Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

Chapter 20

Listening, Not Hearing

"The first principle is that you must not fool yourself -- and you are the

easiest person to fool." (Richard Feynman)

***

Hermione,

I need to talk to you. It's really important, and pretty private. Meet me down in the common room at 2 A.M. tonight. We can take my cloak and find somewhere out of the way to talk.

Harry

***

The fire flickered on the brink of extinction in the hearth, its meager light barely penetrating the shadowed darkness. The last students had stumbled off to bed nearly half an hour before, still riding high on the Quidditch victory. That morning's mini-celebration had been temporarily abandoned in favor of normal Saturday pursuits in the afternoon, but the party atmosphere had rekindled with a vengeance after dinner. From his place in the big armchair in front of the fire, Harry could easily survey the carnage of butterbeer bottles, demolished sweets and pasties, and even a few conjured streamers still drooping limply from the ceiling. Harry knew, come morning, that he and the rest of the prefects would have to clean up the mess, and he really wasn't looking forward to it. Funny how in previous years he'd never even wondered who took care of things like that. Now he knew all too well.

Harry twisted and squinted up at the clock, then frowned. It was nearly ten past, and Hermione was not known for her tardiness. He was sure she'd gotten his note--he'd slipped it in between the cover and flyleaf of her Arithmancy book while her back was turned. She'd jotted down a whole series of incomprehensible notations and equations on the inside cover, something for a big project she was in the middle of, and she consulted it about every ten minutes. There was no way she could have missed the note, and Harry highly doubted her curiosity, let alone her friendship and loyalty to him, would let her ignore it. He reckoned he could have just spoken to her, but he'd opted for the note instead. He could tell himself that it was because the common room had been full of people all afternoon and evening and he hadn't wanted to be overheard, but really, it was mostly because she couldn't ask a note questions, or look at it with suspicious, assessing eyes.

He gave her another five minutes, then shifted restlessly. He wondered if it would be suicidal or merely criminally stupid to creep up the girls' stairs and see if she'd somehow fallen asleep. Harry shuddered at the thought of Lavender or Parvati waking to see him leaning over Hermione's bed, but this really was urgent, and he'd risk even the month's detention he'd probably get if he were caught.

There was a barely noticeable creak, and Harry whipped around. A hunched shadow paused halfway down the stairs, its head bent low and something clutched in its arms. Harry caught a glimpse of something large, fluffy, and orange.

"Hermione?" Harry tried, projecting his whisper across the room.

The shadow jumped, and Harry got the sudden feeling that she was about to spin around and go running back up the stairs. She was still for a long, indecisive moment, then took a single step downwards. The lump in her arms stirred, let out a muffled "Mroooow" and sprang free. A moment later Harry found himself gazing into a pair of lantern-like yellow eyes as Crookshanks put his front paws up on his knee and regarded him seriously.

Hermione arrived at his side shortly, still oddly silent and wrought with a nearly palpable tension. "Hello," she greeted, her tone oddly formal.

"Uh, hi," Harry returned, giving Crookshanks a scritch and listening to him rumble. "What took you so long?"

It was hard to tell, but he thought she looked slightly hurt, if not offended. "Deciding whether to come or not," she said, her words very stiff.

Harry squinted up at her, caught off balance. "Why ever not?" he asked, a little hurt himself. Hermione was one of his best friends in the whole world, and the idea that she would read his letter and ignore his request seemed almost laughable.

"Do you have your cloak?" she asked. "We should get going. Who knows who might come down here?"

"Sure," Harry agreed, rising and unfurling the shimmering garment. Hermione ducked under it with him, and there were a few awkward moments as they maneuvered around each other. They'd both grown quite a lot since the last time they'd done this, and it was something of a problem to get all their sundry limbs and extremities under cover. Finally, with Harry's arm around her shoulders and hers bent behind his back, they headed for the portrait hole.

"Where to?" Hermione whispered once they were in the corridor outside. Harry had put a lot of thought into that very question, and he silently drew her along with him as he headed up the corridor. Throughout his time at Hogwarts, and particularly with the aid of the Marauder's Map, Harry had gotten a pretty good grasp on Filch's patrolling habits (and did the man ever sleep?). The caretaker tended to check the upper reaches of the castle more, and of course kept a sharp eye on known student gathering places and the areas common to all four houses. Accordingly, Harry had spent part of his afternoon scouting through the previously unexplored territory on the floor directly below Gryffindor tower. He'd found lots of dust, some rather uppity suits of armor that seemed to think he needed to defeat them in mortal combat to enter the doors they guarded, and a lot of very strange things he suspected could only exist in the magical bizarreness of Hogwarts. He'd also found, tucked away in an odd, sharply angled little corner, a room which he was sure no one had visited in decades. The inch-thick layer of dust on the floor had been marred by only his footprints, and the dropcloths covering whatever furniture was stored there were all brittle and fraying with age.

"Lovely," Hermione muttered as they entered. Behind them, Crookshanks sneezed as his own tail sent the dust clouding around him.

"Sorry," Harry said. "Wanted to make sure no one would interrupt, like, you know, Filch or Peeves. They have a habit of doing that, remember?"

"Oh, yes," Hermione said, stepping away from him and out from beneath the cloak. "Lumos." In the dim light at the tip of her wand, her expression was an odd mix of determination, fear, and something that looked a lot like sadness. "Right then," she said, casting only a cursory look around them. "Take the cloak off and tell me what's so important."

Harry removed the cloak and folded it neatly before lighting his own wand. He leaned back against the wall behind him, wand held level with his face and his heart picking up speed.

"Well," he began, "I just wanted to make sure that--to ask you--you trust me right?"

"Of course," Hermione said, without even a hint of hesitation.

"Right," Harry said. "Okay, so, if I told you something that might upset you, something that you might not even believe, you'd take my word for it? You'd believe me over...someone else?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Yes," she said slowly. "Who else are we talking here?"

"Like, uh, Viktor," Harry said.

Hermione's lips tightened and she looked away. "Harry," she began, "I really don't think--"

"Would you?" Harry cut her off, leaning forward intently. "Just tell me, would you take my word for something, even if it meant Viktor was wrong?"

"We really shouldn't be doing this," she said. "I don't know what you're thinking, hoping, whatever. But Harry, this is hardly the time, let alone the place for any...any..." she trailed off, giving him a significant look.

"I...what?" Harry blinked at her, confused by the passing feeling that there were two separate conversations going on here. He shrugged it off and plunged on, reckoning there really wasn't much room for ambiguity in matters such as these. "No, this is exactly the time. Overdue, even. And really, the place doesn't matter as long as it's out of the way and private. And I've been waiting, it feels like forever to tell you--I've been so distracted and worried even Ron noticed--"

"Ron?" Hermione demanded. "He knows about this?"

"No!" Harry exclaimed. "He jumped to the completely wrong conclusion--it's really rather funny, actually--he thought we were--" Harry came to a screeching halt, suddenly realizing with a twist in his gut that he really, desperately did not want to discuss Ron's false assumption with Hermione. "That's beside the point," he forged on. "What I'm trying to say is this is the best time and place I could manage, and I should have done this a while ago."

"Don't," Hermione said, turning her head away. She sounded a bit hoarse. "Harry, don't do this. We can't for a lot of different reasons, and even if you haven't thought them all through, I have, a hundred times, and saying it out loud won't help." She turned back to him and there was a quiet desolation in her eyes. "It'll just make it that much worse," she finished.

Harry stared, a fear slowly building inside him. He'd assumed she was a victim, the unknowing prey of a ruthless man. But what if she knew? What if she'd somehow, for whatever reason, submitted willingly, knowingly to the memory charms? What if she was consciously aware of the gaps in her memory? What if she maneuvered around strange blanknesses and absences every day, living in the fractured landscape of her own mind and knowing it all along?

"You can't say that," Harry said, taking a step forward. "I won't let you. You can't do this to yourself, and what you think you know might not even be true. Please, just let me--"

Hermione turned her back to him, her shoulders hunching. "Stop," she said. "Please, for God's sake don't make this any more difficult than it has to be. We can get back under the cloak, go back to the tower and to bed and forget this ever happened." An odd shudder gripped her and she wrapped her arms around herself. "Or at least pretend to," she added.

"No," Harry protested, approaching her. "Look, I can help you. You don't have to do this--whatever he's told you, whatever you think you need to do, it might not be true."

"We haven't talked about this," Hermione said, snapping around to face him again. "I haven't talked to anyone. That would just make it worse. Look, Harry, I'm leaving. I'll take my chances with Filch and Mrs. Norris. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"But--"

She wasn't listening, he knew. She'd already turned away, had made it halfway across the room, in fact, before Harry's brain caught up to his surprise. He started after her, one hand outstretched as if to physically restrain her. His other hand, with no conscious input from him, dipped into his robes.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Hermione jerked, then froze, one foot raised and her right arm turned out at an awkward, mid-motion angle. She was utterly still for only a moment, like a disturbingly lifelike monument, then she began to topple.

Harry sprang forward and caught her, his wand clattering behind him. She was perfectly still in his arms as he gently cradled her. He could hear only the faint whistling of her breathing and feel only the rabbit fast patter of her heart against his arm as he slowly raised her back to the vertical.

"I'm sorry, sorry," he murmured, not daring to look at her face. "I really didn't want to do that--didn't even mean to--but you've got to listen to me. This is really important, Hermione. Life or death important, maybe." He finally flickered a look up, and flinched as he saw her face. He had not been able to see her expression as she'd walked away from him, and now he was glad for that small mercy. Her face, a frozen snapshot of a moment which should have been profoundly private, was a mask of misery and determination. The too-pale skin of one smooth cheek was marred by a single tear track, and the lashes of that eye glistened wetly. "I'm sorry," Harry whispered again, shifting his grip and taking a few steps to the right until he reached the wall. He leaned her up against it, trying to get her as comfortable as possible. "I can't imagine what you're thinking now," he continued, his hands plucking distractedly at her robes as he stood before her. "But please, just listen to me. You're under a spell, have been for maybe months now, and I thought you didn't know but it seems like maybe you did. I know how to reverse the spell, or at least part of it, I think, and I'm going to do it." He hesitated, then turned and retrieved his wand. "I'm going to unfreeze you first," he said, lifting his wand. "Just--just don't try to leave again, okay?" he waited a moment, then let out a barking, unamused laugh. "Right, can't talk," he reminded himself. "Okay. Finite Incantatum!"

She seemed to shiver a moment, a full body tremble that started in the center of her chest and spread outward. It took only a second or two to pass, and when it did her foot fell to the floor with a thud and her arm settled into a more natural angle. She drew a few deep, unimpeded breaths, then raised her head to look at Harry.

"A spell?" she asked. "Are you--it's really just a spell?"

"Really," Harry assured, tentatively reaching to touch her arm. "I can reverse it, I promise. You'll be just fine."

"Just a spell," she said again. But there was none of the relief or exultation Harry had been expecting. Instead, she sounded utterly and irrevocably devastated. "Oh God," she whispered, gazing almost despairingly at him, "all just a spell."

"Yeah," Harry said. "Just a spell. And I can reverse it. It took me a while--it's complicated and really, I think you'll like it because it's a devious magical construct. Whoever designed it wasn't kidding around. But I know what to do now, and it won't hurt or anything. You might get a bit dizzy and confused, I think, but if you're ready for it you should be okay."

She stared at him for a long moment, looking as if she simply wasn't understanding English. Harry was just about to really start worrying when she seemed to shake herself. "Okay," she said. "A spell." She took a long slow breath, ducking her head momentarily to hide her expression. When she looked up again she seemed to have steeled herself against some coming loss. "Go ahead then. Reverse it."

"Right." Harry stood before her a moment longer, then raised his wand. He faced her, trying not to look in her eyes as he breathed deeply and prepared himself. She stood silently, motionless, the only sign of life her oddly hitched breathing. The one time Harry accidentally met her eyes she looked away, her entire face spasming with a profound anguish he did not understand. "Okay," he said again, raising his wand and focusing his attention. "Here we go." He closed his eyes and summoned the magic he had learned to touch that night in Snape's office. The feeling of readiness came easily to him, and Harry knew instinctively that the more he called on this particular aspect of his magic, the kind that could alter minds and wills and emotions, the easier it would be. He wondered if casting the Imperius curse started out feeling the same way.

Brushing those thoughts aside, Harry cast his mind back. He thought first of the night in the common room, of Hermione in Viktor's arms, of the timbre of their voices as they'd spoken, the feeling of the space between them. Then he thought of Hermione in firelight, her dressing gown held tightly closed in nervous hands as she described her strange, haunting dreams. Then he thought of the dreams themselves, or at least what he had constructed from Hermione's narrative. He conjured a reeling, yet hazy confusion, a man's arms beneath her as she was carried, the scent of grass and dust on a dry wind, then a woman's face, lined and worn. He did not know where the vivid force of his construction came from, or how accurate it was. He only knew that he had all he needed ready, and that it was time. "Commoneo," he said into the silence.

There was a rushing in his ears, and Harry felt a little like something inside him had given a massive, painful jerk. He swayed on his feet, almost falling as all strength fled his body. It was a brief occurrence and his strength rapidly returned, but the momentary weakness left Harry gasping. "Reckon actually reversing the spell takes a lot more energy than just casting into nothing," he muttered, lifting a hand to scrub at his forehead. He felt sort of hollow inside, an awareness that was more the perception of the loss of a thing than the space left behind. Harry spent a moment longer just breathing through it, his eyes still closed, before he remembered Hermione.

She was leaning heavily against the wall by the time he reached her, one hand at her temple and the other pressed to her heart. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, but she didn't seem to be in any real distress. When Harry worriedly touched her arm, she met his eyes easily enough, and she appeared to be well on her way to absorbing events.

"It wasn't," she began, blinking at him. Then she seemed to catch herself, to pull the pieces of her confusion and pain together and push them away in favor of understanding what was happening. "He erased my memories," she whispered, disbelief warring with a building anger. "I don't understand, why would he, and just those stupid dreams. Why would he--"

"Wait, wait," Harry cut her off, frowning in concern. "You remember the dreams, but nothing else?"

"Well, I remember when he put the charm on in the first place," she said. "Or at least renewed it."

"But I thought they were--" Harry waved an ineffectual hand. "You know, the dreams. I thought they were part of another charm. He erased something that happened, you kept dreaming about it, so he erased the dreams."

Hermione cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at him. "Harry, please tell me you did some research before you, you know, performed a difficult and somewhat dangerous charm on me?"

"Well, yeah," Harry assured. "And someone taught me the spell, I didn't just get it from a book."

"Well," Hermione said, sounding quite a bit more herself, "you didn't do enough research. If you had, you would have found that dreams are not a symptom of a memory charm. The charm is either fully effective or not--there's no logical reason for it to somehow lapse when a person goes to sleep."

"But--" Harry let out a worried breath. "What does it mean, then? Why would he be erasing dreams that aren't telling you something you don't remember?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, "but I'd really like to find out. I don't particularly like the idea of somebody playing around with my head."

"I imagine," Harry said, then paused. "Say, what did you think I was talking about? I mean, I thought you knew, from how you were talking."

Hermione stared at him for a long moment, her face going blank and her eyes suddenly hooded. "Don't worry about it," she said finally. "It's not important."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Forget it."

"Okay," Harry said a bit dubiously. But she looked pretty determined, and he was getting to the point where all he wanted to do was to decide something, anything, and then get back to bed. "So what do you want to do? About Viktor, I mean?"

"Well, we could report him," she said slowly. She glanced over at him as Harry made a small, negative noise. "How did I know you wouldn't like that? Really, Harry, one of these days you're going to have to learn when to ask for help."

"I don't think this is the time," Harry said.

"Well, it's actually sort of a moot point," Hermione said. "Viktor is a Bulgarian national. So, if I reported him to the Ministry, the worst they could do would be to ban him from entering England for ninety days. And the International Confederation, as good as it is on trade negotiations, is pretty weak on international law enforcement. Mostly because all the various ministries each have thousands of laws established over millennia, and getting them all to agree on any sort of coherent policy would be monumentally difficult." She let out a breath. "Besides, the ministry isn't the greatest place to go with anything at all, recently. Particularly not for me. I'm your friend after all, and pretty much everybody knows that, thanks to Rita Skeeter."

"Oh," Harry said, much relieved. "So we can't report him."

"Not to the ministry," Hermione clarified. "We could--we should--go to Dumbledore. Harry, we need an adult wizard in on this. Memory charms, not knowing what was erased and why, this is dangerous stuff. If we confront Viktor, which you don't have to tell me is your first choice, what's to stop him from charming me again, then making you forget you'd ever found out?"

"We have an adult wizard," Harry said quietly. "He taught me the charm."

"Who, Dumbledore? Moody?"

"Snape."

She blinked. "You're joking. He really taught it to you? And he didn't tell Dumbledore? Why would he agree to that?"

"You know, I really don't know," Harry said. "I just--he seemed--he said he didn't really know either, but he agreed to it, as long as I kept him posted."

"That's very strange," Hermione said, gazing at Harry through narrowed eyes. "It almost makes me think--" she shook her head dismissively. "No, never mind. We need to just focus on what we're going to do."

"I think you should write to him," Harry said. "Don't tell him what's going on, just say you want to see him. Make it sound like you miss him so he doesn't get suspicious."

"Okay," Hermione nodded. "Though I don't think he'll even be able to get out here for a while. He has Quidditch all day, six days a week, and it takes him eight hours just to Apparate across all the borders."

"Alright," Harry nodded. "That's okay, I guess. It gives us a little more time to think and plan."

"Plan for what?"

"How we're going to get him to tell us what's going on," Harry said a little grimly. "I can go under the cloak, make sure nothing happens to you, and you can...I don't know...ask."

"Yes," Hermione said dryly, "those extra few weeks are definitely going to be useful."

"Yeah," Harry said, smiling a little. "You know me and my plans."

Hermione returned the smile, though it was little more than a faint tilt of her lips. Harry suspected she wouldn't be smiling that eager, toothy grin of hers again for quite a while. The thought made him feel a little cold and lonely.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked softly.

She nodded. Harry suspected she was keeping her silence to avoid the "no" he saw lurking in her eyes. He let out a breath and squeezed her arm.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I know you were--with him, I mean--happy and I just, I was so worried and I'm really--"

"It's okay," she said, cutting him off with an abrupt motion. "Don't worry about it. I--" she inhaled and gulped back whatever she'd been about to say. "I just need some time to...readjust. Okay?"

"Okay," Harry agreed. "Just tell me if there's anything I can do, yeah?"

"You can keep this between us," Hermione said. "Not tell Ron, I mean."

"Yeah," Harry said, much relieved. "I was going to say that, actually. He might, you know, not take it well."

"There's no might about it," Hermione said. "And we don't need Ron running off to Bulgaria and beating Viktor to death with his broom."

"Yeah," Harry said with a nervous laugh. "We can tell him when it's all over, right? And it shouldn't be too hard in the meantime."

"Well," Hermione said a bit acerbically, "if you keep on like you have, it very well could be. I've been wondering what was wrong with you for over a week now. Ron's not going to be far behind."

"I know." Harry massaged his temples. "I just didn't want to get too close to you guys. I was so worried about you and I didn't know how I was going to reverse the spell. I was trying to think of a way to find out what had been erased--which isn't easy you know. I mean, how do you get someone to tell you something they don't remember? And Ron and I were a little weird, anyway. But we pretty much made up last night."

"Well, let's try to keep things a little more normal from now on, okay?" Hermione asked. "And we can tell him, when it's all done."

"Right," Harry agreed.

They stood still for a long moment, just staring at each other in the flickering dimness of their wands, both trying to wrap their minds around the enormity of what was happening.

"You realize," Harry said finally, reluctantly, "that this might not be it? The charm I did, I have to know what was erased in order to restore it. Ingenious really, in a sick sort of way. So there could be more...there could be other things."

"I know." Hermione looked like she was beginning to crumble around the edges, the shield of her focus faltering under Harry's gaze. "Let's just not...we can deal with that after we find out what's going on. There's nothing else we can do now, unless you find something else I should remember and don't."

"Okay," Harry nodded. There was another uncomfortable pause. Harry wondered why sharing this secret with Hermione made him feel more distant from her, not closer.

"We should go," she said, averting her eyes. "It's late."

"Yeah." Harry unfolded the cloak in silence, and waited as she joined him beneath it. They moved quietly through the halls, following the gently swaying guide of Crookshanks's tail. Harry was acutely aware of Hermione as they walked, of her hand on his back and the way her hair tickled his ear. He could not see her very well at all in the dark, but he could swear he felt her eyes on him the whole way back, as if she, too, were

gazing into the darkness and trying to reconcile the unsubstantial whisper of shadow with the solidity of their physical contact.

They parted in the common room with only a quickly whispered goodnight. Harry waited while Hermione went up the girls' stairs, standing in the center of the darkened common room and wondering why his heart hurt so. He turned and headed for his own dorm as he heard the muffled click of Hermione's door latching, feeling it oddly appropriate that he be invisible even to the shadowed darkness.

***

Harry took a slow, deep breath in, held it, then let it out just as slowly.

"Keep the pressure steady," Hagrid murmured behind him, his enormous hands dwarfing Harry's entire forearms as he steadied Harry's grip. "Easy release, don't jerk it now."

Harry would have nodded, but he was afraid even that slight movement would disrupt the precarious balance he had achieved with his muscles. He felt as strung tight as the bowstring drawn taught under his aching fingers, and every muscle quivered with barely controlled tension.

"Now, take one more breath, and let go when yeh breath ou'," Hagrid continued, shifting his stance a little. "Ready?"

Harry inhaled again, getting a little dizzy from prolonged deep breathing as Hagrid minutely adjusted his stance and grip. His arms were screaming for relief, and he was sure when he looked at his fingers they'd be a bloody mess. But the enormous, Hagrid-sized target pinned to a post in the pumpkin patch behind the Gamekeeper's hut still hung, mockingly unmarked after over an hour and a half of practicing, and Harry was bound and determined to at least nick the edge of the bloody thing before he would give up. He let out his breath slowly, evenly, and just as evenly released his powerful grip on the trigger, baring down hard on his foot in the stirrup to keep the crossbow from jerking and the bolt from going wide.

"Good go!" Hagrid cried.

"Yeah," Harry sighed, gazing morosely after the arrow as, buffeted by the slight breeze, it whistled about three inches from the target and did some damage to the foliage of the outer line of trees that marked the beginning of the Forbidden Forest. "Too bad I, you know, missed."

"Well, yeh can't expect t'learn in one day, can yeh?" Hagrid pointed out, sounding as cheerful as when they had begun the lesson. "It's hard work, shootin' a crossbow. And no offense 'arry but yeh've just not got the build for it yet."

"I know," Harry said, transferring his gaze down to his own arms, which looked like nothing more than twigs against Hagrid's tree-trunk limbs. "And my fingers feel like they're about to fall off."

"Yeh'll get calluses," Hagrid assured, clucking his tongue at the angry red lines decorating Harry's fingertips from prolonged and painful pressure on the bowstring. "And yeh'll get it, don' yeh worry. Yeh get a mite taller, practice so yer arms bulk up a bit, and yeh'll be just fine."

"Thanks, Hagrid," Harry said, reaching for his wand to summon the recalcitrant arrow. "I really appreciate this. It's an amazing present."

"Well now," Hagrid said, flushing in delight. "My pleasure. Good excuse to get yeh to come down and see me every week."

"I'd come anyway," Harry said, gazing up at his friend. "You know that, right?"

"A'course." Hagrid shifted a little awkwardly. "But, yeh see, this way I can see yeh and yer friends, and teach yeh something important and useful all at once. It's like me mum said. Rubeus, she said, yeh take care o' that 'arry Potter. You make sure he knows how ter take care o' 'imself, too."

"That was nice of her," Harry said, then paused. "Your mum, eh? Run into her on your travels, did you?"

Hagrid looked suddenly shifty. "Er, I shouldn't a'said tha'," he said, a bit mournfully.

"It's okay." Harry reached up and squeezed his arm. "Hermione figured out where you went ages ago."

"Can't slip anything past that 'ermione," Hagrid agreed, looking a bit relieved. "Bu', 'arry, I really can't talk abou' what I did. Yeh understand?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed, nodding and meeting Hagrid's eyes to show there weren't any hard feelings. He really did understand, and Hagrid didn't need to know that his refusal to share, as gently done as it was, was only another in a long line of frustrating encounters this year. Harry thought, a little bitterly, that it was no wonder he didn't want to talk to Dumbledore or anyone about the memory charms. They were all so blatantly keeping him out of the loop, and as childish as he knew the reaction was, Harry couldn't control the urge to return the favor. "Anyway," he said, glancing around the back of Hagrid's hut, "speaking of Hermione, where did she and Ron go?"

"They left abou' half an hour ago," Hagrid said, grinning. "Yeh were a bit busy tellin' the wind what yeh thought of it."

"Er, yeah," Harry said, flushing. It wasn't his fault if the blasted air currents kept messing up his perfectly aligned shots, and he couldn't be blamed for telling it how he felt.

"They were talkin' abou' going to the kitchens," Hagrid continued. "They looked pretty cozy."

"Good," Harry said, relieved. He and Hermione had both been making a concerted effort to reforge the trio over the past week since he'd restored her memories, and it seemed to be doing the trick. The three of them were spending most of their days together, sitting side by side in classes and holding court at their usual table in the common room at night. It was familiar and comfortable and really very nice, and to his surprise, Harry found that he wasn't having too much trouble acting normal around them. He and Hermione had only spoken about Viktor once after the night in the dusty supply room, and then it was just a quick assurance from Hermione that a letter to Viktor was on its way. Other than that she seemed perfectly normal to Harry, and he was sure Ron hadn't noticed a thing.

"I was glad ter se tha'," Hagrid said, taking an arrow from Harry and beginning to clean it. "I was worried abou' yeh lot there fer a while. Seemed somethin' was wrong between yeh."

"Yeah," Harry said again, studiously watching Hagrid's hands and copying his movements with another arrow.

"Thing is," Hagrid continued after a slight pause, "seems ter me that yeh need yer friends. Yeh need 'em a lot, 'arry, and when yeh are fightin', other things go wrong, too." He set down his arrow and reached one thick finger to gently lift Harry's chin. "Yeh need ter be 'appy, 'arry, 'ere at 'ogwarts. Yeh need to have yer friends and yer Quidditch and yer kitchen raids. It's important that yeh remember to..." he shook his head, then scrubbed an exasperated hand across his face. "I'm not good at this, 'arry, but what I mean ter say is it's important yeh be a kid here, at least fer a while. Yeh understand what I mean?"

"Yes," Harry said. "But Hagrid, what if it's too late? What if I can't, you know, forget other things? I mean, you can't stop knowing things once you know them."

Hagrid seemed to shudder where he stood, something which disturbed Harry more than anything else had in a long time. Hagrid was, in Harry's mind, as immovably strong and dauntless as the rock of Gibraltar, and to see that worried, frightened look in his eyes was sobering.

"I know," Hagrid said, his rumbling voice hushed. "I know when yeh know something, sometimes yeh wish yeh didn't. Sometimes yeh wish they'd never a'told yeh and tha' yeh could just go on like before yeh knew because knowin' hurts like a blade to yer heart no matter 'ow proud yeh are, too." He took a long breath and Harry kept perfectly silent and still, somehow knowing that this was not the time, nor he the person, to offer comfort for whatever was paining the gamekeeper. "Yeh can't unknow things," Hagrid continued. "Yeh just have ter learn how ter live with 'em first, then maybe try ter help however yeh can, however yeh're allowed. But 'arry, remember what I said. Yeh can't go back, none of us can. But there are lots o' different ways o' going forward, and we all do what we can."

"Okay," Harry said softly.

"So yeh run off ter the kitchens and find yer friends and do something silly, maybe something against the rules, though don' tell anyone I said that. Then go up to Gryffindor and do yer assignments and talk till all hours of the mornin' with Ron and 'ermione. Then come back next Friday for our next lesson, alrigh'?"

"Okay," Harry said again, a little stunned. That was the most he'd ever heard Hagrid speak at one time since the night he'd told Harry he was a wizard. "Thanks, Hagrid," he added, tucking the last arrow away in the quiver and handing it and the bow to Hagrid to be stored in his hut. "I'll see you in class, and next Friday, too."

"Yeah," Hagrid affirmed, turning away quickly. Harry stared at his back for a moment, then murmured a farewell and walked away around the side of the hut.

He was halfway up to the castle, wondering and not wondering about what Hagrid had found out on that trip of his, what new secret lurked behind those kindly eyes, when he glanced back over his shoulder. Hagrid had come around his hut as well and was standing beside his front door. The distance was too great to make eye contact, but Harry had no doubt that the gamekeeper was following his progress up the lawn, careful and watchful even in the still bright and cheerful late afternoon. It was humbling in the way only devotion could be, and Harry's chest tightened as he turned back towards the school. For the first time he truly understood what Sirius, Dumbledore, even Snape had been silently telling him for months now. For the first time his desperate desire to have Viktor taken care of and Hermione safe wasn't driven only by his curiosity and fear for her safety. For the first time, the prospect of ending a school year not in the hospital wing, without defeating an enemy or being trapped in an inescapable adventure wasn't just a vague, distantly amusing dream fraught with a sort of guilt at shirking some responsibility which had never, in truth, been given to him.

He wondered how long it would take him and Ron to convince Hermione to help them round up a few of the ducks which had taken to paddling around the far end of the lake where Hagrid had carved a fishing hole, and set them loose in the Great Hall at dinner.

***

Harry let out a covert sigh and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He felt a bit disconnected from his surroundings, as if he had stepped from one world into another just by donning his dress robes. And that was another thing--he'd decided to go with his old robes, the green ones Mrs. Weasley had gotten him, since Celestina had seen his new ones already. Unfortunately, he hadn't calculated for slightly broader shoulders, an expanded chest, and about two inches of bare ankle. Not that he was complaining--quite the opposite in fact--but he still felt a little silly in the obviously too-small garment, particularly next to Celestina's elegantly tailored silk robes that hugged her every curve with smooth, shimmering peach lines.

It had been very strange, Harry reflected, receiving her letter a week before. Granted, having to wrestle it away from a somewhat ambitious duck while fending off Hedwig's indignant advances hadn't been all that normal either, but the ducks were his own fault, anyway. The truth was Harry had almost entirely forgotten Celestina the week after their date. She had been overshadowed first by Krum and Hermione, and then by the excitement of his first lesson with his crossbow and the heady pleasure of reconnecting with his friends. So finally wresting the parchment away from the offended aquatic menace, and unrolling it to find Celestina's familiar handwriting had been a bit of a jolt. Harry had felt instantly guilty for not writing to her sooner, and his heart had tripped with the fear that she was irritated with him and was canceling their vague plans to meet again.

But he had had nothing to fear. Celestina made only the slightest reference to the lapse in communication, saying only that Harry must be "so awfully busy" with Quidditch and classes and everything else. The majority of her letter had been devoted to not so subtle descriptions of a "heavenly little place" she knew of in Hogsmeade. Now, exactly a week later, Harry was quietly taking issue with her definition of 'little'.

The restaurant was grand, to say the very least. Just the entrance alone looked as if it could comfortably fit fifty or more, and Harry had spent a goggling moment or three trying to figure out if those were real diamonds in the chandelier. He and Celestina, upon arriving, had been whisked past a rather lengthy line of waiting couples and groups, and had been escorted directly to a table. Harry had felt a bit strange about that, but Celestina didn't even seem to notice. She looked perfectly at home with a delicately carved crystal glass in one hand, and the other splayed casually on the crisp white tablecloth. Harry wondered if he was supposed to be holding her hand, but their appetizers hadn't even arrived yet, so he thought that would be a bit odd.

"And we had a terrible row," she was saying. "He said I had no idea what I was talking about, and I said it was my music and I should hope I did know."

"But it turned out alright," Harry said into the slight pause.

"Well, I should think so," she said, taking a sip of the spicy, berry-flavored wine in her glass. "He gave in, we did it my way, and I've sold well over projected numbers of the record."

"Wow," Harry said, wincing as it came out.

"Anyhow," Celestina breezed on, "what have you been doing for the past two weeks? You had a Quidditch game, right?"

"Yes," Harry said, making an effort to summon the enthusiastic smile she would be expecting. "We beat Slytherin."

"Oh, that's just marvelous." She fluttered her hands in a sort of congratulatory wave. "I've always enjoyed a good game of Quidditch myself, though always from the ground."

"I have a hard time watching," Harry admitted, relaxing a little into the conversation. Until this point it had seemed strange, almost sacrilegious, to be sitting there with Celestina, talking about recording techniques and Quidditch games, when two weeks before he had been forced to restrain his own best friend and perform complicated, mind altering magic on her. Going out with Celestina had appealed as much as always, but it had seemed somehow silly, empty when compared with everything else filling his mind. But actually sitting with her, watching the candlelight play across her cheekbones and wondering what the pale rose stain on her lips would taste like, Harry felt himself sinking into a sea of relaxation and contentment, the likes of which he hadn't felt since the last time he'd been with her. Hermione was receding into the background, and Harry's discomfort was rapidly fading. He found himself hard pressed to remember how he had passed an entire two weeks without seeing Celestina.

"I wish I could have come to see you play," she said wistfully. "I would have, you know, but I think it would be a bit much. I imagine you've had to be very creative to sneak out of the school twice already, and I wouldn't want to raise any suspicions or get you into trouble. Headmaster Dumbledore is remarkably perceptive, you know."

"Oh, yes," Harry agreed, nodding fervently. "I do wish you could come, though." He had a sudden vision of himself on his Firebolt, performing impossible feats of aerobatics above a Hogwarts crowd, the sky spinning and swirling around him as he twisted, catching fleeting glimpses of an awestruck Celestina in the stands.

"I've heard you're very good," Celestina said, nodding her thanks as the crisply starched waiter brought their salads.

"Oh, I suppose," Harry said, looking worriedly at the phalanx of forks beside his plate. That was one part of Aunt Petunia's manners lectures he'd not bothered to pay attention to.

"Are you thinking about joining the League after you graduate?" Celestina asked, reaching for the outermost fork.

Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief and mirrored her actions. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I haven't even thought--there are so many things to do. I guess I could."

"Oh, yes," Celestina said, frowning a little. "I forget how young you are. Myself, I've always known what I wanted to do. My whole family is very musical. My mother plays the flute and harp, and my father was a singer. I've been singing since I was old enough to make noise."

Harry nodded, though he couldn't think of anything to say. That sort of surety, that kind of unimpeachable knowledge about the future was something he didn't understand. Before Hogwarts all he'd known was that he was "good for nothing" and the few ambitions he'd possessed all involved someday escaping the Dursleys. Then, after his introduction to the wizarding world, things had gotten even more complicated. It was not something he liked to even articulate, but Harry had to admit that in a quiet, desolate part of himself, a part he was both grateful for and deeply ashamed of, that he would be happy simply to live to graduation. Anything beyond that, even his intense need to take responsibility for Voldemort and put an end to him once and for all, took second place. Career planning seemed pretty unnecessary in that perspective.

"Celestina!" There was a flutter of robes, a quiet protest, and suddenly a short man dressed in ill-fitting formal robes was bending over Celestina's hand and raising it to his lips.

"Sir." The maitre d' huffed up behind the man, simultaneously attempting to draw the man away and apologize to Celestina and Harry. "Sir, please leave Miss Warbeck and her guest to eat their meals in peace. I'm sure they don't need your...kind... to disturb them."

The man ignored the protests with the aplomb of one much used to being scolded. "Celestina, darling, it is so wonderful to see you. I'm Ralph Inscribulus, I was so pleased to receive your note. I--"

"Yes, yes," Celestina said, rising hastily. "Mr. Inscribulus, it is a pleasure to meet you, of course."

"We are very sorry, Madam," the maitre d' cut in, firmly grasping the strange Mr. Inscribulus by the arm. "We are not accustomed to having our patrons accosted in such a manner. Be assured, Mr. Inscribulus will not be interfering with your evening any further. I don't know how he got in--"

"I have a reservation," Mr. Inscribulus said, fixing an irritated glare on the immaculately dressed official. "A table for one, in fact." He glanced at the empty table behind Harry. "That one will do wonderfully."

"It's alright," Celestina interjected. "We don't mind."

She glanced at Harry, who only nodded. He really wasn't sure what the problem was, though he suspected it had something to do with Celestina being so famous. Once again he felt grateful for her celebrity, for the way all eyes were drawn to her and not him.

"Thank you," Mr. Inscribulus said, shooting a triumphant look at the obviously irritated maitre d'. "It was lovely running into you," he continued to Celestina, bowing over her hand once again. "You as well, Mr. Potter," he added, glancing at Harry for the first time.

"Likewise," Celestina returned, though her smile appeared a bit brittle around the edges to Harry's eye.

Mr. Inscribulus moved away and sat. Harry heard him asking the maitre d' for the wine list as he settled himself. Harry felt oddly exposed with the stranger at his back and he squirmed a bit in his chair.

"You know him?" he asked, leaning forward and pitching his voice low.

"Oh, I really don't know," Celestina said, laughing. "So many people approach me, and I've traveled so much. He could be anybody."

"He seemed to know you, though," Harry persisted, risking a quick glance over his shoulder. Mr. Inscribulus was sipping from a glass of water and studying a sheaf of parchment spread out before him. Harry wasn't sure, but he thought it was rather strange for a man to go to such a fancy restaurant alone just to do work.

"Well, that doesn't mean much," Celestina said, her laughter dying away. "Plenty of people pretend to know me. They usually want something--an autograph or a tour of the studio in London or what have you." She waved a careless hand. "Don't worry about it, Harry, it's nothing to be concerned about."

"Okay," Harry said, leaning back and reaching for his fork again. They ate their salads in a mostly comfortable silence, and it wasn't until their soup arrived that Harry began to get nervous again. Their cloaks had been taken at the door, but he had been careful to put all his possessions--wand, a quill, and a chocolate frog of indeterminate age--into his robe pockets. They, along with the slim, velvet-covered box in his breast pocket, felt like lead weights as he moved.

It had seemed appropriate, even necessary, to find something to give Celestina. He'd brought her flowers last time, and he was pretty sure the gifts were supposed to escalate in value or quality or something as the dates progressed. He'd heard tell of some sort of list with exact specifications for each date or occasion, but the very idea of asking anybody made his toes curl. So he had just worried about it for a few days, before once again being blessed with the sort of luck which he still felt had made him famous in the first place. Parvati and Lavender usually spent their evenings sitting together on a sofa rather far from the fire in the common room, maybe doing their homework, but more often than not oohing and aahing over the endless stream of mail-order catalogues they got in the owl post. Harry had found one such catalogue for a store in Diagon Alley whose name, presumably French, Harry couldn't even begin to pronounce. He'd perused its pages with the grim determination of a man on a mission, and after agonizing deliberation he'd made his selection. A few extra galleons bought him a rush order, and the package had arrived just that morning.

Harry hadn't, until that moment, considered just how he was going to present his gift. It wasn't quite like the flowers--he couldn't hand it to her the moment they met out on the street in front of the restaurant. Nor, he was pretty sure, would it be appropriate to slide it across the table between bites of pumpkin soup, even pumpkin soup that rivaled the efforts of the Hogwarts house elves.

Harry worried at the problem all throughout the rest of dinner. He and Celestina talked companionably over the salmon braised with a spicy thamarine sauce, and Celestina giggled madly when she saw Harry's face after his first bite of a spinach seaweed wrap. Aside from the wraps, which Harry avowed were wriggling in his mouth, the food was excellent. By the time the waiter brought them an extravagant nine-layered pastry, dark purple berry juices staining the flaky, golden brown crust, Harry had almost forgotten the mysterious Mr. Inscribulus, and the creeping feeling he had between his shoulder blades, as if a pair of scrutinizing eyes were fastened upon him.

"I get sick," Harry said, rolling his eyes in pleasure as the tangy, citrus-laced chocolate at the bottom of the pastry melted on his tongue. "People say I turn positively green."

"I hyperventilate," Celestina admitted. "I get all light-headed, and then I don't care that I'm about to be stared at by tens of thousands of people."

"I should try that," Harry said thoughtfully. "You just...what? Breathe really fast?"

"But try to keep it deep breaths," Celestina said, nodding. "Or else you'll pass out." She leaned back in her chair and demonstrated, puffing out a series of short but deep breaths, her full lips parted and shimmering softly as she licked them.

"You're getting stared at right now," Harry pointed out, the carefree euphoria that had allowed him to talk about his sometimes terrifying bouts of pre-Quidditch stage fright evaporating as he noticed a couple at a nearby table openly gaping.

"Let them." Celestina waved merrily at the couple and reached for her wine. She was, Harry suddenly realized, on her third glass. He wondered if it were possible to get vicariously drunk on magical alcohol, for he himself was feeling a bit light-headed, more relaxed than he could remember being in weeks. Being with Celestina did that to him, he realized with a grin he knew had to be the epitome of dopiness. Just sitting across from her, watching her throat move as she swallowed and feeling her foot brushing against his calf under the table made him dizzy and careless of the concerns that held him earthbound every day. The discomforting sense of displacement he'd felt earlier in the evening when Hermione had still dominated his thoughts was gone entirely. Harry suspected he'd experience a similar feeling the next morning when the realities of school and secrets and friendships returned. But for the moment Celestina was licking berry juice off her spoon with quick flickers of her tongue, all the time gazing steadily into Harry's eyes. For now the flush on his cheeks wasn't embarrassing, and taking Celestina's hand across the table was easy and inevitable, not terrifying.

"Let's dance," Celestina said, tugging on Harry's hand and standing.

Harry followed suit, then slid an arm around her waist as she moved up next to him. There was a string quartet playing unobtrusively but beautifully in the far corner, and a half dozen other couples were already taking advantage of the small space cleared for dancing. Celestina was as smooth and pliant in his arms as he remembered from the ball, but this time Harry could press her close to him and stroke the curve of her waist without expecting to get slapped. He felt almost buoyant with her, which was odd because with the scent of her hair and skin surrounding him, breathing was becoming something he needed to concentrate on to do right.

Harry didn't count the number of songs they danced, but by the time they headed back to their table at least three of the nearby tables had changed occupants. Walking seemed like a great effort, for though Celestina kept hold of his hand as they re-crossed the restaurant, Harry felt a physical pang at the loss of her body pressed full-length to his. He felt himself almost coming out of a trance, resurfacing from something slow and magnetically powerful, something that made it okay for him to think the word "sexy" and not feel like everyone would somehow know and report him to Professor Snape. Something that had reeled him in over a month before at the Yule ball, and which had only pretended to release him while he tended to his everyday life. Something that, with just the brush of his fingers down Celestina's back, could tug him back to a place where she was the only person he saw in color, where it was a physical effort to look away from her and where doing wild, romantic things was just what she deserved.

There was a fresh pot of a spicy smelling tea ready for them when they returned to the table. Harry held Celestina's chair for her, then pulled his own around the table to sit next to her as she poured.

"Oh, I'll miss this," she sighed, taking a sip. "The Americans simply can't brew a proper pot of tea. I tried having bags owled over directly from Hogsmeade once, and they still tasted off."

"Americans?" Harry asked, his own cup poised halfway to his lips.

"Oh." She slumped in dismay. "Me and my mouth. I didn't want to tell you until later. I didn't want to ruin--" she gestured at the intimacy of their positions, then out onto the dance floor where they had spent such an engrossing interlude.

"What is it?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew.

Celestina turned to face him, her knee pressing against his. "I told you when we first met at that delightful little party that I was going on tour to America. It was postponed for various reasons, but now my manager is screaming about missing the New Year's engagement and about Valentine's Day at the Dorothy Chandler in Los Angeles and it seems I simply must go."

"Oh," Harry said, setting down his cup. "That's...that is I hadn't thought..." he blew out a frustrated breath and squeezed his hands together until his knuckles turned white. "How long will you be gone?" he asked finally.

"I'm not sure yet," she said, her hand settling on his knee. "Somewhere between six weeks and two months, but that could change. We've booked shows starting in New York and heading west, but some of those will fall through and there'll be others..." she sighed and squeezed his knee. "This is the first time I actually don't want to go sing," she said, gazing up at Harry through her lashes. "Harry, if I could, I would simply not go. But that's not an option." She leaned closer and laid her cheek on his shoulder. "Think anybody would notice if you ran away from school and went with me?" she asked.

"A few people," Harry said, his arm coming up automatically to circle her shoulders. "When do you leave?"

"Wednesday," she said, lifting her head. "I don't suppose it would be possible to see you again before I go?"

"I don't think so," Harry sighed. "There's no way I could get away on a night before classes--my dorm mates would all notice. I could try again tomorrow night--"

"No, no," she pressed a finger to his lips. "Don't get yourself in trouble on my account. They could take your Prefect badge for sneaking out."

They sat in silence for a long moment, the liquid ebullience of the evening ebbing in Harry's heart. He couldn't imagine so long without seeing her, holding her hand, making her smile. He knew he had done it before--had in fact forgotten all about her for nearly a week. But he couldn't really understand that, in the same way he really couldn't understand why Ron would ever envy his life.

"I'll miss you," Celestina said after a while.

"Me too," Harry agreed.

"I'm sorry," she continued, examining her polished nails.

"You have to go," Harry said, taking her hand and squeezing.

"We can write," Celestina said, squeezing back. "It'll take a little longer, but the owls will find me. And really, Harry, I think nothing will get me through the next few months as well as hearing from you."

"I know how you feel," Harry said, brushing his lips against her temple.

She lifted her chin and they kissed. It was long and hard, and when they finally parted Harry was gasping and he felt as if his insides were rearranging themselves to the percussive thunder of his heart. Celestina's lipstick had smeared slightly, and that pleased Harry in a way that surprised him. He wanted some mark of himself on her, but more importantly he wanted some sign of this night, of the all too brief encounters. He wanted her to feel as bowled over as he did, as swept away in something that was, when it came right down to it, based on only a few short hours of acquaintance.

"I brought you something," he said, no longer hesitant. He reached for the box and pressed it into her hands, taking the opportunity to caress the delicate skin on the insides of her wrists.

"Oh," she said, a soft smile breaking across her face. "Thank you." She took a moment to just run her fingers over the rich black velvet, before flicking the clasp and opening the box. "Oh," she said again, extending a single finger to touch the exquisitely wrought platinum chain. "It's beautiful." She lifted it out and gazed at the pendant, a faceted blue jewel set in a simple platinum setting and suspended from the chain.

"Let me," Harry said, taking it from her. She turned away from him as he draped it around her neck, and Harry could not resist, did not want to resist, the impulse to plant a kiss on the bare nape of her neck as he worked the clasp.

"Thank you," she whispered, turning back to face him and clasping her hands over the necklace.

"You're welcome," Harry said, laying a hand over hers. He'd been a little frightened, buying something so obviously expensive, even after the dragonhide cloak. But seeing the sparkle in her eyes, and the way the chain highlighted the notch in her collarbone, Harry had no doubt that he'd made the right choice.

"I'll wear it the whole time," Celestina said, leaning in for another kiss.

"I was hoping you would," Harry said, touching his forehead to hers.

"I'll wear it to every concert," she promised against his cheek.

The rest of the evening passed in a surreal blur for Harry. He felt each moment with her as he always had, but time was running away around him, sweeping the hands of the clock around again and again until they had no choice but to vacate their table. Celestina insisted on paying the tab, but Harry was as stubborn as she was and they finally compromised on splitting it. It was a good thing, too, for what with one thing and another, practically Harry's entire annual allowance was gone. He made a mental note to owl Gringotts for some more spending money.

They left the mostly empty restaurant (though Harry did notice that Mr. Inscribulus was still at his table, and that his stack of parchments had grown exponentially) and strolled up the street hand in hand. It was very late and the Friday night crowds Harry had seen two weeks before were thinned to small clumps of witches and wizards, most of them quite nicely sauced. Most of the street lamps were still lit, but a few had sputtered into darkness, leaving small stretches of pavement in shadow. Harry and Celestina took advantage of these little pockets of privacy as they walked, and Harry was rather breathless by the time they reached the main street.

"Well," Harry said, stopping on the corner. He turned to Celestina and drew her close.

"You want to go on alone from here?" she asked softly.

"If it's okay," Harry said. "I mean, do you need me to walk you anywhere?"

"No, I can Apparate," she said, kissing his chin.

"Yeah." Harry buried his nose in the crook of her neck and breathed deeply. The necklace pressed into his cheek and he couldn't resist a little taste of Celestina's earlobe.

"It's late," she whispered. "You should go before someone notices you're not in bed."

The parting was as difficult as Harry had anticipated. They turned it into a prolonged process consisting of numerous stages of contact, until all Harry was left with was her hand in his. With one last kiss and a whispered renewal of the promise to write, Harry released her hand and turned away. The night seemed much colder, the wind much more bitter and hostile as he started up the pavement towards the cross-street where Honeyduke's awaited.

He looked back once and saw Celestina still standing on the corner, her hair like a beacon in the night. As he watched she turned away, her cloak swirling behind her, and stepped out of sight around the corner, apparently heading back the way they had come. Harry almost stopped, almost followed her and asked what was wrong, why she hadn't just Apparated right there. But he had a funny feeling that if he gave into the desire to hold her again letting go would be even more difficult.

He hurried on towards Honeyduke's, still reeling from the intensity of his feelings. He had never imagined anything could be like this, so powerfully magnetic. He felt small with her, swept away in the tide of something irresistibly vast. He had spent long minutes over the past week searching for the words to describe how he felt when he was with her and had come up blank. He'd been tempted to ask Hermione simply because he so desperately wanted to know how to articulate an experience he could barely wrap his mind around. But he wasn't sure Hermione even knew he was dating Celestina, and he did know that she would strongly disapprove of his leaving the castle. But with the Honeyduke's wards melting before his wand and the metal door handle icy between his fingers, Harry found the word.

Addicted.

He glanced back again, but Celestina was around at least two corners, and probably not even in the town by then. Harry turned back to the door, breathing deeply through the pangs of loss. She would be back, he assured himself. And she would write. But he wasn't sure as he entered Honeyduke's, reset the locks behind him, then made his way down into the tunnel, if letters would be enough to sustain the ever growing craving for her presence he felt. He didn't know, and a cold, gnawing dread settled in his gut.

***

Harry let out a heart-felt groan and reached desperately for a pillow to cover his protesting eyes.

"Not so fast," Ron said, snatching the shield away before Harry's fumbling fingers could get a grip.

"G'way," Harry grumbled, sliding down further in the bed and pulling the edge of the quilt over his face.

Ron, the sadist, deprived him of that protection, too, going as far as to strip it and the rest of the blankets off entirely. Harry squawked, curling in a tight ball and reaching for the purloined warmth and comfort.

"Come on," Ron said, batting Harry's hands away. "It's nearly eleven. We'll miss brunch."

"Go on, then," Harry said, glaring balefully.

"It's Saturday brunch, Harry," Ron said, aghast. "You don't want to miss it."

Harry moaned again and sat up, massaging his throbbing temples. "Eurgh," he said succinctly.

"Besides," Ron added, thumping Harry heartily on the shoulder, "you need to tell me about your date."

"My--oh." The fog between his ears cleared a bit, and Harry vaguely remembered creeping into the tower the night before, a half-asleep Ron muttering something about "all hours of the morning," that sounded like it came directly from his mother's mouth. Harry remembered dropping his robes and cloak in a pile at the foot of the bed, then practically falling asleep on the journey from vertical to horizontal.

"You coming?" Ron asked, moving to his own bed and reaching for his shoes.

"Yeah," Harry sighed, slowly unfolding himself and finding his feet. "Eurgh," he said again, one hand clutching a bedpost and the other going to his head.

"You alright?" Ron asked, frowning over at him. "I can get some hang-over cure from Fred and George, if you want."

"No," Harry said, straightening up and shuffling off for the loo. "Didn't have much more than a taste. Just tired, I guess."

"Well, you don't look much better," the bathroom mirror said, annoyingly perky.

"Better than what?" Harry asked, leaning over and splashing water on his face. That helped a bit, and he reached for his toothbrush.

"Than this morning," the mirror said. Harry could have sworn it was rolling its non-existent eyes at him.

"It is this morning," Harry said, returning the gesture.

The mirror huffed. "I meant earlier. When you were in here chucking your guts up."

The toothbrush paused halfway to Harry's mouth. "Huh?" he asked, then more intelligently, "I wasn't in here throwing up this morning."

"Sure you were," the mirror said. "I saw you myself. Looked like a nasty bout, too."

"Well, I think I'd remember," Harry said, shaking his head. Really, he and this particular mirror had never gotten on well, but this was something new. "You must have seen someone else. If you're not making the whole thing up, that is."

"I should think I would know how you all look by now," the mirror said testily.

"And I should think I would know if I'd been sick," Harry retorted, attacking his teeth with vigor.

"Whatever you say," the mirror sniffed, then fell silent. Harry glowered into it the whole time he was at the sink. He wondered if he could convince the other Gryffindor prefects that it was a hazard to student well-being and have the blasted thing replaced.

Harry headed back to the dorm and threw on some robes. Ron muttered impatiently, eager to get down to the legendary spread of a Hogwarts Saturday brunch. They met Hermione, whose ink-streaked knuckles revealed her favorite alternative to a lie-in, and the three of them headed down for the Great Hall. Brunches on the weekend were always highly anticipated, not only for the chance for a lie-in , but also for the excellent food, and the relaxed atmosphere. Some students came in their pajamas, others wore animal slippers instead of proper shoes. Harry still fondly remembered the time one of Lavender's lion slippers had bitten the nose off Pansy Parkinson's frog.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione found empty seats at the table and nodded good mornings to their housemates. Ginny was to Harry's right, and Harry guessed from the disheveled state of her hair and her slightly dirty robes that she had been out flying.

"Morning," he muttered, passing her the juice.

"You look positively bleary," she said, handing him a platter of ham and cheese omelets.

Harry grimaced and passed the omelets on to Ron, untouched. "Didn't get much sleep," he told Ginny.

The post, too, was delayed a bit on the weekends. As Harry poured himself some tea he heard the nearly thunderous rush of many flapping wings as a veritable regiment of owls descended into the room. He didn't pay much attention, for he wasn't expecting anything. Celestina was probably just getting up herself, and Harry doubted she'd write so soon anyway. He noticed peripherally that Hermione was dealing with two owls, one the familiar tawny that usually brought her Daily Prophet and the other an exhausted looking screech owl that was practically snoozing in Hermione's porridge. Harry's interest peaked at the second owl--messages from Viktor usually came from very well-traveled owls.

He was just about to lean over and ask Hermione about the note when a collective murmuring rose about the hall. Harry sat up straight, his spine prickling with the pressure of hundreds of pairs of eyes on him. Slowly, he turned around. About a third of the students were holding Daily Prophets, and most of the rest were crowding around or leaning over to get a look. Excited whispering sprang up on every side, and most people didn't bother to hide the fact that they were blatantly staring at Harry. He caught Padma's eyes very briefly, but she turned quickly away, her shoulders hunching. Harry well remembered the humiliation of last year's articles, and a sense of dread began to build.

"Harry!" Hermione's whisper was quiet but forceful. She was leaning around Ron, her copy of the Prophet clutched in one hand and a dangerous look in her eye. Without a word, Harry took the paper from her, braced himself, and looked down at the front page.

"Wow," he said, blinking at the half-page moving picture. "That's a really good photo."

"That's a really good photo?" Hermione leaned further out, one finger waggling. Ron winced, looking none-too-pleased to be stuck between them. Harry had little sympathy for him. "A good photo?" Hermione repeated, her voice going up an octave. "That's all you can say?"

"Well, it is," Harry defended, one finger unconsciously going to trace the outline of the figures on the page. The shot caught him and Celestina in the center of the frame, sitting close together with the elegantly laid table before them. Celestina was turned away from photo Harry, and he was just bending to kiss the back of her neck as he clasped the necklace. As Harry watched, Celestina turned back, fingering the necklace and talking softly to her companion.

"Wow," Ron said, getting a look for himself. "Where'd you get the rock?"

"I can't believe you," Hermione hissed. Harry guessed that if they weren't in public she'd be shrieking by now. "Who cares about the photo or the necklace, which, by the way, looks as if it cost half your year's spending money, Harry. You left Hogwarts grounds last night, without permission I might add. You could have been captured by Death Eaters or attacked, and I wouldn't be surprised if they take your prefect badge away."

"Good going on the priorities there, Herm," Ron said dryly. "There's nothing to do about it now--it's not like he can deny it or anything. And he's perfectly fine."

"I can't believe you're defending him," Hermione snapped, turning her glare on him. "It could have been a trap. This Warbeck person could be working for Voldemort, and all you care about is finding out whether Harry scored last night."

"I do not," Ron protested.

"She is not," Harry said at the same time.

"How do you know?" Hermione demanded hotly.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" Harry asked through gritted teeth. An unreasoning anger was rapidly building in him in response to her accusations. She didn't know anything about Celestina, about what they had together. She wouldn't understand anyway--her boyfriend was putting spells on her, after all. It was only Ron's presence that restrained Harry from pointing this fact out to her, and he turned away from both of them in order to compose himself.

He pulled the paper away from Ron and unfolded it all the way to get a better look.

A CELEBRITY LOVE STORY

Harry Potter and Celestina Warbeck spotted on romantic outing

By Ralph H. Inscribulus

So, the man had been a reporter. That went a long way to explaining the maitre d's attitude, Harry supposed. He wondered if Celestina had recognized him after all, and if so why she had allowed him to sit so close all night. Harry skimmed the article, relieved to find it little more than an accurate recounting of their date, sprinkled with a few jokes about what it took to attract the rich and famous, and some comments from other people in the restaurant. Harry rolled his eyes as he read a remark from Matilda Swizzle of Hogsmeade, who said she "thought they were just the sweetest thing," but that she wouldn't mind if they broke up so Harry Potter would be free to find his way to her, his "own true destiny."

There was a second, smaller picture further down the page, that one depicting the two of them dancing. Harry's attention, however, was snagged by the caption to the main photo.

"Potter offers a token of his affection," it read. Then beneath that, ""He's just so wonderful," Warbeck says. "I promised him I'd wear this [her necklace, an exquisitely cut blue Magicite in a platinum setting] all the time.""

Harry frowned, for the first time not feeling entirely comfortable with the article. He had been with Celestina the entire night, and he'd heard every brief word she'd said to the reporter. The quote definitely hadn't been among them.

"Hermione," he said, cutting off her whispered conference with Ron, "what would happen to a reporter who made up a quote for a story?"

"Well, he'd be fired," she said, not bothering to conceal that she was still angry with him. "And his journalistic license would be revoked. He'd never work for another publication again." She frowned, jerking her head towards the article. "There's no quote from you in there, at least not that I saw."

"Not from me," Harry said, his frown deepening. "So you're saying it's something that no one in their right mind would do?"

"Yeah," Hermione said. "Why?"

"No reason," Harry said, turning away again. He stared down at the caption, his mind reeling. The reporter hadn't made up the quote--there was no reason to. Celestina had given it to him herself, after she and Harry had parted. That was why she had walked away instead of Apparating. And why the reporter had seemed so unsurprised to see her. She'd set it up herself, Harry realized as he replayed their conversation in his mind. Inscribulus had assumed Harry knew about it, and Celestina had had to cut him off to keep him from saying too much.

"Well Potter," Draco Malfoy said, looming suddenly over Harry where he sat. "Seems as if you've discovered the pleasures of older women."

"Oh, get bent," Harry snapped, in no mood to take Malfoy's jibes.

"Testy, aren't we?" Malfoy lifted a foot and rested it casually on the bench between Harry and Ginny. "I just came over to congratulate you, Potter. I'm glad to discover you do, in fact, have a brain between your ears. Who wants to date a sniveling little Hogwarts girl when you can enjoy the benefits of an older, worldly, more experienced partner." He smiled, and Harry was disturbed by the satisfied gleam in the Slytherin's eyes.

Ginny shifted beside him, and Harry scowled. "Too bad you can't say the same," he snapped.

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter." Professor McGonagall strode up the aisle between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, copy of the paper clutched in hand.

"Professor--" Harry began.

She waved him silent, her lips set in a grim line. "Mr. Malfoy, please return to your own table. If I catch you attempting to provoke a Gryffindor again, you'll be in detention until the spring holidays."

Malfoy scowled. "Yes, Professor," he said, the title baring no hint of respect. He turned and strode away, every inch portraying his offended pureblood pride.

"As for you," Professor McGonagall continued, leveling her gaze at Harry, "you will be serving three week's detention with Mr. Filch for leaving school grounds without permission." She glared at Harry's wince. "By all rights I should remove your prefect status, so be grateful for what you've got. And there will be fifty points taken from Gryffindor as well."

"Yes, Professor," Harry said, bowing his head. He knew from experience that his housemates wouldn't take to that at all well.

"Don't worry too much about it," Ron muttered after McGonagall had stomped back to the head table, damning copy of The Prophet still clutched in her hand. "Fred and George say it's not breaking the rules that upsets her so much, but the getting caught."

"And boy did I get caught," Harry said, his attention returning to the article.

"With style, even," Ron agreed. "So," he added, leaning closer, "did you?"

"Did I what?" Harry asked, still studying the photograph. He felt strange as he watched himself and Celestina murmuring to each other and exchanging gentle kisses. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said it was a nice photograph; it really was. Looking at it made the restless unease settle inside him, made him forget to feel odd that Celestina had gone behind his back with a reporter. He thought absently that he really should be angrier about that--that he had indeed been outraged when he'd first realized what had happened. But the photo Celestina occasionally tore her eyes away from her dinner companion and looked out of the picture, seeming to meet Harry's gaze directly. That fascinating shade of purple compelled him and soothed him all at once, leaving Harry both angry and contented.

"Get lucky," Ron said, leaning even closer.

Harry blinked over at him, taken aback. "With Celestina?" he asked, feeling his face heat.

"No," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "With the Fat Lady."

"Not like that," Harry said, giving Ron a look. He glanced over Ron's shoulder and found Hermione gazing back. The anger was still there in her eyes, and Harry felt a twinge of guilt as he recognized it for the veiled fear it was. She was right, to a certain extent, he could admit. It would seem a remarkably foolish thing to do, if she didn't know, if she couldn't feel the way he did about Celestina. She looked inexplicably sad, too, the way she had that night two weeks before in the unused storage room. She was the first to look away.

Harry turned back to his juice, studiously ignoring the fact that the majority of the hall was still casting him interested, annoyed, or even jealous looks. He tucked Hermione's copy of the paper into his robes, both to get it out of sight and to keep for later examination.

"I would have thought you'd be much angrier," Ginny said suddenly.

Harry turned to her. "About the article?"

"Yeah." She took a bite of eggs. "I remember last year, those articles from Rita Skeeter. You were livid, not to mention a lot more embarrassed than you are now."

"This is different," Harry said. He wondered if the conviction in his voice could somehow bolster the lack of it in his heart.

"Why?" Ginny asked.

"Because she's...because this time it's actually true," he said, shrugging.

"I suppose," Ginny said. "But still, someone invaded your privacy. They followed you throughout your entire date and took pictures during," she looked away, "intimate moments. I would have thought you'd be a bit more upset about it."

Harry shrugged again. "I'm not," he said simply.

"Okay," Ginny said.

As Harry turned away he could feel her eyes on his back, and he didn't have to look to see the wistful expression in them. Harry went back to his tea, deciding just to ignore anybody and everybody for the rest of the morning. He really didn't feel up to explaining himself anymore, particularly since he didn't understand it too well himself. For Ginny was absolutely right, he knew. He should have been angry, he should have been outraged. He should have been embarrassed at the very least. But he hadn't been lying when he'd said he wasn't. He was a bit put out that Celestina had gone behind his back, but that was all. The article itself actually sort of pleased him especially the picture.

Harry sighed, gazing into his tea. Not for the first time the creeping sense of something...something enormous and rotten and pervasive whispered in the back of his mind. He glanced over at Hermione, at her angry mouth and sad eyes, at the way her hair fell across her cheek. She had been violated in a most fundamental and horrific way, and all he could do about it was wait around with her and hope to be of some use.

Ginny looked almost as perturbed as Hermione, her eyes hooded by a fall of hair but the set of her mouth revealing her upset. She appeared frustrated, tired, a little sad. Unbidden, his eyes swept across the hall. Padma was sitting silently, not speaking to anyone. Three seats along Cho was speaking softly with a blonde girl Harry had seen, but whose name he didn't know. At the Slytherin table Malfoy was picking distractedly at his plate while he spoke to Malcolm Baddock. He looked rather pleased with himself and the world in general.

The uneasy feeling increased, and Harry realized suddenly that this was nothing new. He'd been feeling this for months now, a low-level, barely conscious whisper at the back of his mind. He shivered despite the warmth of the room. Something was wrong, he knew. Something as yet unseen, just a creeping presence like the shadow of an approaching shark beneath the water. Something big and something bad and something Harry knew he had gotten only the briefest glimpses of. He felt an intricate web closing around him, tangled strands of lies and half-truths, plans and hidden alliances. The shiver gripped him again and he folded his arms tightly across his chest. The shadows were closing in on stealthy, cat feet, and Harry knew without any doubt that they were coming for him.