Full Circle

Chapter Twelve

look at me
am I still the one you wanted me to be?
when we were talking
did I hear you say
that you still love me?

what if we could do it all again
would you still look right through me then?
what if you could make another life
would you still have me by your side?

look at me
everything was clear I wanted you to see
but don't answer with a word
only with your eyes

"Harry?"

Hermione's voice was soft, muffled by the closed door. He thought maybe if he pretended he hadn't heard her, she'd assume he wasn't there. Or at least that he was sleeping, or something - anything that would get her to go away. Every time he came back from working with Snape, it was like this.

No such luck tonight though; after a light tap she opened the door, peering around it. "Harry? We - I didn't realise you were home. Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he replied, rolling onto his side, away from her, and closed his eyes. He wasn't in the mood to talk.

Hermione either didn't pick up on the hint or chose to ignore it - knowing her, probably the latter - and came to sit on the edge of his bed, tucking her feet underneath her. "I dozed off and didn't realise how late it was or when you came home. You don't look well. Is your scar hurting?"

"No."

"Are you sure?" Her hand smoothed lightly across his forehead, and when her fingertips brushed over his scar he shivered. It wasn't normally the sort of feeling he associated with Hermione's touch; instead of the usual comforting feeling he felt from contact with her, he felt sour and dirty. It was such an ugly, harsh feeling that he flinched, pulling back from her touch before he could stop himself.

That didn't escape Hermione's notice. "Harry, are you sure you're all right? You're acting very odd. Did your meeting with Snape go well?"

"I'm fine, Hermione!" he snapped, sitting up and pushing himself away from her, ignoring her question about Snape. "Stop hovering! I'm not going to break, or go mad, or fall apart! So leave me alone!"

The instant he'd said it, he wished he hadn't. Hermione's eyes went round with surprise, and her chin trembled the tiniest bit before her mouth settled into a thin line. "I'm concerned about you, is all," she said evenly.

"Yeah, well, don't be. I'm fine," he said.

"Are you sure?" She slid closer to him again, feeling his forehead. Her dressing gown slipped down a little with the movement, and Harry closed his eyes, because he felt like he really shouldn't be looking.

He ducked away from her hand and slid off the other side of the bed. "I'm going to have a bath."

The bathroom had a magically enlarged bathtub that hadn't originally come with the house. The wizard builder Harry had hired to enlarge the hallways, doorways, and other spaces for Ron had also enlarged the bathroom, including the tub. It was nearly as deep as the tub in the prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts, though not quite as long and without the jewelled taps full of magical soap. Harry set to filling it with the hottest water he could stand, shucked off his clothes and glasses, and climbed in.

The door opened with a soft click, but Harry didn't look up, instead sinking lower into the steaming water until his nose was just a few centimetres from the surface.

"Towels," said Hermione hesitantly. Harry heard the soft sound of a stack of towels being placed on the counter.

"Thanks," he mumbled, without looking in her direction. He took a great gulp of air and let his head slide under the water, blocking out all sight and sound, but unfortunately not blocking out his thoughts. When he surfaced a minute later, lungs screaming for oxygen, Hermione was still there.

"I don't know what it is you're doing with Snape," she said softly, "but I don't like what it's doing to you."

Harry ignored her, reaching for the bar of soap in the little recess in the side of the tub wall. It slipped from his fingers and disappeared in the depths of the water, and he fished uselessly around for it for a bit until Hermione knelt beside the tub and put her hand on his arm, stilling him.

"Here," she said, pushing up the sleeve of her dressing gown. She reached between his knees and came up with the soap, but didn't give it to him. "Should I do your back?" she asked.

He didn't want her to. He wanted her to go away, back to Ron, and just... leave him alone. But that small, needy part of him that he liked to keep closed up in the cupboard desperately needed something to balance the ugliness that was weighing on his soul, and so he just nodded. He heard the soft swish of her dressing gown as it fell to the floor, and then she slid into the tub behind him, her slim legs wrapping around him neatly.

"You're tense," she said, sliding her soap-slick hands over his shoulders. "You carry all your tension in your neck and shoulders, just like Ron does."

"I guess," Harry replied, wincing as her hands moved over a particularly sore spot.

"You've a bruise," she said, her tone expectant, as though waiting for some kind of explanation. When Harry gave none, she huffed slightly, and he felt the gentle, warm tingle of her healing magic spread through his muscles there. He groaned in spite of himself, his head tipping over to one side as she worked. The firm kneading motions of her fingers, combined with the barest touch of her healing magic was incredibly soothing, and he couldn't resist leaning back into her arms.

Her hands left him for a moment, and he heard her rummaging around on the side of the tub for the shampoo; then a cool dollop of the stuff trickled over his scalp. Hermione worked it in, fingernails scrubbing along his hairline and all over his head -

- where he's left his stain on your mind, you know. You won't ever be rid of it -

- and Harry's hands reached up to Hermione's, pushing them away and scrubbing hard at his scalp, nails digging hard enough into his skin to hurt. He didn't care if he tore his skin open, dug his fingernails down to his skull, it wouldn't matter, Voldemort would always be there no matter what happened -

"Harry, stop it!" Hermione grabbed at his wrists, yanking his hands away from his head, but his soap-slick skin slipped easily from her grasp and continued scrubbing and scratching and clawing at himself, only dimly aware of Hermione shouting at him to stop, to calm down.

A tremendous splash of cold water gushed over him, shocking him out of his fervour, and he coughed and sputtered and blinked up at Ron, who was at the edge of the tub with a dripping cauldron in his hands.

"What the sod, mate?" Ron exchanged a worried glance with Hermione, then settled his eyes back at Harry again. He flicked his wand at Harry and the rest of the soap vanished.

"Sorry," said Harry, feeling very small with Hermione and Ron both looking at him. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, shivering.

"It's really all right, Harry," Hermione said shakily. "Come on, you should get out anyway." She stood, and the water rushed to fill the spot where she'd been, but Harry didn't move.

"Out," said Ron, holding out a towel.

"D'you mind?" said Harry.

"Just get out, mate," said Ron, thrusting the towel at Harry and looking away. Harry sighed, took the towel, and climbed out, wrapping it around himself. He crammed his glasses on his face and stalked out of the bathroom, suddenly embarrassed and angry. If Hermione had just left him alone... but no. She had to push and push and push until something happened, and he hated it.

He rummaged around for a clean t-shirt and boxers, slamming drawers a lot harder than necessary. Even over the noise he could hear Ron and Hermione's whispered conversation in the hallway.

"I can hear you, you know," he snapped, slamming the last drawer shut and pulling on his clothes.

Hermione came in first, wringing her hands together anxiously, with Ron right behind her. "We're worried about you, Harry," she said. Her hair lay in thick, damp waves on the shoulders of her dressing gown, and it made her look oddly vulnerable. This angered him even more for reasons that he couldn't quite figure out.

"Don't be!"

"Well, we are," said Ron soberly. "Whatever's wrong with you, you've got to tell us."

Harry sat down on the edge of his bed. "There's nothing to tell," he said, feeling even dirtier for the lie.

"You'll excuse me if I'm a little insulted that you think so little of my intelligence that you think I'll fall for that lie," Hermione said. She sat down beside him, taking his hand. "Even if you can't tell us what it is, at least let us help you. Please?"

He looked at Ron's earnest, worried face, and Hermione's anxious one, and he wanted nothing more at that moment to have both of them, just like he'd imagined. They could make it go away, or at least make it bearable, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to let them.

So he said, simply, "Just leave me alone? Please?"

Hermione slowly pulled her hand from his and stood up. She looked as if she were about to say something, but instead turned abruptly and left, nearly tripping over Ron's wheelchair in the process. Ron watched her go, slightly slack-jawed, and then turned to Harry.

"Don't do this, mate," he said, inching closer until he was knee to knee with Harry. "I thought - isn't this what you wanted? The three of us?"

Harry couldn't make himself answer. He didn't deserve them; he really didn't.

Somehow Ron's expression was even worse to see than Hermione's as he left the room.

*****

Déjà-vu was actually a disorienting sort of thing, Ron decided, when he found himself once again stretched out on his stomach on his bed, stripped down to his boxers. He could hear Hermione rustling around behind him; doing what, exactly, he wasn't sure. But this time he felt a lot less apprehensive than he did before, and when he felt Hermione sit beside him, his first reaction wasn't to tense up.

"Are you ready to try this again?" Hermione asked, settling beside him. "If not, just say so - we can always try it later. It's up to you."

Ron nodded, then rested his head on his forearms. "I think so."

"All right."

He could feel her hands lightly on his back, just between his shoulder blades as she had done before. She wasn't doing anything other than touching him just then; moving her hands in a slow, almost petting sort of motion.

"I just wanted to make sure you're relaxed, before we start," she explained, keeping up the movements of her hands. "I don't think anything would go wrong if you weren't, but it'll certainly help."

"If I relax any more, I'll probably go to sleep," Ron said, only half-joking. He hadn't been sleeping well the last several nights, worrying about Harry, and between his comfortable position and Hermione's soothing touch, he could very easily close his eyes and drift off - if it wasn't for the hopeful bubble of excitement welling up in him at what she was about to do.

"You probably shouldn't go to sleep," she said practically. "It may hurt a bit, later, and if you wake up startled from it, it might aggravate things." Her hands moved lower, tracing firmly along his spine as she went. "Just breathe, all right?"

"Okay."

A warm, slightly tingly sensation spread across his skin, radiating outwards from her hands. It took Ron a moment to realise that not only could he feel it spreading across the skin of his upper back, but very faintly across his lower back below her hands as well, like the tiny bit of sunlight that elusively peeks over the horizon before the sun itself rises. Below that warmth, a deeper pulse spread through his muscles and down into his vertebrae, and he felt each one of them tingle slightly with her unfamiliar magic. It was like each bone was clearly outlined, the soft hum of magic making them vibrate softly and making a clear impression on his mind. In fact, he couldn't quite separate what his body felt from what his mind imagined.

Her magic seeped past bone and muscle and into the tiny nerves that crisscrossed around them like a web; he could feel each one throb and hum with a shimmer of magic that was so intense he made a startled noise in response.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, her voice faint in concentration.

"Not really," he whispered. It didn't hurt, exactly; but it was an overwhelmingly intense sensation that hovered between tolerable and painful.

"It will," she said, and applied more pressure with her thumbs, almost digging into his spine.

A tingling, burning pulse of sensation surged along every nerve in his lower body, Hermione's magic jostling nerves grown lazy with disuse back into action. This did hurt, and intensely; every one of the newly awakened nerves protested as loudly as possible at the sudden jolt of magic. And behind that pulse of intense pain crept a soft but definite wave of feeling, as if all of his nerves and muscles and bones were attempting to re-coordinate themselves with each other. The shift from an absence of feeling to a gradual but definite return to sensation was nearly dizzying, and Ron pressed his face into the mattress to stifle the sound he could feel blocking his throat.

After another long, almost unbearable moment, Hermione pulled away, and the magical pulse disappeared as rapidly as if she'd said Nox. The absence of that intensity was almost as painful as the feeling itself, and it took Ron a moment to realise that there was actually still sensation there - normal sensation, like the feel of the sheets against his skin, with the soreness of his newly-awakened nerves.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked. She was breathing heavily, as if she'd just climbed a long flight of stairs, and Ron realised that whatever she'd done must have taken a lot out of her.

"I think so," he answered, not sure if he really was or not. He gave his toes an experimental wiggle, and nearly fell off the bed when Hermione shrieked with delight.

"I saw that!" she squeaked. "Your toes! Did you do that on purpose?"

"Yeah," he said, grinning, and wiggled them again. It felt odd; he felt very stiff and rusty, like a suit of armour that hadn't been moved in about a thousand years. And it seemed like there was a half-second delay between the time he thought about wiggling his toes and the time it actually happened. But he didn't care.

He could feel.

"My God, Hermione," he said, sitting up. "You did it. You really did it."

She blushed a little and looked down at the quilt. "It's not like you'll be able to get up and walk just yet or anything," she said. "But -"

"Yet," Ron said, grinning so widely he thought his face might crack in two. He couldn't help it. Because for the first time in a very long time, he could not only feel all of himself... he could feel hope.

*****

Ron didn't realise just how much work getting back on his feet would entail. It had been nearly a year since his accident, and having really only recently come to adjust to new ways of doing things, it was almost disturbing to realise just how much he would have to learn all over again. The first few days he'd been so excited just to be able to feel again, he was content just to be able to wiggle and stretch and feel, and he'd been so sore from the intense application of magic he hadn't really been able to do much more than that anyway. But after the third day, Hermione became relentless in getting him moving again.

And the more he worked at it, the more frustrated he got.

The Healers at St Mungo's, after they'd got over their initial shock at his seemingly miraculous recovery - Ron had declined to tell them just how it was accomplished, despite their thousands of questions - devised a programme of exercises to help him build strength in his leg muscles and re-centre his balance all over again. There were exercises with weights, and exercises with resistance spells, and there was swimming. Loads of swimming. Ron thought he might shrivel up into a prune-like thing from all the swimming he did, usually in the lake behind the Burrow, which was far too cold for swimming in April without generous applications of Warming Charms.

Hermione devised a schedule for him by the end of the first week. "You need structure," she said one evening over dinner. "And you oughtn't slack off work anymore, either." She laid out a piece of parchment between her bowl of salad and her glass of pumpkin juice and written (writing so busily she nearly dipped her quill into her juice instead of her inkpot by mistake):

8:00 - breakfast
9:00-11:30 - working out (MWF weights, THS swimming)
12:00-1:00 - lunch
1:00-4:00 - work
5:00-6:00 - tea
6:00-7:00 - walking

at least two evenings per week - flying
Sunday - swimming and/or flying, plus walking

Ron stared at the list with his mouth hanging open. He felt like he was back in school again, getting ready for O.W.L.s with her colour-coded timetables. He was just about to protest her scheduling every minute of his day like he was some kind of project when he caught her anxious glance at Harry across the table. Harry sat quietly, moodily poking at his plate more than eating, just like he'd been every evening for the past few weeks. And it suddenly occurred to Ron that Hermione had always been the kind of person who had an intense drive to help people, and perhaps it wasn't a real desire to run every minute of Ron's life so much as it was frustration that Harry wasn't letting her to anything at all. Not letting her soothe his bruises when he came home from Auror training or meetings with Snape looking banged-up, not letting her brew him a sleeping potion when he had a restless night, and certainly not letting her offer him the kind of physical comfort that Ron could tell he very desperately craved. Ever since the incident in the bath, he'd kept them both at arms' length, retreating into himself in a way that neither Ron nor Hermione knew how to approach.

So Ron accepted the schedule without protest, hoping it would make that twitchy look on Hermione's face go away.

He couldn't exactly stick to the schedule at first. Two and a half hours of swimming or working with weights was out of the question at the beginning, and an hour of walking? Not even fathomable. The first time he actually tried walking, he managed just two very slow, unsteady steps while holding on to the kitchen table like a toddler before having to sit down again.

"That's a good start," Hermione said encouragingly. "You're really making excellent progress, you know."

"It doesn't feel like it," Ron grumbled.

"You really are. Wizards heal much faster than Muggles do, remember."

"They do," chimed Harry, who was in an unusually talkative mood that day. "Dudley broke his ankle once and he couldn't walk on it for three weeks."

"I know, I know." If Muggles healed that slowly, Ron couldn't see how they stood it. And while part of him knew he was making progress, it wasn't very much visible progress, which made him feel as if he wasn't getting anywhere at all. But he kept at it, building up his stamina, and each little milestone - making it across the kitchen one day, then down the hall a few days later, then out the front steps - made it a little easier to keep going.

Since Harry had been keeping so much to himself over the past few weeks, Ron was very surprised when Harry approached him after tea one day when Hermione was immersed in a massive book and said, "D'you mind if I go with you when you go for your walk today?"

"Sure," said Ron. He got his cloak from its hook by the door, along with the carved wood walking cane that had been a present from Bill. It was smooth Egyptian acacia, carved with runes and hieroglyphs that Ron didn't recognize but Bill had said were for good health, strength, and protection. They'd made Hermione squeal with delight and dive for her Ancient Runes books, at any rate. He felt like an eighty year old man when he used it, but since his balance was still off, using it was better than ending up on his arse or facedown from an uncertain step on uneven ground.

Usually Ron just walked around the perimeter of Harry's property, within the confines of the Unplottable charms, but Harry obviously wanted to get out today, and Ron didn't argue. It had been a while since Ron had actually walked beside Harry, but it was funny how some habits came back to him automatically and how some habits just didn't work anymore.

Ever since Ron and Harry had become friends, Ron had naturally walked on Harry's right side. It hadn't been any conscious decision on either of their parts; it had just been the habit they picked up. They picked it up automatically again as they walked down the pavement, not towards the centre of Hogsmeade but away from it - Harry on the left, Ron on the right. Ron's stride had always been longer than Harry's, since his legs were longer and he was taller, and he'd long ago got in the habit of shortening his step to keep pace right beside Harry. But now it was Harry shortening his step to match Ron's, because Ron's steps were a lot slower than they used to be.

It felt strange to Ron. He'd been right beside Harry through almost all of his battles, fighting right alongside him, but what if he was going to end up holding Harry back more than helping him now? He didn't want to be a hindrance. And it felt wrong, somehow, to be spending all this time on him, when Harry was the one that would have the biggest challenge ahead of him. Ron had the niggling feeling that his and Hermione's time might be better spent helping Harry get ready for his last confrontation with Voldemort than getting him back on his feet again. That confrontation would be happening soon, Ron knew. They hadn't discussed it much, outright, but the Order had agreed that they didn't have the manpower to stage a rescue attempt for Hermione's parents and then a separate support team for Harry, when he was ready to take on Voldemort again.

One final strike, and that would be it. And Ron couldn't quite articulate to Harry how much he wanted to be able to stand beside him when that time came.

Harry stopped abruptly when they reached the railroad tracks that crisscrossed the open meadow between Hogsmeade and the edge of Hogwarts property. He stepped up on one of the rails, putting one foot in front of the other and holding his arms out for balance as he walked.

Rather out of breath from their walk across the meadow, Ron carefully sat down on the grass and watched Harry walk along the railroad tracks. They hadn't spoken at all on the walk over here, and Ron was beginning to wonder why Harry had asked to come along with him when Harry spoke up quietly.

"D'you ever wonder what would have happened if you hadn't come into that compartment on the train, that first time?" Harry asked, looking down at the rail as he balanced.

"Sometimes," said Ron. "Do you? I mean, what if you'd shaken Malfoy's hand when he came into the car?" Ron had often wondered why Harry had chosen him over Malfoy, when Harry hadn't really known anything about either of them.

"Sometimes." Harry walked several yards down the tracks before turning and slowly making his way back up them again to where he started.

Ron's throat felt tight. "Would you, again?"

"What?" Harry looked up at Ron, wobbling a little on the rail.

"If you had to do it over again, I mean," Ron said hesitantly. "Would you do it again, knowing how things would turn out? Like, say... if you knew somehow that shaking Malfoy's hand would mean Sirius would still be alive now. Or that Dumbledore would still be alive, or Cedric, or those people at the hospital? Would you do everything the same way? Or would you change things?"

Harry's face settled into a very serious expression. "I wouldn't change anything."

"You wouldn't?" Ron's heart did a tiny flip at that.

"No." Harry turned and bent down to scoop up a handful of rocks from between the track stiles and tossed them one by one as hard as he could into the very edge of the Forbidden Forest. "I wouldn't."

Ron watched him throw the rocks for a moment, the way Harry's cloak rippled with each movement, and listened to the soft grunts that escaped with each toss. Somehow Harry's answer didn't satisfy him the way he thought it would, and he blurted, "Then why are you doing this? If this is what you want, me and you and Hermione, like you say, then why are you shutting us out?"

Harry's shoulders seemed to sag a little under his cloak. "Because," he said softly. He stepped down off the railroad tracks and came to sit beside Ron, resting his elbows on his knees.

"It's got something to do with what you're doing with Snape, doesn't it?"

"I can't talk about that," Harry said, picking at the grass.

"Then I know that's what it is." Ron shifted slightly so that he was facing Harry. "He's probably got you learning some pretty bad stuff, I reckon, if you're so miserable about it. And okay, he's a Death Eater, so I'm not surprised. I reckon if anyone knows what's got to be done to beat Voldemort, it'd be him. But Harry - " He put his hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing it, and he could feel the sharp bite of Harry's shoulder bone against his palm. "You don't have to do this alone."

Harry didn't look up, but he stopped plucking up the grass at his feet and put his hand on top of Ron's. It was dirt roughened and there were grass stains on his skin. "I do have to do it alone."

"No, you don't!" Ron said angrily. "Ever since you've started this, Hermione's sat up late every night with her nose in every book she can get her hands on, trying to think of things that might help you, and you brush her away like she's annoying you or something. Have you looked at her lately, Harry? Have you noticed how hurt she is when you brush her off, or how she's smothering me because she can't do anything for you? And I hear you every night, talking in your sleep, and I want to go in there to you and hold you till you're okay again, but you've put wards on your door, and you just won't let us help you."

"I don't need your help!" Harry said. "I'm fine! I just have to do this, okay? This is how it has to be!" He tried to jerk his hand away from Ron's, but Ron caught it and wouldn't let go.

"Stop being a stubborn arse, Harry," he said roughly, his frustration bubbling over. "Just cause that stupid prophecy says you've got to kill Voldemort doesn't mean you have to do it all by yourself. We're sticking with you, you know?"

"What if you had to do it again, Ron? Would you still stick with me, knowing what I have to do? What I've already done?" Harry clutched at Ron's cloak. "What I've got you into? Your family into?"

"Damn right I would," said Ron, pulling Harry to him in a rough hug. "If I had to do it fifty times over again, the fifty-first time I'd still do it the same."

Harry let out a shaky breath against him, and Ron could feel a little of the tension in Harry's body relax, but not nearly enough. Ron pushed him back into the grass and pressed his face into Harry's neck, licking lightly at the pulse point there. Harry sighed softly, a tired, resigned sigh, and slipped his hands beneath Ron's cloak. His hands didn't wander, but simply held on, gripping his jumper tightly. Ron could feel the anxious tension still in Harry's body through layers of cloak and clothing, and wanted to do what he could to ease it, but he didn't want to spook him even further away. So he nuzzled along Harry's neck and the hollow of his jaw with a slow, soothing motion, waiting for Harry's heartbeat to slow.

"Ron?" Harry whispered, a little bit later.

"Mm?"

"I'm not trying to push you away."

"Then don't," Ron said, as if it was the obvious thing.

"It's not that easy," Harry replied, one hand moving up and down Ron's back underneath his cloak. "Out here, I can sort of forget. It all seems kind of far away or something, and I don't have to really think about it."

"Forget what?" Ron asked, rolling onto his side and pulling Harry with him. The ground was chilly and damp, and the air more so as the sun began to set; Ron cast Warming Charms on their cloaks to counter it.

"All of it."

"We can stay for a while, if you want."

"I'd like that," Harry murmured, ducking his head against Ron's shoulder. "Just for a bit?"

The sun dipped lower behind the trees, finally winking out of sight and the air grew even cooler. Ron reapplied the charms on their cloaks and they were quite comfortable as one by one the stars above them blinked into visibility. The shapes and patterns were familiar to Ron, as they were to every wizard, and the names sprang into his mind unbidden as his eyes travelled across the southern sky: Virgo, Leo, Cancer, Gemini; Orion and his hunting dogs, Canis Minor and the very tip of Canis Major, just at the horizon; and the multitude of stars that were scattered all around them.

"There you are," said Hermione. Ron looked up, but in the dark he couldn't tell if she was annoyed or worried; all he could really see was an outline of frizzy hair.

"We were just talking," he said.

Harry shifted in Ron's arms, turning to look up at Hermione. "Hi." He tugged a bit at the hem of her cloak, and Hermione sat down beside him, but not before flicking her wand with a complicated little gesture, surrounding them with a warm pocket of air that curled underneath them like a snugly tucked-in blanket.

She didn't immediately curl up to Harry, however; instead, she looked the two of them uncertainly.

"You okay, Hermione?" Ron asked. He stretched his arm over Harry to take her hand, but she pulled it just out of his reach, twisting her hands in her lap.

"It's just that - " she began, and then faltered. "Like this, you look... I mean, like it's all normal, like things will be okay. And these past few weeks, all I've wanted to do is just hold you, Harry, and you won't let me. And now...."

Ron and Harry both reached for her hand, then, and in the tangle of fingers Ron wasn't sure which fingers belonged to who. Hermione made a soft little noise, like a gasp of relief, and she settled beside Harry with a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"I can't bear it when you shut us out, Harry," she whispered.

"I'm sorry," Harry replied, pulling his hand free of Ron and Hermione's. "I don't mean to."

"Shh," Ron breathed. He didn't want the mood to be spoiled with an argument or upset; Harry was letting them get this close to him, and it would be so easy to scare him off again, and then he would try to isolate himself. Ron squeezed Hermione's hand again, trying to convey that to her, and she either took the hint or came to the conclusion on her own, because she fell silent, wriggling closer to them.

It should have felt strange, being huddled up together in the middle of the meadow, with the faint lights of Hogwarts in the distance and the glittering stars above them, but it didn't, at all. The empty quiet around them seemed very far away and disconnected from their warm space in the grass. Hermione's and Ron's joined hands rested gently on Harry's hip, and little by little, without making any demands of Harry or pressing him to talk, Ron could feel most of the tension melt away from Harry's body. It was so peaceful that Ron was acutely aware of Harry's statement, Out here, I can sort of forget. It all seems kind of far away or something, and I don't have to really think about it, because out here it was easy for Ron to forget, too.

Harry had gone so still and quiet, his only movement being the soft rise and fall of his breathing, that Ron thought he'd gone to sleep, until Harry shifted slightly between them and said so softly Ron almost missed it, "Thanks."

Ron pressed a soft kiss to the side of Harry's neck, and he was aware of Hermione doing the same to Harry's forehead. "Yeah, mate," he said quietly. A tiny tremor of something very pure and indescribable made Ron shiver, and he could feel the same small shiver in Harry and Hermione as well. It was as though there was nothing else on any of their minds, as though nothing else existed in the world besides the three of them, curled together in the warmth of their charmed cloaks and heated air.

A deep, murderous cackle filled the air, shattering the peace around them. "How touching," said Bellatrix Lestrange. "The lengths you would go to for ickle baby Potter!"

The three of them scrambled for their wands, shoving tangled limbs and cloaks out of the way, but a quick "Expelliarmus!" from Bellatrix's companions jerked their wands from their hands before they could even get their fingers around them properly. In the dark, Ron couldn't see well, but there were at least ten Death Eaters surrounding them, hooded and robed and armed. He felt Harry and Hermione get quickly to their feet and a second later they each grabbed him by the arms and hauled him up with them, standing back to back against the predatory circle. Hermione's hand slipped into his, squeezing tightly, and he groped blindly for Harry's on the other side, his brain going ohshite at the rate of about a hundred times a minute.

When their hands connected, Ron felt a sharp jolt pulse through their bodies and he heard Harry's voice as clearly in his mind as if Harry had spoken aloud: Don't panic. Don't fight them. Whatever happens, we need our strength to deal with it when it comes. It was eerily reminiscent of the unspoken communication that had scared the hell out of them that night early in seventh year, the joining of hands that had catapulted them into each others' minds, but this time clearer, more in control, more refined. Ron wasn't about to question it.

"So careless," said a voice from Bellatrix's right, so arrogant it could only belong to Lucius Malfoy.

Whatever you say, Harry, Ron thought desperately.

"Young love," said another, with a muffled chortle.

We'll follow your lead, Hermione thought at them both. If you fight, we'll fight. If you don't, we'll follow you.

Bellatrix moved closer, walking around them in a circle. She alone out of all the Death Eaters was unmasked and unhooded, and the psychotic gleam in her eyes only intensified with each step. "Ooooooooo! He will be so pleased when we've brought him so many toys to play with! Baby Potter, and the Mudblood.... He has plans for you, oh yes. And a spare, to keep us busy while we wait!"

"Nobody's going to be a part of his plans, you stupid bitch," Harry said coldly. His voice was steady and determined, but the hand holding Ron's was shaking fiercely. Ron squeezed it has hard as he could.

"We'll see about that, Potter," said Lucius Malfoy. He grabbed Harry roughly by the shoulder and jerked him away from Ron and Hermione, as Bellatrix took Hermione and another pair of hands yanked Ron aside. Thin cords shot from someone's wand, binding Ron's arms tightly behind his back; it threw his already unsteady balance out of whack and he stumbled against his captor, who hauled him roughly upright again. Then there was the sickening lurch of forced Apparition and everything dissolved from view as they were transported away.

*****

It took Hermione a few seconds to right herself after being Apparated against her will, but it was immediately obvious where they were, and why. Bellatrix had brought her to a large, grand room, much like a throne room or Hogwarts' Great Hall, which looked to be capable of holding a great many people but for now was only occupied by a handful at the very far end.

Harry and Ron were nowhere in sight, nor were the Death Eaters who had been holding them.

"Move, girl," said Bellatrix, pushing Hermione forward with the tip of her wand between her shoulder blades. "You've a job to do, my pretty little Mudblood."

Hermione didn't dignify her insult with a response. Snapping back at Bellatrix or taunting her wouldn't do any good; look where it had gotten Sirius. So she bit back the scathing reply that rose up at the tip of her tongue, her eyes darting around as she walked, looking for any possible out.

Halfway across the room, though, the people at the far end came into focus, and Hermione broke into a run at the sight of them. "Mum? Daddy?" She bolted toward them as fast as she could run with her hands bound, the only thought in her mind they're alive! until she crashed into an invisible barrier just feet away from where they sat at the bottom of the steps. She slammed backwards, landing painfully on her bound hands and swearing loudly.

Bellatrix laughed at her as she struggled to her feet.

"Such impatience, Miss Granger." Another figure came forward, one that she recognised immediately even though she'd only seen him once before, and never in this nearly non-corporeal form. Voldemort was almost transparent, his red eyes seemingly the only solid thing about his entire body.

"I won't do it," she said stubbornly, squaring her shoulders. "Whatever you think it is I'm going to help you with, you can forget it. I'd rather kill myself than lift a finger to help you kill Harry."

"No doubt," said Voldemort softly. "Gryffindors were always brave and foolish and they never mind risking themselves. But they never can resist the lure of the ones they love." He gestured to her parents, still sitting at the bottom of the steps to the raised platform behind them. They appeared bound but otherwise unharmed, as far as she could see.

Hermione's mind raced. How much did Voldemort really know about her being a White Lady? There hadn't been one in Britain in his lifetime, she knew, and most wizards had never even heard of it before. "You can't force me to help you," she snapped. "This magic doesn't work like that. It has to be willingly given - you can't make me."

Voldemort smiled. It was thoroughly unpleasant. "Oh, but I can. You see, I haven't harmed your parents so far, even though their very Muggle presence is an abomination, and I grew weary of waiting for you to step outside the bounds of your Unplottable properties. But I can harm them, and I will, unless you do exactly what I ask."

"My parents know about this war," Hermione said. She wasn't sure if her parents could hear her through the barrier, but she raised her voice nonetheless in case they could. "I've told them all about you, and they'll understand why I say no. They're the ones that taught me to stand up for what I believe in and not give in."

"Perhaps your mother would teach you differently if she knew her words would result in this." He stepped back slightly, turning to allow her an unimpeded view of her parents and swished his wand in their direction. A thick, snakelike cord wound itself around her helpless father's neck, while her mother looked on in horror; a slight flick of his wrist and the cord jerked taught, her father gasping and gulping soundlessly for air; another flick and his head suddenly lolled forward, drooping on his chest like a puppet with its strings cut.

Daddy! she wanted to scream, but she forced her mouth shut, clenching her jaw so tightly she felt she could crack her teeth. Her mother sobbed mutely behind the barrier, which answered Hermione's question of whether they could hear her or not. She couldn't even explain to them why she was refusing, but she could only pray they'd listened to enough of her stories to understand just who it was they were facing here.

"I won't do it," she said again, through gritted teeth.

"No?" Voldemort was so close to her now that she could have reached out and touched him, if she'd wanted to and her hands had been free. "You know, I can tell you what your mother is thinking right now. Would you like to know?"

"No," said Hermione.

"Oh, but I think you would," he said, smiling slightly. "She's so disappointed in you, Hermione. She wishes you'd never become a witch, that you'd never had your Hogwarts letter, that you'd gone to Muggle school like a normal girl. Because if you had, your father would be alive now, and you could all be safe in your house with your little fence around the garden again. That's what she's thinking. And she wants you to put a stop to this, right now, because she doesn't want to die. Your father thought the same, before I killed him - he couldn't understand why his Princess wasn't doing anything to save him..."

"No," Hermione said again, but this time with far less conviction than she did before. That... couldn't be what her mother was thinking, could it? She'd always been so proud of her as a witch, and had always told her to fight for what she believed in, even when it seemed impossible. But he'd known that her father called her 'Princess' - maybe what he was saying was true?

"Yes," said Voldemort. "But if you need more convincing..." He levelled his wand at her mother, looking almost bored, and whispered the words that called forth a blinding burst of green light, sending her crumpling to the floor beside her father in an instant.

"NO!" screamed Hermione, unable to hold back her anguish any longer. Her knees buckled and she sat down hard on the floor, painful, heaving sobs rising up in her throat. I will not cry, I will not give him the satisfaction, I will NOT, she told herself, but she couldn't help it. Those were her parents, and she'd failed them in the worst way possible.

"I am tired of waiting on you, Mudblood," Voldemort said, his voice sharp with anger. "You will use your White Lady powers to help me."

"I won't!" she yelled, as he aimed his wand at her. "You'll have to kill me."

Voldemort laughed, cold and cruel. "Oh no, my dear girl. I will not kill you. You are no use to me dead. I would have preferred that it not happen this way, because as you say, the Lady must be willing. But I have nothing to lose. You cannot harm me with your magic; the worst it can do is be ineffective if it is unsuccessful. So you will do it, because I wish it." He paused then, as if he had the luxury of all the time in the world, which perhaps he did, and then said softly, "Imperio."

Hermione's mind went completely blank. It was as if all her free will and desire had been eradicated from her mind, leaving only a clear white slate on which Voldemort could dictate his instructions. There were no thoughts in her consciousness save Voldemort's, and his directions were utterly compelling.

Get up, White Lady.

Very slowly, as if she were moving underwater, she got to her feet. Her knees were still trembling, but she did not falter.

Put your hands on me.

The bonds fell away from her arms, and she stepped forward, reaching out to him. She expected her hands to sink into his nearly non-corporeal form, but they did not; he felt as solid as any human would be when her palms came in contact with the bare not-skin of his face.

Return me to my form.

The magic flowed from her fingertips like water, uninhibited by thought or conscious control, pouring out of her in a wave so strong that it made her dizzy. A pure stream of healing magic, completely unrestricted, and she was powerless to stop it even as she saw the results before her eyes. Voldemort became more solid as she watched, his skin turning from misty to opaque, from skeletally white to grey to a warm, healthy golden colour; his eyes morphing from red slits to normal eyes of a brilliant, deep blue, with thick, jet-black hair appearing on his head.

It was as though he'd transformed into a completely different person.

She couldn't stop what was happening, even though it made her stomach lurch with distaste; the vicious grip of the Imperius Curse made it impossible to stop the frenetic flow of her magic, even though it was rapidly draining her of her energy.

Voldemort held up his hands, between his eyes and hers, examining them in wonder as they changed from large and pale, with spidery fingers, to a normal skin colour and size. A brilliant smile burst across his now-handsome face.

"Finite."

Hermione crumpled to the floor again, her vision going grey around the edges. What had she done? How had he forced her to use her healing magic against her will? It should have been impossible for her to use her magic under the Imperius Curse, as it was something that had to be willingly given and received, and yet it had worked.

"This is even better than I expected," he said. Even his voice had changed - it was no longer the rasp of a grotesquely transformed dark lord, but the smooth baritone of a young adult man. "You've restored me to my former body, but with all of my skills intact - I can feel them all, still inside." He gave his wand a little twirl with his fingers, looking down at her with a nasty smirk. "You'll be very useful to me, Hermione. I shall have to ensure that nothing happens to such a valuable asset, even if you are a Mudblood. Draco!"

"Yes, my Lord?" Draco Malfoy stepped up from the shadows; Hermione had been so focused on her parents, she had not noticed him there before. He wore the robe of the Death Eaters, but not the hood, and his resemblance to his father was striking.

"You will be rewarded for suggesting such a remarkably successful course of action, Draco," Voldemort said.

Malfoy nodded. "Thank you, my Lord."

This is not happening, Hermione thought desperately, trying to hang on to the last bit of energy she had left and stay conscious. The unrestrained flow of healing magic had nearly wiped her out, and her hands trembled violently with exhaustion.

Voldemort gestured in her direction. "I will need her, again, later. Make sure she is taken care of, and well-secured; I do not wish to lose something so useful, considering what I have in store for Potter later."

"As you wish, my Lord." Malfoy reached for Hermione, pulling her to her feet again with little care, and Voldemort made a disapproving noise.

"Do not damage her, Draco," he said warningly. "The only White Lady in Britain is little use to me broken."

"Of course, sir."

Hermione's hands were bound again, not that it was really necessary. Only three steps across the chamber, and the drain on her magic finally caught up with her; the last thing she remembered hearing was Malfoy swearing as she passed out, slumping against him in a dead faint.