Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Twenty-Nine — Wine of Friendship

"Drink with me to days gone by

Can it be you fear to die?

Will the world remember you when you fall?

Could it be your death means nothing at all?

Is your life just one more lie?"

-Les Miserables, "Drink With Me"

Friday, November 14, 2003

Harry found Hermione in the teacher’s lounge, curled up in a chair with James on her lap, much the same as they’d been on the day he’d fought with Ron. He slipped into a chair across from her and looked on silently. She’d changed, physically. He hadn’t noticed it at first, being too wrapped up in his grief. She looked old, prematurely an adult because of the horror their school years had been. Most children didn’t grow up until they were legally an adult — Hermione, Ron, and Harry had been forced to death with death starting at the age of eleven. What did that make them, if they were adults that early?

When he looked into the eyes of anyone who was at Hogwarts while Harry had been, he saw the same — the young faces with the eyes of an elderly man or woman, cursed to have left childhood behind because of the evil of Voldemort. He had nightmares about the last battle for Hogwarts still, even after living four years apart from it all in relative peace. If he still had nightmares, what dreams haunted those who lived in constant war?

But the solution was there, inscribed in the book resting on his lap. The only barrier between the three of them and Voldemort’s demise was a simple lack of trust. "Hermione?" he called quietly, reaching over to shake her awake.

She yawned and shifted James on her lap, trying to work out the kinks of sleep. He sat back patiently and waited, knowing that it would take time to rebuild the binds of trust that had disintegrated over the years — and she needed to be fully alert for that. "What is it, Harry?" she murmured drowsily.

"I’ve found the answer, but we need Ron. And we all need to talk."

As expected, Hermione was awake immediately. Her eyes glinting in excitement at the mere thought of new knowledge, Harry found himself holding James and watching her scurry to the fireplace to call Ron to the teacher’s lounge. "Where did you find it?" she demanded as she retook her seat, leaning forward.

Harry tossed the book on the table. "Not the Restricted section. I found it by accident, actually. It fell off the shelf and open in my lap." Best not to tell her about the nearly destroyed library books — she always tended to get a bit uppity over abuse of books. And with her distrust of Divination... best keep the dream quiet as well.

Her eyes raked over the spell. "Trust. We have that. We were the Terrific Trio, after all. We have plenty of trust."

"We did." Harry’s eyes raked over to the door, where Ron was standing, out of breath. Standing and glaring at Hermione.

For her part, Hermione looked up and over at Ron, and then met Harry’s gaze with a sigh. "You’re right. We did."

"What time is it?" Ron demanded, sweeping into the room with a scowl and a bright red "Cincinnati Charms" bathrobe tied snuggly about his body. "It’s barely light out."

Harry gave a shrug. "It’s Friday. We have two days to concoct a plan of attack. Losing sleep now means we might survive the battle." He cuddled the bundle of blankets wrapped around his son before returning Ron’s frown. "You look like a yuppie with the goatee, Ron. All you need is a cell and an Armani suit."

"Well, you were a bloody lawyer! At least I was involved with something respectable!" Ron collapsed into a chair facing the empty fireplace and kicked his feet up on the table, showing off holey Chudley Canon socks and what he was wearing under the bathrobe — Golden Snitch boxers and a grubby white shirt. Hermione wrinkled her nose and looked away.

"Respectable?" Harry burst out with a laugh. "You call professional American sports respectable! How long have you been in America, Ron? Did you even bother to watch a hockey match?"

Ron gave a grunt. "I’m not a Muggle. Why would I watch a Muggle game? American Quidditch is perfectly respectable."

"Harry? The spell?" Hermione suggested, shooting a silencing glare in Ron’s direction.

He gave an audible sigh at the animosity between the two who had been his best friends years ago. Their body language itself was enough to give proof to the near-hatred which had sprung up since Ron’s return to England. "From what I can tell, it requires four corners and a center to cast it. The focus of the spell, the center caster, has to have complete trust in the corners. A side-effect of the casting is the surge of power which the focus has control of for a day after the beginning of the spell. Think of it... as a bowl of water. Four pitchers pour into the bowl, putting in so much water that it ultimately overflows. The extra water has to drain away until there’s a balance. In this spell, the focus is the bowl and the corners are the pitchers. Make sense?" Harry looked to Ron specifically, realizing that Hermione would easily pick the concept up.

Ron shrugged. "Right. Water, magic; bowl, you. So who’re the corners? What’s the spell and what do I have to do?"

"It’s not that simple!" Hermione broke in, managing to explain things far better than Harry could ever hope to. Though, seeing as she was a professor, he understood why. "According to the text, this power lending spell is a type of friendship charm. We have to have complete trust in each other to cast it — and once it’s been cast, that’s it. No second chance at it. Harry has to trust all of us, we all have to trust Harry — and each other." The look of malice she gave Ron was indicative of the amount of trust SHE currently placed in him.

He glared back, of course. "Well, he’ll just have to find someone to replace you in the spell, then, won’t he. God knows I’ll sacrifice myself for him if I have to. It’s always been that way."

Hermione gasped sharply, face a portrait of shock. "Me?" she squealed, affronted by the suggestion of distrust. "Ronald Weasley, I’m as much a friend of Harry’s as you are! Just because I didn’t drop everything to run around the Americas on some bloody chase doesn’t mean I’m any less a friend! Twelve years I’ve known you, Ron, and you’re still the same sodding git I met on the Hogwarts Express -!"

Harry, finally having enough of it, shot to his feet, craddling James against his chest. "Bloody hell, Mione, just stop it! You too, Ron!" he added, as Ron’s face became a glow of triumph. "This certainly won’t work if the two of you can’t put the years back where they belong. I left. It was my fault the two of you split, my fault there was a reason for Ron to leave Britain, and my fault the Dark Lord wasn’t defeated five years ago. My fault, not anyone else’s!"

With a frantic shake of her head, Hermione broke in. "Harry, don’t say that! It was no one’s fault, certainly not yours! You weren’t strong enough to defeat him then -"

"- And even if you aren’t now, we’ve got the spell! We use that, and You-Know-Who doesn’t have a chance. The power of four wizards combined into one vessel? I’m surprised it hasn’t been used dozens of times before!" Ron finished for her.

And there was a moment of silence as the two ex-lovers sat contemplating what had just happened. Harry didn’t speak, just waiting for the two to come to their own peace over the matter. Unsurprisingly, it was Hermione who spoke first, hesitantly. "We still have a thing or two in common, I suppose."

"I’m sorry I left the way I did. We never... really had closure or anything, did we." Ron straightened a bit in his chair, fixing the garishly coloured robe. With a glance out of the corner of his eye toward Harry, Ron muttered almost inaudibly, "’msorry." He cleared his throat and tried again. "I’m sorry. About... when I walked in and acted like that. It’s been four years, and I didn’t have the right to expect you to wait for me and still want me."

"Why should I have waited? You do realize that the first I heard from you after you ran off was a picture in the Daily Prophet from a Minneapolis Manticores gala — with some tart hanging on your arm. That was a year and a half after I’d last seen you. What was I supposed to think, Ron?" she demanded. Her wand was in hand, tapping against her knee in a nervous gesture. "I’ve finally got over it. George needs me, and I need him. We’re doing just fine, thank you. And if you’re really and truly sorry, you’ll back off and let me live my life."

Harry winced and waited for the counter argument. However... none came. Looking abashed, an incredibly uncharacteristic emotion from the Ron that Harry had grown up with, Ron rubbed the palms of his hands together and chewed on his lower lip. "Be careful with George, alright? He’s probably so lost right now. Without Fred."

"Yes, he is," Hermione murmured, eyes locked on Ron. "And I promise, I won’t hurt him." Another strained silence held the occupants of the room for a moment, before Hermione continued. "Well, then... who are the other corners?"

"Remus and Minerva, if they’ll consent. I... did a bit of battle planning earlier on. Malfoy stays up here to keep him from having to face his mother and Voldemort. I was thinking that George could take a group of Aurors — there are a few who fled here with the other Hogsmeade refugees — and swing around to attack from the side while the five of us and as many adults who can fight go in from the front. They take on the Death Eaters, while the four corners cast the final bit of this spell and I cast Dumbledore’s on Voldemort. Vortex opens, Voldemort get sucks inside, vortex closes... and poof, no more big bad wizard."

Hermione and Ron exchanged glances. Suddenly, Harry felt he could be sitting in the midst of the Gryffindor Common Room before any of their wild childhood stunts. Hermione looked skeptical and Ron looked amused and excited. "The plan seems sound enough," Hermione put in hesitantly, "but really, Harry... Big bad wizard...?"

Ron gave a snort of laughter. "Big bad wizard? I think fatherhood’s gotten to the poor sod, Mione. He’s been reading fairy-tales again..."

"Wizard of Oz, actually. Though a fair share of Little Red Riding Hood. That’s one of Rachel’s favourites, you know," Harry grinned, pushing aside the hovering darkness if only for a few hours. "Have I got some stories for you... Ron, mate, if you ever get married, stock the cabinets with pickles..."