Daddy's Favorite

They send you away before they close the coffin.

I remember that from when my grandmother died. They always send you away before they close the coffin. Just like they send you away before they bury it. Oh, I don't mean those few handfuls of dirt they let you toss in at the graveside, I mean the actual burial, the torrent of muddy clots and wet earth that pour into the wounded ground to form the nice, neat mound of a new grave. It's the sounds, I'm sure, that are so terrible. The sound of clots raining down on the casket, the sound of awful finality as the coffin lid comes down on its ornate, gleaming latch. When we hear those sounds, those dull impacts of earth on wood or lid on latch, we understand that we have reached a boundary, a dividing line of existence. Where once there was life now there is death and nothing will change that, not even waving a wand.

I remember the day I first stepped into Ollivander's and bought my wand. I remember thinking of it as a key to possibility, a pen with which to write a new kind of life, a life totally different from the one I was leaving behind with so few regrets.

In some ways this new life has been totally different. But in others it hasn't been different at all. I remember the first time I opened Goshawk's Book of Spells, Level 1, and thought how marvelous and neat it all seemed. And it has been marvelous, but not necessarily neat. Well, sometimes, it's been neat, but... oh, why can't I ever put things clearly about real life? I do it so well on tests, but when it comes to real things I always stumble and fumble and get confused. Like when I tried to tell Harry and Ron why Sirius' endorsement of the DA made me nervous, or when I told Harry about his "saving people thing."

No, that last one is too painful to think of right now. I'll keep my mind on today. That's right, just today. I can't help Harry if I'm crippled with regrets. He has enough of his own. I need to help him get past his own self-blame, not wallow in my own - which of course doesn't change the fact that I blame myself totally. Why did I have to put that way? Why did I have to make it sound like I was criticizing him? Why couldn't I have come up with some gentle way of talking to him? No, I just blundered on, saying, "this isn't a criticism," which he of course took to mean that it really was. And it wasn't! Harry's bravery and generosity are part of what make him so wonderful. It's just that cruel people take advantage of those kinds of things. Why didn't I put it like that?

I never realized how much a school trunk resembles a coffin. I guess that's why mine is still standing open, even though the morning of Leavetaking Day is passing fast. I can't bear to close it. I can't bear to hear that dull thud and know that another boundary has been passed - a terrible border marking the end of joy and the beginning of pain, the death of peace and the birth of war. But that is selfish. Why should I hold back from crossing that boundary, when those I love have been thrown forcibly across it?

The fifth year Gryffindor girls' dormitory is empty except for me. Lavender Brown was the last to leave. She stood in the back of the room while I carefully folded my robes and placed them in the top of the trunk, slipping my prefects' badge into a convenient holding pocket in the trunk's lid. I suppose she wanted to talk for once. We have had very little to say to each other this year. I guess it isn't very fair of me. After all, Lavender has not actually done anything, has she? It isn't like she actively betrayed us like Marietta Edgecombe. And she has tried very hard to make amends, even joining the D.A.

Nonetheless she is a traitor. And in that her treachery was the first of this long, horrible year, it was in some ways the worst.

Age often marvels at the naive beliefs of youth. At least so I am told. And certainly I cannot believe the stupidity of my nine-months younger self. Was it really me, that silly female who came to Hogwarts on Welcoming Day, 1995? Or was it some embryonic Hermione Granger, a rough draft still needing the final touches of the charcoal pen to take its final, true form?

What did I expect? What was it about what Lavender said that was so shocking? I remember being shocked.

It was the reaction of a naive prefect who blathered too much and thought, really thought as compared to memorize and analyze, to little. I preached about House unity, and I repeated what Dumbledore said about division and discord being one of the greatest weapons of Darkness. I even sometimes quoted the Hat's song about the Houses coming together.

I believed in all those things. I still believe in them, come down to it. But I'm no longer so foolish as to think that such lessons are self-evident, or that the equations that govern my logic balance according to everyone's calculations.

But on that September evening I still thought that some things simply were, and that anyone not evil (like Malfoy) or ignorant to an astounding degree (like Fudge), or both (like Crabbe and Goyle) would have to recognize them. Harry was to be trusted, the Ministry was not. Dumbledore did not lie and was not crazy. Cedric Diggory was dead and somebody had to have killed him.

So it was with utter disbelief that I first heard Lavender say, "I'm not sure I feel safe this year, you know. I mean at first I thought Potter had to be playing some sort of game, but now after looking at him I think he's just gone mad." When I turned to her, my mouth hanging open, she rushed to assure me that, "It isn't that I dislike him, poor thing. But it's obvious he isn't all there. I mean just look at him! He's wound up tight as a spring, like he's expecting to be attacked at any minute. What on Earth could hurt him here at Hogwarts?"

"Well," I said, finding my voice, "there was Professor Quirrell, and the basilisk second year, and the dementors, and that Deatheater last year posing as a professor." My tone was reasonable, but I feel myself growing hot. The other girls nodded at my speech, but Miss Brown was unimpressed.

"Really Hermione," Lavender said in a superior tone that suddenly, chillingly, sounded more than a little like Draco Malfoy's contemptuous drawl, "Try to be adult about this! No one is saying that Potter hasn't done some impressive things. But You-Know-Who? Everyone knows he's been gone for nearly fifteen years! Trying to scare people over bogeymen is not the mark of a stable or responsible mind! My parents said that if it weren't for Dumbledore's political ambitions Potter would have spent this summer in St. Mungo's!"

Others from the female side of Gryffindor Tower had heard Lavender's raised voice and were beginning to crowd into the dormitory. I looked around and saw with sick disbelief that several of them - not the majority, but still quite a few - wouldn't meet my gaze. In the back of the room Ginny was watching, pale with surprise and anger.

For a moment I was literally speechless. I had expected the Slytherins to deny the Dark Lord's return - although deep down I was treasuring a hope that not all of them would turn out to be like Malfoy and his cronies. But it had never occurred to me that there would be doubt about Harry within Gryffindor House! I had simply assumed that the Gryffindors would rally around Harry as a matter of course.

Percy Weasley was a Gryffindor, so was Peter Pettigrew.

That thought was as sobering as it was unwelcome. And that was doubtless part of what caused the sudden flush of rage that nearly blinded me with its coming. Hardly thinking about my actions I moved, no stalked, toward Lavender with hands half clenched. "If that is what you really think, Lavender, then your head is as empty as one of Trelawney's crystal balls."

I heard gasps from around the room, but did not turn to see from whom they issued. Lavender stood gaping at me, then began to swell like a puffer fish. "See here, Hermione! You have no right..."

"I have every right!" My voice was actually hissing, since I was so mad my teeth were clenching automatically. "Harry has faced down more Dark Magic than most wizards ever see their entire lives! The entire wizarding world should trust him implicitly! Instead those idiots at the Daily Prophet are lining up to kiss Fudge's arse!"

"Now I hardly think..." Lavender retreated a step with a look of confusion and fright.

"No, you don't. So keep your big, fat, stupid mouth shut about Harry!"

"Look, just because he's your boyfriend..." Lavender started desperately.

"She told you to shut it, Brown." That was Ginny's voice, and it was filled to the brim with patented Weasley temper.

Lavender pressed her lips together defiantly, but rather than speaking strode out of the room in a huff, her nightgown fluttering like a dementor's robe.

I hold that image in my mind, smiling sourly as I finally pull the lid of my trunk closed. It makes a hollow thud, just as I had thought. One more line in my life demarcated.

My life has been filled with boundaries. Perhaps I create them in my memory, out of a desire for neatness. But some are real enough. The day I got my Hogwarts Letter was one, of course. But that is not the most important boundary in my life. That honor belongs to the line I crossed on 31 October, 1991, approximately 8:30 in the evening. I was hiding in the bathroom, crying over something Ron had said about me being a nightmare and not having any friends. He was right. I didn't have any friends. I never had had any friends. And I could see no hope of ever having any friends. Did my love of books and learning come from a lonely life, or did my leanings and habits cut me off from my fellows? I don't know. That's one of those real life things I never can get neat and straight. And it doesn't matter. Because that was the night the troll attacked. And that was the night, and the moment, they came for me.

My boys. My darling, infuriating, baffling, glorious, incredible, beautiful boys. From that moment on it was Ron and Harry, Harry and Ron. My life had suddenly been transfigured as completely as a random object in one of Professor McGonagall's demonstrations. And it was the greatest miracle that anyone could ever want.

I lean forward against my trunk, my eyes squeezed shut against the burning tears that nevertheless escape and trickle down my face. My heart feels like lead, so heavy is it with sorrow and pain and most of all love. Love for my wonderful boys. Love for Harry and Ron, Ron and Harry.

I love both of them so very, very much, but so very differently. Ron is maddening and stubborn and gentle and adorable and handsome and so many other things. He awakes fierce feelings in me that frighten me a bit. Particularly the ones closely associated with parts of my anatomy, or parts of his anatomy. When I started dreaming about him I thought I was under too much stress. Now I understand I was right, but that the stress wasn't from anger and frustration, but something else.

Harry is so very different. The feelings he awakes are those of awe and wonder and amazement, coupled inevitably with pity and remorse and a kind of intense protectiveness that I suppose is like that of a mother for a fragile child.

Together the three of us are so much stronger, so much happier, and so much more whole. For nearly four years I basked in our love for each other, so strong and resilient, but also so comforting, soft and warm like a baby blanket wrapped around the three of us as if we were infant triplets nestled together in our playpen.

But that came to an end this year. Not the love, not the loyalty, but the warmth and comfort. The sweet optimism that made every setback appear, at least sometimes, like a mere episode in an inevitable progression of victory and happiness.

They hurt them! They hurt my beautiful boys!

They hurt all of us. And the way the did it was by striking at Harry. Harry the wonderful. Harry the brave. Harry the beautiful and delicate. Harry, the lynchpin around which Ron and I structure so much of our lives, even our lives with regard to each other.

Umbridge, Fudge, Malfoy, the Prophet, Voldemort, Bellatrix, even Percy and Kreacher (and those last two are special treacheries) ground down on Harry like so many Muggle jackhammers. And I, great prat that I am, did not fully realize what was happening until it was too late. Until, indeed, the worst had transpired and I was forced to lay flat on my back in the Hospital Wing, staring at the ceiling and reviewing all the tragedies of this horrible year. Until I understood the awful wound that had opened in Harry, the wound that radiated pain ensnaring Ron and me as surely as the spell of a dementor.

They took his safety, the thing that the Order tried to so hard to preserve last summer. They took his good name, which he had earned with blood and pain and heroism. They took his joy, banning him from quidditch, banishing him from Hogsmeade, impounding his Firebolt, the most precious physical link to the godfather in whom he invested so much hope and so many dreams. And then they took Sirius himself.

Most of insidious of all, they took his sweetness, the gentle warmth he had somehow preserved in spite of his horrid relatives and all the dangers he had faced. They, or I should say she, meaning Umbridge, made him carve lies into his own flesh, causing his own body to betray him with hurtful mockery. They robbed him of his faith in everyone and everything, or nearly everyone and everything, he had learned to trust and believe in with such slow and painful effort.

Of course, Harry's enemies had plenty of help. He helped them himself, the great git! That idiotic, blind, stubborn pride of his played directly into their hands. He refused to listen to advice or seek help. Umbridge was torturing him? Did he turn to adults for help? No, he would fight her on her own terms. Voldemort was assaulting him with visions. Did he listen to Dumbledore and persist in Occlumency? No, he accepted them as truth and acted accordingly. He was frightened and angry and hurting from dementor attacks and Snape's unfairness and Seamus' ignorance. Did he seek comfort and love from Ron and me? No, he yelled at us with words dipped in soul poison. Sirius died. Did he come to me and let me cradle him and weep with him and whisper soft, soothing reassurances? No, he even now sits silently, staring at nothing with eyes so full of pain and betrayal and self-loathing that it breaks my heart anew every time I look into them.

Yes, Harry has proven himself one of the world's most stubborn, infuriating, self-centered, self-destructive prats. And what I want more than anything in the world, what I would do in an instant if he just gave me so much as an eye-flicker of encouragement, is to pull him into my embrace and rock him and caress him and croon a sweet lullabye. I want to wrap my arms around his quivering shoulders and then have Ron wrap his arms around both of us. I want Harry to let us treat him like the frightened, hurt, abused boy he is. I want him to renounce his idiotic pride and dissolve in a flood of shuddering sobs, as he has every right to do.

"Miss Granger?"

I whirl at the voice, startled so badly I almost reach for my wand. But my brain registers recognition before my hand can move.

Professor McGonagall is standing several feet away, her hands folded in her usual demeanor of efficient poise. Her expression is brisk and stern, but with a softening around the mouth and a slight, surprising uncertainty in her eyes.

"Professor! I'm sorry, I... I didn't hear you."

"Obviously." She gives a small but real smile. "I'm glad you aren't as keyed up as Mr. Potter. I wouldn't want to be blasted back down the stairs."

I frown at that. Making jokes about Harry's nerves isn't very nice.

"I am sorry, Miss Granger. That was uncalled for." Sadness floods her eyes.

I manage to keep my mouth from hanging open in shock. McGonagall apologizing? It seems that unheard of things do happen.

"Are you finished packing?"

"Uhh... oh, yes Professor. Do you need anything? Has something happened?" I feel a sudden surge of panic.

"No, no, Miss Granger. Everything is ... as well as it can be."

Which is of course not very well. How could it be, in such a suffering world?

"Do you have a few moments, Miss Granger?"

I'm at a loss. McGonagall is treating me like some kind of ... colleague? A few months ago I would have been so thrilled as to hardly keep from squealing. Now... I'm confused.

"I'm not sure, Professor. The train leaves soon, and Ron and I want to make sure we walk with Harry. To..." I trail off. Why is it that, even after this year, I am unable to just bluntly come out and tell McGonagall the truth? We want to walk with Harry so that we can use some very creative curses on Malfoy or his cronies if they so much as glance at Harry maliciously.

"I understand that you are not the only ones to feel that way." The stern Scot smile is the same, but her eyes twinkle. Not like Dumbledore's, of course. But for McGonagall the soft sparkles are extraordinary.

"Really? I don't know what you mean, Professor."

"It seems that many of your colleagues from the Defense Association agree. A full battalion seems to be gathering just inside the main doors."

"Oh." I had not expected any such development. But the news floods me with a warmth that is most welcome after the sad chill of the last few days.

"Yes, Mr. Potter is once again a very popular person, it seems."

"He always should have been!"

"Yes, Miss Granger, I know." Her expression is very strange, suffused with something that after a few seconds I recognize as regret.

"The train does not leave for quite a while yet," McGonagall continues, "I would be very grateful Miss... Hermione, if you would speak with me for just a few minutes." She pauses and continues softly, "I think Harry will be safe enough here in the Tower." She sits on my bed and looks at me with an extremely sad, tired gaze.

"Of course, Professor." I move to sit on Parvati's bed so as to face her, but she gestures that I should sit next to her.

She is silent for a moment. I wait for her to speak, not quite sure what to make of her reticence. I have always respected the faculty here at Hogwarts, and seeing her so... human... is unsettling.

But that is not true, is it? As she searches for words I realize with a shock that my attitude toward the teachers, like so much else in the messy real world, is not nearly so neat and straightforward as I would like.

I did regard them all with awe at first. And for the longest time I accorded them the automatic deference I had given my Muggle teachers. But respect, that is a complex issue. It seems that everything is turning out to be complicated.

I respected McGonagall of course, and Dumbledore. I had the greatest regard for Professor Flitwick and Professor Vector and Professor Sinistra. But Professor Sprout... well, I respect her knowledge, but for some reason I never seemed to be able to understand quite what she wanted out of her students. I mean, I dutifully learned all the facts about magical plants and herbs. I learned all the techniques she taught. But it often seemed like she was looking for something almost, well, mystical. Time and time again I would follow instructions precisely, only to find that my Shrinking Violets could never miniaturize themselves to the same extent as Neville's, or that his Prism Plants produced perfect rainbows whereas mine always contained slight imperfections. And when I asked for explanations from Sprout (or, in fits of desperation, from Neville) I would receive pitying looks and patient lectures on the value of "sensitivity."

As for Hagrid, he is a dear of course, but I was shocked that they actually allowed him to teach. And Trelawney just makes me absolutely furious. How could Dumbledore allow that old fraud to be Hogwarts professor? Snape, of course, is in a category all his own.

And after this year, I'm not sure I'll look at any of the faculty quite the same way again. The way that all of them, even Dumbledore and McGonagall, were so easily controlled by Umbridge stunned me at first. Then it infuriated and saddened me. I mean, I knew of course that they realistically could do little against the power of the Ministry, not to mention the tides of public opinion, but to have their true weakness exposed so brutally was embarassing and indecent. It was like discovering that your parents were frauds and charlatans.

That is unfair. But so much of this magical world has turned out to be unfair. And, to be honest, a little bit of me is all too glad for adults (other than Sirius and Hagrid and Professor Lupin, that is) to shoulder a share of the injustice.

"How are you doing, Hermione?" McGonagall finally asks. "The plural 'you,' that is."

"I don't know, Professor," I say slowly. "I'm not sure I can even answer for myself, much less Ron. And Harry..." I make a helpless gesture.

She nods sadly. "I think I can speak for both myself and Professor Dumbledore when I say that we were concerned that Mr. Potter chose not to join us last night."

"Harry is very tired, I think Professor. And surely he has a right, after all that's happened..."

"Of course, of course." McGonagall cuts over me, raising her hands in a placating gesture. "We were neither of us surprised, I don't think. Or angry, it should go without saying. Just concerned."

I note the way she is putting things. "Forgive me if I am being rude, Professor, but are you speaking for the Headmaster or not?"

Her lips narrow, and for a moment she is the old, stern Head of Gryffindor. Then she softens just a bit. "I have not spoken specifically with the Headmaster on this subject, Miss Granger. However, I feel safe in saying he was concerned."

I start to speak, but catch myself. I'm a little surprised by what I was about to say.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" McGonagall raises her eyebrows.

"Just something... somebody... said a while back, Professor."

The only thing Dumbledore cares about me is my scar.

"What might that be, Miss Granger?"

I shake my head resolutely.

"Hermione," McGonagall suddenly softens again, "please. I only want to help."

"I, well, I guess I'm not sure Harry would find that very convincing. That you feel sure about... you know." I speak reluctantly, feeling like I am betraying Harry. But, damn it all to Hell, I'm sick of watching him stew in his own suffering and silence!

I'm not sure what I expect McGonagall to say. But I certainly cannot read the inscrutable look she gives me. Then, to my surprise, she looks away for a moment and I could swear I see a gleam suspiciously like tears in her eyes, even as her mouth settles in lines of unmistakable annoyance. Yet I sense that the annoyance is not for me, or for Harry.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Hermione. I do, Severus does, Sirius did. Even Albus makes mistakes." She looks back at me grimly. "I think you can accept that. Perhaps Harry cannot yet."

"That isn't fair!" I say, feeling a surge of anger. "After everything he's seen! Everything he's been through! Why does Harry have to be a saint? Why is he supposed to be patient and understanding of everybody?"

I start to cry then. Who would have thought? After all the cuts I've gotten from the sharp side of Harry's tongue, here I am defending his right to be foul-tempered and cranky!

And then I feel McGonagall's arm go around me, a little awkwardly but still there. And she is patting my shoulder. "Shhh, Hermione. I wasn't criticizing Harry. I wouldn't do that."

"Yes you would," I say, feeling brave and angry and tired and bitter and mean-spirited. "He came to you when Umbridge called him a liar - A LIAR - on the first day of classes! Cedric was dead and that bitch called him a liar and you said she was his teacher and he just had to deal with it!"

"I did not... I tried to warn him Hermione."

"WARN HIM? He's fifteen years old! He isn't supposed to fight your battles for you!" The tears are coming in great streams now. "He had to watch Cedric die and they stabbed him and put the Cruciatus curse on him and Dumbledore made him go back to those people! Then he had to fight dementors and have a trial at the Ministry and Dumbledore wouldn't even talk to him!"

"Hermione..."

But it is all coming out now, and I am babbling and crying and ranting and I don't care. "He was so hurt and confused and angry! I thought when we got back to Hogwarts everything would be OK because people would believe Harry and talk to him and try to help him! I thought everybody would see what Fudge was trying to do! I thought Snape would try to be a little better after everything that had happened."

"Shhh Hermione..."

"But then Dumbledore still wouldn't talk to Harry and he made Malfoy a prefect... MALFOY... and Snape was as terrible as ever and Umbridge called him a LIAR in front of everybody and you just told him he would have to deal with it!"

"Hermione...."

"And then she made him... she made him carve lies into his hand and OH GOD he bled so badly and it must have hurt him so much and you took points from him to punish him even more and she banned him and stole the Firebolt Sirius gave him and she gloated, the bitch gloated!" I'm crying so hard now my whole body is shaking.

McGonagall is silent.

"OH GOD!!" I can barely breath and I rasp out the rest, "they hurt him so bad and Ron hurt with him even though Harry couldn't see it because Ron hid it but I saw it I knew that they were both hurt and I couldn't do anything!"

McGonagall has taken her arm away but I don't care.

"They hurt them," I say hoarsely, "my boys, my beautiful boys, they hurt them so bad and I couldn't do anything and Sirius died right in front of Harry's eyes and he blames himself and they HURT MY BOYS and I couldn't stop them! I couldn't stop them!"

I sob and heave and weep, losing myself in an apoplexy of sorrow. For long minutes all I can do is rock back and forth, trying hard not to vomit so hard is my crying. Finally I am able to take a shuddering breath and speak once again.

"Why are you asking me anyway? Why aren't you talking to Harry?"

I look over to McGonagall and see to my shock that she has buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders are shaking. Finally she looks up I see that she is, indeed, weeping.

"Well," the professor says, trying to recover the briskness in her tone as she wipes her face with a large, business-like handkerchief, "where to begin? I'm talking to you, Hermione, because I doubt Harry would tell me anything of value."

"Probably not," I agree softly, "he will hardly talk to Ron or me. Maybe Professor Lupin? I just don't know."

"Nor do I. Next I will acknowledge that everything you have said is just. None of us wanted Cedric or Sirius to die, Hermione. And none of us wanted all of this pain."

She is silent for a moment. It is as if she is collecting her strength.

"As for Albus, and how he feels about Harry, you saw his face at the Leavetaking Feast. What did it tell you?"

I did see Dumbledore's face last night. And his eyes. The eyes were the most important.

The Leavetaking Feast this year, like last year, was not in classic Hogwarts' tradition. I had rather hoped that the Great Hall would be decorated in black in honor of Sirius, as it had been last year for Cedric Diggory. It was not. I suppose that political reality forbids honoring a mass-murderer, even a falsely accused one who never had a trial and who had died fighting for the good of the wizarding world. As Ron and I took our seats I remarked on this fact.

"Yeah," he said glumly, "I guess it's a good thing Harry didn't come. He'd just blow his stack over that."

"Don't you think he'll come down?" I said. I was hoping he would. Harry needed to be with other people desperately.

"No," Ron replied flatly, staring at his plate, "I don't think so."

"Well," Seamus said hesitantly, "at least it isn't all silver and green."

That was true. Usually the Leavetaking Feast finds the Great Hall decorated in the colors of the House who has won the House Cup. That would have been Slytherin this year, but the Hall was decorated in the same motif used for the Welcome Feast, that is with the flags and colors of all the Houses. I had not thought of it up to that point, odd as it sounds coming from me, but I wondered what would be done about the House Cup. Given the rape Umbridge had perpetrated on the point system, awarding it to Slytherin seemed utterly unfair. But, truth to tell, I had a hard time caring about the dratted cup right then. Looking around at the subdued students, I got the impression my feelings were generally shared. Even the Slytherins sat silently.

"Subdued, aren't they?" Parvati commented, seeing me looking at our House's traditional rivals. "I hear that they are badly divided. It seems that some of them don't care for being associated with convicted Deatheaters or their allies."

"Where did you get that information, Parvati?" I asked wearily, "Professor Trelawney?"

To my surprise she grinned. "Madam Pomfrey. I went to the Infirmary yesterday to thank her for giving me that headache potion back during OWLS. I heard her complaining to Snape that he should check the dungeons for clumsiness curses, because she had been weighted down with Slytherin injuries all week. Goyle and Crabbe both took tumbles down the stairs in the Slytherin dormitories, and Millicent Bulstrode managed to get her hair tangled in her bed curtains."

"I don't believe it," Ron said, still speaking flatly, "a Slytherin is a Slytherin and will always be a Slytherin."

"I don't know, Ron," Neville commented to everyone's surprise. "Zabini isn't such a bad sort. Silent and kind of cold, but not really nasty."

"Yeah," Ginny agreed, "and one of the seventh year Slytherins told me the other day in the library that she thought Harry's ban was really unfair and hoped it got lifted. She said that when her older brother first entered Slytherin several years ago things were a lot different. Back then the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor was fierce but not, you know, cruel the way it is now. Her brother even dated a couple of Gryffindors without anything bad happening. She said things have been getting worse for quite a while, and got really bad when Malfoy and his cronies showed up."

I found my interest perked. Maybe my hopes for some degree of House cooperation weren't so ill-founded. But then I felt a wave of despair roll over my heart. Important as unity may have been, I was too tired, we were all too hurt. I just did not have the strength to care very much right at that moment.

Ron just snorted and gave his sister an annoyed look. He has such a knack for looking cute and annoyed at the same time! "Look Ginny," he said slowly, "I was thinking that Dumbledore might let Harry out of that place early this year. Maybe you and he could..." he broke off as the staff began to file in.

They all look as tired and worried as I feel. Even Dumbledore is walking slowly, with movements like an old man. As he reached his chair the Headmaster broke off his conversation with Flitwick and looked directly at me. I froze in shock.

After a half-beat of my heart I realized that he wasn't looking at me at all, but at the empty place between Ron and me, the place where Harry should have been sitting. At first his expression was hopeful. It wasn't his usual twinkling optimism, but rather a kind of desperate hope, as if he were longing to see something that he knew was not going to be there. Then a great wave of pain flooded his eyes and he looked away. I had never felt so embarassed in my entire life. Seeing Dumbledore like that, so sad and so obviously worried, was bad enough. But there was something else in his eyes, something I had seen in Harry's eyes every day since Sirius fell. It was self-loathing. I was so horrified I did not know what even to think, much less say.

Then he stepped forward and his face took on a much more familiar expression. It wasn't the joviality tinged with sadness he usually expressed at Leavetaking Feasts, but rather the same stern demeanor he had worn last year. The hall was already nearly silent and now might as well have been empty, so little noise was being made. Dumbledore usually spoke after everyone had nearly finished eating, but he seemed ready to break yet another tradition this evening.

"Another year, gone." That at least was in keeping with his standard practice, even if the hard tone was not. "And there is so much we all wish we could call back and make right."

A soft sigh of sound echoes through the Hall, like a cool wind. I was surprised to see Seamus looking hard at the table, his eyes clouded. I stole a glance at the Slytherins. There did indeed seem to be a break in their ranks this year. I see with surprise that, unlike the other Houses, they are not seated by year, but rather Malfoy, Parkinson, and their circle are occupying the upper part of the table, glaring defiantly in Dumbledore's direction. Whatever you might say about Malfoy, he evidently had found some nerve somewhere, although the gleaming in his eyes looked a little like tears and the expression he wore as he watched Dumbledore was a little - hurt? I felt my anger rise. I had no idea what Malfoy's expression might mean, but it annoyed me to the point of violence. Just where did that worthless prat get off thinking he had a right to hurt feelings? If Dolores Umbridge had put the Cruciatus curse on Harry he would have laughed like a maniac!

About a third of the Slytherins were grouped firmly at that end of the table. There was a noticeable gap and then the rest of the House, about half of whom seemed to be lost in thought while the other half alternated looking furtively at Malfoy and his ilk then returning their attention to Dumbledore. True to Neville's observation, Blaise Zabini had abandoned his year-mates to sit half-way down the table, his arm thrown protectively around a fourth-year whose name I can't remember but who I recall vaguely is of the same "stand-offish but not obnoxious" type as himself.

"So much," Dumbledore repeated. "I will not bore you by telling you what you have already heard. Voldemort has returned, as I said last year. I spoke then of the necessity of choosing between what is right and what is easy. Some of you have yet to make your choice," for just an instant, so fast I might have imagined it, his eyes seemed to dart toward Blaise Zabini, "others have chosen and paid so very dearly," once again he looked at Harry's empty place with intense sorrow. "Others," he went on, this time staring straight out into space, "will find that choices have consequences beyond your imagining." There was a brief stir from the Malfoy contingent.

Ron's sharp elbow collided with my ribs. I turned to scowl at him but he pointed toward the Ravenclaw table with a grin. In the middle of a conspicuous circle of empty seats a veiled Marietta Edgecombe looked like she was trying to slide under the table. Cho Chang, sitting next to her in the empty zone, glared back at me, but I ignored her serenely.

"I ask that everyone rise now and join me in a toast," Dumbledore continued. "I give you all of those who have exposed Voldemort's return." He proceeded to list our names.

For the next several moments I endured intense embarrassment as the Hall rose to toast us. The split among the Slytherins became glaringly obvious, as the lower end of the table rose only slightly later than the other three Houses, whereas Malfoy and his allies did not come to their feet until Snape descended from the staff table and barked something at them.

"As for the House Cup," Dumbledore finally announced, "I fear that the many irregularities of the last few weeks leave us with even more heart-felt questions than usual regarding the final point totals." There was a wave of laughter at that from everybody except the Slytherins. Snape looked like he had swallowed battery acid. "Therefore I regret to say that the House Cup will not be awarded this year. Several persons have expressed concern over particular disciplinary actions taken during the past year. Rest assured that the faculty will be reviewing all of these issues and will take appropriate measures to redress any lingering problems arising from individuals overstepping their authority."

I could not resist throwing a look in the direction of the former Inquisitorial Squad. Most of them were looking like they would gladly commit murder. Dumbledore's references had been oblique, but no one had any doubt as to whom he referred.

For the rest of the feast I tried my utmost to ignore the empty seat beside me. Several times I looked up to find Dumbledore looking at the place where Harry should have been. His eyes were old. And that bothered me most of all. I could blame Harry, easily, for the pain of this year. I could blame Ron and myself even more easily. Most easily of all I could loathe Malfoy and Umbridge and Percy and... oh, dear, the list is getting very long. But I did not want to blame Dumbledore. Dumbledore after all is the greatest wizard in the world. The one wizard that causes Voldemort to feel fear. To see that sad, old, look in his eyes filled ME with fear.

I am brought back to the present by the sound of McGonagall's throat clearing. From the look on her face it is not the first time she has tried to politely break my revery.

"Yes, Professor, I saw the Headmaster and the way he looked," I say slowly.

"Well, then..."

"But," I feel the words dragged forth as if against resistance, "I still don't understand why he was so mean to Harry."

"Mean? As in cruel?" McGonagall's expression is unreadable.

"Well, he did make him stay at those awful relatives of his, and right after Cedric died, too. Ron said Mrs. Weasley wanted to have Harry come straight to the Burrow but Dumbledore insisted he had to go back to Privet Drive. And then later he didn't want Harry to come to Headquarters. He wouldn't even let us tell him anything. It made Harry furious, and I don't blame him! It was like Dumbledore was angry with him, but I can't imagine what cause he would have had."

"Angry?" McGonagall smiles tightly. "Not at all."

"Then why?"

McGonagall seems to be uncertain once again. When she speaks, it is slowly. "Hermione, you know that anything you tell me I hold in the utmost confidence, unless I am convinced that I must speak to head off harm."

"Well, yes." I had assumed this was the case. McGonagall just radiates integrity.

"May I ask the same of you?"

For a moment I am stunned. She is taking me into her confidence? A warmth suspiciously like pleasure mixed with pride wells from my toes.

"Of course Professor. I won't speak of anything we talk about - unless it's really necessary to help someone or protect them."

"I'm glad you used that phrasing, Hermione." McGonagall fiddles with the front of her dress. It looks like she is trying not to wring her hands. "How long do you suppose I have known Professor Dumbledore?"

"I would guess about fifty years." I am a little uncomfortable. McGonagall doesn't strike me as the sort of woman who is sensitive about her age, but you can't ever tell.

But she just jerks her head up and down once, sharply. "That is about right. And how many times do you suppose I have ever seen him frightened - not just concerned or worried, but really, genuinely, afraid?"

I swallow hard. This isn't exactly what I want to discuss right now. But it would appear I have little choice if I want to continue this conversation. "Not often. Six times?"

"Fewer. Once, when I was a student and Grindelwald was at the height of his power, again nearly sixteen years ago now, and this past summer."

"What was he so afraid of, Voldemort attacking?"

"Yes. Particularly Voldemort attacking Harry."

"But that is an even better reason why he should have been at Headquarters! Or even at the Weasley's. Surely they could protect him better than those awful relatives of his!"

"I cannot pretend to know everything that Albus has done or planned or is doing or is planning, Miss Granger. I do know that he always has reasons."

"That isn't...."

"Very satisfying. Yes, I know." Her smile seems more relaxed now - or at least relaxed for her. "Albus and Harry are much alike when it comes to not talking about important things. I sometimes want to shake both of them!"

The image of Minerva McGonagall shaking Albus Dumbledore like a naughty child is so strange, so unimaginable, and yet so completely in character that I giggle a little.

"But I can tell you a little more," the professor continues. "You-Know-Who has been sending attacks against Harry's mind. This latest vision of Sirius was just the most recent."

"I know," I say softly. I understand how much Harry hates Snape - at least I think I do, although a couple of things he has said this week have made me wonder if I truly appreciate the depth of his feeling. And really, Snape has asked for it! I can understand why he might not care if his students like him, and I realize he has appearances to consider, but if he wants respect, particularly from Harry, then he needs to cease his gross unfairness! But why couldn't the two of them have put things aside for the greater good, at least for an hour a week? And why couldn't I have come up with a better way to try to get Harry to continue occlumency lessons?

I have learned something about boys, and I suppose men, this year. It is a lesson that is more obvious in retrospect than it was at the time, but that makes it no less painful and infuriating. Put simply, most males have a mental classification called "nagging woman." Once you get filed under that heading in their stubborn minds, they perceive most of what you say as meaningless noise. I wonder if I would have been better off to have punched Harry in the jaw.

"Professor Dumbledore was concerned not to give the Dark Lord incentive. If the Dark Lord sensed he could gain secrets from Harry's mind, or that he could spy on Dumbledore or the Order, he might have mounted a full scale attack on Harry's consciousness, even to the point of possessing him as happened with Miss Weasley three years ago."

"I see." My hands twiddle about in my lap as I think. "But I still don't understand. Why wait so long to begin Harry's occlumency lessons? Why be so VERY severe about trying to isolate Harry? Surely Professor Dumbledore knew how upset that would make Harry?"

"As to the first, it is a good question. We shall have to ask Albus soon." She sighs. "For the rest, I think Albus panicked."

"Panicked?" My voice squeaks a little at the thought.

"Yes, panicked," she says flatly. "I will be forthright with you, Hermione. I have never seen him so frightened over anything. Albus is quite skilled in legilimency himself, and knows full well what the effects of a full-scale mental assault can be. The Muggles used to have an operation they used to control violently insane people. I think it was a low-boot-a-me?"

"Lobotomy."

"Yes, that. Possession can leave someone deeply traumatized and mentally damaged. The worst cases resemble people who have had muggle low-boot-a-mes."

I can't draw breath. The image of Harry staring vacantly into space, those wonderful emerald eyes dead, makes my chest hurt.

"Luckily for us the risks involved in such an all-out mental attack are not negligible for the Legilimens. No one would ever risk it unless they were quite confident that there was something definitely to be gained."

"So he tried to convince You-Know-Who that attacking Harry's mind would not be worth the risk?" I try to analyze that proposition quickly.

"Yes." McGonagall's smile is grim.

"Well," I expect what I am about to say will not be well-received, "I'm not sure that he really understands Harry very well. Not telling him anything won't keep Harry from acting. Besides, it made Harry so furious!"

"Hermione, have you ever wondered why so few of us are married?"

I blink at the non-sequitur.

"So few of the faculty, I mean." McGonagall continues.

"Yes, I had."

"It is a fair enough question. Of the Heads of House, only Professor Flitwick has ever been married and had children."

"Professor Flitwick? I had no idea!" Tiny, funny little Flitwick, married?

"Most outside of Ravenclaw do not. His wife died some time ago. At present only two of the staff are married. I believe you know about Professor Vector's family. And Madame Pince's husband..."

"Madame Pince!" I saw more of our librarian than almost any three other students combined, almost any five outside of Ravenclaw, but the thought of her married was... difficult.

"Madame Pince's husband," McGonagall continues over my protest, "is a very successful scribe in Hogsmeade."

"Errr, do they have any children?"

"Who?"

"The Pinces."

"Six."

"Oh." Some things are really difficult, not to mention somewhat nauseating, to imagine.

"In any case, I take it this state of affairs would be almost unheard of in a muggle school?"

"Yes."

"It is fairly unheard of elsewhere in the wizarding world as well. For instance I happen to know that most of the Durmstrang faculty have spouses, as do the teachers at the various North American schools. Hogwarts, however, has always been highly demanding of its staff. Dedication to work and mission are proud traditions."

"Yes Professor." So much could easily be gleaned from even the abbreviated form of Hogwarts: A History.

"Unfortunately it means that we sometimes find ourselves at a disadvantage when dealing with the emotional states of our students. I think Albus quite simply didn't pause to consider Harry's reaction very deeply, and when he did he miscalculated it." She looks grim. "I also was guilty of that, earlier in the year."

"Oh," I exclaim, realizing to what she is referring, "you mean the first discussion with Harry, and the time you took points!"

"Yes. I was frightened too, you see. Umbridge took as all by surprise, as did the reaction of the public. I don't think any of us expected much cooperation from Fudge at this stage, but the vicious nature of his, and Umbridge's, policies was not foreseen. Nor, for that matter, did we expect the public to be so easily swayed to Fudge's side."

"Or other Hogwarts students?" I ask, remembering Seamus and Lavender.

"That was a nasty shock. I received I few letters over the summer that I would never have believed came from Gryffindor parents were they not inarguably genuine. With all that and the weariness and strain I felt, I must admit that I acted rashly and without proper patience with regard to Harry. In my defense I will say that I was terrified of what Umbridge might have in mind. When I heard he had blown up for the second time I was annoyed, but even more scared that he was playing directly into her hands."

"I know what you mean," I say softly. I had been somewhat at a loss for how to approach that myself. I did not want to give Harry total support, like Ron, for fear of encouraging his dangerous explosions. On the other hand I had been dismayed when McGonagall subtracted points. More injustice was the last thing Harry needed to face right then. So I had balanced a dreadfully thin fence, trying to speak calmly while keeping my face buried behind a newspaper to hide my conflicting emotions.

"And to be fair, Hermione, he did not tell me about the nature of the detentions. Had I known about that I would have acted very differently."

"What could you have done?"

"I don't know," she says calmly. "Umbridge's methods were certainly illegal, and I think Amelia Bones and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would have reacted quite strongly to evidence of that kind of activity - although Fudge might well have simply overruled any action Madame Bones wanted to take. Still, I would have approached Harry far differently. As it was it was not until the next term that I began to saw students bleeding," her hands clench, "from their hands and knew something was terribly amiss. You say Harry had to carve something into his hand? What was the instrument?"

I relate the story of the quill briefly. McGonagall pales and her hands stay clenched.

"I thought it was something of the kind. Why didn't he come to me?"

"Harry is not one to admit weakness."

"I know." McGonagall is speaking softly now. "That comes from those relatives of his. If it is any comfort, you should know that Albus blames himself for that."

"For what?"

"He was the one who left Harry with the Dursleys. Whether it was a good idea or not, I do know he blames himself for not better anticipating how such a home would have shaped Harry's attitudes."

So Dumbledore left Harry with those hideous relatives! Yet another wrinkle in the story of the Headmaster and the Boy-Who-Lived.

"You have said," McGonagall asks, "that Umbridge admitted sending the Dementors after Harry last August."

"Yes."

"Would you be willing to sign a statement to that effect?"

A statement? "Why, Professor?"

"To initiate a criminal investigation. We could bring up the assault during her detentions as well."

"And her attempt to use the Cruciatus curse on Harry."

"Yes," McGonagall's fists clench again, "that as well."

Should I? Isn't this Harry's business?

And then I remember his hand bleeding in a bowl filled with essence of murtlap tentacles. And his flat refusal to report Umbridge's crime.

"I would be glad to do that, Professor McGonagall."

I am downstairs in the Common Room surprisingly quickly. McGonagall had already drawn up the basic complaint, and we had only to finish it out and sign it. She promises to send it to the Ministry immediately.

Ron, Ginny, and Neville are both waiting in the Common Room. Neville is staring off into space, his expression grim as it has often been since the events at the ministry. Ron looks like he wants to hit someone. The skin around his eyes is tight with suffering. Ginny nods to me, seemingly well composed. But I see the slight jerkiness in her movements, and the way her eyes glide to the stairs leading down from the boys' dormitories.

I walk over to Ron, who smiles at me in that way of his that is so... Ron.

"Hi," he says softly. His hand swings forward to brush against mine.

"Morning," I reply inanely. Our fingers dance desperately against each other, not quite interlacing.

The sound of a trunk being dragged down the stairs causes all four of us to snap our attention to Harry, who is trudging downwards, his eyes clouded and his jaw set. For a brief instant Ron squeezes my hand, and I his. Then we move forward to greet our beloved, wonderful, wounded friend.

"Bout time, mate," Ron says cheerfully. "If I didn't know better I'd say you were up there snogging somebody!"

Harry actually tries; I'll give him that. He looks at Ron and shrugs a bit. "It would be better than what I dreamed about a few nights ago, Weasley! I dreamed you were hugging and kissing me. Talk about something to turn your stomach!"

"Don't flatter yourself, Potter. You aren't that handsome!" Ron, however, is going bright red. He is remembering, I know, that Harry was not really dreaming. He had hugged his friend, and kissed him and wept over him too. Harry was deeply drugged at the time. Too bad, if he hadn't been he might appreciate Ron just a bit more.

"You OK, Harry?" Neville asks softly.

Harry shrugs again. Wordlessly we gather around him, heading through the portrait hole to find the battalion McGonagall said was gathering. Silently we draw close and move forward.

Another boundary crossed. And this one is drawn in blood.

I just hope that it isn't marked on the other side with that sound. The one that is so final.

The one a coffin lid makes when it hits the latch. I really hope I won't ever have to hear the real thing.

But I can't quite bring myself to believe it.