Dark Gods in the Blood

Chapter Sixteen

The thing was to know what he belonged to, how many

powers of darkness claimed him for their own. That was the

reflection that made you creepy all over. It was impossible --

it was not good for one either -- trying to imagine. He had

taken a high seat amongst the devils of the land -- I mean

literally.

-- Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

"Actually," Ron admitted as he regarded his damp dishtowel, "no one has kept in touch like they'd promised. You're not the only one out of our year that dropped off the face of the Earth. And, what with work and all, I imagine I know more people's whereabouts than most."

Hermione passed him another drippy dish. "Any unexpected ones?"

Wiping the plate off, he carefully placed it on the shelf in the helpfully opened cabinet. Hermione had rearranged his pitiful collection of crockery, nearly immediately after her arrival -- a few plates nicked from the Burrow, a set of glasses Harry had given him one day upon learning that Ron, up until then, simply drank from either the tap or the bottle in lieu of a cup, she'd learned one day at breakfast. He also had three cracked teacups and a mismatched pot of unknown origins, and a forlorn looking serving dish bearing the Hogwarts coat-of-arms. She had not asked how he came across it, attributing its presence to either an honorable present from Albus Dumbledore or a rather unethical one from the Weasley twins. Due to its being shoved into a cabinet behind an unopened box containing what appeared to be a martini kit, decorated impersonally with dusty cobwebs, she suspected the former -- Ron would have awarded such a successful Weasley prank with a position of honor above his mantle if that had been the case, which therefore suggested he had acquired it for services he did not care to think on -- hence the cobwebs.

"Um ..." Ron began, starting on another dish. "Well, you already know that Draco Malfoy's location these days is on rather a need-to-know basis -- he pops up every now and again, just to annoy the hell out of people -- but that's hardly unexpected. And Lavender Brown went off on some American exchange something-or-other about seven years ago and never came back. And just the other day -- when was it? -- last Thursday, I think, a file with Colin Creevey's name in it crossed my desk. He's apparently gone Muggle, if you'd believe it, and works at some London newspaper as one of the most junior of reporters."

She scrubbed viciously at a bit of something on a fork. "What's Neville up to these days, then? He was at the Burrow for supper after Harry's ... all those months ago, but I never got a chance to talk with him."

With an increasingly deep frown, he pulled out several drawers in rapid succession. "Bloody hell, Hermione ..." he grumbled, waving a spoon at her.

"Beneath the shelf with the plates on," she replied absently, still working on the fork and beginning to suspect she was trying to take off rust, not food.

"Tell me again why you felt the urge to move everything in my kitchen," he sighed, finding the drawer, indeed, to be full of gently bent, mismatched cutlery.

She conceded defeat as far as the fork was concerned, making a mental not to check all the silverware for similar corrosion and beginning to miss the chopsticks she'd washed on occasion at the monastery -- blissfully rust-free lacquered wood, wonderfully easy to clean. "Because it needed it," she said. "It was ... illogical. You had the pots and turners and things in the pantry. Not to mention the cups and spoons in the icebox."

As he wiped off a frying pan, Ron contrived to look put out. "It makes perfect sense -- everything that I'd put in a glass, apart from tap water or scotch, I keep in the refrigerator."

"And the spoons ...?"

"Well, I tried keeping them in the freezer," he continued innocently, "right next to the ice cream, but they kept sticking to my tongue as I tried to eat, so I did the next best thing." He scowled as he sat the dry pan down on his stove, a now-neatly scrubbed cook-top that he'd admitted on the first day she moved in he didn't even know how to turn on -- a Warming Charm had usually sufficed for his single cup of morning tea before work. "Anyway ... you're one to talk about all things illogical. How's your friend the evil-professor-cum-mental-patient these days?" This last was deliberately light, with a teasing edge to it -- Hermione had come to suspect that Ron's current opinion of Severus Snape did not differ vastly from her own and was even quite possibly less confused.

She did not rise to the bait, keeping her voice and her expression serene. "Tell me about Neville, Ron. Somehow, we managed to get off track, but I really am curious about him."

"You're not getting off quite as easily as that, little girl," he warned playfully, wagging a handful of butter knives in an admonishing manner. "But I can bide my time. If you're this evasive, there must be something particularly interesting in it."

"Ron!" This time she did react, lobbing her sopping dishcloth at his face.

Dodging it neatly, Ron laughed as the rag fell to the ground with a wet smack. "All right, all right ... let me see ... Neville ..." He leaned over and picked up the cloth, offering it to her with a mocking smirk. "As far as I can tell, he's bounced around a bit. Did some curse work at the DoM." He pronounced this as a single word, dom, and it took Hermione a disconcerting moment to cipher his meaning. "'Course, that was years ago; right about when Harry and I first applied to the Aurory. Everyone remembered how he made out with the Lestranges, you know, so it wasn't as if work was hard to find. In fact ..." Here, Ron snickered. "He's been offered quite a few endorsement deals over the years. Remember when the Firebolt people were after Harry?"

Surprised at herself, Hermione joined in his laughter. "I do remember that!" she cried with a wide grin. "It was right after we got out of Hogwarts. They'd gotten footage from the Triwizard tournament all those years ago, when Harry Summoned his broom to get past the dragon and wanted to run it. He wouldn't answer the door for six months -- had his Floo disconnected and everything."

They continued to laugh. It felt good to laugh again. To laugh about Harry again. She hadn't realized, up until that moment, how much she'd needed to laugh about Harry. Not all of her memories were bittersweet and intense, colored by the destiny so casually saddled on Harry's frail, adolescent shoulders. There were good recollections -- times when Harry had been unaffectedly happy, when he'd been unintentionally amusing, endearingly dim. Even as she missed his old lopsided grin and wanted it beside her as she berated Ron for his sloppy living habits, she treasured her memories of it. "I imagine you've gotten owls as well," she said once the laughter died down. "After all, you're in quite an enviable position -- one of very few wizards who's gotten to hex Lucius Malfoy and lived to tell the tale. 'Course, I always thought you'd come closer to doing advert spots than Harry ever would."

Ron sobered and picked at a hangnail absently. "Nah ... although I will say there have been times I would have appreciated the extra money."

He evaded her eyes as she searched for a response.

But he soon looked up and his blue gaze was cheerful and his smile genuine. "I'm not nearly pretty enough for all that, love. But Neville ... he's gotten to be quite good-looking through the years. I'm sure you noticed, when you saw him coupla months ago. Even did a couple of interviews with Witch Weekly, according to Ginny. Gladrags approached him. So did -- can you believe it? -- Ollivander. As if he's ever needed adverts to drum up business. No ... Neville turned it all down -- too shy for all that fame stuff. I think he works at one of those private nursery places popping up all over now. Works with exotic plants. I don't keep up with him like I should, but Ginny keeps me appraised."

"Ginny ..." she mused aloud. "Are Ginny and Neville ...?"

Ron shrugged expressively. "Who knows? I'm sure Mum, probably, would like to, but Ginny hasn't been forthcoming with anyone on that particular account. She and Neville have been good friends since Hogwarts, though. He patched her up after that awful Malcolm Baddock left her in the lurch the year after you left, and she kept him from eating a bullet when Luna Lovegood broke their engagement two weeks before the wedding."

Hermione's eyebrow quirked with interest, but she remained silent, tacitly asking him to continue.

"But, according to Fred, Neville's been around the Burrow more often these six months past. They've been more ... ambiguous than usual."

"Hrm ..." she finally said. "I'd never actually given them much thought before. With Ginny's ... enthusiasm and Neville's ... well, his ..."

"He's not nearly as mousy as he was when we were kids, you know," he told her reproachfully. "As for my part, I'm willing to reserve judgment until I know more about the situation. Now ... where does this blasted thing go?" He held aloft a metal bowl with holes poked in at regular intervals. "For that matter, where did it come from? I didn't know I owned one of these spaghetti-stays-in-water-goes-out bowls.**"

"Educated folk call it a colander, Ron," she retorted, unable to resist throwing him a superior smirk. "Just put it by the stove. And, for your information, you don't own one. When I needed one, I transfigured it from one of your more mangled salad forks -- I was afraid the tines would break off if I tried to bend them back into place, so I put it to better use."

"Don't you ever get tired of being perfect?" he asked nastily as he tossed the colander toward the stove with little ceremony or care. It clattered as it skidded across the metal surface. "And don't forget about my question. Snape ...?"

With a huff, she began wringing out her dishrag. "You're as bad as a dog with a ratty old bone, Ron. Or ... Dobby with a particularly hideous sock."

He did not laugh.

"Oh, all right." She spread the cloth across the sideboard to dry. "Did ... do you know why he's up in Yorkshire?"

Shrugging, Ron sat down at the battered kitchen table -- one of its legs had several nails dangerously protruding from its side as a result of a shoddy repair job; Ron had informed her every Repairing and/or Binding Charm he knew had failed to keep the leg on, so he'd simply put about a dozen nails into it one frustrated day. It wobbled ominously as he rested his elbows on the surface. "Not as such," he said thoughtfully. "But I can speculate -- Snape always was a dour fellow. Would I be off the mark?"

"Not much," Hermione said. "As far as I can gather, he tried to kill himself, Dumbledore had him committed, and he's spent five years resenting it awfully."

"I wonder ..." Ron began. "I wonder if he resents being sent to Perkins or if he resents Albus thwarting his, erm, efforts."

She laughed bitterly. "Six of one, half-dozen of the other, Ron. Although, I suppose he might simply be angry about the loss of his physical freedom. He absolutely hates his therapist. To be honest, I don't see why Dumbledore allows Dr. Cuthrell to continue on working with him. It's not as if he's actually helping Snape."

His answering chuckle was more genuine. "I expect you're not giving Albus the credit he deserves. I'd wager Snape's the sort of fellow who's not going to be helped by anyone -- it's got to strictly come from him. So it might be better for him to have an adversary, all things considered. Might come closer to ... jump-starting his psyche, like."

"I am astounded by your eloquence, Auror Weasley," she said in a dry voice, trying to mask her surprise at his insight.

"Oh, don't get all high and mighty just because I had an idea you didn't, missy," he said loftily. "And don't attribute it to undiscovered genius on my part, either."

"No worry of that."

He grimaced and proceeded to ignore her. "Anyway. I was going to say only that I've worked fairly closely with Albus Dumbledore for ten years now and I'm in a decent position to guess at his motives, is all."

"Hark at the brilliant Auror, intellect only outshined by his dazzling charm," she said, dripping sarcasm in a deliberate attempt to annoy him as she shoved her robe sleeves up her arms.

Ron's facial expression remained impassive as he watched her fumble about in the sink, under the soapy water, searching for the stopper. "I can believe you've been spending a fair amount of time around Snape, what with your newly-found sunny disposition and all. What do you two talk about, anyway? You know ..." he continued after a brief pause. "It would probably be easier to do that with a Summoning Charm."

"The word easy is most often in disharmony with the word effortless," she muttered absently through grit teeth, grunting as her fingers tugged.

"Huh?"

The stopper finally pulled free with an audible popping noise and Hermione regarded it with satisfaction, barely noticing Ron's bewilderment initially. Finally, as she saw his confusion, she attempted to explain. "Well ..." she hedged. "My master says that some times, when he can see my eyes complaining. I think it means that while the simplest way is always best, simple doesn't necessarily mean easy."

"How is that better than what your master says?" he asked faintly. "Hang on ... master?"

Hermione chuckled, giving the sink one last rinse. "I can see that Françoise has not told you." She found her thoughts disturbingly echoing a sentiment Snape had expressed and thus spoke them out loud. "Ask me again one day."

Perhaps Ron caught a glimpse of her thought in her strange smile. "Hermione?" he asked gently. "Hermione, you're avoiding talking about Snape again, aren't you? What is it that you don't want to tell me?"

It flickered briefly through her mind that he might be using some interrogation trick from the Aurory on her. She was surprised to realize that she did not care, that she would possibly tell him everything on her mind, not in spite of, but rather because of that fact. "I don't know what we talk about," she admitted. "There are just these days that I need to go see him. Some days are worse than others." Her smile turned grim as she joined him at the table. "Did you know that Dumbledore is his uncle?"

Clearly flabbergasted, he blinked. "Really? Albus never said ..."

"I get the impression neither of them talks about it," she replied. "But Dumbledore's the one who had him put up in Perkins, like I said. And he's keeping him there. Apparently, Dr. Cuthrell defers all decisions to him. He actually told Dumbledore that I was visiting Snape, to see if he disapproved."

"I'm still stuck back on the fact that there's blood between them," Ron said vaguely. "And Snape actually told you this?"

"In grandstanding, epic storytelling fashion, even," she answered, mood uplifting slightly. "It seems that Dumbledore raised Snape, for the most part, but he didn't publicly acknowledge it, for whatever reason. So I think he was glad to volunteer his background. To defy Dumbledore, maybe."

"Or maybe he realized he has absolutely nothing to either lose or gain by telling people now," he said thoughtfully. "After all, I can see how many years ago, Albus would have preferred to keep it quiet. Protection and all."

Curious, she arranged her hands in her lap neatly, willing herself not to fidget. Her fingertips were shriveled from the dishwater. "How so?" she prompted.

His thoughtful expression intensified into a probing one. "Two points, one far worse than the other. The first one is natural -- imagine how Snape would have been treated as a kid, not only at Hogwarts, either, if everyone knew he was the ward of one of the most powerful wizards in the world. He either would have been more insufferable than the imaginary love child of Draco Malfoy and Dudley Dursley, or he wouldn't have even managed to survive childhood, for all of the people in the world thinking he needed to be 'taken down a peg.'"

"I never thought of that," Hermione replied, brow furrowed. "And I'd forgotten that Dumbledore was the one to leave Harry with those wretched relatives when he was a baby." Her expression darkened. "Seems drastic, though, to deny someone who is, for all intents and purposes, practically your son, just on the off-chance of something going wrong."

"Well ..." Ron drawled, folding his hands behind his head, elbows flapping in the air as he continued. "We've come to my second point ..."

She sighed, annoyed as he allowed the sentence to dangle in one of his more obnoxious habits she recalled from childhood. Ron absolutely delighted in holding bits of information over people's heads. Even responses to simple questions, like, Ron, will you hand me that quill over there? turned into gigantic productions. As it was, then, her voice grated with impatience and suppressed anger. "Ron ..."

Unperturbed, he continued to grin, enjoying his moment. "I wonder ..."

"Ron!" she snapped.

"Did He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named know about Snape and our Albus?" he asked flippantly, finally reaching his punch line.

Hermione was silent as she processed his question. After many moments of turning it over and over in her mind, she glanced up to see Ron watching her expectantly. "I'm sure he didn't, actually," she said. "Because if he had intended to eliminate Snape for that reason, he had ample opportunity. And if he'd wanted to torment Dumbledore with the knowledge that his heir was part of the Death Eater organization, Snape would have been in a higher position of authority than he was. He wasn't even in the inner circle."

"True," Ron conceded. "Lackey of a lackey isn't the best thing to be able to throw into your enemy's face. First lieutenant or right-hand man would be far better, and Wormtail's rise to power should have shown us that something as paltry as incompetence wouldn't have kept You-Know-Who from promoting Snape. Although, I would suspect that Snape was nothing if not competent as a Death Eater."

"He struck me as rather ... squeamish as he spoke about it, actually," she said. "To be honest, I was a bit surprised. I mean ... I knew Snape couldn't be terribly evil -- Dumbledore wouldn't have let him around little children if that were the case. But I always figured he would be able to ... well, if he needed to ..."

Snorting at her inability to produce a coherent sentence, he attempted to complete her thought. "He can kill if the situation calls for it," he said to her fumbling efforts. "I've seen him do it. Of course, for that matter ..." He gave her a pointed look. "So can I."

She tried to hold his gaze. "How many have you ...?"

Ron sighed. "Enough. But actually, I don't think Snape would have been valuable to Voldemort because he can manage to kill someone if they're shooting Killing Curses at his nose. Everyone forgets. The Death Eater organization was not just a loosely collected consortium of murderers, getting their jollies off tormenting Muggles. They were a tight syndicate, completely dedicated to obtaining power and bringing about ... Oh, what was it that Avery said while we were questioning him all those years back? Oh, yes. 'The dawn of the new order. When wizards truly become the Masters of the World that we have always been destined to be.'" Rolling his eyes, he made a noise of disgust. "No, Hermione. Snape would have been valuable for other reasons. Quite possibly, many of the same reasons that made him so valuable to the Order of the Phoenix. Loyalty, bravery, and that damned ability of his to carry out whatever task Albus gave him, no matter whether or not it seemed to be impossible. Not to mention that he has more lives than that horrible cat you had when we were kids."

She regarded Ron curiously. "Who would have thought that you, of all people, would sing his praises if given an opportunity?"

"Oh, I'm not," he said. "Severus Snape has all the personality of a coffee table, make no mistake. And was about as good a teacher as a rabid hippogriff would have been. But he was a damned brilliant soldier. I'm willing to admit that. All things considered, we're lucky he chose our side, else we might be kowtowing to the Dark Lord as we speak."

"You're just being nice because he saved your life," she said, only half-teasing.

Thoughtfully, he ran his fingers through his hair. "Maybe." His rejoinder was sly and swift. "But I'm not the one who goes to visit him."

Hermione found herself doing something she had not done in more than a decade -- she stuck her tongue out at Ron Weasley.

He looked momentarily taken aback at her audacity but ruined it by throwing his head back and practically howling with laughter. "Oh, sweet Merlin!" he cried as he roared, wiping tears out of his eyes. "I missed you so much, Hermione!"

"You idiot," she said affectionately, laughing at his antics.

"You know," he told her as he began breathing more normally once more. "You still look about twelve when you do that."

"Eurgh," she groaned. "Don't say awful things like that. I was a pitiful looking child."

His smile was charming and Hermione wondered briefly why he seemed to think himself unattractive. "You were," he agreed, ducking her playful swat at his head. "But I will say that you've matured quite well. I, however, always knew that you would. You always were cute as a fluffy little bunny."

"I will ignore the jab you just made about my old teeth, Weasley," she announced imperiously. "But I'm afraid I've got to agree with you about my hair. It's still unmanageable."

"I like it," he said firmly. "It suits you now. I guess ..." His expression was crafty. "You've finally managed to grow into it. Anyway," he continued in a brighter voice as she tried to work out whether or not he'd just insulted her again, "at least it's a normal color."

"Too normal," she said with a gesture of distaste. "I always envied Ginny for her hair. And it's still that lovely coppery sort of red. Just like when we were young."

Ron grinned. "She lucked out with her particular version of the Weasley curse. Although you should know that she sunburns terribly with that matching porcelain complexion." He sounded satisfied as he presumably imagined his sister's distress at such a predicament. "Given that, I almost don't mind my own." He gave his own red locks -- still much closer to scarlet than copper -- a lackluster tug. "And the freckles faded, the older I got."

"Ron ...?" she asked solemnly, breaking the air of amusement they'd been sharing.

He hummed, lowering his gaze to the table, a lone fingernail tracing a single grain in the wood.

"Did Harry ... I haven't seen any pictures ..."

Wordlessly, stoically, he stood, walking toward the other end of the flat, toward the bedroom that Hermione had left mostly untouched, only changing the sheets and clearing out a couple of drawers for the contents of her suitcases. She heard a few rummaging noises, one loud bang, and then he was back, holding a fistful of photographs. "I put them away," he said, sitting down again. "I couldn't bear ..."

Hermione touched his hand in understanding and his fingers opened, spilling the photos out onto the table. She picked up the one that was closest to their joined hands in her free one, trying to ignore the impending tears. Ron, she could see, had already conceded defeat as a single tear made its way down his cheek.

There was Ron, gangly as ever, smiling sadly up at the two of them, his red hair flashing every now and again as the photographed sun picked up hidden glints. His arm was casually looped over the shoulder of a man with black hair and familiar, round spectacles. A dog rolled around in the dust at their feet, every now and again taking a mouthful of the black-haired man's robes in its teeth and tugging lightly.

Harry Potter's photograph smiled up at Hermione and he gave a little wave. Her breath caught on a sob as she ran her thumb over his face, wishing the smooth paper under her touch was Harry's skin.

She could tell, standing beside tall, angular Ron Weasley that the adult version of Harry Potter was a neat fellow of average height, dwarfed by his friend's stature. While Ron still looked to be all hands and feet, gawky and adolescent even as a grown man, Harry was well-proportioned, his hands appearing graceful and agile as he moved about in the picture, waving at Hermione and making playful jabs at the photo-Ron. He looked happy, a sparkle in his always intense green eyes that had not been there when they were children. Even his scar, an angry slash across his forehead throughout their childhoods, had apparently faded, barely visible in the picture.

"Oh, Ron ..." she cried softly, tracing the photo's edge with her finger.

"That was the spring before he and Françoise were married," Ron told her in a quiet voice. "We were up at Hogwarts, horsing around after an Order meeting. Harry was living in Hogsmeade, then. I'd already moved to London for work, but I came up to see him pretty often. That dog there is a stray he took in when he moved up there -- it just kept following him around, so he eventually just gave up and bought him a collar. He passed away when Nicholas was a couple of years old -- he was already old when he took up with Harry."

She looked more closely at the dog flopping around in the picture. Had a fair amount of sheepdog in him, unless she missed her guess. Apparently taking notice of her scrutiny, the dog cocked an ear at her, dropping to its haunches as its tongue lolled. His fur looked silky as the sunlight played with the color. "What was his name?"

Ron laughed. "Harry tried to name him Snuffles, after ... well, you know. But the damned dog wouldn't respond to it, no matter how often Harry shouted at him. So he'd usually just throw his hands up in the air and glare down at him and say, 'you stupid dog!' Then, of course, it went crazy, barking and licking him and all such nonsense. So at the end of it all, Harry wound up just calling him Stupid. He was a good dog, though, for all his, erm, stubbornness."

Smiling, Hermione watched Stupid bound off into the picture. "He looks like one."

"Speaking of quirky pets ..." he said, not taking his eyes from the photo. "Whatever became of your cat?"

"For all I know, Crookshanks is alive and well," she replied. "He never showed any signs of slowing down with age, even though I know he had to be getting on in years. I took him with me when ..."

"When you went away," he supplied flatly.

"Yes," she agreed. "But I realized that it would be rather unkind of me to continue lugging him about like a second suitcase. There was this little girl ..." She trailed off, a fond note in her voice as she lost herself in the memory. "I stayed with her family for a few weeks in Mexico. And she just ... fell in love with Crookshanks. She was an only child and her village was small -- she was rather lonely, I think, and grateful for the company. And Crookshanks seemed to enjoy her as well. So when I moved on, I just ... left him with her."

Shaking his head, Ron sighed. "First Tibet and now Mexico ... .Hermione ..."

But his question went unasked and equally unanswered as a chime sounded in the den, alerting them to an incoming Floo message. Exchanging a curious look with her, Ron stood and walked over to the fireplace, crouching down and lighting a small fire with his wand. Hermione followed slowly, hanging in the doorway.

A head that was dimly familiar to her popped into the flames. "Ah, Weasley," it -- a man -- said. "Glad I caught you here."

Ron looked rather disgruntled. "It's Saturday, Shacklebolt. Are you at work?"

Shacklebolt was not to be dissuaded, apparently. "This is big, Weasley. I mean 'Death Eater conspiracy to overthrow the world powers' big. Not just 'Fudge's stupid nephew's dog in a tree' stuff. I need to talk to you." His eyes flickered over to Hermione, hovering near the sofa by this point. "Alone."

Folding his arms, Ron glared down his nose at the head. "This is Hermione Granger, Kingsley. She's not leaving. My clearance isn't high enough for you to be telling me anything that she can't hear."

"Hermione ... Granger?" the head asked, recognition flickering in his eyes.

She nodded hesitantly.

It smiled. "I can see that you don't remember me. I'm Kingsley Shacklebolt, Miss Granger. We spent some time at the Order headquarters together many summers ago."

"Oh ..." she said, thinking hard and finally coming up with the memory. "Well, erm ..."

The head turned back to Ron, unwilling to undergo any sort of pleasantries. "Ron, how much of the Potter file have you read?"

"Kingsley ..." he began, Hermione recognizing evasion in his voice. "I haven't ..."

"Don't give me shit, Weasley," Shacklebolt warned. "I'm not in the mood. I know I told you to stay the hell away from Potter's file, but I also know that the odds of you following that order are roughly on par with Cornelius Fudge winning Witch Weekly's 'Sexiest Wizard Alive' award. So ... how much?"

His eyes were firmly on his bare feet. "Most of it," he admitted. "Three of your top suspects are dead, by the way."

"I'm bringing you in, Ron," he said sharply. "It's not just the Potter case any more. And we need your expertise. We're all running around like Nifflers with our heads cut off over here."

Both Ron and Hermione's heads jerked up, staring at Shacklebolt with wide eyes. "What?" Ron whispered.

"You heard me. There's been another one. Circumstances are nearly identical to Harry Potter's death. Amelia Bones went to visit her son and his family and found him laid open on the dining room table and Flooed the Minister. She's at St. Mungo's, now, heavily sedated. Get over here now, Weasley. We've got one hell of a puzzler on our hands."

Hermione felt the blood drain out of her face as she stared at Ron. His manner shifted completely -- Harry Potter's mourning friend buried under the purposeful Auror ready to battle demons -- as he strode to the fireplace. "I've got to go, Hermione," he said briefly, taking a handful of Floo powder. "Will you owl Françoise and let her know I won't be home for supper?"

"Of ... of course," she stuttered, watching as he flung himself into the fire, trying to understand what it was that she'd just witnessed.

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