Take My Hand

Harry stepped through the door just as Tate flipped on a light switch, filling the room with unpleasantly harsh halogen lighting. He stumbled toward a ratty couch, banging his knee on a low coffee table, and depositing Hermione onto the mottled yellow cushions. The couch, he noted, was covered in stains. Much like the wood floor. He returned his attention to Tate. She had her back to him, fiddling with the door. There were at least seven locks upon it, including the one built into the handle. She set a thick wooden bar against the door, and turned to face the room.

"OK. Now you will explain to me what the bloody fuck is going on." Harry glared harshly at Tate. When she looked at him, her eyes were plainly bored and annoyed. But a glance at Ron caused her expression to change to near hurt. Ron looked at her, severely expectant, the familiar seething hatred apparent in his furrowed brow and flashing eyes. Hermione was still unconscious on the couch, now swaddled with the musty blankets that had been carelessly thrown over it.

"Why are we here?"

Tate sighed exhaustively. "You are not supposed to be here, you stubborn bastard."

"Well, there's nothing to be done about that now. Why did you bring her here." He gazed down at Hermione and placed a hand protectively on one of her shoulders.

"It's for our safety," she said slowly. Harry's brow furrowed in disbelief. "What?" she spat. She was furious now, and very close to her breaking point. "You think I'm fucking with you? You think I took Hermione to some horrible place so I could kill her? Well, you're right." She drew herself up to her full height, which looked even more considerable than usual, what with her blazing fury against their exhausted stares. She glared down menacingly at Harry and Ron. She actually looked, to Harry's slight amusement, incredibly intimidating. He had no further time to muse on this, however, because Ron was on his feet, and he seized Tate's wrist.

"Not on my life, bitch," he said threateningly. She smirked at Harry, a sarcastic, irritated expression. He was briefly reminded of Draco Malfoy. In a flash of movement, a grunt, and a yelp of surprise, Harry was met with Ron's impossibly long legs flying straight up and down again. He landed hard, in a heap at Harry's feet, upsetting the coffee table. It took Harry more than a few moments to realize that Ron had just been flipped over a shoulder. A girl's shoulder. Harry might've laughed, but he was too busy glaring at the culprit, who brought her face within inches of his. He didn't shrink away, even as her eyes hardened into black diamonds. She didn't move a muscle, and the two stared each other down.

"Do you really think," she began in what she hoped was an even, controlled voice, "That Hagrid and Dumbledore would assist me in orchestrating her untimely death, and now yours as well?" Her voice became deadly. "Do I look like a Death Eater to you?"

Harry decided to remain silent, instead of saying, "You're missing the mask and the cloak". He had a rather premonitory vision that something bad might happen to him if he said such a thing. She continued on, her voice gradually getting lower. By the end, she was hissing more so than speaking.

"I'd rather drink poison. I'd think last night made it obvious that Hogwarts is no longer safe. So while you're deciding which side you really think I'm on, I'm going to go make some food. You'll let me know? If you do decide I'm a Death Eater, I suggest you attempt to attack me when my back is turned. You don't want to fuck with me when I'm facing you." She kicked Ron hard, in the ribs. He howled, and grabbed his side.

She leaned over. "That's for calling me a bitch!" She spun on her heel, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Harry and Ron were more or less frozen in shock. Hermione was beginning to stir, but Harry could barely pay attention. He was mostly convinced that Tate meant only to help them, but it wasn't as though he had any other choice. He looked at Ron, who was still prone on the ground.

"How's your ribs, mate?"

"Hurts like a bastard. Me back, too."

"Perhaps you should not've called her a bitch."

"I suppose not," Ron said laughing mildly, "But then again, with the way she was swearing, I didn't really think it would matter now, did I?" Harry laughed along with him. The smell of food began wafting from the kitchen. Ron and Harry looked to each other.

"Guess I'll go help then," said Ron, getting to his feet, "If you hear any screaming..."

"I'll come rescue you?" offered Harry, with a lopsided grin. Ron laughed, and shook his head. He walked (limped was more like it) into the kitchen. Harry slid off the couch, onto the floor, and rested his head on Hermione's thighs. Immediately, he was asleep.

Ron made his way into the kitchen. It was quite odd - nothing like his own kitchen, back at the Burrow. The clock on the wall had the numbers one through twelve on it - nothing else. There was a small, round table in the center of the room. The floor was made of thick wooden planks, and dust was everywhere. Like the living room, it looked like no one had been here for years. The oven was ancient, but somehow it was working, and Ron could see something boiling in a pot on the stove. Tate, however, had perched herself on the counter, with her knees drawn up to her chest, her face hidden in them. She was shaking, as if she were crying. From this angle, she looked quite small and vulnerable. Her Hogwarts robes had been discarded, leaving her in a thin, black t-shirt sans one sleeve, and ripped, threadbare jeans. Ron went to her, and cleared his throat.

"I know you're there," she mumbled. "Go away."

"Oh come on now, we both know you want me to stay. I'm irresistible." She raised her head to look at him, propping an elbow on her knee. She was not crying, but there was an empty look in her eyes, save for the faint glimmer of electricity that was always there. Ron's pulse quickened, but only slightly. The old feelings he had for her began to whine and gnaw at him, sneakily crawling their way back. He quickly crammed them back into his subconscious. He regarded her solemnly, and she sighed and closed her eyes. Awkwardly, Ron placed a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of peace. He was mildly surprised when she immediately placed her hand over his, and patted it.

"I can't believe you threw me over your shoulder." She began to laugh, and Ron smiled, glad to hear it once again. He hadn't heard her laugh in weeks.

*** *** ***

Hermione opened her eyes, and attempted to focus them. Fatigue sent black and blue sparks through her line of vision, giving her a light-headed feeling. She scrubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and looked around. The dim light came from the fireplace, and a few lamps.

Lamps? Wait a minute...there's no electricity at Hogwarts! Then the past twelve hours came flooding back to her, and she remembered, grimly, that she was in America. Blinking, she looked around at the rest of the room. There were some very odd things indeed, and she wondered who the hell would keep a cabin quite like this one. The walls, painted a sickening yellow, were more or less covered with pictures of scantily clad women and faded photographs. There were advertisements, ranging from very early in the 20^th century to as recent as the Absolut Vodka ad of last fall. Hermione recalled seeing it in her father's GQ magazine on the train back from France (to her horror, her mother had packed all of her books). The furniture was no less than horrific. Everything was old and moth-eaten and...well...completely heinous came to mind. All the colors were wrong, awful, and inexcusably mismatched. An old radio sat in the corner, and it looked as if someone had kicked it more than once. The couch smelled of mildew and dust. Hermione was faintly amused and disgusted (she couldn't decide which), and raised herself off the couch, knocking Harry, whom she hadn't noticed, to the ground on accident. Laughing as he shook himself awake, she offered him her hand. He took it, and stood.

"Bit of a rough situation, this?" Hermione nodded emphatically. She looked more closely at the walls. There were pictures, endless pictures, and in no particular order. She moved closer to the wall opposite the couch. A large poster of Betty Page, wrinkled and faded with time, was situated in the center of the wall, and all around it were photographs of varying age. Amidst the garish array of colorful pictorials and posters, she came across a montage of shiny photographs, crammed haphazardly between a semi-nude poster of 1991's Playmate of the Year and an advertisement for Life Cereal. Sixteen or so photographs - all magical and moving - were glued to a scrap of cardboard, each with a silver caption attached. Judging by the different degrees of glossiness, the photos varied pretty radically with age.

It was definitely an odd collection. In the center photo, five very young men, boys really, dressed in black and green camouflage clothing and covered in mud and brush, smiled and waved at the camera, against the backdrop of a pleasant brownish green landscape. A rickety brown cabin was visible in the left-hand side of the picture. This house? she wondered silently. Her gaze wandered over the adjacent photographs. The same five young men were featured in nearly every photo. Hermione was briefly reminded of Fred and George Weasley when she noticed that two of the young men were identical twins, straight down to the matching eagle tattoos on their respective left forearms. Hermione knitted her brows together. The antics of some identical twins... She directed her gaze to another photo. The five laughed and grinned at her from a massive black jeep, each waving a terrifying, black carbine rifle. They were dressed in matching, skin-tight black fatigues to boot.

"Adorable color scheme," she muttered sarcastically to herself.

"Thanks cutie," drawled a dark-haired man, winking roguishly at her. Hermione grinned. They greeted her again from a lake, all in SCUBA attire, happily splashing water toward her. In another, four of the young men sat on a dusty looking porch, a pyramid of cheap American beer built up behind them - every so often, the fifth man would run by and alternately moon the camera and his companions, drawing whooping laughs from the porch.

Other pictures were not so happy. A shot from the coach of an aircraft featured four of the five. They stared somberly at the open aircraft door, where an elderly man stood. He was holding an intricate, silver urn, and spreading the ashes through the door, into the screaming air. When the urn was emptied, the remaining four stood and lined up at the door. Each placed a kiss on a picture tacked to the plane wall, before leaping out the doorway in succession. Hermione was pained slightly when she realized that there was only one twin remaining, and his face was shielded by his ski mask and hat, eyes covered in mirror like sunglasses. She shook her head sadly and watched who she assumed to be the surviving twin hesitate briefly, place a kiss on the picture, and dive straight out the door with no hesitation. In the grand tradition of magical photographs, the skydivers would reappear in the coach every few minutes. The caption read, "Cody Chalker, 1974-1995. May he fly free forever."

Only 21, she mused, How awful. Vaguely, she wondered how he died. Her eyes fell upon the picture below the funeral. The remaining four men were walking away from the camera, heads down, dressed in their matching, black fatigues again, complete with black woolen caps. The picture was dated three months after the funeral, and Hermione was rather surprised to see a very radical change in one of the young men. She surmised that it must've been the surviving twin, as they were by far the tallest of the group. In any case, his build had decreased substantially, by at least thirty percent, maybe more, in mass - he was more aptly described as slenderly cut, even lanky, in comparison with the formidable, bodybuilder-esque physiques of the other three. The height appeared to be the same, taller than the others, but there was no twin to compare it against. She checked an earlier photo, and raised her eyebrows at the obscene distinction. The twin must've been taking his brother's death remarkably hard. She estimated he'd lost at least a third, if not half of his body mass a mere six months prior. She shook her head. The last picture on the board displayed a caption that read, "Sniper School, Cambodia, 1996". The surviving four compatriots were situated in prone position, beneath a massive dead tree. Four matching Sniper rifles on tripods sat in front of each respective sniper. They were all grinning wildly, barely able to contain their raw excitement - their faces lit up even beneath the black and green grease paint streaks that marked each of them. Hermione had to grin, as well - especially since she was getting winks from the strapping, raven haired rogue again (he resembled a much younger Sirius Black - though Hermione would never admit she found that look attractive to Harry).

"Jesus." Hermione jumped a mile. Harry was standing right up against her, looking at the photographs.

"Oh, real nice, Harry!" she snapped, "You might've given me a heart attack!" A half smile played on his lips as he squinted at the cardboard. He removed his glasses, swiped them quickly against his sweater, and put them on again. No change.

Hermione noticed the confusion, then realization register on his face. She raised her eyebrows at him questioningly. He noticed her, and nodded toward the picture, the one of the Sniper School.

"That's Tate," he said matter-of-factly, "Second from the left, that's her." Hermione snorted.

"You're off your tree - it's the same five boys in every picture...well four in some. Don't see how you could possibly tell what with the paint all over their faces." But she looked closer anyways.

And was stunned to discover that Harry was right. Tate was nestled in comfortably among the other three. The surviving identical twin was gone - Tate was in his proverbial place, gripping a gun with her face smeared black and green. Hermione's brow furrowed as her mind began to whir. Harry eyed her amusedly - watching Hermione work something out in her head was never boring.

Hermione looked back over the pictures - studying the twins. She looked pointedly at one of photographs (the caption noted it to be in Nevada, June of 1993) in which all five boys were shirtless, and posing unabashedly at the camera. Hermione squinted, and noted a massive black and purple bruise spanning the elbow of one of the twins. She had to wait a few seconds before the other one finally turned, to give her a split second view of his elbow. A corresponding bruise was etched in exactly the same place as his brothers.

"Polyjuice Potion," she whispered, barely audible. Everything suddenly fell into place. The earliest date recorded on the photographs was 1990, and all five of the men were but boys - maybe fifteen at the oldest.

So that was how Tate managed to receive professional military training as early as nine years old. Hermione didn't realize, but she said this out loud.

"That's right," came a voice from across the room. She inclined her head and regarded Tate with an odd expression.

"I was nine and a half when I went into active training. Somewhere in this house is a much bigger album." She shrugged, slightly.

"Maybe you should explain this over dinner?" suggested Harry, who couldn't ignore the smell of soup wafting through the kitchen door. She nodded swiftly, and disappeared through the doors, Harry trailing at her heels. Hermione took a last look at the montage, before turning and making her way toward the distinct smell of beef stew.

Dinner was wordless and uncomfortable. They ate quickly, voraciously, as though someone would appear and tell them they would be allowed no more food.

"Dishes in the sink. We've got a lot to discuss. See you in the living room."

*** *** ***

Hermione sat on the couch with Harry, Ron in the overstuffed chair. Tate reclined in a rocking chair, facing the three of them. A bottle of Spanish tequila sat on the coffee table that separated Tate from the other three - she had told them they would need it. Tate looked at them with serious appraisal. She began slowly, as though she were still choosing her words.

"We are here for specific reasons. Like I said, protection and safety is a main concern." She looked pointedly at Harry, as he had not believed her earlier.

"Just for your information, there are wards and hexes up all around this place. It's also unplottable.

In the meantime, until we are called back by Dumbledore, we stay. Technically, this place doesn't really exist to the outside world. Like I said, totally unplottable, and very isolated. The deed records were destroyed in a fire, so there is no way we can be traced. We are allowed no post, no contact with anyone, we cannot be seen by anyone from the outside world. We are cut off until further notice. Questions?"

"Where is 'here'?" asked Harry. Unconsciously, Tate smiled, her fond memories getting the better of her.

"Here is the residence of Special Team Halide. Yah, I know that sounds stupid," she added, seeing the dubious expressions, "But that was our nickname...my team's nickname. I'll get to them in a bit."

"How long have you known about this," asked Ron.

"My whole life, really. But, if you want specifics on this situation, I've known we were going to have to come here eventually since I arrived at Hogwarts. So about two and half months give or take." Harry made a small noise in his throat.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Hermione tried to keep the urgency out of her voice.

"You wouldn't have believed me."

"What do you mean you've known your whole life?" Ron looked at her, ridiculously confused, and Harry and Hermione mirrored his emotions. Tate sighed softly, and passed a hand over her eyes.

"I've never had to answer that question before, so bear with me. I don't know if I'll answer it right." She concentrated hard on the floor, biting her lip. For a few moments she was silent. Just as Hermione was about to comfort her, her head came up and she began speaking.

"A little before I turned six, a man came to our home. He explained to my parents that I was not a normal kid, kinda like when y'all got your letters for school. He told them that, by magical decree, I was to become his ward and trainee. I had been born for a purpose, and nothing they could do or say would change that." She stopped, snorted, and seemed unwilling to continue.

"This sounds so stupid... Anyways, I got pulled out of school and went into training with Niels. Even though I was six, because I'm a telepath I picked things up very quickly. He had a few other wards, four of them. One of them was a telepath, but the others simply showed great potential for magical warfare. I worked with the other four students from the time I was six until last Fall, when I returned to muggle school. The four other guys and me, well, we were Special Team Halide."

"What sort of training are you talking about," asked Harry.

"Warfare."

"Yah, I've heard that part before. But why would they train you in that," he asked.

Tate clasped her hands together. "Because of psychic demonic warfare. My whole life, I've been trained to combat that threat."

Hermione was stunned. "You've trained your whole life for a magical warfare? I can't imagine the sort of childhood you had." She trailed off uncertainly, knowing she had just been rude, but lacking the strength to care.

Tate laughed hollowly. "You learn to give up certain things when you've got no other choice. I've never been in any position to reject my life. You are what you are. Granted my childhood was...fucked up, to say the least. I spent half of my life here, and alternately in Cambodia and desert Utah and Nevada, and most of that was as an older boy. I was 'Douglas Chalker' for about seven years. That'll do wonders to the mindset of a little girl." She shook her head laughing.

"I spent ten years around the same six people, so every time I went home and had to socialize with anyone outside my family, I freaked out. That's why they shipped my ass back to muggle school - to teach me how to deal with people. It didn't go very well, obviously..." Ron giggled, and Tate managed a tightlipped smile. Hermione let out a sigh of relief - at least she was lightening up about the whole incident. This small gesture prompted a volley of questions to be asked, mostly from Harry. He was keen on knowing exactly what she had to offer from her years of strange schooling.

"We trained in stages, mainly. A month of piloting, a month of tactical operations, a month of weapons, and so on."

"Weapons?" asked Ron, "What kind of training would weapons entail - all you need is a wand."

Tate gave him a funny look. "Believe it or not, a gun can kill a wizard. You're still human. My focus was more on muggle tactics, actually. They're a bit more strategic and methodical, since they've got so many killing options, whereas y'all only use Avada Kedavra."

"Trust me, that's enough," murmured Harry, turning his eyes toward the floor, images of Cedric replaying through his mind. Hermione patted his back comfortingly.

"To be blunt, pyrokinetics are trained to be weapons. It fulfills the dichotomy necessary for a fight waged against a psychic evil. Like I said before, on one end, you've got a machine, programmed for fighting. One half is the intensely trained. The one who has gone through life being bred for a certain purpose. Every minute of every day since the appearance of his or her powers goes toward the instruction of combat. The other half is a pure form, a bundle of raw, pure energy that has never been manipulated or even fully used. One who has had no training, no direction, only the instruction of their heart and soul. You, Hermione." Hermione said nothing, still lost in the shock of recent events.

"Now, when I said I did not exist, I meant that...in a whacked out way...What's my name Hermione?"

"Summere Kalliope Natalya Tatum Elissa Lasyrenn Mithra Blackeberry," she recited, without hesitation and without fervor.

Tate nodded, grinning. "Did Dumbledore show you the list of telepaths?"

Hermione looked up quickly. "Yes he did, but you were not on it. No...your name must've come after my name...There was a Summerre on the list, but it wasn't you...the last name was all wrong...I couldn't pronounce it...there was no grammatical sense in it whatsoever, no one could've properly pronounced it. Probably gobbledeegook or some other."

"Nope, that was me. My birthday is June 11^th, yours is September 19^th, and the list is chronological." Hermione stared at her, dumbfounded. "It's a bit complicated, the charms on my name...there's more than a few of them, each name having about three charms each..."

"But you can't charm the surname of a person," Harry pointed out, "Professor Flitwick said as much last year." Tate nodded to him.

"I know. Blackeberry is not my surname. It's another middle name."

That did it. She might as well have said her last name was Riddle. Tate was becoming less and less recognizable by the minute. No one could comment, not even Hermione. The confusion and shock was a bit overwhelming.

"I said it was complicated," Tate said quietly. "My Uncle is a wizard...he completed most of the name charms when I was born, since my parents are muggles. However, Niels altered my name when I became his ward. He dropped my surname completely, and put a spell on my middle names. Therefore, my surname became an amalgam of my middle names. Make sense?" No answers.

"You are aware that if a witch or wizard is born to a muggle family, two birth certificates will exist for that person?" Hermione nodded, clearly the only one aware of such a fact. Wizarding families were not entered into muggle systems - they did not exist to the muggle world.

"Right. Magical birth certificates, for lack of a better term, are issued to said muggle born wizards upon emergence of powers. My muggle birth certificate is recorded as Summere Chalker. My magical birth certificate is recorded with the charmed last name. It'll look different and completely unpronounceable to anyone who reads it."

"There's a spell that can manipulate human reasoning?" asked Harry.

"There's all kinds. All banned, of course, and you'll never find most of the books that document them. They've all been locked away. The censors touch everything these days, you know," answered Hermione.

"Won't that be a bit of a tip-off?" interjected Ron. "I mean, it's pretty uncommon...won't someone pick up on that?"

"Normally, yes," said Tate, "However, the only place my name has ever been recorded in the Wizarding World is on the list of known living telepaths. I was never enrolled at Hogwarts. I completed class assignments and turned in permission slips under the name Blackeberry, but my grades were never recorded and the documents were always destroyed immediately. My name does not exist anywhere, except on that one list. And for the record, I was never sorted."

"WHAT?" The room went up in a collective roar, amidst shouts of "How is that possible?" and "Who are you?" and the like. She held up a hand.

"I was never sorted because it went without question that I would need to be in very close contact with Hermione. Niels and Dumbledore and myself felt it would be too risky, were I to be placed in a different house."

It made sense...in a very manipulative way, it made perfect sense.

"There's no point in getting pissed off. I misled you, terribly, for which I am very sorry. I didn't ask for any of this, and neither did you. But this is how it is. I'm very aware that you guys will feel like you don't know me at all, and to be perfectly honest, that's definitely true, in many ways. But in others, it's not at all. I mean only to help you. I want to be your friend."

Harry's hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Ron could only stare at the floor, still shocked at the completely unexpected revelations.

"I don't expect this to be an overnight friendship," Tate said quickly, realizing their attentions were all but gone. "This is going to be a working relationship, between all of us, for the next several months. That said, I think its time we opened this bottle this bottle of tequila." Hands reached for shot glasses, clamoring for the sweet nectar that would drown their troubles.

*** *** ***

Hermione woke to the screaming wind outside her window. She rubbed her eyes, and looked to the window, slightly hoping that she was hallucinating.

She was not. The snow was falling so thickly, that it seemed a thick white sheet of stardust was continually pounding against the rickety, fragile window that creaked forebodingly in its frame. The clock read five AM. Hermione groaned and turned on her side, burying her head under a pillow.

Too soon, it became clear to her that she needed to get up and use the restroom. Her head was slightly muddled and achy from the evenings alcohol consumption. Tate was right -- they did need the calming shots following their conversation. Tate...

Hermione looked to the twin bed against the wall. It was empty, neatly made as though no one had ever been there, though Tate had gone to sleep in it the previous evening. Sighing, Hermione swung her feet over her bed, grimacing against the freezing cold floors assault.

"Jesus Christ," muttered Hermione, through chattering teeth. "A fecking magic house with no heat? We're going to die." She trotted as fast as possible toward the bathroom, went about her business and brushed her teeth. Then she flew back through the hall, kicked open the door that had blown shut, and shot under the covers of her bed.

There really is nothing quite like flinging yourself into a warm cocoon of fluffy blankets after braving the harsh elements of a trek to the bathroom in a drafty, badly insulated house at five AM in the morning. And Hermione planned to take all the pleasure in it possible. She squirmed around her in bed, burrowing into the impossible soft and springy mattress. There had to be magic in the mattress, she decided -- normal mattresses, even feather beds, weren't this soft. It seemed to mold to her body, no matter which way position she twisted herself into. She found her desired level of comfort, and growled softly in her throat -- and was startled to hear laughter. She peeked from under the covers to see Harry silhouetted in the doorway. Or at least, it looked and sounded like Harry.

"Got room for two?" Hermione grinned, and lifted the covers. Harry quickly slipped between them. He wrapped his arms around Hermione and she gasped at his frigid limbs.

"Did you just jump in a bloody lake," she asked in a shrill voice as she tried to escape his icy grasp. He laughed and held her tighter and she squealed and struggled against him. In no time at all, however, his body warmed to a bearable temperature, and Hermione stopped squirming and snuggled up against him. The crown of her head fit perfectly beneath his chin, and he lightly stroked her hair. Anyways, it fit perfectly until he started talking.

"How did you sleep?"

"As well as expected," she responded, nuzzling against his bare chest. In lieu of recent events, she wasn't surprised to find tension in his muscles. Softly, she began to rub little circles over his collarbones and shoulders.

"What are you thinking?" she whispered.

"Do you really need to ask that question as you're tracin' little circles on my neck? Why don't you just dance naked in front of me?"

Hermione giggled and shook her head. "Too cold."

Harry laughed, and brushed his fingers across the sensitive spot between her shoulder blades, drawing a shiver and sigh. She ceased with the rubbing of circles.

"Now, what are you thinking?"

Harry sighed, and the veins in his neck tensed for a moment.

"I take it you'd like me to answer that seriously?"

"If you like," Hermione whispered dreamily, burying her face in his neck and breathing deeply.

A gesture such as this, from any typical girl, would have meant 'no you stupid sod, snog me senseless'. However, this being from Hermione, Harry knew she meant business. There would be no snogging until Hermione'd had her desired moment of Zen communication.

"I hate it here. I hate everything about this place, right down to the dirty pictures covering the wall next to my bed. I hate that its freezing all the time - it's like this house absorbs the cold. The floors, the walls, the doorknobs, everything is like ice."

"Is it much worse in the attic?"

"Oh yes it is. The wind howls like wolves, and the house moves with it. Ron moans in his sleep. It's like living with the Weasley family ghoul on a houseboat. Did I mention the cold?" Hermione smiled. "I have to trust someone I barely know."

"We have no choice, Harry," she replied slowly.

"No. No we do not."

She shifted in his arms, and turned her eyes to his. They were wide and imploring. It nearly broke his heart to look into them, and he felt the need to squeeze her tighter, to remind himself that she was still there.

"Do you wish you hadn't come?"

Harry gaped at her. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she watched his face.

"No." She said nothing, merely buried her face in his chest. It said a lot that he'd followed her to this place. It said everything. She planted a kiss in the hollow of his throat.

"Tell me about the dirty pictures on your ceiling," she teased.

Harry grimaced, and turned his face into the pillow, moaning. Hermione laughed.

"Well, there's one with this three women, and they're all..." She shut him up in the most effective way possible.

10:45 AM

Hours later, asleep, Hermione's head lay on Harry's chest. He had one arm curled protectively around her, the other folded under his head. A tall red-headed figure resisted an urge to either vomit or laugh uproariously at the veritable picture of content.

"Well, isn't this romantic," quipped Ron, as he launched a rolled pair of socks at Harry's head. They nailed him right between the eyes. There was a bout a swear exchanging before Harry and Hermione actually managed to roust themselves and face the new morning.

Hermione found a note on the downstairs coffee table.

Will be back at sundown. Do not leave house, for any reason. Cellar door in kitchen.

Tate

No one bothered asking where she'd gone. As far as Ron and Harry were concerned, only highly disturbed humans awoke before five AM. Hermione bristled in annoyance, but chose not to comment on their rudeness. She rose at five AM every single weekday - she allowed herself a considerable seven AM on weekends. She glared at the two briefly, before stomping her way into the kitchen.

Shortly after they ate (Hermione had asked whether they wanted soup...or soup), Hermione decided they should acquaint themselves to the house. It seemed only natural - after all, there was not a bloody alternative. They were confined to the house.

Harry balked at this, but Hermione concluded that if Tate had postulated that they not leave, 'for any reason', then that's what they would do. She had a hankering that the safety charms and wards were strongest in the general vicinity of the house, not much further beyond it.

The outside was hostile, unfamiliar territory, and she had no intention of stepping foot on it one moment before she had to.

Therefore, at Hermione's suggestion (Ron felt it was more of a demand), the three went about the house, separately of course, and got a feel for their new surroundings.

Hermione went to the attic first. There was a disgustingly narrow, rickety staircase, and splintery to the touch. Irritated, Hermione smoothed away the scratchy banister with a Levo charm. Then she reached the fourth step and knocked her head soundly on the ceiling. It had been poorly designed - the stairwell didn't open up into the next room until the sixth step, causing anyone over five feet tall great pain. Between clenched teeth, she could only imagine what sort of colorful things Ron had said when he discovered the overtly low ceiling. With his ridiculous height, he probably knocked his own head on the first step. Hermione giggled, and rubbed the crown of her head, willing the ache away. The stairwell came up right in the middle of to space, extending about ten feet in either direction. There were three tiny windows, all of them barred. It was unnerving.

Two beds flanked either side of the stairwell. Another two were pushed against the opposite walls. A fifth bed was lofted about seven feet up from the floor, and Hermione surmised that bed had once belonged to Tate. It seemed only natural. Constant, close living space with boys, usually in an adopted male image, she needed at least some separation. Any available surface near the beds was covered in pictures. Pictures of all sorts, each compilation in its own way unique. One such collection, the bed against the far left window, was devoted almost entirely to landscapes. Endless landscapes, obviously taken with a muggle camera by an amateur photographer - most likely the bed inhabitant. The bed against the far right window was surrounded by pornographic images - not a single photograph of family (because that would be gross) or clothed people anywhere.

Hermione climbed the shaky ladder to the lofted bed. There was barely enough space for the bed, which consisted of little more than a mattress on the floor. Almost unconsciously, Hermione marveled at the same magnificent mattress she had slept on. Every bed in the room was equipped with one.

There were only a few pictures over Tate's bed - her family, and a few of her Polyjuice donor and herself. Nothing substantial really. Hermione leapt off the loft, foregoing the ladder. Her feet made a spectacular crashing sound as her shins absorbed the impact of the fall. A tiny, cracked mirror spluttered indignantly.

*** *** ***

Ron stood in the doorway of the study, brooding over his search possibilities. A massive pine desk dominated one of the walls, shelves stretching ten feet high commanding the other. A large map hung on the opposite wall. He stepped carefully over to the desk. Even though he was aware they were quite alone in the house, the idea of rifling through someone else's things made him uneasy. But not that uneasy. He was still a curious teenager underneath it all.

He opened random drawers on the desk - surprisingly enough, only one was locked. He seized a bent and twisted piece of silver wire from a piece of paper it had snagged on and set about straightening it. He inserted the silver wire into what appeared to be a tiny lock and began to twist.

It promptly stunned him, and he flew across the room.

*** *** ***

Harry prodded around the living room, more moping than exploring. He'd seen everything already. More than anything, he wanted to go outside. Hermione had, of course, forbidden this. By default, he had to listen - otherwise he would have gladly ignored Tate's original demand. As a formally caged child though, Harry naturally longed to open the door and see the outside, even though the snow was still furious, the wind still moaning, and the sky still disagreeably dark. He slumped into a grubby chair and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. His eyes fell upon Tate's hastily scrawled note.

Cellar door in Kitchen.

"Cellar door, eh?" Harry stood, and made his way to kitchen, purposely scraping the soles of his shows against the ragged floor. A floor length mirror that hung on the wall gave a loud Hmph. He was beginning to notice that the mirrors in the house were uncharacteristically loud and annoying, often butting their way into private conversations. He'd have to remind himself to remove the mirror from Hermione's room.

Once in the kitchen, he had a hell of a time finding the actual cellar door. He'd covered every inch of every wall, when he was forced to slap himself in the forehead for being thick.

Of course it would be in the floor. Cellars led underground didn't they?

"Alohamora." The trapdoor sprang open, and Harry shut his eyes quickly as volumes of dust poured from the opening. He waved his arms furiously, but still managed to swallow a mouthful of dust that had him coughing violently for several minutes. After his coughing fit receded, he removed his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt. He regarded the trap door for a moment. His scar hadn't reacted, and the only feeling he perceived from the trap door was cold air. Scratch that. Glacial air. Cor, he was going to freeze his arse off. Before his conscience could talk him out of it, Harry dropped through the trapdoor opening.

And landed on stairs. And swore. Shan't be telling Ron about that one, he decided. His redheaded friend would laugh for ages.

"Lumos." He squinted for a moment, eyes adjusting to the surroundings. His mouth dropped in total awe.

Harry gazed around the dimly lit surroundings, his senses buzzed. He couldn't identify precisely what he was feeling, but it was a combination of terror, excitement, confusion, general awe. It was...thrilling, to say the least.

He was in what could only be described as an arsenal. The space was huge, with several corridors. He was surrounded by endless racks of muggle guns. Small guns, big guns, massive guns. Things he had only seen on television before, really. Bobby firearms didn't count so much, not in comparison to where he was now. In a state of shock, he entered the first corridor and found it stocked with cans of non-perishable food and bottled water. Thankfully, he could now cross starvation off his list of fears.

Down another corridor, he found dozens upon dozens of glass bottles lining the walls. Each row bore a different kind of alcohol. At least two dozen cases of beer was stacked at the dead end, and twice as many cartons of cigarettes. He found himself laughing out loud. Alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. Just like an American arsenal to pair something so deadly with the last peddled legal drugs in the world.

Much later that day, when everyone had finished their respective exploring, the three had supper together - soup again. It was nearing eight in the evening when Harry finally showed them the arsenal. As he suspected, they were shocked...and more than a little nervous.

"Ron!" Hermione glared at him in the dim lighting, "You leave all that alone!"

Ron smiled guiltily at her, but chose to ignore her reprimand and continue choosing a bottle of spirits.

Harry touched her arm lightly. "Honestly Hermione, she wouldn't have told us how to get in here if she didn't want us to touch anything."

"Still," Hermione pressed, "I'd feel better if you asked her first - this being her home after all."

At that moment, above their heads, a door was flung open and slammed, followed by the mechanical noises of locks being activated. Footsteps traced their way toward and then up the stairs. It wasn't deafening - but much louder than Hermione expected to hear. Then again, it sounded as though whoever it was had been dragging their feet.

"Go find out where the hell she was all day," called Ron over his shoulder. He hadn't taken his eyes off of the rack he was currently observing. Without responding, Hermione spun on her heel and took off toward her bedroom. However, there was no one in there, so she went to the attic.

"Tate? Was that you?" No answer. However, Hermione sensed her presence, and quickly climbed the ladder to the lofted bed. Sure enough, Tate was there. Hermione pulled her mouth in a tight, motherly line at the sight.

Tate lay on the covers, fully clothed. She was faced away from Hermione. Her hair was braided tightly, and wound around her head, but it was tangled around the edges and coming loose. Grunting slightly, Tate turned over to face her new housemate. Hermione grimaced at the dirt caked on Tate's face.

"Get up, you can't sleep like that." Tate opened one eye.

"Can too."

"You're all dirty!" Hermione looked over her muddy clothes. Her fingernails were practically black. "You'll ruin your bed!"

"Nah...too tired to move - we'll talk tomorrow." She closed her eye and Hermione gave up after a few minutes.

However, they did not talk the next day, nor the day after. Tate would be gone before anyone woke up, only to return well after dark and go straight to sleep. It would be a full three days of the same routine - the same confusion, boredom, and endless soup - before Ron took matters into his own hands.

*** *** ***

He waited on the stairs of the attic all night. It would be four thirty AM before Tate finally woke.

Dammit, LATE! Stupid! She quickly berated herself, and rose stealthily out of bed. She crept into the closet and changed. Then she made her way out into the hall, and prepared to sneak down the stairs when an arm snaked across her throat.

"Reveal thy name," said a clearly forced, raspy voice. Tate groaned in annoyance.

"Get off, Ron! Unless you want soup again tonight, you'll let me go!"

"I'll come with, and keep you company. What the hell are you wearing?"

"Its called camo. I'm going hunting today. If you want to come, you'll need to put on something from the cupboard in there." Tate gestured to a hall closet. Ron looked unconvinced.

"You can hunt in weather like this?"

"Sure. It's not so bad out today." She scampered down the stairs. Ron shook his head and dove into the closet, quickly putting on the first thing he could find.

Fifteen minutes later, he was regretting his rash decision to go hunting with Tate. The storm had blown itself out the day before, but the climate was still hostile. Even though he and Tate had enchanted their heavy clothes with waterproofing and warming charms, the cold still bit through and numbed his bones. He trudged along next to her, careful to walk on her left side. In her right hand, she gripped a very large rifle, which she had earlier proclaimed to be a Ruger 44 Carbine. Whatever the hell that was.

"Nearly there now," she said to Ron.

"WHAT?"

"YOU'RE A FUCKING COW!" Ron threw his hands over his heart in mock sorrow, and pitched backward into the snow. She laughed down at him, seized his arm, and yanked him back up. They continued to struggle through the now shin deep snow, finally stopping in front of a large gathering of rocks. Tate rustled around in her rucksack and retrieved something.

"This," she said, waving the long black contraption around, "is an SKB side-by-side 20 gauge. You'll need to get used to using guns around here - eventually we'll be using them more often then wands." Ron stared at her blankly, and she smiled slightly at his confusion. "I'm going to take the safety off. That means you will be able to fire a shot. Using this," she pointed to the trigger.

"Hold the gun like this." She demonstrated the proper stance, with the butt of the gun securely against her shoulder. "And you just squeeze the trigger to shoot." Ron was ghost white at this point, and staring at her as though she had just told him to eat the rifle. She made to hand it to him, and he shrank away. She shoved the rifle into his hands and grabbed the collar of his jacket, forcing his face closer to hers.

"If I come out of there running, you take that thing and shoot at whatever is after me." Ron began to protest fiercely, but she shook him a bit.

"Ron, if I'm in danger, you are going to have to protect me. If you're too afraid to use the gun, you can try your wand, but it may not work. I need your help here. But DO NOT shoot me!"

Tate mentally flogged herself. She despised pulling the 'female in need of protection' card, and only used it as a last resort. It worked. Looking into her adamant eyes, Ron agreed, and took a spot right above the opening in the rocks as Tate disappeared through.

*** *** ***

Back at the house, Harry was awake. He had heard Tate and Ron leave moments earlier. Instead of returning to sleep, he got up and pulled a sweatshirt over his head. He immediately descended the stairs, towards the study. Ron had alerted him of the magically locked desk the day before. Ron's vast attempts to unlock the annoying drawer had been completely fruitless, often ending with a well directed stunning spell that sent him flying across the room. Harry regarded the drawer carefully. He ran his hands over the cool surface.

"Alohamora." Nothing happened. "Pateo." Still nothing. He continued, trying every spell that came to mind, and yielding no results. Sighing, he glared furiously at the locked desk.

"My name is Harry Potter. I mean no harm. Please open."

"Well, that's comforting, dear," came a pleasant voice that yawned loudly. Harry jumped slightly, before spying the mirror that hung over the desk.

"Excuse me," he said politely, getting to his feet, "But I was wondering if you could tell me how to open that drawer."

The mirror tittered slightly. "My dear boy, you are much smarter than your red-haired companion. He must've gotten himself stunned a good twelve times. And to think! No one asks the mirror for help! The mirror who sees everything!" Harry gritted his teeth into a smile, his patience wearing slightly thin.

"If I were you," giggled the mirror, "I'd try the books." Harry wrinkled his brow. Try the books? He glanced at the bookshelf in the corner, then looked back at the mirror in confusion.

"Try the special one, dear," it coaxed, "Go on." Harry shrugged, and faced the bookshelf. Goddamned mirror was like a centaur, speaking in rhymes and what not. He quickly skimmed the bookshelf, noticing only the titles that jumped out at him. The Secret Language of Birthdays. Murder by Potions and How to Avoid It. Is Your Spouse Trying to Kill You? Mantrapping. Drive to Survive. This was all very annoying to Harry, until his eyes fell upon a very tiny book with no title on its spine. It was so small, it might've been nicked from a little girl's doll set. Curiously, he picked it up and turned it over. The cover read Special Forces Handbook; Headquarters, Department of Army. There was a slight grating noise, and he turned around in time to see the drawer spring open, as the mirror cheered him on.

*** *** ***

After about five minutes, Ron began to get nervous. After half an hour, he was damn near terrified. What if there were trolls in there or something? A blasted metal contraption like the one he held couldn't do any damage against a troll! He waited two more minutes, and then resolved to go in after her. He had merely raised himself to his feet and was preparing to climb down the rocks and enter the opening, when a massive booming echo reverberated off the cave walls and escaped the small enclosure with an explosive snarl. Moments later, Tate came staggering out. She dragged a massive elk behind her.

"Weightless charm," she explained, and Ron stared in complete shock. The elk was dead, and she had killed it. He could see bright red blood against the snow. Brilliant red against pure white. He began to feel sick. Tate grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

"Ron! Ron, come off it! He was starving, and if I didn't kill him, he would have suffered terribly." Ron continued to gaze down at the magnificent animal. Tate sighed, drew back her arm, and slapped him across the face.

Ron, not expecting the blow, saw stars. He shook his head, to clear it, and saw that Tate was already gone, twenty feet or so ahead of him, the gigantic dead elk floating next to her. He charged after them, going as fast as he could through the snow.

She disappeared into a tiny shed near the house. He tried to follow her, but the door was locked.

"Go back to the house, Ron!" she shouted through the door, "You don't want to see this, I promise!" Ron continued to pound on the door.

"Go away!" she shouted again. This only strengthened his resolve. He threw his shoulder against the door. He backed up, prepared to do it again, when the door flew open. Tate stood there, in a thin white camisole, eyes blazing. Her hands were covered in bright red blood. Unfortunately, for both of them, Ron had pitched forward to bash the door again. He hit Tate full force in the chest, knocking both of them over. She landed hard on her back, he came down on top of her. The air was knocked out of both of them, and Tate's eyes unfocused. Ron drew up, looked at her, and shook her gently. She gasped for air, looked at him in fury, and began to struggle away. Ron grinned, and pinned her on the ground. She twisted her head around, and glared at him.

"Not as strong as you think, are you?" Ron smirked at her inability to get away. "You are in quite a compromising position, my dear." Tate smiled, and brought a hand of hers toward his face. He blanched and rolled off of her, shrinking away from her blood drenched hand.

"Hell's fire, Tate," he squeaked, "Get away with that mess!" She grinned sarcastically, and turned back to her work. She picked up an enormous hunting knife, and proceeded to continue cleaning the elk. The smell of blood filled the tiny shack, and Ron felt his stomach heave. The coppery stuff was everywhere, and his head began to spin.

Without turning around, Tate said, "If you've got to throw up, there's a bucket in the corner." Ron bolted for it, and was violently ill for what seemed like hours. His world spun, and he laid on the dirty ground next to the bucket, curling his knees to his chest, surrendering to the world of dreams...

*** *** ***

Harry approached the drawer carefully. There were dividers in it, and lots of folders. It didn't appear to be threatening. He read the labels quickly: Reports, Expenses, News, Updates, Important Stuff, Special Team Halide, Personals, Miscellaneous. Harry, having recalled Tate mention Special Team Halide before, seized that section and drew it out. He opened it quickly, and five bound folders spilled out on the ground. They were all gray, and bound with a leather tie. Each had a label on the front, bearing a name, date of birth and, in one case, date of death. Curiously, he picked up that particular folder and read the label aloud.

"Cody C. Chalker. Born July twelfth, 1974. Died October first, 1995."

"Ahh, Cody," whispered the mirror, "What a wonderful boy he was." Harry ignored the mirror, and scanned the other folders. He quickly found what he was looking for, and seized a folder entitled "Summerre K. N. T. E. L. M. B. Chalker". He opened it and found himself staring at two pictures. In one, a younger Tate smiled soberly at him against a blue background. In the other, a well built boy dressed in military fatigues regarded him gravely. He flipped the page, and found a terse biography.

NAME: Summere Kalliope Natalya Tatum Elissa Lasyrenn Mithra Blackeberry Chalker.

DOB: 06/11/1980

SEX: Female

RANK: Pyrokinetic, Telepath, Telekinetic

STATUS: Legally Deceased - time of death: 1:47 AM, 12/06/1996.

MAJOR HEALTH PROBLEMS: None

AGE AT TIME OF ENROLLMENT: Six years, two months, seven days, nine hours, twelve seconds.

MAGICAL EDUCATION: All levels of Dark Arts, Potions, Transfiguration, Charms completed. No experience in following areas: Arithmancy, Divination, Runic Studies.

MUGGLE EDUCATION: College Level Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Mathematics, Mechanical Engineering completed. High School Level English, History, Theology completed.

LANGUAGES: Subject has unprecedented affinity for languages. At this time (9/25/96) subject fluent in seventy three human languages, none of which author (Boltzmann) is in any mood to write out. Maybe next time.

SPECIAL SKILLS: Magical Combat Training. Magical Protection Techniques. Land, Sea, Arctic, Aerial Survival Techniques. Basic EMS Training. Advanced Maritime. Combat SCUBA. Combat Skydiving Tactics. Electronic Combat Tactics. Scouting and Dynamic Entry. Night Moves and Camouflage Uses. Hostage/Barricade Deployment and Entry Decision. Covert Deployment. Negotiations Class. Advanced Lockpicking and Vehicular Entry. Breaching Tools Assessment. Advanced Surveillance Techniques. Officer Down and Victim Rescue. Techniques of Distraction. Dignitary Protection. Concealment. Advanced Handgun, Shotgun, Rifle, Carbine, and Urban Sport Training. Situation Tactics. Sniper Training (10 years). Superior Weapons Knowledge. Knife Combat Training. Hand to hand combat training. Martial Arts. Land, Sea, Aerial Warfare. Navigation Techniques. Piloting Lessons (10 years). Automobile Skills (4 years).

NOTES: From June eleventh, 1989 to October first, 1995, subject spent majority of time under influence of Polyjuice Potion, simulating appearance of Cody Chalker, subject's cousin by blood. Anticipated psychological deviations (i.e. Gender Identity Disorder) as result of said simulation likely unfounded, never demonstrated. Note: Fire Psychiatrist. Subject displays very versatile adaptability when in company of teammates. Subject has exhibited rather extreme agoraphobia on certain occasions - notably, close contact with unknown people. Repeated attempts to correct affliction have failed. Subject projected to "outgrow" problem with age and maturity.

He flipped the page, delving further into what was most likely the only written proof that Tate had every existed. When he'd finished, he picked up Cody Chalker's file. And then Bryan T. Matheson's. Then Sergey A. Chernyshev's. And so on, concluding with Robert J. Soto, until he was familiar with every person that had comprised the apparently defunct Special Team Halide.

*** *** ***

Ron jerked awake, inhaling a mouthful of choking dust. He spluttered and coughed, wiping his mouth with the rough sleeve of his camo jumpsuit. He turned on his back, looking at the ceiling. The elk had been stripped of its hide and entrails, and was now strung up by its legs. Tate sloshed a bucket of water onto the floor, sending the blood into the tiny sluice that ran out of the shed. She cocked her head toward Ron.

"Feeling better?" Ron groaned.

"When you take off that camisole and clean up a bit, I will. You're fuckin' terrifying right now." Tate laughed, and concurred. Her white slip was splattered with volumes of blood. Blood flecked her face, her thighs, and her arms. It covered her hands.

"Don't wince when I scream," came her disconnected voice as she strode over to a small water pump. Drawing a deep breath, she yanked the chain on it, and water poured over her.

If the shack were made of glass, it would have shattered. The water must have been absolutely freezing. She screamed as though in pain, but scrubbed furiously at her arms and legs, face and hair. After perhaps fifty seconds of the intense scrubbing session, she turned to water off and collapsed to the ground, shivering uncontrollably, yet laughing maniacally. Ron crawled over to her, and took her into his arms, rubbing her shoulders to warm her up. Her skin and lips were tinged blue. She grinned.

"Better, is this?" She chattered. Ron laughed and gathered her up.

"Brace yourself," he said, and threw open the shack door, braving the elements.

*** *** ***

Hermione jerked awake as the downstairs front door was loudly kicked open, and what sounded like two people hit the floor. Hermione rolled out of bed, and went to the top of the staircase. Ron and Tate were lying in a heap on the floor, snow haloed out around them, giggling. Hermione tutted in annoyance, and descended the stairs when she noticed Tate's bluish skin and wet slip.

"You are going to catch your death," she nagged, yanking Tate up by the arm and wrapping her in a blanket. Ron continued to laugh.

"And just what were you two doing out in this?" Hermione gestured out the window. Although it was nearly eight in the morning, the sky was still almost totally black, and the window howled terribly. It seemed the storm was beginning to pick back up.

"Hunting," grunted Tate, through chattering teeth. Hermione shook her head.

"You're barking mad, you know that right?" Tate laughed and stuck her tongue out, scampering up the stairs. Ron sighed in fatigue and rolled onto his back. Hermione smiled, and "accidentally" kicked him in the ribs as she passed on her way to the kitchen.

Once in the attic, Tate discarded her wet clothes and dug into the old wardrobe. She managed to procure a pair of horribly weather-beaten black jeans and a ripped t-shirt, and dressed quickly. When she ran back down the stairs, she headed straight for the study.

Harry looked up at the doorway, alerted by the impending footsteps. As he expected, Tate opened the door and came in.

"Find anything interesting," she asked lightly, smiling carefully. Harry nodded, and she plopped on the floor beside him. He looked away from Robert J. Soto's file, and regarded her appraisingly. He couldn't really think of much to say. The files he had been reading unnerved him greatly, shot through with a sliver of guilt, and he was unsure how to approach any topic of conversation alluding to them.

"Robert was...uh...quite a character." He winced, even as he said the words. Tate grinned, mindful of his discomfort.

"He definitely is," she agreed. "All of 'em, Sergei, Bryan, Robert, they're all great people. They're all in Alaska now - some new arctic training course, I think. How long have you been reading?"

"About two hours now," Harry admitted, a slight tinge of guilt laced in his words.

"And what can you tell me about Sergei?" Harry blinked at her.

"What? Why? Wouldn't you know him better than I would?"

"Of course I do. But I'd like to see how much you can remember about him. I've got a theory on you, and I'd like to test it, so if you'd just -"

"Sergei is Russian. He's twenty one, five foot ten, black hair and blue eyes. He can hold his breath underwater for nearly fifteen minutes."

"OK. Everyone else?"

"Bryan is a telepath, twenty one, and five foot seven, which makes him the shortest guy in the group. Robert is Spanish, twenty two, five foot eleven, and diabetic. He's a big daredevil, or so I gathered." Tate grinned.

"Huge daredevil. Real popular with the ladies, I'll tell you that much."

"Oh? Was that on shore leave?" Tate laughed heartily, and cuffed him on the shoulder. "Cody was your cousin. He died when he was twenty one. Before his death, he patented several prototype weapons. You are legally dead, so to speak, and a complete pain in my arse." She made a face at him. "Every person completed the same levels of academics and military education, except for Robert who got extra schooling in Divination because he is a suspected Seer. Umm...I think that's about it."

"That's about what?" Tate and Harry looked up. Hermione stood in the doorway, Ron's head peering in behind her.

"Very good timing, Hermione," quipped Tate, "Come in, sit down." Hermione crossed the room and sat next to Harry. Ron chose a spot on Harry's other side.

"Oh, finally got it open, did you," Ron asked Harry excitedly, upon seeing the folders and open drawer. Harry grinned and nodded.

"Clarise told you, I'll bet. She's a loudmouth." The mirror snorted, and made a raspberry like noise. Tate grinned, stood up, and walked over to the left wall, where the large map was situated. "This is us," she said, pointed to a brown rectangle in the center of the map marked 'house'. "This," she traced her way toward a tiny black square nestled among green paint four inches away, "Is where I've been the past few days. I'm cleaning up and repairing some of the training grounds we have around here, as no one has kept it up in the past few months. It hasn't fallen into disrepair by any means, but it needs a little polishing. I expect to finish that today. So while I'm gone, you guys have free reign to go through that desk and read whatever you like. And tomorrow, you'll get to see the Playground. Deal?"

"Deal," came the collective reply. And she was gone.

*** *** ***

An ocean away, disrepair was exactly the state Hogwarts was in. It had been four days since the Astronomy Tower attack, and there were still no leads. The school had been closed until further notice. All students had been sent home, while the faculty remained to assess and repair the damage, in conjunction with a specialized team of wizards. This had originally presented a small conflict of housing issues - however, now, according to some, it presented a much larger one.

Severus Snape, as a Hogwarts Professor, had volunteered to stay on at Hogwarts, and assist with the efforts. Draco Malfoy, being only sixteen and a student, could not stay on at Hogwarts, even if he were to remain out of the way. And Dumbledore, that hardy old fool...Dumbledore had sent him to live with a temporary "foster" family, so to speak. Draco was sent to stay with the Weasleys.

Angrily, he clenched his hands into fists as he stared at the backyard of the Burrow. He'd been here two days, and the Twins had already slipped him a Ton-Tongue Toffee, two Canary Creams (one had been hidden under his pancakes), and hexed his favorite pair of silken boxers to shriek "SISSY!" every hour on the hour. It was pure and untempered Hell, and the only thing missing was Ron and Pansy Parkinson. Draco exhaled deeply, almost in relief. Thank God for some small favors.

Ginny watched him curiously from Ron's bedroom window. She'd been spending more and more time in Ron's room, what with his current absence. Her parents knew where he was, though they kept it well hidden from Ginny and her brothers. She placated herself with the knowledge that, if Dumbledore and her parents knew where he was and her mother was not in a state of panic, then he must be all right. Obviously, he'd be with Harry and Hermione - but where they had gotten off to was a mystery. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. When she returned her gaze to the back porch, she'd found Draco had gone. Sighing softly, she looked at the moon, which was haloed in many rings of silver haze. The sign of severe blasts to come. She shivered slightly, and pulled the sleeves of her sweater up over her hands. Severe blasts could indicate many things, from high winds to massive storms. She bit her lip, and prayed silently that Ron was somewhere warm and shielding.

But a crash from downstairs suddenly commanded her attention.

She bolted out of Ron's room, swiftly padding down the stairs in her bare feet. There was shouting, and a sharp crack. In her haste to reach the melee, she skidded on the bottom step and went careening into the kitchen door.

Fred and George were rolling on the floor, pounding against it with their fists, barely able to breathe. It was a moment of sheer terror before Ginny realized they were laughing.

"What's all this then?" she demanded, as their laughter only grew. Fred managed to detach an arm from around his middle and point at the kitchen table.

A large red owl was perched atop a chair, ruffling its feathers in fury and hooting indignantly. It wore Percy's oversized, horn-rimmed glasses. And it looked extremely hacked off.

Ginny tried valiantly to suppress her own laughter and failed dismally. It was only when Molly Weasley came sprinting down the stairs that anything resembling calm returned.

"WHAT HAPPENED HERE?" she roared fearsomely. Ginny quelled her laughter and pointed toward the barn-red owl. Percy was busy dive-bombing George, which only fueled the twins glee.

"Percy," gasped Fred between guffaws, "was -ha!--giving Malfoy a hard time about - gasp - the importance of proper containers for poisonous potions -ha!--just like Percy, you know. Malfoy told him to stuff it and Perce made a crack about his family, and so Malfoy -HA!--turned him into that!" George swatted at Percy, who had snared a thread of his sweater. Percy quickly flew off under the wilting glare of Mrs. Weasley. George's sweater quickly began to unravel, and he leapt up to follow the thread, still howling with laughter.

"Well, I hope Percy is duly ashamed with his behavior! None of you, I repeat, NONE of you are to ever discuss Draco's past, and you are never to use it against him! I needn't remind you why he is staying with us in the first place! He doesn't need your jokes, he needs friends. Act your age or you will sorely regret it." Molly Weasley was positively steaming in anger. She spun on one heel to chase after Percy. A single, terrified squawk from the living room suggested she'd found him. Ginny quickly went out the kitchen door to find Draco.

She didn't need to look far.

Draco had seated himself on the picnic table, looking out at the pond. He heard the crunching snow but didn't look up until Ginny had climbed atop the table and seated herself next to him.

"You've made two friends for life now, you know," she said softly. Draco snorted.

"Your brothers hate me," he replied, and edge to his voice, "And there's no sense in fooling yourself otherwise." She bristled slightly at his tone.

"Honestly Draco, have some faith. If you can see the good side, surely they can. Besides, Fred and George never thought to turn Percy into an owl, even considering he somewhat resembles one. If they doesn't wake them up, I don't know what will." She smiled reassuringly at him, but his icy face, like the frost, did not melt.

"Percy is a silly sod," he said acidly.

"Yes, I know. We all know. But he's our brother, so we put up with it."

"He's your brother, therefore you have to put up with his sod-like behavior?"

"Of course. That's what good families do."

"I wouldn't know." Draco's shoulders slumped slightly, but only just. He lowered his head, and fought against the encroaching wave of jealousy that threatened to crash over him. When Ginny delicately draped her arm around his shoulders, his body failed to obey his mind and leaned in against her.

What are you doing?? She's a Weasley!

Yah? And so fucking what? Draco jumped slightly. He was still getting used to his new conscience - when it did make appearances (which was becoming much more often), it tended to surprise him. The two voices would do battle in his head - one voice was like silky death. The voice of his father. But the other...the voice that shouted against the previously dominant...it was rough and scratchy, yet powerful and compelling and kind. The voice of reason - the voice of every person he'd come to truly respect crammed into one. He rarely heard his father's voice in his head, not anymore. He followed the new one, head on.

Kiss her!

Draco blinked. Maybe not that head on. It was then that Ginny shivered, and Draco realized she was barefoot.

"Cor Blimey, Gin, do you really want your brothers to kill me! I'm not about to let you freeze to death and give them a reason, am I?" He leapt off the table, pulling her with him by the wrist, and they tramped quickly back to the house. Ginny stared at that back of his head as he dragged her inside.

He called me Gin...