Harry Potter and the Secret of Gairech

~*~

"And a hero has to be in trouble from the moment of his birth,

or he's not a real hero." ~ Schmendrick, the Magician

"The Last Unicorn" by Peter S. Beagle

1. Petunia's Secret

The ticking clock on his bedside cabinet showed a quarter past three. The sparse light from the streetlamps shimmered through his curtains, allowing him to see dim outlines in the room. As he stared with wide open eyes, these outlines turned into eerie figures - tall shadows in long cloaks which crept around his bed like predators waiting to pounce.

A gust of wind rustled the curtain and Harry gasped.

A dream. It was all a dream.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his pyjama sleeve and stared at the big cupboard against the opposite wall, which had seemed so threatening a moment before.

Just a dream.

Harry pulled the blanket higher. It made him sweat even more, but he didn't care. The blanket protected him, like a second skin. At least, that's how it seemed to him.

Hedwig, sitting in her cage, looked at him attentively with her eyes wide open. It really seemed as if the snowy owl was asking him if he was alright. Harry nodded. "I'm okay," he said.

Hedwig hooted softly and fluffed out her feathers. She was still looking at him thoughtfully.

Harry sighed and closed his eyes again. And although his heart was still hammering wildly in his chest after the last dream, he fell into a dark, restless sleep.

Sinking through a formless white mist he reached the world of the subconscious, which seldom - or never - can be seen by day. Sometimes it was a place of refuge, but sometimes it represented pain and hell. And today, as so often in the past weeks, it would be the latter. Harry stared at a double door, several meters high, which rose up in front of him, leading to a long corridor. A corridor so endless that it seemed almost abstract. Where did it lead?

A voice made him jump. A full, loud voice, coming from behind him. It was cold, loud, clear... And it was calling his name.

Confused, Harry turned slowly around and found himself in an immense courtroom, staring at faceless faces, feeling emotionless emotions that streamed against him. He shivered as an icy coldness crept up his back, dancing over his skin and seeking a way inside his body to freeze his heart.

The men before him knew no mercy. Expressionless, yet expressive, alive and yet dead, rigid, and yet so swift.

Thoughts flew.

A blur of tangled thoughts.

Who were they?

Who were these dark figures that stood before him, terrifying in form and appearance? They were black, completely black, and masked so that no inch of skin could be seen beneath the blackness. Only their eyes were visible, and cold. An indefinable moan rose hoarsely from their throats, seizing every inch of Harry's trembling body.

Creatures of the darkness.

A face appeared among the faceless - white, grotesque, mocking in the gloom of the darkest of all nights. The spiteful face of a clown with a grin so terrible that it alone could have been enough to turn life to death. The white, mocking face became contorted with a guttural, devastating laugh.

And it was laughing at him.

Desperation, cold wind against his back. Harry felt more helpless than a chick fallen from its nest, more cornered than a hunted fox staring into the deadly jaws of its executioners.

It was worse. Beyond all cruelty.

And he had to get away, had to wake up from this nightmare.

He spun around and ran, but everything moved as if in slow-motion. Slowly, so slowly, but smoothly he ran, inch by inch, looking behind him to see the white-faced monster of darkness rushing towards him in the endless corridor. Yes, it was rushing - nothing seemed to hold it back. It was rushing like the wind and he, he could hardly move as he fled from the creature in black. However hard he tried, his legs refused to carry him as they should, and all his muscles seemed to fail him. The beast had reached him, struck him to the floor. Nothing softened his landing and he fell hard, but the slow-motion had ended just as abruptly as it had begun.

Half faint with pain he looked up. He saw eyes that looked straight through him, heard a voice that was hardly audible, little more than a soft hiss. And yet he understood what it was saying.

And what it said filled him with a feeling beyond all fear.

Completely paralysed, he stared at the unearthly face rising towards him from the depths of the nightmare. And he felt that He had always been there. He, Lord Voldemort, nearer now than ever before, was showing him his face, openly.

And he saw what couldn't be...

Eternity is a long time to spend with such hatred in your eyes, but He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had done it.

And the demons of confusion and fear had a place for him, far beneath the earth, where flames consumed any soul that was not like His.

The black mask of death bent down towards Harry, and its claws scratched his face, marking him across his forehead with the wandering red mark of death...

Mystery and confusion.

Where there were no answers, neither were there questions...

A wand was raised, and like a distant hiss Harry heard the words "Avada Kedavra". And at the same time, something grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and dragged him upwards, into the blackness...

Screaming, he woke up, breathing heavily, eyes wide open... - and saw a large face, red with anger, directly in front of his nose.

"Are you out of your mind?!" Uncle Vernon thundered, beside himself with rage. "What do you think you're doing, screaming down the house in the middle of the night?!"

Although Harry could still feel the horror of the dream in every limb, he couldn't resist the sarcastic thought that his uncle was doing exactly that which he had just accused him of. He stared at him in silence.

Vernon Dursley had turned the colour of an overripe tomato, and, since his neck was verging on the non-existent at the best of times, he looked rather like one, too.

"Petunia is beside herself!" he hissed. "You've frightened her to death, screaming like that! She already has enough nightmares thanks to you, boy! I don't want to hear another peep out of you! Have I made myself clear?"

He didn't wait for an answer, simply turned on his heel, stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Harry sat motionless in bed. He hardly cared about his uncle's lecture. The good thing about it, although Harry was reluctant to admit it, was that Uncle Vernon had freed him from his nightmare. He sighed and looked at the clock. Half past three. Almost morning. He could hear the first birds twittering outside. Determined, he threw back the blanket and stood up. He was more than happy to go without any more sleep. It was too likely that the dream would come back - the terrifying pictures were still too clear before his eyes.

He pushed open the window and leaned out. In the east, a band of light across the horizon showed that it would soon be sunrise.

Quietly Harry pulled up a chair and sat down, staring thoughtfully at the sky. Since Lord Voldemort had regained his body and called his Death Eaters to him, this recurring nightmare had haunted him. He needed no help interpreting it. Harry knew full well what it meant. And this knowledge filled him with dread. The cold, faceless figures in the courtroom were Voldemort's Death Eaters. And the grotesque white face that had pursued him along the corridor was Voldemort himself. And the mark...

Automatically Harry felt for the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. The wandering red mark of death...

His parents, Lily and James Potter, had been murdered by Voldemort. Only Harry had survived, protected by the love of his mother who had died to save him. All that Voldemort had been able to give him was this scar, and his power had been scattered on the wind the moment he had laid hands on the one-year-old boy. Since then, Harry had found out that Voldemort, against his will, had instilled some of his own powers into Harry. And besides, there were many parallels between one of the greatest wizards of all time, the murderer Lord Voldemort, and Harry, the boy who lived. The ability to speak Parseltongue. The same wand. The young Voldemort had even looked quite similar to the way Harry looked now...

Harry stared into the small mirror which lay amongst the various other things on his desk. He sighed, took off his glasses and looked more closely. Slim figure, dark hair... like Tom M. Riddle. And his eyes... what colour did Voldemort's eyes use to be?

Harry shuddered, and angrily he pushed the mirror aside. The sudden movement made Hedwig flap her wings loudly in her cage.

"I'm not like him. We have nothing in common," Harry snorted. "Not really..."

As if for reassurance, he pulled his school uniform out of his half-packed suitcase. The red-gold emblem of the Gryffindor House gleamed back at him.

"Gryffindor, not Slytherin," he thought fiercely, "Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor!"

"Because that's the house you chose, remember?" said a second voice in his subconscious mind. "And because of the Prophesy..."

Angrily Harry stared in front of him. The Prophesy... to be honest, he would have been happier if he had never known about it. He might not have understood why Voldemort never stopped hunting him, why he was always after his blood... But he would have been free from the knowledge that he must become a murderer if the Dark Lord were ever to leave this world for good.

"And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."

This seemed to be the truth. Harry could hardly describe his life so far as normal. Not even considering that he was a wizard. He, like Voldemort, was a prisoner of the Prophesy. And the Dark Lord seemed much more determined to clear away his 'problem' than Harry was.

The door to his room opened once more, interrupting his gloomy train of thought. Aunt Petunia entered and fixed her eyes on her nephew, who silently answered her gaze.

"I waited until Vernon was asleep." Petunia Dursley quietly shut the door behind her and leant against the wall next to the window. "He wouldn't want me to speak to you... let alone understand what I'm about to say." She bent over and hissed: "And you won't say a word to him about my being here!"

Harry bit back an ironic remark about not speaking to Vernon any more than was necessary, and nodded. He was curious to see what his aunt wanted.

"You were talking in your sleep," Petunia said.

Avoiding her eyes, Harry said quietly: "I often do..."

"I've heard you..." His aunt looked at him thoughtfully. "Why were you dreaming about You-Know-Who?"

Now Harry could scarcely contain his surprise. He stared at her in astonishment. "How...?" he gasped, "How do you know about him?" The memories of the previous summer flooded back and he pressed her further. "How do you know about the Dementors, and that they guard Askaban? How do you know what kind of place that is? How do you..?"

Aunt Petunia raised her hand, and he paused. "Keep the noise down, or do you want your uncle to wake up again?"

For a few seconds neither spoke a word and they listened for sounds in the next room. But only the regular snores of Mr. Dursley could be heard through the wall.

"You don't know about your grandparents. You don't know about everything that happened after my sister started going to that magic school and met...that..Potter." She positively spat out the name. "You don't know what happened when she made the mistake of following him. Her blind, naïve love brought ruin on us all. Your wretched father was to blame!" She was speaking quietly, but every word resounded like a scream of anger in Harry's ears. "She would never have got involved with those people if it wasn't for him. That wizarding scum would never have bothered about us if she'd have listened. Your grandparents would still be alive - both of them! You'd never have been born. Oh how I wish things had turned out that way..."

Harry stared at her in bewilderment, trying to process these small scraps of information. "Voldemort killed them...?"

"Two of his Death Eaters. Shortly before your parents were killed. No one should be left, who knew. No one. But you survived. And so did I. The good thing was that none of those monsters knew about me." She jabbed her pointed finger into Harry's chest. He could feel her fingernail digging through his shirt and into his skin. "Why do you think I want nothing to do with your world? Why I never wanted you here? Because my family's important to me, and your very presence is putting them in danger!"

"But you had no choice," Harry growled, pushing her hand away. "Dumbledore forced you to take me. Because this house is the only protection I have."

"And our ruin!" Petunia snapped, looked up in alarm and lowered her voice again. "Listen, I don't want anything to do with this magic nonsense - not because I'm intolerant but because I have good reasons. This world that you," she snorted, "love so much destroyed my family and I'm not going to let that happen again because of you!"

"As soon as Voldemort is dead, you'll be rid of me for good. I won't have to stay a minute longer," Harry hissed back angrily.

"If he were dead I wouldn't be half as afraid as I am now!" she spat back.

"Then we have something in common." Harry stared pointedly out of the window. His mind was reeling with a flood of new information, answers to questions that he had been to afraid to ask, and anger at his aunt's hostility. The last thing he wanted was to be able to understand her and her vehement rejection of the world of magic. And it annoyed him that he did.

Petunia crossed her arms. "Until he dies... When's that going to be? Someone would have to kill him to make him disappear for good. And who's going to do that?"

Harry continued looking out of the window. He found it easier to talk when he didn't have to look at her. "I'm the only one who can."

His aunt made a noise that was something between a hiss and a snort. "You? Why should you of all people be able to do that?"

Harry dropped his head and ran both hands through his hair. "If I knew...", he murmured, "if only I knew..."

***

Harry was silent at breakfast, as usual. The Dursleys didn't like it when he talked. They knew he was forbidden to do magic during the holidays - and the thing they were most afraid of was that he would - but still... you never knew what unforgivable words might slip off the tongue of this abnormal boy who had no place in their orderly world. Uncle Vernon tapped Dudley's chubby finger as he reached for a second helping of bacon.

"You're still on a diet, my boy," he said, taking the slice himself. Harry gave a quick grin. The "diet" had had no effect whatsoever on Dudley. Even when Aunt Petunia kept her beloved son on a course of fruit and vegetables for weeks (much to Dudley's disgust, of course) he never lost a pound. Harry suspected that he stocked up on sweets at school or with his friends. As a result, the only physical difference between Uncle Vernon and Dudley was that Vernon had grey hair and a moustache.

Aunt Petunia, on the other hand, had something her husband and son lacked: an incredibly long neck, especially useful for peering over fences into the houses and gardens of her neighbours.

And Harry? He wasn't that much shorter than Dudley any more. He was still thin, almost delicate, but his once childish face had taken on a new maturity. In his behaviour and the way he spoke he seemed much older than Dudley, but the Dursleys would never admit this or even, least of all Uncle Vernon, notice it at all. This didn't bother Harry much. As usual he had to clear the table and wash up after the meal. For a moment he wondered if it would be amusing to drop a plate and tell the outraged Dursleys that he had been trying out a spell...

A loud ring interrupted his train of thought. He heard a snorting noise - Uncle Vernon waddling to the door. The quiet squeak of the door handle. Then a friendly but meaningful "Good morning, Mr. Dursley."

Harry dropped the towel he was drying his hands with and hurried out of the kitchen into the hall. The front door was open. Harry smiled, delighted but openly surprised. "Hermione?"

She grinned back. Uncle Vernon, who was standing next to her, snorted again. "If she'd have come on a broomstick I'd have called the police!"

Hermione Granger waved this aside. "My parents brought me... or rather, they wanted to visit a cousin of my mother's and I asked them to bring me with them. They're picking me up afterwards. - I just wanted to see how you were, Harry..."

Harry could hardly grasp the fact that Uncle Vernon had knowingly let a young witch into his house.

"... and ask if you wanted to spend the last two days of the holidays with me and then with Ron. We'd go to London tomorrow to buy the new books and meet him there."

A glance at his Uncle's face told Harry enough. He seemed delighted at the prospect of getting rid of his nephew earlier than expected from his magicless house.

"If you like we can go straight away," Hermione continued.

Uncle Vernon nodded towards the stairs. "Go on, get upstairs. Pack your things."

"Great idea." Harry laughed and ran up the stairs to his bedroom. Hermione followed. Uncle Vernon was watching her closely, but she seemed not to notice, or else she was very good at ignoring him.

Up in Harry's room she gave him a hand with his packing. It was important not to forget anything - all his schoolbooks, clothes, the Firebolt, his broom maintenance kit, the Invisibility Cloak... Gradually everything that hadn't been packed found its way into the suitcase.

"I see you haven't done your Herbology yet," observed Hermione, glancing over the homework that Harry had done during his time at the Dursley's. "And the essay for Professor Flitwick on the history of..."

"Missing as well, I know," Harry interrupted. "I'm sure I'll have a lot more time to do that at your house, without the continual threat of my books being thrown into the fire if I leave them open - since every word in them could be so terribly dangerous."

Hermione smiled indulgently. "I doubt it... - at least I doubt you'll have much more time for your homework when you're staying with us."

When the Grangers arrived to pick up Harry and their daughter, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia regarded them with evident distaste and, at first, some anxiety. The meeting with the Weasleys last year was still too fresh in their minds. But they soon realised that the Grangers weren't a wizarding family and seemed "completely normal". They even had, much to Uncle Vernon's satisfaction, a normal, decent job.

The luggage was packed away in the car and soon they were on their way. Harry leant back seat with a sigh of contentment. It was almost too good to be true. He was escaping from the Dursleys before the start of term, and this time without any arguments or commotion. A unique experience, he thought, amused.

2. At the Grangers'

Although Hermione's parents were Muggles, they were quite definitely some of the nicest people Harry knew. They didn't have a problem with the fact that their daughter, in the eyes of most people, was 'abnormal', nor with the magical world that she lived in. Unlike Harry's relations, they didn't forbid Hermione to study - in fact they supported her. Harry had even seen the two of them in Diagon Alley, buying Hermione's new school books in Flourish & Blotts.

The disadvantage of it all was that Harry had no choice but to do the rest of his homework. And so that afternoon he found himself sitting on the Grangers' terrace with a pile of school books in front of his nose and a feather quill in his hand. Hermione was sitting next to him and reading some heavy old tome, the very sight of which made Harry feel drowsy, while Harriet Granger served them tea and scones.

"I baked them for you today - I hope you like the blueberry filling, Harry. I made a cake as well - you can take that to the Weasleys tomorrow as a present. It's so kind of them to take you both to the station. Ian has two nice bottles of wine as well, and..." She paused, wandering what else she could send as a little present. Harry smiled to himself. Mrs. Granger reminded him very much of Ron's mother, Molly Weasley. Both had the same bustle about them. But unlike Mrs. Weasley, Harriet had a rather deep and pleasant voice.

Once the teacups were full, each with a generous helping of sugar - were the Grangers trying to ensure a steady supply of customers in their practice? - Harriet left them to themselves. Listlessly Harry noted down the ingredients and dosage for a potion against fire. He hadn't the faintest idea what he would ever use it for. He was just about to push aside the finished page when Hermione placed her hand on it, holding it down. "You've forgotten the formula," she said.

"Formula?" Harry stared at his notes.

"Yes, the words you have to say when you drink it. "Fire, as I found you, you shall disappear like the dew into the grass, like the dead man into his grave". That's written there too." She pointed at the Herbology book.

"Yes, but it does say it's not really proven whether or not the formula has any effect on the potion," he protested. "So I don't have to copy it." Hermione brushed this aside. "Write it down and then add that paragraph about its effect not being proven, and then you're done."

Harry looked reluctantly at the text. More writing.

"I don't want to compete with you for the top marks" he said, shutting the book. "Besides, Professor Sprout would think I'd copied your homework." He winked at her and reached for the Charms textbook. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I can't imagine how you can be so lazy and still get through all your exams," she grumbled. "Not to mention Ron..."

She plunged back into her book and Harry chose not to continue the conversation. The annoying thing about Hermione's scolding was that she really was capable of making him feel guilty. Sighing, he picked up the Herbology textbook, wrote down the formula and explained that its effect was not proven. He masterfully ignored the triumphant grin that Hermione was hiding behind her book.

***

That evening, a business friend of the Grangers came to visit - Vincent Marvers, who looked about forty but already had snow-white hair. He fell into an animated conversation with Hermione's father, while Hermione and Harry helped Mrs. Granger in the kitchen. For Harry this was a matter of course. Living with the Dursleys, he was forced to do the housework, but here he was lending a hand out of choice, and was rewarded with a grateful smile from Mrs. Granger.

"I wish more men would help in the house," she grinned, handing him the plates and cutlery. "The only time I catch Ian in here is when there's a problem with the drain... or when he wants to fiddle around with the dishwasher. You should have seen the mess in here afterwards... it would be so wonderful to be able to do magic instead of spending half the day scrubbing the walls and floors. - Oh Harry, wait a second, I've forgotten the serviettes."

Together, Hermione and Harry carried out the plates and cutlery and set the table. Since the weather was warm they were eating on the terrace. Harry enjoyed the fact that he was accepted without question as a member of the Granger family and involved in all their activities. He could say without hesitation that he felt very comfortable with Hermione's family.

When they sat down at the table and started their meal, Marvers asked about Harry, and which school Hermione was attending. The Grangers answered without any embarrassment. Obviously, they didn't let slip anything that the Muggle world was not supposed to know about, but they told him that their daughter was at school in Scotland and that she liked it very much. They didn't need to lie about Hermione's grades, or about the fact that Harry was a school-friend who was spending one day of his holiday with them.

A roguish grin formed on Marver's lips. "He's staying the night, then? So I can assume he's more than just a school-friend?"

Harry looked up from his steak in astonishment at this assumption, while Hermione tossed back her hair in her usual way and glared disapprovingly at her father's friend. "That's right, he's my best friend," she said sharply.

At first Marvers looked surprised, and Harry was rather afraid he would laugh at Hermione's behaviour, although his own could hardly be called better in view of his last remark, but then he began to chuckle to himself. "Glad we've settled that one," he said then, winked at them and took a second helping.

After they had eaten a delicious dessert - Harriet's cherry gateau - the Grangers started to talk about dentistry with their guest. Hermione excused herself, stood up and nodded to Harry. Together they wandered out into the garden.

"They can talk about the latest drill prices and filling techniques without us." She grinned. "Not the most interesting of topics. Almost as bad as history with Professor Binns."

Harry laughed softly, letting Hermione lead him through the darkened garden. The Grangers owned quite a lot of land and seemed to have a taste for luxury. The only grass to be seen was on the pathways between flowerbeds full of bushes and shrubs. Some of the plants were over three meters high and formed alcoves which themselves looked like miniature gardens. In one alcove there was a large pond with a water feature, in the next some magnificent rose bushes and in a third a small well surrounded by stones. With a sigh, Hermione sank down onto a stone bench. She folded her arms behind her head and stared into the faintly glowing night sky. "Here we'll be out of earshot, and Marvers won't pick up anything he shouldn't."

Harry laid face downwards on the other stone bench and stretched luxuriously. "Like the idea that I could be more than just a school-friend to you?" he joked, and immediately regretted his words. Why on earth had he said that? It was lucky the moon wasn't shining brightly enough to reveal that he was blushing.

Hermione laughed softly and turned her head towards him. "Well, how much more would you like to be?" Harry gave an exclamation of surprise which made her laugh even more. She rolled off her bench and squatted in front of him on the grass, looking at him in amusement. She laid her hands on the edge of his bench and rested her head on them. Harry looked at her in surprise. Was it a serious question? Did she want a serious answer?

"Well... I..." he muttered and noticed that his voice was hoarse. Hermione put her head on one side and looked at him intently. How could he answer without hurting her feelings, if she was serious, or making himself look stupid, if she was joking? As she had said earlier at the dinner table, she was his best friend. There was no other girl in the world who answered to that description. Hermione was the only one who understood him without words, who knew what he was thinking better than anyone else and who was always there for him. And the same applied to him. He had come to know Hermione well - very well. And whenever necessary he had protected her, and would continue to do so in the future. This wasn't something he wanted to risk with any stupid answer.

"I want to be what you need," he said, finally finding the right words to express what he felt.

Hermione blinked. The mischievous look had gone from her face and she now looked very serious. Harry started to worry that he'd said the wrong thing after all, but then she reached out and took off his glasses. "All these years and I've never looked at them so closely," she said softly, looking searchingly into his eyes. "They really are emerald-green..."

"You can see that in this light?" he joked. Then he realised that the moon was now shining into his face. Of course she could see... but for him her eyes were still in the darkness.

"Move up a bit," she said, getting up. Harry obediently levered himself up on the bench and leant against a tree trunk behind him. Hermione sat down next to him. She still had his glasses in her hand and played with the side pieces, leaning her head against his shoulder. Harry felt increasingly warm and his heart beat loudly and nervously, but at the same time he enjoyed her closeness. And so for a while they simply sat there, close together, lost in their thoughts.

"How were the holidays?" Hermione asked, finally breaking the silence. "I mean...because of... Have you thought a lot about him?"

Harry knew she was talking about Sirius, and he sighed. "Much too often," he admitted. "I miss him so much..."

Memories flooded into his mind and he felt for the mirror in his pocket. He would never be able to reach Sirius that way, but he couldn't bring himself to leave it behind. It had been the last present his godfather had given to him. And even though it was no use without him, he wouldn't go an inch without it.

A few moments later they heard muffled voices on the terrace and realised that Vincent Marvers was leaving. "I think we should go back," Hermione murmured. "Before Marvers develops his theory any further." She raised her head from Harry's shoulder and kissed him before giving him back his glasses. The kiss was short and gentle, but it was enough to make the tips of Harry's ears burn. Rather dazed, he put his glasses back on and saw that Hermione was already leaving the alcove. Hastily he scrambled off the bench and followed her.

Marvers was just about to leave. Hermione said goodbye to him swiftly and confidently, and next to her Harry felt like a self-conscious idiot who was either trying to hide something or who was, quite simply, an idiot. Luckily Marvers still seemed more occupied with various forms of dental treatment, and this time he dropped no embarrassing hints. Ian went with him to the door, while Harriet cleared the table. Without speaking, Harry and Hermione went to help her.

"You two must be tired," said Mrs. Granger, interpreting their silence. "I'll do the rest myself - you can go on up to your room." But both of them insisted on clearing up first. After Hermione had taken off the table cloth and Harry had pushed the garden chairs under the awning, Mrs. Granger shooed them upstairs without protest. She showed Harry the room while Hermione disappeared to the bathroom. The bedroom was very large, and besides Hermione's bed and the usual cupboards there was a pull-out couch in front of a TV set. Harriet had laid out cushions and blankets, and Harry's luggage was neatly arranged in the alcove between the wall and the couch. After wishing them goodnight, Mrs. Granger went back downstairs to tidy the kitchen.

"I'd love to use magic to clear up the kitchen for her," said Harry, as Hermione - toothbrush in mouth - rummaged in her cupboard for her nightclothes. "Can't the Ministry make an exception for good magic during the holidays?"

"It makes sense this way," mumbled Hermione, trying not to swallow the toothpaste. She hurried to the bathroom to rinse out her mouth and came back dressed in a long nightie. Harry grabbed his shorts and t-shirt and made his own way to the bathroom. He still had a peculiar feeling in his stomach that he couldn't quite place. He stood for a moment in front of the mirror and stared at his reflection. Was there anything different about him that would explain why Hermione was so attracted to him? The same tousled dark hair that he could never get under control. The same eyes. The same... well, the rest of his features had changed a little bit. But basically he was the same.

An idea stole up on him which put an immediate dampener on his excitement. Was she just acting out of sympathy, knowing how deeply Sirius' death had affected him?

This suspicion gave way to anxiety. He bent over the washbasin and splashed a few handfuls of water over his face. 'Not Hermione', he reproached himself. She wouldn't do that. Or would she? Or was he just worrying too much?

When he returned to the bedroom, all the lights were off apart from a small standard lamp next to his couch. Hermione was lying in bed, and for a moment he thought she was already asleep. He paused at the head of her bed and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead before almost shyly breathing a kiss onto her cheek. "Good night," he murmured.

"Good night, Harry," she answered softly, without opening her eyes. But she was smiling.

The couch was piled so high with cushions that Harry wondered if Mrs. Granger thought he was the princess on the pea. He arranged a few of them, switched off the light and sank down on the couch. For a while he silently stared into the darkness.

He was on the point of falling asleep when he heard short creak followed by soft footsteps. A moment later Hermione slipped under his blanket. Silently he put his arm around her and she snuggled up against him.

"At Hogwarts they'd kill us for this," Harry remarked.

Hermione laughed softly. "I'm afraid they would... that's why I'm here now."

He laughed too. Then he was silent for a moment before voicing his nagging thought. "Why me, Hermione?"

"What do you mean?" She yawned sleepily.

"Well... Because there's already a famous Quidditch player who's interested in you, and a friend who's insanely jealous of said famous Quidditch player..."

"You don't even need to ask about Viktor." Again, she sounded amused. "You understood better than Ron that I wasn't serious about him. And as for Ron himself...he...he's jealous of you too. He's jealous of anyone he thinks of as a rival."

"Then he'll hate both of us now," Harry concluded. "I'm taking you away from him, you're taking me away from him..."

"That's rubbish!" Hermione growled. "And he ought to know that."

Harry sighed. "I hope he will see it that way...But you still haven't answered my question."

"Do I have to?" she asked softly, burying her head deeper into his shirt. "Don't you already know?"

Harry started to think. His thoughts went back to the first year he'd spent at Hogwarts. He and Ron had thought that Hermione was a silly little swot, always poking her nose in where she wasn't wanted. But in the end she had helped them a lot, and with time she had become an irreplaceable friend. She had been the brains of the group, and Harry and Ron had supported her through the terrifying situations they had found themselves in. And at the same time, she had looked out for them. For the first time, Harry realised how often in the last four years she had thrown her arms around his neck in joy or concern. And how afraid he'd been when she was petrified by the basilisk... and how much it had bothered him when Hermione went to the Yule ball with Krum. Grinning, he remembered how he and Ron had gawped like a couple of idiots at Hermione, who had looked so different with her sleek hair and elegant ball-gown that at first they hadn't recognised her at all. Up till then, both of them had seen her only as their best friend and never as the very pretty girl that she was.

"The thing I do know is that I'm a complete idiot," Harry admitted now, smiling and pulling her closer. Hermione had always been there. And he had taken it for granted, not thought about it for a moment. He really was an idiot. How could he have thought that she was just feeling sorry for him?

She replied only with a brief giggle, and then they fell silent. In a few moments she was asleep. She lay in Harry's arms, breathing peacefully and softly, and he could still hardly believe it. That night, for the first time in months, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

It must have been about four o'clock when a sudden gust of wind blew through the open window and rustled the curtains. For a few seconds it seemed as if an autumn storm were raging outside. Harry heard a long drawn-out howl which made him wake up with a start, and felt a dull, burning pain in his forehead. He pressed his hand against his scar groaned softly. The curtain thrashed the wall, glass broke somewhere outside and a dog began to bark loudly. Hermione sat up in alarm. "What's happened?"

Green lightning pierced the darkness of the night and a bone-chilling scream rang out in the silence...

Harry clenched his jaw and tried to concentrate on driving all thoughts from his head. In his panic the scar on his forehead seemed to throb like a second heartbeat, and through the pain he scarcely felt Hermione leaning over him to run her hand over his cheek. "You're burning up Harry..." She gazed into his contorted face. "The scar," she murmured.

Harry gasped for air. "He's... killed again," he panted. "Dammit, he..." He bit into the cushion to stop himself crying out as he was hit by a fresh wave of pain. Hermione's fingers dug anxiously into his shoulder but he hardly noticed. After a few seconds, which seemed like forever to him, the pain lessened and he could breathe again. Gasping, he sank back into the cushions, his hand still pressed against his forehead.

"Are you okay, Harry?" Hermione's voice was shrill with panic.

He gesticulated with his free hand. "I'm alright now..." He reached out for her and pulled her close as if to comfort her for what he'd just experienced. "It's...it.." He sat up and flicked on the lamp next to the couch. Warm light drove away the cold darkness. The curtain was still billowing gently but the howl of the storm had died away.

"He's killed someone," he muttered.

"Voldemort?" Hermione had sat up too and was staring at him in horror.

Harry nodded. "Yes. He...I...I didn't really see. Luckily."

"See?" She repeated. "Why should you see anything? You're supposed to close off your mind to him, Professor Snape was..."

"Well you try doing that when you feel like you're being skewered," he hissed and rubbed his throbbing scar, not mentioning the fact that, admittedly through his own fault, he had learnt next to nothing from Snape. Harry threw back the blanket and switched on the television. Impatiently he flicked through the channels.

"Do you really think you'll find out anything there?" Hermione nodded at the TV screen.

"I want to be sure. There might be a report," Harry answered, selecting a news channel and sitting down again on the couch. Hermione sat down next to him.

"You can always feel it, when he kills..?"

Harry nodded dumbly.

"And sometimes you see it too?"

"I always see something..." he said quietly. "Not much, but enough to..." He broke off, shuddering. "I want it to stop."

Hermione looked at him. "It will only stop when Voldemort is dead."

"I know," he answered. "I hate that thought as much as I hate knowing when he murders someone."

She narrowed her eyes slightly and he sighed. His mind was reeling with all the events of the last school year and all the information he'd received. As yet only Dumbledore knew everything that he did. And when would he get the chance to speak to the headmaster? He looked at Hermione, wondering if he ought to confess everything to her. The whole truth, even though many details would be difficult to speak out loud. And even though he knew she would blame him for certain things he hadn't done due to his own stupidity, or rather his foolish stubbornness.

Would she still care about him if she knew everything? Harry sighed. It would be better for him to lay his cards openly on the table. There was no other person in the world with whom he could discuss this seriously. Not even Ron would understand everything. Nor did Harry want to burden his friend with the knowledge.

After a moment's hesitation, he took Hermione's hand and looked steadily into her eyes. "I have to tell you something...about me. And Voldemort.. And a few other things if you want to hear them."

Hermione swallowed, but nodded straight away. "Everything you have to tell," she said softly. And Harry, his hand still in hers, began to tell her...

***

It was almost six thirty in the morning and the sound of birdsong had been filling the room for quite some time. The morning sun slipped through the curtain onto the couch where the two of them were still sitting, Harry with his back against the wall and Hermione lying across his lap, both staring thoughtfully ahead of them. Absentmindedly, he let his fingers glide through her bushy hair as he watched the flickering pictures on the television screen. He had been afraid to speak about everything. Why he'd let himself be tricked by Voldemort and how Sirius had died as a result. The confrontation with Bellatrix Lestrange in the entrance hall of the Ministry. Voldemort, and then Dumbledore's appearance. Aunt Petunia. The Prophesy... Hermione had listened to everything without speaking. Every detail, without interrupting him. And she was still here next to him. She hadn't turned away, despite all his stupid mistakes. Despite the revelation that he must either murder or be murdered himself.

He felt a sense of relief that he hadn't felt for a very long time. He saw now that it had done him good to speak about everything, as if he'd been able to share something of the heavy burden he was carrying. He was alone no longer. And he was just enjoying the feeling when the television adverts were interrupted and a newsreader gave the report that Harry had been waiting for.

"We've just received news that the body of a young woman his been found near Little Whinging in Surrey..."

Harry sat up so suddenly that Hermione was almost catapulted off the couch. She turned over hastily and stared like him at the TV screen. It showed a street filled with police cars and an ambulance. A street Harry knew very well. It was the street running parallel to Privet Drive.

"...recovered the body at 6.07 this morning. The cause of death is as yet unknown. No evidence was found to indicate an attack or any form of physical abuse. As yet the police have no concrete leads. It is hoped that an autopsy will reveal more." The on-site reporter glanced at a stretcher, covered by a yellow cloth, which was being carried past her. "Police reports state that the victim is not a local. Her place of origin is unknown, and no papers were found on her. We would ask anyone who knows who she is to contact the local police station on the number shown below. All calls are confidential and the police will be grateful for any help you can provide."

A hastily-drawn sketch of the victim appeared on the screen. A few details were missing, but her identity was unmistakeable. Harry went pale with horror, and Hermione could hardly repress a shrill scream.

The unknown woman was Nymphadora Tonks.