Harry Potter and the Carnelian Key

"Okay, listen up everybody," Angelina said. "This is what we’re going to do."

Hermione bit her lip nervously. She was sitting level with the goalposts in the Quidditch stands with a small crowd of students, waiting for the tryout to begin. She could see Ron focusing on Angelina intently, hovering on Harry’s Firebolt in the group of about 20 students. Most of them were trying out, but Harry, Fred, George, and Alicia were among them, anxiously watching the fate of their team unfold.

"Alicia and I will be acting as chasers during the tryout. Those of you trying out for the chaser position will rotate as our third, and those of you trying out for keeper will oppose us one by one. I know that several of you want to try for both positions, so we’ll give you the chance to do that. Fred, George, and Harry will be circulating, and they and Alicia will be giving me their opinions of your performances after the tryout is over. But I want you all to know that I will be making the final decision on my own. I will seriously consider their input, but you can all rest assured that the final decision will be impartial - and no one should take the decision personally."

Hermione glanced at Ron who was looking nervous, but determined. She knew that Angelina had added that last bit to assure everyone that Ron would be judged on his talent, and not his connections. If he made the team, it would not be because of his brothers’ or Harry’s influence. And if he didn’t make it, he wouldn’t be able to blame them either.

"Okay, first let’s have...fourth year Belinda Ballantine as chaser, and third year Evan Maxwell as keeper. The rest of you - wait your turns along the sideline." Ron and the others flew to the edge of the pitch across from the stands and hovered in a straight line. Alicia, Angelina, Belinda, and Evan took their places, and Fred, George, and Harry spread out to circle them.

As each keeper hopeful took his or her turn, Hermione felt herself tensing up and then relaxing. She kept waiting for one of them to seem better than Ron, but none did. No one was really horrible, but each let at least a couple of shots pass. When Nigel Underwood flew over to take his turn as keeper, Hermione held her breath. She furrowed her brow as she saw that his practice had clearly paid off. He was the first one to block every shot.

"Ron Weasley!" Angelina called after Nigel’s turn was through. Ron flew over, looking suddenly much more nervous than he had before Nigel’s performance. He flew into place and waited, but Alicia was whispering something to Angelina, who was looking at Ron with pursed lips. She nodded and whispered something back to Alicia.

"Mr. Weasley," Angelina said. "Is that the broom you would be flying during games?"

"What?" he asked, glancing down at the Firebolt. "No...no, this is Harry’s broomstick."

"Well, you can’t use it for the tryout, then. I’m sorry."

"Oh no," Hermione groaned, and Ron looked suddenly terrified.

"I’m sorry," Angelina repeated, "but you have to try out with the broom that you would use during a game."

"But I’ve been practicing with this broom!" he exclaimed in a panicky voice. "No one told us -"

"I’m sorry," Angelina said a third time. "But we simply can’t let you try out with a Firebolt if you wouldn’t be using a Firebolt during the games. It just wouldn’t be fair to the others. We have to get an accurate idea of your abilities as they would be in an actual match. What broomstick will you be flying if you make the team?"

"Well, I don’t know," he said shakily, "I reckon one of our old family broomsticks...but I don’t have one here."

Angelina and Alicia began whispering again, and Hermione saw Ron staring open mouthed at Harry, who was shifting his own worried gaze between Ron and the two girls.

"Mr. Weasley," Angelina said at last, "You’ll have to tryout on one of the school brooms."

"What?!" he exclaimed, and he looked to Harry again, who was now engaged with Fred and George in a whispered conversation of their own. In fact, whispers were breaking out amongst everyone now. Clearly this was an unexpected turn of events. Nigel Underwood was looking very interested from his place at the sideline.

"Angelina?" Harry called. "Can we have a minute?" he asked motioning to Ron.

"Sure."

Harry flew to the ground and Ron, looking very shaken, followed.

Hermione stood up and ran down to the front row. She leaned over the railing and saw Harry speaking to Ron intently. Ron was shaking his head but Harry seemed steady. He held out the school broom he had been flying and Ron took it uncertainly, handing Harry his Firebolt. Ron was staring at the mediocre broomstick that he now had to fly, and Harry was gripping him by the shoulder, still speaking firmly. Finally, Ron nodded weakly. Harry released his shoulder and slapped him on the back. Then they both mounted their broomsticks and kicked off. Ron headed for the goalposts, and Harry flew back and forth behind the chasers.

"Go get ‘em, little brother," Fred called from his spot behind the hoops.

"I’m ready," Ron said resolutely.

"All right," said Angelina. "Now we need a chaser. Mr. Underwood, you are trying out for both positions, correct?"

"Yes," Nigel replied, flying forward slightly.

"Well, come on back out here then."

Hermione wondered if it were her imagination, or just her own anxiety, but the tension in the air suddenly felt very thick. A hush fell over the small crowd as Nigel Underwood caught the quaffle thrown to him by Alicia and hurled it in Ron’s direction. Ron lunged to the right and knocked the quaffle away, hard. Nigel caught it and hurled it again - and again Ron blocked it. Hermione wondered if Nigel was trying to prove his skills as a chaser, or just disprove Ron’s as a keeper, but either way, the exchanges were intense. Ron seemed to have forgotten all about the fact that he was on a school broom. Hermione had never seen him look so...what was it? His face was a mixture of anger, determination, and...was he smirking? He was having fun. Hermione stared at him, bewildered, as he took the quaffle hard in the gut, and immediately tossed it back without even grimacing.

"Okay," Angelina said once the quaffle was back in her hands. "Thank you both."

Ron and Nigel flew back to the sidelines, and Nigel stiffly offered his hand to Ron, who shook it, smiling.

"All right," said Angelina, consulting a piece of parchment. "I think that everyone has had a turn. Is there anybody that we missed?" When she got no response she continued, "I’m going to ask you all to return to the Gryffindor common room, and we will be up shortly to let you all know my decision. Thanks for your efforts."

With that, Hermione ran down the steps to the ground, and met Ron just as he was landing.

"Ron!" she exclaimed. "That was amazing!"

"Yeah?" he asked, clutching his midsection. "Tell that to my pancreas."

"What? You didn’t even flinch!" she said, exasperated. "Don’t expect any sympathy out of me now, you big faker."

He chuckled, then winced, rubbing his ribs. "Ow."

"Hmmph," she replied as they started towards the castle. "Don’t feel so brave on the ground, do you?"

"Nope."

When they reached the Gryffindor common room, Ron collapsed on a sofa in a far corner, and Hermione took a seat in the chair next to him. The room was buzzing with excited chatter and eager predictions, but they ignored it all. Ron just laid on the sofa breathing heavily, one leg dangling off, an arm flung across his face. "Tell me when they’re here," he said. They sat in silence for about twenty minutes, listening to the sounds of the impatient crowd. After awhile, Ginny came over and joined them, and not long after that a sudden hush fell. "Ron?" Hermione said.

The portrait hole had opened and Angelina stepped through it, followed closely by her teammates. Angelina and Alicia disappeared into the crowd, but Harry glanced around. Hermione stood up and he spotted her, and he, Fred, and George made a beeline towards them. As they approached, Hermione saw that they looked very somber. She turned back to Ron, who had sat up and was now going very pale. Harry and the twins stopped before them and for a long moment they all were silent. Finally Ron hung his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Harry was quicker.

"Welcome to the team."

Ron raised his head and a disbelieving smile slowly spread across his face. "I made the team?" he asked quietly.

Harry grinned broadly. "You made the team."

Ron let out a whoop and jumped to his feet, pulling Harry and his brothers into a huge group hug.

"Ow, Ron...geroff!" George grumbled, and Ron released them, laughing.

"Congratulations, Ron," Ginny said.

"Oh, thanks, Gin," and he hugged her so tightly that she gasped for air.

Hermione reached out and squeezed his arm as Ginny wriggled free. "I’m happy for you, Ron. I know how much this meant to you."

He didn’t say anything, just smiled, and wrapped her in a bone-crushing hug of her own.

There was a loud bang, and Ron released her as Fred shot a handful of Filibuster Fireworks into the air.

Hermione made her way over to Harry, who was standing with his arms crossed, watching Ron’s celebration with a kind of contented pride.

"Nigel Underwood’s chaser," he told her.

"I would’ve guessed it," she said. "Was it close?"

Harry shook his head, "No, I don’t think so. I think Angelina had already decided before we even told her what we wanted."

"What did you say to him?" she asked quietly. "On the ground when you traded brooms?"

He smiled, watching Ron and his siblings, who were now telling anyone that would listen that their brother - their brother - was the new keeper for Gryffindor.

Harry shrugged. "I told him that he could do it. That his talent came from him and not some stupid broomstick."

"I’m sure it meant a lot to him - having you say that he’s talented."

"Of course he’s talented."

Hermione glanced at him and smiled, and then did a double take. Realizing that she really hadn’t seen him properly for days, she looked at him closely.

"What?" he asked, suspicious.

"You look tired."

The muscles in his jaw clenched noticeably, but he didn’t say anything. Not for the first time, Hermione wondered where he’d been disappearing to for hours each night after dinner.

"Harry..." she trailed off, not knowing what to say.

"I’m fine," he said in a light tone that sounded very odd compared to his tense expression.

She hesitated. "I don’t know what you’ve been working on, but if there is any way that I can help you, I-"

"No," he said sharply.

She bit her lip. "Okay...Just know that I..."

"I know," he said, and he smiled apologetically. "Please don’t worry about me."

"Right," she said sarcastically.

"You guys!" Ron called, "Come on, George has food."

* * * * *

"Damn it!" Harry yelled, seizing The Theory and Process of Enchanted Transportation Devices and flinging it angrily at the wall. It hit the stone with a thud, and fell to the floor. Harry coughed, and sat down hard on the stool, elbows on the worktable, and dropped his head into his hands. He didn’t even bother to brush the grit off of his robes. "Damn it," he said again, gripping his unruly hair and nearly pulling some out. It had been his fourth attempt at turning a rock into a portkey, and his fourth failure. Again, the rock had exploded into dust just as he was completing the final step of the transformation. Again, hours of work had culminated to bring him right back to square one. Harry’s head was pounding, his heart banging against his ribs. His frustration was welling up inside him, to the point that he didn’t think his insides could accommodate it. He felt as though his very skin would burst, and he’d explode just like the rock, into tiny specks of dust. Then he would be gone and Voldemort would have to target someone else...He wanted to trash the whole room, the whole bloody castle, but he tried to calm down, tried to take deep breaths. He would never get anywhere if he just kept losing it. He was wasting time.

For three nights in a row, he had been working on the portkeys. Everything else was basically finished now, with the exception of the pain-blocking potion, which had to simmer until the new moon, and some of the research on the defense charms. Of the rest, he had tackled the portkeys last, essentially out of procrastination. He hadn’t asked Sirius and Professor Lupin what objects he should use for the portkeys, and had been about to start the first one on his new watch. He had figured it would be a good choice since he always had it on and it wouldn’t look suspicious. But then a passage from The Theory and Process of Enchanted Transportation Devices had caught his eye. Apparently, the power that had to be channeled into the object during the final stage of enchantment was so intense that a witch or wizard inexperienced at making portkeys could cause irreparable damage to the object. The book suggested that an amateur not use any object of value. After blowing up four rocks, Harry could see why.

Mr. Weasley had made an understatement when he said that portkeys were complicated. The transformation consisted of a long series of incantations, each of which had to be pronounced perfectly and with just the right amount of power - on the first try. After each step, the portkey would glow a certain color, indicating whether the transformation was proceeding properly. But the last step, the programming of the destination, was exceedingly difficult. The object was supposed to glow light pink at the start of the final incantation, slowly darkening as more and more power was added. The book said to stop just before the object’s glow suddenly turned from blood red to electric blue. Harry had no idea how he was supposed to know when something was just about to happen, but he had started the process anyway. With the first rock he had been surprised at how easy it seemed. It took several hours, but he had gotten to the final stage without mishap. Then he had gradually started focusing more and more power behind his wand, and the rock was turning a very deep shade of magenta, and then, before it had even turned red, it suddenly glowed electric blue and exploded. The first time he had been too stunned to even react at first. When he did, he wasn’t that terribly upset. It had only been his first try, and he had known it would be difficult - he would correct it next time...then, surely I can get it right the third time...then, maybe I just need to increase the power a little more slowly the fourth time. But now he had run out of encouraging self pep talks. In fact, his conversations with himself were starting to take a totally opposite path.

Harry lifted his head, looking dazedly around the room. The cauldrons, the crumbs of ingredients, the empty flasks, the pile of rocks...the realization hit him like a bolt of lightning, and he couldn’t stop the crashing avalanche of his own thoughts. ‘It’s useless...it’s so bloody pointless. It’s all just to run away! You’re going to face him - the evil monster who stole from you - who took your entire life - who plays with you, tortures you - has tortured so many...And you’re just going to run away? That’s what all of this work is for...you’re not even going to fight him...not even going to try...you’re father would be ashamed...’

Harry felt the rage wash over him like a bucketful of boiling water. He leapt off the stool and grabbed it, hurling it across the room. It skidded across the floor and crashed into the wall with a resounding clang. ‘What though?’ he thought madly. ‘What can I do? He’s Voldemort...so much more powerful than me...practically bloody immortal. Immortal. He’s going to keep trying to get there, he said so...there will be nothing anybody can do...he’ll be undefeatable.’

Harry stood panting and suddenly he cursed himself for his thoughts. "You’re losing it. This is not helping. It’s probably the same blasted line of ridiculous reasoning that led Wormtail...to give in. No. NO. There has to be a way...has to be a way to get to him. And you’re going to have the first chance. He’s going to come for you first and you’ve got to be ready - got to try to stop him, at least weaken him, before he gets a chance to truly rise again. It’s your duty...he’ll hurt people...no one will be safe...’ A vivid image of his nightmare from the Burrow popped into Harry’s mind...

Harry snatched up his wand and his bag, and swept out of the room, a new determination in his step.

* * * * *

Harry came to an abrupt stop beside the statue guarding the staircase to Dumbledore’s office. He had been in such a hurry to see the headmaster that he’d forgotten he couldn’t get in. He didn’t know the password. Would Dumbledore hear him if he knocked on the wall? How did he usually find him? Harry wasn’t sure. Usually, Dumbledore just seemed to be there when Harry needed him. And just then, as if on cue, the wall slid open and Dumbledore emerged.

"Harry?" he asked with a slight smile, but concern in his pale blue eyes. "Did you want to see me?"

"Yes, I did," Harry responded breathlessly. "But if you’re busy..."

"Nonsense," he said warmly, reaching out and placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. "I was waiting for you."

"You were waiting for me?" Harry asked, surprised. "How did you know -"

"You were coming?" Dumbledore finished, and Harry realized it had been a stupid question. Dumbledore knew things, sensed things - how, Harry didn’t know, but he never doubted it. "You are fifteen. You have feet like a dragon’s." He tapped his ear with a spindly finger and winked. "I heard you."

"Oh," Harry replied, a bit embarrassed, wondering if he was telling the truth or teasing him. It didn’t much matter.

Dumbledore smiled and then turned and started up the stairs, holding his robes up as he climbed. "Come along, Mr. Potter." Harry followed in wonder, as always, at the grace with which the old man moved. To look just at his body, he would appear feeble, but something radiated out of him, in his every step. An inner strength, a humble wisdom - and a spark of youthful energy that the years had not been able to extinguish.

Harry paused just inside the door to Dumbledore’s office. "Hello, Fawkes," he said admiringly, reaching out a hand to stroke the phoenix’s brilliant red plumage. The beautiful bird straightened on its perch and let out a single, glorious note that penetrated to Harry’s very bones. He felt a small rush of calm settle over him, and he smiled. Then he heard Dumbledore settling into his chair, and he pulled his attention away from the phoenix.

"You are troubled." Dumbledore said as Harry sank into a chair across from the massive wooden desk.

Harry nodded, not sure how to begin. Dumbledore waited patiently, hands pressed together at his chin.

"I’ve been working on some things that Sirius and Professor Lupin suggested," he started, and Dumbledore nodded knowingly. "Everything has been going pretty well, except for the portkeys. I keep blowing them up."

Dumbledore smiled amusedly. "I can see that," he said, indicating Harry’s dingy robes.

Harry smiled despite himself. "Yeah...I get through most of the process all right, and then I foul it all up at the end."

Dumbledore nodded, stroking his silvery beard thoughtfully. "Creating portkeys requires immense concentration. It must be unflinching." He paused, and Harry could almost see the wheels turning in the headmaster’s mind. "I daresay, that if you try again, you will succeed."

Harry stared at him, bewildered. "How?"

"The first time your efforts failed, your concentration was likely broken by your own excitement at being nearly finished," he said matter-of-factly. "The next three times, you were undoubtedly distracted with anxiety over whether the same problem would occur again."

Harry nodded, impressed as always at Dumbledore’s insight. It had been exactly what he had been thinking. "So you’re saying that I can do it if I just don’t let any other thoughts creep in?"

The headmaster’s eyes twinkled, as if his smile started there and only touched his lips as an afterthought. "Precisely."

Harry considered this. It made sense. He could do that...

"Now you can succeed because you are aware of the problem."

Harry paused, thinking. Then he asked carefully, "What do you think Voldemort is doing now?"

Dumbledore sat back in his chair and seemed to be pondering Harry’s question. After a minute he said, "I think he is very busy."

"Me too."

"I know that it is frustrating for you, Harry. To watch life around you carry on normally when you know that something very abnormal is afoot," he leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "That is part of the cross you bear because of who you are. Who you are is something that you can’t control or change, nor should you want to. There is an order to the universe, Harry. One larger than ourselves, beyond our comprehension or influence. But somewhere it makes sense. Our mission in life is to follow the path that we have been given. This is your path."

"Why though?" Harry asked. "Why is this my path? I’m no one special."

"Oh, but many people think you are."

"Do you?" Harry asked recklessly.

"Indeed."

‘Stop it,’ Harry told himself. ‘You’re whining.’ He returned his focus to the real reason he had come. "Voldemort said that he would settle for mortal life before chasing immortality again."

Dumbledore nodded. "So you told us."

"But he’s been returned to his body as it was before he killed my parents. He wasn’t exactly mortal then. He managed to survive, even though he didn’t have a body."

"You are astute, Harry. Many people think of immortality as a definitive state. One either is immortal or one isn’t. But that is not an altogether correct understanding. There are many degrees of existence between mortality and immortality. There are those creatures who are simply less susceptible to death than others. Witches and wizards for example, have a much longer life expectancy than muggles, but we are, of course, still mortal. We can be killed in any number of ordinary ways. It is only when left to our own devices that we live as long as we do. Then there are more advanced states of existence. Consider vampires, for example. They claim to be immortal, but they too can be killed. A stake to the heart does the job quite easily. I do think that Voldemort was closer to absolute immortality than anyone has ever been before. And even I do not know all of the steps he took to achieve it. I am sure that even now, some of those protections are in him still. But I do not think that means we should give up any hope of defeating him."

"What do you think can be done?"

"That is the very question that I am working to answer," Dumbledore said with a hint of finality that told Harry the conversation was coming to an end. But he had one more question.

"I think that he hasn’t made a move yet because he’s still getting his followers organized, still working out a plan to get to me," Harry said hurriedly. "But do you think that maybe that’s not all that’s been keeping him busy? Do you think that he could be pursuing further immortality now? Before he makes himself a real target for attack?"

Dumbledore studied him for a moment, then nodded gravely. "I think that is a distinct possibility."

Harry took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Thanks for your help."

"I am always available to help my students."

"Yes," Harry agreed, rising from his chair.

Dumbledore pushed himself up as well, and came around to face Harry. In the moment that they stood face to face before Dumbledore spoke, Harry realized with a start that they were nearly the same height. When had that happened?

Dumbledore smiled warmly and reached out, taking Harry’s face in his hands and holding him at arm’s length. "Harry, you are strong, and brave," he said firmly. "You’re father would be proud of you. I am proud of you." And then he did something unexpected, and kissed Harry on the forehead. Harry felt a tingle in his scar, and a wave of warmth spread from it all the way down to his toes. Harry smiled.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Dumbledore patted his cheek, smiling, and then released him. He crossed the room to the door and pulled it open.

"Good luck, Harry," he said and Harry started down the stairs, feeling strangely peaceful and freshly confident.

* * * * *

By the time Harry reached the Gryffindor common room, he was engrossed in thought.

"Smorgasbord," he said to the fat lady.

"Greetings to you, Mr. Potter," she said, swinging open. "In you go."

Harry stepped through the portrait hole, and quickly spotted his friends chatting over homework at their usual table. Harry chuckled to himself when he saw Ron’s face. It had been two days since the Quidditch tryout and Ron still couldn’t stop smiling. His smile faltered though, when he saw Harry.

"What happened to you?" Ron asked.

Harry glanced down and realized that he still hadn’t cleaned himself up. "Oh, nothing." He brushed off his robes impatiently. "What are you working on?" he asked quickly, settling into a chair and digging in his bag.

"Herbology," Hermione said, fixing him with a worried stare, like only Hermione could. He ignored it.

"Oh," he said, pulling a library book onto the table. He was hesitant about researching advanced defense skills in Ron and Hermione’s presence, but he was sick of sitting in that dreary classroom by himself. Besides, they wouldn’t be able to see exactly what he was studying, just the titles of the books. Advanced Methods in Defense Against the Dark Arts didn’t seem to give away too many details. Harry opened the book and pretended not to notice the look that Hermione shot at Ron.

"Um, Harry," Ron said lightly. "Angelina’s set the first Quidditch practice for tomorrow night. They’re going to be on Tuesday and Thursday nights and Saturday mornings."

"Great," Harry said, wondering how on earth he was going to find the time to practice Quidditch, what with the portkeys and potions and defense research and regular homework...but he was looking forward to the season. He needed to have some fun. "Did she say when our first match is?"

"Yeah, three weeks. November 4th. It’s against Ravenclaw," Ron replied, fidgeting with ill-concealed excitement.

"They shouldn’t be that hard to beat," Harry replied, pleased at the matchup. "Their team is really young. Most of their players have graduated in the last two years."

"Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. We definitely have the edge. We only have two new players, and they have five. They did have their tryout before us though, and they’ve been practicing for a week already. But all of their chasers are new. It’ll be hard for them to work together smoothly. Our chasers will be much stronger. But you’ll still have to watch out for Cho, and the snitch."

"Yeah," Harry nodded his agreement, starting to get lost in his reading. Ron turned his own attention back to his homework, and they worked silently for a while, Ron occasionally asking Hermione a question about Herbology. After about an hour, long after Harry realized he’d been staring at the same page for a while without reading anything, his thoughts were spiraling madly and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking out loud.

"What do you think about immortality?" he asked neither one in particular.

"What?" they asked, both taken aback.

"What do you think about immortality?" he repeated. He knew the question must have seemed to come out of the blue.

"Well..." Ron said, shifting and looking very confused, "I’m not sure I’d want it, if that’s what you mean."

"No...I mean do you buy it? Do you think it can really be achieved? That someone can ever become completely immune to death?"

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, then said in a firm voice, "We’re not blind. We know you’ve been working out ways to fight off You-Know-Who. You’re really not that good at lying to us, you know. But you mustn’t go thinking about things like immortality! Promise me that you aren’t going to go and do anything stupid - anything that you might regret someday, because that really isn’t the answer -"

Harry laughed out loud. "Hermione. Calm down. That’s not what I meant. For once, you’re actually wrong." Then he sighed, realizing that there was no way to avoid an explanation now.

"You are right about what I’ve been up to," he admitted grudgingly. "But I wasn’t thinking about trying to become immortal. That’s insane." Hermione blushed, obviously embarrassed that she had misunderstood and carried on like that. "What I was thinking about was Voldemort trying to become immortal. He’s already well on his way, and I’m wondering if there will ever be any way to defeat him."

Obviously discomforted by Harry’s matter-of-fact tone, Ron shifted again, but Hermione turned very sedate. At last she spoke confidently. "There must be. There must be a way to defeat him."

"Why must there be?" Harry asked intently.

"Because...well, because there has to be," she replied, confidence gone and tentative fear in its place.

Harry stared at her. The uncertainty with which she spoke sounded foreign in her voice. She always had an answer. In that moment, Harry fully realized, for the first time, the extent to which the events of June 24 had changed all of them. He was cynical, Ron was emotional, and Hermione was scared. Not just for him or someone else, but actually for herself too. That was something he had never seen in her before, and he hated that. He hated the sound of that fear in her voice. He hated the look that Ron sometimes had, like he was worried that his best friend was about to shatter into pieces, or that other look, the one he couldn’t put his finger on, but made Ron somehow look...old. He hated that their laughter was different, their eyes...hated that Voldemort had changed him...had changed his friends.

For a long minute, they all sat in silence, looking at one another blankly. Then suddenly they were torn from their thoughts by a loud clattering at a window across the room. They turned and saw Fred and George throwing the glass panels open, and three school owls swooped in carrying a long package amongst them.

"Ron," Fred called. "Your broomstick’s here."

"Brilliant," Ron muttered. "I wonder which one they sent. The ole Cleensweep Five? Or better yet, the Shooting Star from days of yore." Ron rose from his seat, grumbling, and Harry and Hermione exchanged a sympathetic glance, following him across the room to where Fred and George were disentangling the package from the owls. Once they were free, the owls quickly fled into the night through the open window, undoubtedly headed to the owlery for a nice long nap.

"Well, give it here," Ron said, flopping down on the floor. George pushed the long box towards him, and Ron busied himself untying the ropes that held the lid on. He sighed and pulled off the lid - and everyone within seeing distance gasped. The broomstick inside the box had floated out and was hovering a foot from the floor, vibrating. Harry’s mouth had fallen open, and Fred and George were looking excited and very pleased. But Ron burst out laughing.

"Great joke, you two," he said. "What’s this? A new invention? A fake Firebolt XL." He shook his head in disbelief. "You’ve really outdone yourselves this time."

"It’s no joke, Ron," said George.

"He’s right," Fred added with a grin. "It’s the real thing."

"No, it’s not," Ron said, still laughing.

But Harry had no doubt. It was real. An authentic Firebolt XL.

"Yes, it is," George replied. "We swear."

People had started to crowd around, and soft whispers were beginning to circulate.

Slowly, Ron’s laughter faded and he reached out and touched his new broomstick for the first time. He closed his fingers around the handle and it immediately stopped vibrating. Instead, it rose several feet, pulling Ron into a standing position. And now Ron’s own mouth fell open, and he was speechless. "It is..." he said in awe. "It’s real...but...how did Mum and Dad..."

"It’s from us," Fred interrupted him. "From George and me."

"What?" Ron exclaimed.

Ginny had pushed her way through the crowd just in time to hear Fred’s declaration. "You two did this?" she asked incredulously, motioning towards the broomstick.

George waved his hand as if to say, ‘no big deal.’ "Ludo Bagman finally paid up his debt to us - with interest," he said with a wink at Harry.

Harry smiled broadly at the twins from behind Ron’s back, knowing exactly where they had gotten the money. He had given them a thousand galleons on the Hogwarts’ Express at the end of last school year. But he had only told them to buy Ron some new dress robes, and to keep the rest for their joke shop. This must have cost them a good portion of it. Hermione was looking from Harry to the twins with a very confused expression, and Ron had again fallen speechless.

"You two...," he finally managed, "...you two bought me a Firebolt XL?"

"Yes," Fred said very clearly, as if willing him to understand.

"I don’t believe this." He kept looking from the broomstick in his hand to his brothers in wonder. "You could have bought one for yourselves, or -"

"Please," Fred replied. "It’s our last year. And you’re our little brother. You made the house Quidditch team. We’re proud of you."

"...Well...but...I can’t accept this..." Ron started, and George cut him off, exasperated.

"Why not?"

"Will you just say ‘thank you’ and then shut up?" Fred demanded.

Ron seemed contemplative, and after a moment he grinned. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

"You’re welcome," they replied, and returned to their table, leaving them all to marvel at the broomstick without them.

* * * * *

"Bugger," Hermione muttered when she saw how full the library was. She meandered past a dozen occupied tables, and scowled when she saw Draco Malfoy and several other Slytherins grouped around her favorite one. She continued past them, ignoring the snide comments they shot in her direction, and finally settled for a table in the very back corner of the student section, behind the many rows of bookcases. It was private, and that’s what she wanted. Harry and Ron were at their first Quidditch practice, and she had decided to spend the time researching immortality. Harry had piqued her interest in the matter, and now she too was worriedly considering the possibility that Voldemort could become undefeatable. The thought made her shudder.

She was disappointed to find only a small section of books on the subject, but she gathered as many as she could carry, and headed back to her table. She began flipping through the volumes and soon became discouraged. There was nothing about the steps someone might take to become immortal, or how to defeat someone who was immortal, or near immortal. Most of the books were about the philosophy of immortal existence, or were full of fables and other fictional accounts of immortals. She wondered if there might be more materials in the restricted section, but she knew this was the best she’d be able to do tonight. She settled back in her chair with a volume about the possible implications of immortal existence, and had been reading for a while when she suddenly found herself yawning. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. The boys would be gone for at least another hour. She set the book aside, and crossed her arms on the table, settling her head on them. And within minutes she was fast asleep.

She was flying through the air, feeling incredibly light and happier than she could ever remember. She had never liked flying but this time she felt so at ease, and perfectly safe. He had told her over and over that his broomstick was the best and safest on the market, and that she would love it if she only gave it a chance. He had been right. She had never felt anything like this, and she didn’t feel like she was in danger at all, sitting securely on the Firebolt XL with her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. They were high over a village, the most beautiful place she had ever seen. It was nighttime, but the grass below almost seemed to glow vividly green. The houses and buildings were all lit from within with a sparkly iridescent light and the people in the streets were laughing merrily, the voices of many joyful children rising to meet their ears.

"This is the place," he said as they hovered in the warm nighttime air.

"What place?" she asked.

"The place where I imagine us."

"Us?"

"Yes...someday."

And she laid her head against his back and smiled.