkwardly to face her. "You sound like you're blaming me because it won't work!"

"I'm not blaming you!" she shouted back. "I'm just telling you what it feels like when I touch you! You're holding back from me, and it feels like you're resisting me, and if you want me to help you you're going to have to stop it!"

"Then you shouldn't have Obliviated me!" He snapped his mouth shut as soon as he'd said it, feeling horrible, and lay down again, pressing his burning face into the pillow.

"Ron..." She slid closer, putting a hand on his arm, and he flinched.

"Don't," he said. "Just don't, okay?" He pulled his arm free of her hand.

"I told you I was sorry about that, Ron," Hermione said softly. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn't want to make things all wrong again, not after we'd just made them right after so long."

He sighed. "You always think you know what's best for everyone, Hermione."

"I do not! How dare you!"

"You do! You thought you knew what was best for those elves but you didn't care whether they were happy or not, did you? And you thought you knew what was best for the DA but instead of keeping people from actually telling on us, you let Marietta Whatsername rat us out before she got a face full of spots! And you thought it was best for Harry for you to climb in his bed with him that night too, didn't you?"

Hermione gasped. "That's rich, coming from someone who was shagging my boyfriend while I was off two hundred years in the past trying to learn something just to help him!"

Ron hauled himself up again to face her. "We weren't shagging!"

"You might as well have been - you did more than Harry and I did that night, I know that for a fact!" Hermione's eyes flashed dangerously. "What did you think you were doing?"

"What did you think you were doing when you kissed me?" Ron spat at her. "How could you do what you did with Harry and then come into my room and -"

Hermione ignored him, drawing another breath for a fresh assault. "And while you stormed off and wouldn't speak to us anymore when you thought we were shagging, I'm supposed to just sit back and take it when you and Harry do it for real? It's supposed to be okay because I wasn't here and he needed someone? And now he tells us he doesn't want to choose? I don't know if I'm really okay with that!"

"Well, you don't have to be okay with it," Ron said bitterly, sitting all the way up. "It's over between me and Harry, okay? It was just - I don't know what it was. But it wasn't real. So it doesn't matter if Harry wants to choose or not. There isn't anything to choose."

Hermione looked as if she'd been slapped. "You do realise, don't you, that Harry wasn't just talking about him not having to choose." She looked at him as if daring him to say the wrong thing so she could pounce on him again.

He met her gaze and held it. "I do."

She didn't look away, but held her chin up a little higher. "And?"

"And? What do you mean, 'and'?' What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know what I want you to say," she huffed. "But if you can't trust me enough to let me help you, then I suppose that gives me the answer, doesn't it?"

"You. Altered. My. Memory," Ron said through gritted teeth.

"You. Shagged. My. Boyfriend," she snapped back.

"We didn't shag!" Ron roared, unable to control his temper anymore. "Harry never laid a hand on me, except to kiss me!"

Hermione just stared at him, and Ron felt some of his anger deflate.

"I swear, Hermione."

Her cheeks reddened, but she didn't look away. "What did you do, then?"

"I'm not telling you!" As soon as he'd said it he realised how childish it sounded, but he couldn't help it. He shook his head. "I can't believe we're having this conversation."

"I can't either. I can't believe you had the nerve to -"

His anger flared up again as if it'd been doused in dragon's blood and set afire. "Oh that's a good one, coming from you, Obliviator Queen. They ought to hire you at the Ministry, put you on the Obliviator Squad, since you're so good at it -"

"I guess I know what you're good at, don't I?"

Ron had never wanted to hit someone as much as he wanted to hit her right at that moment. He gripped the quilt beneath him tightly, fingers digging into the fabric. "I swear to Merlin, Hermione, if you don't drop it right now I can't be responsible for what I might do." He said this so roughly that he expected her to shrink away from him or back off as she'd often done in their school days, ending the argument in a burst of tears and stomping away in a huff, but she didn't.

After giving him a long, searching look, she slid closer.

"We can't just drop this, Ron," she said softly. "There's too much at stake here."

Ron looked down at the quilt, anger fading again. It shrank into a small ball of guilt that lodged firmly in his stomach and fluttered around like a Snitch. "I know."

"I - I don't think I can really be angry about you and Harry," she mumbled. Her words were so soft, contrasting so sharply with her earlier tirade that Ron could barely hear her. "There's - I don't know what it is between us, but there's something there that makes things more complicated than that."

"Yeah."

Hermione fidgeted. "I think maybe we shouldn't try this right away? I want to do this for you, Ron, but I don't think I can until we stop resenting each other like this. Things need to be right, between us, first."

He looked up at her. She was worrying her lower lip between her teeth, her desire to make things right and good between them written all over her face, and that little ball of guilt tumbled madly around in his stomach. So many stupid things we've done... "How do we fix them, then?"

"Well..." She thought about this for a minute, twisting a piece of hair around one finger. It was a nervous habit she'd started doing back in third year, Ron remembered; she'd been so stressed out with that stupid Time-Turner and trying to do massive piles of work that she'd picked up several nervous tics that had never really gone away. "Maybe we should just - you know, try to talk?"

Talk. "Talk about what?"

"What's bothering us? Because maybe if we talk about it, it'll work itself out, you know? Maybe getting everything out in the open in a calm and non-threatening way will release some of this resentment and then we can try this again."

Ron laughed a little, feeling some of the tension between them relax. "You sound like you stepped out of a Dr Quill book or something, Hermione."

She flushed, but the corner of her mouth turned up a little. "Those books are mostly rubbish, but occasionally they have a bit of useful information in them."

"You think a book is rubbish?" he teased, watching her mouth twitch. "I thought all books were sacred objects worthy of worship and adoration!"

"Not all books," she huffed. "Most of them, yes, but every now and then you come across one that is just ridiculous, and I have absolutely no problem with saying so."

She really was pretty, Ron thought, now that his brain wasn't clouded over with anger. Her cheeks were pink from his teasing and the bit of hair she'd been twirling around her finger lay in a springy curl over the rise of her collarbone that peeked out of the V of her cream-coloured jumper. Without thinking, he reached over and brushed the curl back behind her shoulder with the rest of her hair. His fingers skimmed along the edge of her jumper as he did so, and Hermione's breath caught audibly in her throat when his fingertips touched her skin. She reached up and covered his hand with hers for a moment, her fingers sliding between his and squeezing just the tiniest bit. It reassured him that no matter what bad things had happened between them, somehow they'd learn to get around it. And as close as she was, looking at him with round, dark eyes that seemed to look right through him, it would be so easy to just lean over and kiss her and reclaim that feeling she took from him months ago.

So easy. But would it only make things worse between them?

He let his hand fall away and cleared his throat. "So, I guess we should talk, then?"

Hermione nodded quickly. "I - yes. We should."

*****

Harry paced the corridor in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, wondering what on earth it was that he was supposed to be requiring for a meeting with Snape. He had no ideas, and was somewhat surprised to find the door actually appearing on his third pass without even a clear idea of what it was he needed. He pushed the door open and peered inside.

"Professor Snape?"

Seeing no one, he stepped into the room, letting the door close behind him.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

The curse struck Harry squarely in the side and he fell hard against the bare stone floor. Fucking hell, he thought, but couldn't say, because his jaw was frozen closed. He couldn't even move his eyes to look around the room to see who had attacked him. It soon became unnecessary, however, as Snape stepped beside him, looming over him from above and glaring.

"Fool! If I were of a mind to turn you over to the Dark Lord, it would have been so very easy," he said, prodding Harry none-too-gently in the hip with his toe. He flicked his wand at Harry's head, freeing him enough to talk but not enough to move. "Suppose someone had overheard our conversation and arrived before me - an ambush. Did you not stop to make sure the room was safe, first?"

"I - I didn't think to do it," Harry said. "I didn't expect you'd hex me before I even got in the door!"

"Not thinking will get you killed, Potter."

"If you don't kill me first," Harry grumbled.

"It seems that that pleasure would fall to another's hand, should you be so unfortunate," Snape replied, then lifted the curse. "Get up."

Harry scrambled to his feet, his muscles protesting the sudden movement after their brief paralysis. "I thought you were going to help me!"

"I am helping you," said Snape. "You must always be on the defensive. Or have seven years of altercations with the Dark Lord taught you nothing? Think back to this summer, Potter. The Weasley spawn's wedding - no one was on the defensive, and look what happened." He made a derisive noise. "If you wish to use the weapons of a Dark wizard, you must learn to think like one. You will never again let your guard down - is that understood?"

Harry nodded, feeling extremely uncomfortable.

Snape paced in a slow circle around Harry, his hooked nose and predatory gaze giving him the look of a sinister bird-of-prey. "We will start with the Unforgivables. Lesser curses will be useless against those who toss them about like party favours."

"Moody doesn't believe Aurors ought to use Unforgivables," Harry replied.

"Alastor Moody is a fool," Snape said. "He believes the power of the Light alone will be enough to defeat the Dark Lord and his followers. I do not agree." He stopped directly in front of Harry, his jaw set. "What good did Light curses do you when you went to rescue Black, Potter? Had no one come to your rescue, they would have killed you all. As it was, your friends were grievously injured and your mangy godfather killed."

"We were just kids -"

"And you had the weapons of children," Snape broke in. "But this is not a child's task ahead of you. You must cease to think like a child."

Harry did not reply. Though it made him sick to admit it - Snape was right. He remembered the way the Death Eater had cursed Neville with a Dancing Curse in the Department of Mysteries; but Voldemort wouldn't waste time with Tickling Charms or Stinging Hexes. Now that the inconvenience of brother wands had been taken care of - Voldemort probably still had Harry's wand for all he knew - there was nothing stopping him from using the Killing Curse on Harry.

Harry would just have to use it on him, first.

"You will resume your training at the Auror facility when Moody is satisfied that you will not kill them all with random magic," said Snape. "But you will come here according to the schedule I have set for you, and you will learn magic that will be of real use to you." His voice dropped to a dangerously low pitch. "And you will tell no one."

"But Ron and Hermione -"

"No. One. Or I will not train you. Those are the conditions, Potter."

His mind worked so rapidly he could barely process his own thoughts. What would Ron and Hermione say if they knew Snape was teaching him Unforgivables? Ron would not approve; Harry was sure of that. Ron seemed to be the more deeply moral of the three of them, and he was highly suspicious of anything that remotely resembled Dark magic. He would seriously object to Harry getting involved with it. Hermione he wasn't so sure about. Hermione's morals sometimes had a way of conveniently conforming to the situation and to her idea of what she thought was best for everyone involved. If Harry learning Unforgivables would mean her parents would be rescued sooner, he had a feeling Hermione would quickly find a moral justification for it.

Either way it would mean a fight, and he didn't want that. It would be best, really, if he didn't tell them. They could worry about the moral part after he'd finished Voldemort for good.

"Okay," he said, and without thinking, he held out his hand to Snape.

Snape looked down at Harry's offered hand for a moment, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it; then he took Harry's hand and shook it so quickly Harry thought he might have just imagined it. He didn't imagine the look of distaste on Snape's face, however, nor the way Snape wiped his hand on his robes before stepping back.

"The Cruciatus Curse," Snape began, "is perhaps the most useful in weakening an enemy. I am sure I do not have to tell you why."

"No," gulped Harry, remembering how it felt. He'd had a great deal of experience with this curse, after all.

"The difference between this curse and the lower level Adflictius Curse lies in the intent. With Adflictius, the intent is usually to distract or disarm, causing brief but intense pain that is easily recovered from. With Cruciatus... your intent is to cause suffering. You want to make your target as miserable as possible, and to do that, you must want it. If you do not, you will shrink at the first sign of pain in your target, and the curse will fail. You must be merciless."

"Merciless," said Harry, in a voice that sounded anything but. "Right."

"To practise this spell effectively, you need a target." Snape gestured to the corner of the room, where a small grey kitten was curled up sound asleep in a wicker basket. "A living target, to be precise."

Harry stepped back. "Oh no. That's... that's just sick."

"Is it?" Snape eyed him carefully. "Do you wish to shout curses into empty air, hoping they have an effect, and find in the heat of battle that they are useless? What happens to you then, when you fail?"

"But -" said Harry. "It's a cat. A baby one!"

"You prefer a human target, then?" said Snape. "Perhaps Miss Granger will volunteer to be your test subject? Think of the papers she could publish on the effects of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse, with all the firsthand knowledge she would gain. Likely thirty feet or more of inane blathering, I imagine."

"No," said Harry vehemently.

"I see. You do not wish to use an animal subject, and you are opposed to practising on a human. Cursing the air is useless, so there is no point in continuing. I should have known you were too weak to attempt this." Snape's tone was sarcastic, mocking, and it made Harry's blood boil like never before.

"I'm not weak!"

"No? It is a shame, really, that the son of James Potter shrinks back from learning the very curses he could use to avenge him. Your father may have been an arrogant fool, but he did not shy away from learning the Unforgivables when the Aurors were authorised to use them!"

His father - using the Unforgivables? "That's a lie!" Harry spat, the handle of his wand digging into his palm from the force of his grip.

Snape's expression did not change. "I think not."

A huge bubble of pent-up anger burst inside Harry's chest, and he pulled his wand in one quick motion, aiming it at the kitten. "Crucio!"

The kitten sat up and stretched, blinking, then yawned as if irritated that its nap had been disturbed.

What?

Snape advanced on Harry, talking low. "You should know by now that tossing the words out in a blind rage does nothing, Potter. Have you forgotten the Department of Mysteries? You wanted to hurt Bellatrix Lestrange, did you not? You wanted to hurt her for your godfather's death. But it did not work, because you were only angry. You wanted to hurt her; you did not want her to suffer. There is a difference."

Harry gritted his teeth at the memory of Bellatrix's laughing, leering face, the night she had knocked Sirius through the veil. She had called him little baby Potter and mocked him for his grief, mocked him for his misery and anger, and mocked him because of his worthless curse.

"She will mock you again, Potter. She will mock you for your impotent magic, she will taunt you for caring about Black, and she will cut you down and leave you for the Dark Lord to finish off. She would show you no mercy. And you must show no mercy."

Snape's words still ringing in his ears, mingling with the memory of Bellatrix's mocking voice and Sirius's stunned expression as he fell, Harry levelled his wand at the kitten again.

"Crucio!"

*****

"I think I'd like to try something a little different this time," said Hermione.

"Oh?" said Ron, looking up from the book he was reading. Hermione couldn't quite make out the title because of the way he was holding it, but from the illustration on the front it appeared to be one of his more complicated Tarot books.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" she asked, moving around to peer over his shoulder.

"No, just work stuff. It can wait," he answered, marking his place with a scrap of parchment and putting the book on the table.

"It was awfully easy for you to get so much time off from work," Hermione said with a frown. "How did you manage it?"

Ron snorted. "Well, it's not like it's a regular job. They expect us to be a little flaky from time to time, so I just told them that my Inner Eye needed a break." He made a face very reminiscent of Trelawney, letting his eyes go round and vacant and adopting an airy expression. "My Inner Eye must not be strained - you cannot force the noble art of Divination. It is a Gift that will manifest itself whenever it sees fit."

Hermione giggled, even though she was scandalised at the idea of someone just skiving off work. "Honestly Ron, that's not funny! You shouldn't lie to your employer, that's very rude. Why didn't you just tell them the truth?"

He shrugged, the Trelawney impression vanishing. "I didn't want to tell them what I was really doing. I didn't think it was any of their business, really. Besides, it's not like I'm not working. When we're not doing... er..." He made a vague gesture between them, indicating whatever it was they were trying to accomplish. "I keep up with work from here anyway. They get reports a couple of times a week from me, so they're happy."

"I'm sure they wouldn't mind at all if you told them the truth about why you were taking time off," said Hermione. "I think they'd understand."

Ron pushed back from the table a little. "I don't want to tell them, okay?" he said gruffly. "Anyway, what was this 'different thing' you wanted to do?"

"I was thinking that some of my spells have gone a little rusty from not using magic for so long, and I was hoping you'd help me with a bit of duelling practise," she said casually, going to the hooks by the door where their cloaks hung. "Harry's off practising, so we might as well also. Isn't Harry's entire property Unplottable?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "The Unplottable charms go all around the property line; Dad and Remus and McGonagall put them on and checked them six times after Harry bought the place."

"Good," she said, tossing Ron his cloak. "Come on."

The sun was unusually warm for early April, but there was still a chilly breeze that made Hermione glad she had her cloak. She was also glad Ron had agreed to her suggestion of duelling practise, though she hadn't given him the entire reason behind it; but it remained to be seen if it would actually work. She was beginning to think Ron was a little more clever than she'd ever given him credit for.

They started with simple hexes and curses, things Hermione hadn't used in quite some time. It felt good to be using magic again. She wasn't as out of shape as she had feared, but Ron did manage to slip a Stinging Hex around her Shield Charm twice. After she'd warmed up a bit, they progressed to increasingly difficult curses, matching each other blow for blow.

"So," said Hermione, neatly dodging Ron's Full Body Bind, "you never said why you didn't want to tell your bosses the real reason you needed time off."

Ron barely blinked before sending a Stupefying Charm her way. It bounced off her Shield Charm effortlessly. "I told you, I didn't want to."

She countered with a Stupefying Charm of her own that he dodged easily. "You didn't say why, though. Any particular reason?"

"No."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want," he snapped, hurling a jet of blue light her way. She countered it just in time, but the effort made her overbalance and she plopped down ungracefully on the damp ground.

"I think you're afraid it isn't going to work," Hermione said as she scrambled to her feet. She dodged his next hex without even trying to counter it and said, "You're afraid if you tell them what we're doing and it doesn't work, you'll look stupid, aren't you?"

Ron's face darkened dangerously. "Adflictio oculus!"

"Protego!" she yelled, wincing as she felt the curse ricochet off her Shield Charm just in front of her eyes. "That's what it is, isn't it? You're afraid it'll fail."

"Silencio!"

She ducked, again missing the curse. "That's why you wouldn't let Harry touch you, isn't it?"

"SILENCIO!" Ron roared, so angry his curse missed her by at least a foot.

"Admit it Ron, you're just afraid!"

"It isn't -"

Hermione didn't let him finish. "Adflictio scapularum!"

Ron yelped in pain - the Adflictius Curse was almost as nasty as Cruciatus - his wand hand going up reflexively to his shoulder where the curse had struck him squarely. "Fuck you! You don't know half of what you think you know, Hermione, so just back the fuck off and shut up!"

"I know you, Ron," Hermione said, advancing on him slowly. "I know how you were terrified before your first Quidditch match, and you didn't do well until your brothers weren't there to tease you and make your game hell." Ron raised his wand to her as she got closer, but she kept talking. "Hex me if you want to, but I don't think you will. You know I'm right."

The tip of Ron's wand wavered slightly, but he kept it fixed on her, his expression as angry and defensive as she'd ever seen it.

"You were so afraid of finding out the truth about what happened between Harry and me, you didn't bother to listen to our side of things, but stomped out and didn't speak to us anymore. It was easier that way - you were scared that what you were worried about might actually have been true," she went on, slowly moving closer. "And you were so afraid of what things would be like after your accident you tried to kill yourself. That's why you wouldn't let anyone see you after, wasn't it? You were afraid Harry and I wouldn't want to be your friends anymore. You knew we'd come around, fight or no, but you thought if we saw you like this we'd abandon you."

"Shut up, Hermione," Ron said through clenched teeth.

"If you want me to shut up, you'll have to hex me," she replied, and for a moment she thought he just might do it, so she kept talking quickly, hoping to get through to him before he did. "You've always been afraid you won't be good enough. You always have. It's why you were so quick to believe I cheated on you with Harry, because you didn't think you were good enough for me. And it's why you wouldn't let Harry touch you, because you didn't think you were good enough for him. And it's part of the reason why you won't let me heal you - you don't think you deserve it. You're afraid you aren't good enough, and you're afraid you'll fail." She took a deep breath and said a quick, silent prayer that he would eventually forgive her for what she was about to say next. "You're afraid of Harry, and you're afraid of me, and I don't know how you managed to get into Gryffindor in the first place."

She expected he would curse her mouth off for that one; he was angry enough to do it and by rights she deserved it. But she didn't expect him to grab her wrist and yank her roughly to him, pulling her off-balance and into his lap.

"I'm not scared of you, Hermione," he said, his voice rough.

"I don't believe you," she said, forcing her voice to stay calm even though she was shaking inside. If either of them was truly scared at that moment, it was her. Ron looked dangerous. At that moment, as angry and hurt as he was, he probably was dangerous. But she had to go through with it; he had to be pushed past the safe limits he'd set for himself and realise that his fear of failure was holding him back from so many things.

Ron tensed as if he wanted to shove her off his lap to the ground, but instead of shoving her away, he gripped her upper arms tightly, pulling her to him for a rough kiss. His fingers tightened around her arms enough to hurt, even more so that he still had his wand half-between his fingers, pressing painfully into her arm; but she returned his kiss with equal force, not shrinking back from him. Hermione could taste his fear and anger and frustration in his kiss, wrapped up in a haze of long-suppressed want that was nearly tangible.

"Show me you aren't scared, Ron," she whispered when she managed to break away from his mouth long enough to grab a breath. "Don't doubt yourself anymore." She brought her mouth down to his, as hard as he had before, daring him, pulling him from his safe little corner, and he groaned into her mouth. His hands moved under her cloak, the fabric of it settling around them as his hands clutched at her jumper, clumsy and frantic.

It was as though they'd never touched each other before. She'd forgotten how large his fingers were, having become used to Harry's slender ones. Ron's hands worked under her jumper, cupping her breasts easily through her bra, and his touch brought back the feelings she'd had that had brought them together in the first place. She wrestled with his cloak fastenings and tugged at his shirt, moving her hands over the sun-kissed freckles she'd once attempted to count and had given up on after an hour. Her cloak draped around them blocked most of the chilly breeze, but when she dipped her head to lick at the pulse that beat rapidly in the hollow of his collarbone, he shivered violently and dug his fingers into her sides.

"I can't," he gasped, gripping her shoulders and trying to urge her to sit up again. "I can't - don't - "

"You can," she mumbled against his skin, licking a trail across his chest and then pushing her cloak back enough to let a bit of the cool breeze between them. "I know you can - stop doubting yourself."

"I -"

"Ron, please," she begged, nipping at the soft skin of his shoulder, lingering over the spot she'd cursed earlier. "I want you the way you are, no matter what that is."

Ron flushed deeply, letting his head fall against her shoulder. "Don't do this unless you mean it, Hermione," he said in a cracked voice. "Because I will mean it. And it won't be because Harry wants it, either."

"It's not about what Harry wants right now," she insisted. That wasn't completely true, but she wanted him to know this wasn't just because Harry had told them what he wanted. She wanted this because she wanted it. And she could tell by Ron's response that he felt the same way.

His arms slid around her waist and tightened almost until she couldn't breathe, and then she felt the sickening lurch of forced Apparition that deposited them back in the house, in the hallway outside Ron's bedroom. They hit the wall with a thump, and Hermione supposed this was the first time Ron had tried to Apparate anyone besides himself.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, as he relaxed his grip on her, "I wanted to -"

"Shh," she whispered, kissing him, but without the harsh desperation they'd shared earlier. He shook slightly, his angry defiance abated and replaced with something far more fragile and precious, and Hermione slid her arms slowly up his arms to soothe him.

"Could have splinched us into the wall," he said, laughing nervously.

"Doesn't matter," she said gently, and slid off his lap. She slipped off her cloak, then turned and went into his room, hoping he would follow her and not change his mind and bolt. Tossing her cloak over Ron's old school trunk at the foot of his bed, she sat on the edge of the bed and toed off her shoes and socks as Ron manoeuvred his chair just beside her.

Ron looked from her to the space on the bed beside her for a moment, then awkwardly shifted himself from his chair to the bed. Hermione could tell he didn't especially want her watching this, but she didn't look away, because she didn't want him to think she was repulsed by him at all. Standing up, she pushed his chair out of the way and stepped in front of him, grasping the hem of her jumper in her hands and pulling it over her head. He caught the hint; before her jumper was all the way off his hands had slipped up her back to the clasp of her bra, working it loose and sliding the straps down her shoulders. Hermione was reminded again of how large his hands were; they were gentle now, moving along her arms and the curves of her breasts, but she remembered how tightly they'd gripped her just a few minutes ago and it sent a small thrill of not-quite-fear down her spine.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said softly, tracing the bruises that were forming on her upper arms from where he'd grabbed her. Somehow she thought he wasn't just talking about the bruises; there was a weight behind his words that went far beyond this afternoon.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, either," she replied, hoping he understood that she wasn't just talking about the things she'd said to him outside.

Ron seemed to understand, because he closed his eyes and pressed his face to her body with a heavy sigh, his nose brushing just between her breasts. Her hands came up to sift through his hair, sliding down to trace along the contours of his neck and shoulder and making him shiver. His hands rested at her hips for a moment before sliding around to her back, tracing the dip and curve of her lower spine with the lightest of touches until she was aching with the need to have her jeans off. In all their careless fumbling at the beginning of their last year of school, they'd never quite managed to make it this far, and she felt an irrational surge of jealousy that Harry was even more intimately acquainted with Ron than she was.

"Take them off," she said, when Ron tugged questioningly at the button of her jeans. He unfastened them and pushed them down enough to slip his hands inside, cupping her arse through her knickers. Hermione slid her hands over his, pushing her jeans down and stepping out of them, feeling suddenly extremely self-conscious about standing in front of him in his bright bedroom in her knickers and nothing else.

Especially while he was still fully dressed.

Hermione took her time with his shirt; she'd already undone it most of the way while they were outside, but there was something about his expression that made her worry he was a second away from changing his mind, and she didn't want to spook him. While he had been undressing her, his face was a little mischievous, almost predatory, but now that the focus had shifted to him he seemed nervous again. She was careful to touch each little bit of skin as she uncovered it, stroking the flat of her palms over the smooth muscle of his arms and shoulders, making sure that every part of him he could feel would feel as good as possible. It wasn't about Healing Magic; she wasn't using that it all. This was about the things they'd messed up and were only now righting, and the depth of feeling between them that had gone ignored for far too long and only now brought full circle.

By the feel of things, it was working; Ron went from tense and skittish to shiveringly responsive under her slow touches, and when she whispered, "lie back" in his ear, he didn't argue. She could have used a charm to Banish his clothes, to make it easier, but she didn't; instead she removed each piece of his clothing one at a time, without magic. He watched her the entire time, even when their last stitches of clothing were gone and there was nothing between them but their skins.

Ron's hands slid up her thighs as she straddled him. "Never stopped wanting you," he mumbled, his hands curling over her hipbones. "Never."

"Show me," Hermione urged, moving her hands lower.

He made a small, startled noise in the back of his throat, his breath hitching in his chest.

"Is that - can you, er, feel it?" she whispered, not sure exactly how much he could feel or if it was good, and desperately wanting to know.

A soft moan, and then, "Yeah, but - different - not that it - oh. S'good." His grip tightened on her hips, small urgent noises spilling from his lips, and she couldn't look at him anymore because it was too private, too raw and real between them.

He wouldn't let go of her after; he held her to his chest with a grip almost as strong as he'd used outside. It wasn't necessary, though. Hermione wasn't going anywhere. She rested her head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat, pounding frantically at first and then slowing, finally, along with her own.

"I didn't really mean you aren't brave, you know," she said softly, tracing her finger along the faint line of one of the brain-tentacle scars from years ago.

"I know," he said, and she felt his breath on top of her head.

*****

Harry Apparated to his house on shaky legs, stumbling through the kitchen with a sick, heavy feeling in his stomach. Every step sent a wave of nausea through his body, and his ears rang with the horrendous screams of the kitten in the basket. He wanted quiet, he wanted something safe and good to take away the foul feeling of casting the Cruciatus Curse so many times he no longer needed to call up Bellatrix's image to make it work. It had come so easily to him, then; he knew it was Voldemort's stain still lingering on his mind that made it so easy, but that knowledge only made him feel worse.

"Hermione?" he called, voice hoarse from shouting the curse. "Ron?" He had to tell them, no matter what Snape had said. He had to tell them what he'd done. He needed to hear that it was all right, that he didn't have any other choice, that it would all work out in the end.

There was no answer.

He passed his own room and glancing into Ron's, hoping to find a clue as to where they were - and stopped dead in the doorway.

They were asleep on Ron's bed. Hermione's head rested on Ron's shoulder, her hair spilling over his freckled skin like trickles of running water. Her fingers twined with Ron's, resting on Ron's flat stomach, just above the sheet carelessly pulled over them. Harry's heart gave a tremendous, painful lurch at the sight of their bare skin; seeing them both at once like this was something he'd only recently begun to imagine and now that it was in front of him, it was almost too much to comprehend. Part of him desperately wanted to climb in with them, to slide between them and let them hold him, surrounding him with every bit of them.

But he couldn't.

Looking at their peaceful expressions, he felt dirty. He imagined that last bit of Voldemort left inside him like an inky black stain, the guilt of the curse he'd used spreading it around on his soul, and he didn't want to contaminate them with that. He didn't want to expose them to his uncleanliness, and he stepped back slowly, not wanting to wake them. One step back, and then another, and another until they were out of his sight and he was behind his own closed door, leaning against it and wondering desperately if he would ever feel clean again.