Hero With A Thousand Faces

HARRY POTTER AND THE HERO WITH A THOUSAND FACES

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Author's Note: Welcome to the third installment of this series, which is starting to look like my magnum opus. For any newcomers who are happening upon this story by accident, don't read it unless you've read the two that came before it, "The Paradigm of Uncertainty" followed by "The Show that Never Ends."

For my faithful readers, I know you have many questions and things you'd like to see resolved. All in good time, mwa ha ha.

There is one rather significant note of correction regarding STNE chapter 15. For some reason, while I was writing that chapter, I forgot about the existence of the month of October. Most of the chapter takes place in mid-September, and the wedding as we all know is scheduled for November 15th, and yet everyone continually refers to Harry and Hermione being married in a month's time, when in fact it's two months' time. I can't explain how I made this error over and over again except that in some sort of brain spasm I got it in my head that it's only a month from mid-September to November 15th and it got stuck there for good. Clearly it's a sign of my impending mental collapse. In any case, please mentally change all mentions of "one month" to "two months." I plan to go back, change it in the chapter and re-load a corrected version to the PoU Files and Schnoogle. Until then, forgive the error. I'll use the correct time frame from now on. My apologies to the month of October, in all respects a very fine month indeed, for so egregiously negating its contribution to the calendar.

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Chapter I: One Hundred Years of Solitude

"A person doesn't die when he should, but when he can."

--Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

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3:00 p.m.
September 20th, 2008

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Ron Weasley had been sitting in one place, contemplating his living-room curtains, for several minutes.

"Either those curtains go or I do," he said. He had long ago lost any sense of self-consciousness about talking to himself; after all, there was almost no one else to talk to. "Smashing, Weasley. An Oscar Wilde quote for every occasion."

The curtains were mocking him. Hanging there all striped and tab-topped...they think they're so great. They wouldn't be so smug if they knew there wasn't even a window behind them. They just hang on their polished-mahogany curtain rod with the decorative finials, drawn shut over blank wall. An illusion of a window where there couldn't possibly be one. There were no windows at all in his flat. It was hard to have windows when one lived under twenty meters of earth.

And yet there the curtains hung, always drawn, always neatly pressed. Do they think they're fooling anyone? he thought. It's plain to see that there's no windowsill.

"What are you doing?" came a curious voice from behind him. Ron didn't flinch; it was only Bob. He'd been expecting him, he came in every day at the same time without fail.

"I hate those curtains," he said.

Bob looked at them. "Huh. They're rather nice, I think."

"Of course they're nice. It's just that they're...such liars." He stood up. "It's so transparent. We can't have windows, so let's hang up some useless curtains to pretend we do. I'd rather have a nice Monet landscape, or one of those artsy photographs of London from the air."

Bob set down Ron's daily delivery, coming as it always did in a cardboard carton with a lid. "I got the paper you wanted."

"Oh, good," Ron said, interrupting his examination of the curtains. "I was almost out."

"Do you want me to take the last one out to be bound?"

"Sure." Ron crossed the living room to his study, where he picked up a sizable sheaf of papers and set it carefully in an empty manuscript box. He handed it to Bob. "Here you go."

"I'll have this back to you in a few days."

"Smashing." Ron, already returning to his own thoughts, picked up his delivery and walked slowly away, rifling through the contents of the carton. Bob would see himself out, he always did, and return to...whatever it was that he did when he wasn't making the daily delivery. Somewhere else in this underground dormitory was Bob's flat, which Ron had gathered was very similar to his own, except for one key difference.

Bob could come and go as he pleased. Ron had not set foot outside his flat in ten years.

---

7:43 p.m.

---

By the time Harry came out of the bathroom, his face the color of cottage cheese, Hermione had managed to choke out the substance of what she'd seen to George. He was shaking his head emphatically.

"No. No. That's not right," he said.

"George, just listen to..."

"No!" he cried, cutting off her words. "Stop it, Hermione! My brother is dead! Why are you doing this?"

"I just want to know the truth about my friend!" she said, feeling herself skate ever closer to the edge of hysteria.

"The truth?" George yelled. "The truth is he left the castle because he thought you two needed help, and he paid for that concern with his life!" Hermione drew in a sharp breath. That was the first time she had ever heard any member of the Weasley family even remotely suggest any blame upon her and Harry for Ron's death. "You can't look at a stupid Pensieve and make this kind of a leap!"

"You're wrong, George," Harry said quietly. "I believe what she saw is true."

"But it's...it's just a memory! I can't even remember what I had for breakfast!"

"It's not just a memory, it's a Pensieve memory. I might not be able to recall everything about that night but my brain recorded the entire scene with perfect accuracy, down to the last detail. The memory Hermione saw is the truth." He stepped forward, looking a little shaky on his feet. "George, I know the thought that he might have been alive all this time is...almost too horrible to comprehend. But if there's even the smallest chance, then we have to follow up on it."

George's face worked, creasing into a dozen conflicting expressions in succession. "Yeah, we do. But how do we know it's real?"

Harry sighed. "There is a way we can find out for certain."

---

2:49 a.m.
September 21st, 2008

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Hermione sat on a low stone bench in the garden behind the Burrow, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring up at the stars as they glittered in the inky, moonless sky. Inside, the surviving Weasley children were learning of the questions about their brother's death. Harry had stayed inside to support Arthur and Molly as they tried to explain, but she had escaped to the garden, unable to face another wrenching scene for the time being.

It had taken her and Harry some time to explain to Arthur and Molly what they believed to be true. Their reactions had been about as she'd expected. They had been shocked, horrified, and devastated...and yet as these initial reactions passed, hopeful. Could their youngest son be alive? Hermione sympathized, for she felt the same way. Her heart leapt at the idea that she might one day soon see him again, and yet the inescapable thought of what his life might have been like in the interim soon chased away any euphoria she might have experienced.

Arthur and Molly had agreed at once that there should be an examination of the body that had been found in the glen, to find out once and for all if it was, indeed, Ron Weasley. They had immediately alerted their other children, telling them not what had happened, just that they must come home at once. Now, in the dark hours that lurked between late night and early morning, everyone had arrived and it was time for them to be told.

She heard a sudden flurry of exclamations and cries of surprise from inside the house. She heard a voice raised in anger, it sounded like Charlie. She heard Ginny yelling something but couldn't make out the words. She could hear Molly crying, and then she heard Harry's implacable voice, low and even, as he tried to keep control of the situation.

She didn't know how Harry could stay so calm. Since he had returned to her and George after his little trip to the bathroom, he had been almost unnaturally self-possessed and rational. At first it had been...sort of eerie. Harry was an emotional person, and she was used to seeing him as such...but then she had to remember that she was probably the only person who did. To most of the world, Harry kept his cool fairly vigorously. His self-control had enabled him to survive his horrendous childhood, and she supposed he had needed to cultivate it even further in his line of work.

In a way, his behavior made her proud and a little awestruck. She didn't often see Harry as the wizard that he really was; to her he was just Harry, her friend and the chosen partner of her existence. She wondered if in this situation his professional demeanor had taken over as a form of self-preservation, to allow him to function without being overcome himself. Keeping his wits about him was a necessary skill for him to do what he had to do. The first time she had read his service record, the descriptions of his many acts of calm leadership and bravery had astonished even her, who already thought the world of him. This was the man depicted in those service records.

She heard the back door open and shut again, then footsteps on the flagstones. "How did it go?" she asked as he drew near to stand behind the bench where she sat.

"Who can say?" Harry replied. "How can I judge a reaction to news this huge? How is a person expected to respond? They're dealing with it. I thought they ought to have some time to themselves."

She nodded, resting her chin on her knees. "What happens now?"

He sighed. "I've spoken to Sukesh, he'll arrange to have the body disinterred and brought to the I.D. morgue. He'll examine it there. He said we should bring the family there at five o'clock and he'll be ready."

She sat silent for a few moments. "I feel like I'm about to fly apart into a million pieces," she finally said. "I feel like I'm insane."

"I know."

"You're so calm," she said. "I wish I felt as calm as you seem."

"I'm calm because I have to be," he said, his voice tight. "Believe me, on the inside I'm running in circles and tearing out my hair."

"Harry...what if it's true? What if he's really alive? My God, where is he? What's been done to him?" She could have let the questions keep pouring out of her mouth one after another but she bit them back.

"Let's take this one step at a time," Harry said. "We need to examine that body first. Then we might have some intelligent questions to ask."

---

5:35 a.m.

---

Hermione shivered, though the room was not cold. The coffin rested on a table before her, smelling of muck and mildew. She fervently hoped she wouldn't have to look at what lay inside, even if it wasn't the body of her friend.

Harry stood across from her, arms folded over his chest. The Weasleys were grouped about the head of the coffin, all of them touching each other in some way. Ginny was pale and silent, looking rumpled as if she'd just rolled out of bed, which Hermione supposed she had. Arthur and Molly were supporting each other, and Molly had her other arm through Charlie's. The family had been brought here to the I.D. under conditions of strict secrecy, which Hermione supposed they'd all have to get used to.

Argo was standing on Hermione's right. She had been appraised of the situation, quietly, and had informed Harry and Hermione that they could count on her full support. The Weasleys no doubt had no idea who she was and didn't seem to care.

The door opened and Sukesh entered, carrying before him a large polished silver box. He set the box on a nearby table and turned to the Weasleys. "Minister," he said in his most calming bedside-manner voice. "Mrs. Weasley, all of you. I'm Dr. Subramaniam. I understand this is a very difficult time. It's important that you understand what I'm about to do." He put a hand on the box. "This is a device that we call the Oracle. It is an identification talisman, and a very powerful one; in fact, it is the only one of its kind anywhere in the world. It can see through any potion, any glamour, and any disguise created by magical or physical means. It cannot be fooled, it cannot be coerced. Its powers extend past the end of physical life; what I mean to say is that it is equally reliable at identifying the deceased. We have no unknown dead in the Enforcement Corps, the Oracle will tell us who they are regardless of how they are found. Do you understand?" They all nodded. "I will demonstate its function briefly."

Sukesh opened the box and the shimmery, silvery Oracle emerged, a cube spinning in the air on its corner. Sukesh guided it over Ginny's head as she stood next to him. The Oracle spun for a moment. "Weasley, Virginia Catherine," it pronounced in its irrefutable, genderless voice. "Founder and editor-in-chief, Circe magazine." It fell silent. Sukesh guided the Oracle over Arthur's head. Again, that moment of consideration. "Weasley, Arthur Allen," it pronounced. "Minister of Magic, Ministry of the United Kingdom." Sukesh reclaimed the Oracle.

"I will now make an identification of this man's body," Sukesh said, moving the Oracle to the head of the coffin.

"Do you...need to open it?" Arthur said.

"That is not necessary," Sukesh said. "The Oracle can see through the wood." He positioned the Oracle and stepped back.

Hermione wrapped her arms around her midsection, the anticipation churning her stomach. No one moved, no one made a sound, it seemed as if no one even drew breath as the Oracle spun for quite a bit longer than it had for Ginny or Arthur. It's thinking, she mused.

Finally, the Oracle gave its answer. Two words which sliced through Hermione's life like a guillotine, separating it forever into the "before" and the "after." Just two words, and she knew nothing would ever be the same again.

"Identity unknown."

Although it wasn't all that much of a surprise to her, the official confirmation still felt like a good swift kick to the jaw. She heard Molly utter a strangled cry and saw Ginny sag against Fred's chest, her shoulders shaking. All of the Weasleys looked as if they'd just been poleaxed. Hermione glanced across at Harry, who stood stock still, his eyes shut. She felt Argo lay a comforting hand on her shoulder and was glad for it. She was frozen, paralyzed, and yet quivery all over as if her muscles couldn't stop twitching just under her skin.

Harry stepped forward, and she could almost see him draw around himself that invisible mantle of Taking Charge. "All right," he said. "Now we know."

"We know nothing!" Bill exclaimed. "Harry...how could we have let this happen? How did this happen?"

"Where is he?" Arthur demanded, though surely he knew that no one in this room could answer his question. "Where is our son?"

"Everyone listen to me," Harry said, holding out his hands. "I know how you all feel. I feel the same way...right now I can barely keep two thoughts together in my head. But everyone, just for a moment, let's keep our heads. Look at me, and listen." He fixed each of them in turn with an intense gaze. "I will find him. Do you hear me? I don't care how long it takes or what I have to do, I will find out what's become of him. Right now, the most important thing you all must understand is that no one must know about this."

That caused a bit of an uproar. "What are you talking about?" Percy said, indignant. "We've got to alert the proper authorities, start an investigation, we've got to..."

Harry cut him off with a stern look. "All right, listen. None of you know what Hermione and I do for a living...well, I suppose you have some idea, don't you? The fact of the matter is that we are the proper authorities. There will be an investigation, but it's one that we will conduct." He looked at Arthur and Molly. "I will find him," he repeated, more softly. "Can you trust me to find him?"

"Well...of course we trust you, Harry, but...he's our son, we need to be involved."

"No," Harry said firmly. "You cannot be involved." Another flurry of protests. "Listen!" Harry said again, quieting their questions. "Hear me out. All right. I can envision a number of scenarios for what happened to Ron. However, the most likely is that he was taken away on the night of his supposed death and held against his will, and has been so ever since. Whoever took him had a reason to do so. If they get wind that we're on to them, that we know the truth...they may decide to cut their losses and kill him, or else they'll start moving him around so we'll never find him. Do you get it? We have to keep this very, very quiet or else we endanger Ron." The Weasleys were exchanging worried glances, but Hermione could see that Harry's point was well taken. "All right. Here's what we have to do. All of you must return to your lives and act normally, as if none of this has happened. What I need to know is if you can do that. Can you go on as usual? Can you keep this to yourself? If you think you can't you must tell me right now, and be honest, because Ron's life is at stake here. I will Memory Charm each and every one of you before I let a slip of the tongue jeopardize our chances of getting him back safely."

It was Molly who answered for her family, her jaw set and her tear-stained face determined. "We can do it, Harry. We can do whatever we have to do if it'll help protect Ron. But...isn't there a way we can help? Somehow?"

Harry shook his head. "No. You're too visible, all of you. The Minister of Magic and his family are watched too closely. The only way you can help us is to go about your lives. You must trust us."

"We trust you," said Arthur. "But you must promise to keep us informed, Harry. We've got to know what you're doing and what you're finding. I don't think that's unreasonable."

"No, it isn't. We'll keep you up to date." He sighed and looked around at them. "We've got some tough times ahead, and I can't promise you a happy ending. But I can promise that Hermione and I will be with you every step of the way. We both loved Ron, as you did, and we'll stop at nothing to discover the truth."

"Harry?" Ginny said, her voice strangely quiet and hesitant.

"Yes, Ginny?"

"How do we know..." She stopped and cleared her throat. "If Ron didn't die on that night...well, how do we know..." She couldn't continue.

"That he's still alive now?" Harry finished, gently. Ginny nodded, pressing the back of one hand to her nose. "We don't. Awful as it is to contemplate, there is the distinct possibility that Ron survived that night only to die later. But we have to assume he's still alive, Ginny. We can't...well, we can't not look for him, can we? We have to try. I..." Harry turned his head to the side for a moment, and Hermione saw him fighting back his emotions. "All we know for sure is that he did not die as we thought he did. I believe my friend is alive," he said, hoarse. "I'll keep believing it until I'm proven wrong."

The Weasleys left then, a flurry of hugs and tears heralding their departure. Harry held himself back, standing near the coffin, while Hermione moved among the family and offered words of reassurance where she could. She hugged Ginny hard, no words necessary between the two longtime friends. George lingered. "I'm going back to the Burrow tonight with everyone else," he said, "but I'll be home tomorrow. Are we keeping this from the housemates, too?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. "For the time being, we're keeping it from everyone," she said.

George left followed by Sukesh and Argo, who would escort the Weasleys back to their home in Ottery St. Catchpole. Hermione shut the door behind them and leaned against it, catching her breath. She turned around, alone in the room with Harry and the coffin. He looked up and met her eyes for the first time, and she saw in his gaze confirmation of what she'd suspected: that whatever ordeal they'd just stumbled into, it would be harder on him than it would be on her. She had been, arguably, closer to Ron at the time of his death, but she knew that Harry would have a harder time with these revelations than she would. Harry had his faults, one of the most prominent of which was a tendency to take too much onto himself. Everything was usually his fault and his responsibility and his burden to bear. It could be very aggravating, and it had at times caused others to accuse him of egocentrism when it in fact reflected just the opposite inclination. He would blame himself for this as he did everything, and he would try to shield her from the worst of the implications as he tried to shield her from everything else...another facet of his personality she found endlessly irritating.

And yet, aside from all this, she saw on his face a reflection of the same shock and confusion she felt herself. He tried to smile a little. "We never catch a breather, do we?" he said.

She shook her head, feeling a prickle of resentment at the truth of his statement. Haven't we been through enough? a voice in her mind whispered. Haven't I earned the right for some serious peacetime with the man I love? Then came the shame, for it felt so petty to be thinking of herself at a time like this. She knew that if it meant having Ron back, she would gladly go through this and much more...and yet, dammit, it wasn't fair.

No reply she could think of seemed adequate, so she just reached out to him. "Come here," she simply said. Harry quickly crossed the room and gathered her close, exhaling a shaky breath as he did so, as if he'd been wanting to hold her for quite awhile. She wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek against his neck, letting her eyes fall shut. The face she presented to other people fell away and with it her ordinary inhibitions; she became a truer version of herself, a version that only Harry was allowed to see. Her emotions were always closer to the surface when she was alone with him, and things which were difficult to articulate or express at other times were easier when it was just the two of them. She'd often marveled at how different she could be around him and wondered if that was what made their love distinctive, and perhaps worthy of the modifier "true"...it wasn't only about what she felt for him, but also what she felt for herself when she was with him.

These thoughts floated somewhere just below her conscious mind, which was much occupied with a jumble of questions and anxieties. She realized suddenly that Harry was shaking, and he was holding her rather too tightly for comfort. "Harry," she whispered. "You're squeezing me..."

He drew back, keeping his arms around her waist, and looked her straight in the eyes. A strange sort of urgency lit his face. His forehead creased into a frown of concentration; he reached up and took hold of her shoulders. "Tell me you love me," he said quickly, as if her response were very important and in serious doubt.

She blinked, surprised. "Harry, I...of course I love you, you know I do."

That didn't seem to satisfy him. "Tell me how much."

She shook her head, confused, then reached up and laid her hand on his face. He seemed to need desperately to hear this all of a sudden, so she'd oblige him. "They don't have a word for how much I love you," she said. "What's this about? Why are you asking me this? And why right now?"

He sighed and his chin dropped to his chest so she couldn't see his face anymore. "If I'd only let you see that body," he said. "If I hadn't stopped you...you would have seen...we wouldn't...Ron would..."

"Hold it right there," she said, mentally stopping the little internal chronometer on which she'd been unconsciously timing How Long Until He Blames Himself. "Even if I had seen the body there's no guarantee I would have noticed the bruise. I had a lot more time to look closely in the Pensieve than I would have had that night, and I was in such a state when we found him...don't you think I haven't thought about this? What if I'd insisted on seeing him? What if I hadn't let you stop me? Quit hogging all the blame, Harry, we can share!" She bent, trying to get him to look at her. "We won't ever know what would have happened, or what might have happened. You didn't know, you couldn't have known. You were only trying to protect me."

"That's just it," he said, looking up. "I didn't stop you from seeing him to protect you, but to protect myself. I couldn't let you see that mark on his forehead because if you did, you might have hated me for it. You might have blamed me for it, and I couldn't face losing you, too. I was selfish, and because of it they fooled us. They fooled us for ten bloody years and I can't bear to think about what Ron might have suffered because of my selfishness!"

"Stop it, Harry!" she said, shaking him. "I'm not going to let you wallow in self-pity over this! What's done is done, and we can't change what happened that night. All we can do now is fix it! For God's sake, I loved Ron and so did you! As much as we mean to each other we're still not quite whole without him, we never have been! Now we have a chance to set things right!"

She watched his face shift as he pushed away his guilt with a nearly visible effort; it was replaced by a grim determination. "You're right," he said. "I'm sorry, I just..." He sighed. "It got to me there for a minute."

"I know," she said, squeezing his hand. "But now we have a job to do."

"Then let's get to work." He stepped back to the coffin, Hermione moving to the other side. "I admit, I'm a little unsure how to start."

"Then allow me." She picked up Sukesh's parchpad and looked up at the Oracle, still hovering over the coffin, awaiting instructions. "Oracle," she said to it. It spun a little faster. "Confirm identity of subject."

"Identity unknown."

"Verify that unknown subject is not Ronald Weasley."

Spin. "Verified."

"Time of death?"

Spin spin spin. "Time of death: 4:46 p.m., Saturday, March 12th, 1997." Hermione noted down the Oracle's words.

"That's the right date, but the time's off," Harry said.

"I know. At quarter to five you and I had only just left Gryffindor Tower for dueling practice. Ron didn't receive the note from Voldemort for another twenty minutes."

Harry was chewing on his bottom lip, his eyes narrowed in thought. "They killed the fake Ron ahead of time, snatched the real Ron and substituted the corpse."

Hermione nodded. "All right, that tracks." She returned to the Oracle. "Age at time of death."

Spin spin spin. "Twenty-eight days, five hours."

The two agents exchanged a glance, shaking their heads in mutual chagrin. "If only we'd used this at the time," Hermione said, her voice tight.

"We had no reason to suspect anything other than what seemed obvious."

"Why didn't anyone else notice his bruise was gone? I wasn't the only one who knew he'd been injured. You knew, Madame Pomfrey knew, the investigators certainly knew."

"Yes, but they also knew he'd been treated for his broken collarbone. I'm sure they assumed that any bruising was treated as well." He frowned, then looked at her across the closed casket. "Why wasn't it, by the way?"

She sighed. "Ron didn't want to wait for Madame Pomfrey to mix up a debruising potion because it would have made him late for class. She fixed the fracture, but he had to leave before she could fix the bruise. He thought he might go back later and have it potioned away, or even just let it heal on its own."

"I never knew that, and I'm sure no one else thought to ask. If I'd even noticed at the time that the bruise was gone, which I admit I didn't, I would have assumed he'd had it potioned away, too. You know, you may be the only person who knew for sure that he still had that bruise just before he died."

"And I was the only person who never saw his body." She shook her head. "How convenient." She set down the parchpad and guided the Oracle back into its silver box. She straightened up and looked over at Harry, who was leaning on the coffin with a thoughtful expression on his face. "How are we going to find him after all this time, Harry? Where do we even begin?"

"We begin here," he said, knocking on the coffin. "We'll go over this body with a fine-toothed comb and search for anything that might suggest where it was kept before it was killed, who created it, where they created it, and how."

"We're going to need help on this. Lots of help."

"I know." He glanced at her and she saw the same concern she was about to voice there on his face...but voice it she must.

"Harry...if we need to be so quiet about this, to avoid endangering Ron..."

"I know."

"If there's a double agent inside the I.D. there's no way we can keep this from leaking."

He shook his head. "We'll just have to do the best we can. We'll keep our investigation small and limit knowledge of our activities to a small group, only those people we really trust. Argo and Sukesh already know. Remus, Henry, and Napoleon."

"Diz?"

Harry sighed. "I'm not certain I completely trust her yet. Her record speaks for itself, but for this mission...I need a stronger gut feeling to go on."

Hermione nodded. "I agree. Sirius ought to be told as well, even if he can't help."

"Yes." Harry ran his fingers through his hair, making it stick up even more than usual. "But we must be careful, and keep our eyes open, even with our closest friends."

"We're both going to turn into raving paranoiacs if we don't watch ourselves."

"One of my instructors once told me that a little paranoia is a healthy thing in uncertain times."

"That's very wise. Lefty teach you that?"

Harry shook his head, wearing a grim little smile. "Allegra."

---

8:17 a.m.

---

The silence in the small conference room held for a few beats. "Great flipping heck," Napoleon finally murmured. "Ten years."

Harry nodded. "I'm trying not to think about it so I can concentrate. Let's focus on what has to be done now." He looked around at the assembled group, who'd just been briefed on the night's developments. "Above all, our priority is secrecy. Whoever is holding Ron, they mustn't learn that we're on to them. Any work that's to be done will have to be done only by us. No orders, no delegation, no help."

"I can perform an analysis of the corpse," Sukesh said. "If there's any trace evidence to be found, I shall find it."

"Good."

Henry was shaking his head. "I'm not too confident about that approach, Harry. After ten years any trace evidence is going to be near impossible to retrieve given the level of decomposition. I think we're going to have to use intelligence to find him."

"All right, let's talk about that," Harry said. "Let's hear some thoughts."

"If he's alive and being held against his will," Remus said, "then someone, somewhere, knows about it."

"It's not for certain he is being held somewhere," Hermione said. "What if he's had his memory erased and is living somewhere blissfully ignorant? What if he's been sent back in time, or forward?"

Harry held up a hand. "We can drive ourselves insane thinking up wild scenarios for what may have happened, Hermione. In such a case as this the most productive thing to do is to focus on the simplest, most likely explanation. So what do we know? We know that this sort of ruse has been tried before."

"Yes, when we were sent the fake Harry body during your absence," Hermione said.

"And we don't know who sent it or how."

Hermione shifted in her seat. "Actually...yes, we do." All heads turned to stare at her. "Rather, I do."

"You do?" Harry said, frowning. "You've never said anything about that."

"I couldn't," she said. "It's...Guardian stuff."

"Can you be more specific?" Henry said, leaning forward.

Hermione sat silent for a moment, conflicted. Theo had never specifically told her she wasn't allowed to discuss aspects of the Guardians and Eternals with mortals, but it had been implied. What she did know was that none of the people who'd been present when Harry was cured, not Sirius or Sukesh or Napoleon, retained any memory of seeing Theo and North in Harry's cell at Confinement. Napoleon's memory of being in the Domain was intact, but hazy. She seemed to be the only one who clearly remembered all the events and conversations of their time there...including the fact that it had been Seth who'd sent the fake Harry body, or at least ordered it sent. The implications about Ron's disappearance weren't lost on her. Given a choice between revealing the existence of another world than this one or allowing her best friend to remain lost, well...it wasn't much of a choice at all.

"It's like this," she said, folding her hands on the table. "There is a Guardian. You don't remember, but some of you have seen her. She is a force for good...but she also lives in a balanced universe, where for everything good there must also be something evil."

---

meanwhile...

---

Allegra's eyes snapped open, consciousness returning to her in a rush. She sat up, assessing at once that she was in her own bed in her own quarters at Lexa Kor...and that she wasn't alone.

The Master was sitting in a chair he'd pulled up to the side of her bed, watching her intently. "Ah, you're awake. I apologize if I shocked you. I must say I didn't expect you to swoon so theatrically."

She stared at him, his last word to her before she'd fainted still echoing in her ears. "Who...who are you?" she said.

"You know who I am, Mother."

"Don't call me that! I'm not your mother!"

"Of course you are. If you prefer, I'll call you Allegra. I must say I'd prefer that myself."

She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated. She wanted to deny his lineage again, to put from the realm of possibility the idea that this grown man who appeared at least ten years her senior could be her own child, a child that she...but no, it wasn't possible. "You can't be," she said. "You're not. I don't believe it."

"Oh, come now. Look at me. I've seen your family photos, I closely resemble the men in your family. Your older brother and I could be twins. And even you cannot deny that I have my father's eyes." He smiled at her, but there was no warmth in it.

She shook her head, even while she could feel herself believing it, and even hoping it were true. "But you...you died," she whispered. "I lost you."

"Yes, you did, but not through death," he said, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "I know this must be confusing for you. You look so vulnerable right now...I must say it's a daring new look for the woman I've come to know and respect as a formidable force of nature."

"Don't patronize me," she snapped.

His smile grew wider. "That's my girl. Now, why don't you tell me what happened...or what you think happened...eight years ago."

She sagged against her headboard, returning in her mind to a time she had tried very hard to forget. "I had just rejoined the Circle when I found out I was pregnant," she murmured, almost to herself. "I was carrying Harry's child. It shouldn't have been possible, we were both under charms, but all the same...there it was. At first I was horrified. Then I started to get used to the idea, and even..."

"You started to love me." She nodded, looking away. "As you loved my father."

At that, she looked up sharply. "What? I never..."

"Remember who you're talking to, please. You can't fool me. I see all your innermost secrets, all your shame and all your guilt. You set out to seduce Harry Potter, to learn everything about him so you could destroy him. You fooled him completely, and in the process you fooled yourself. How tiresome, how typical, and how predictable that you fell in love with him."

"That's a load of bodice-ripper nonsense," she said. "The very idea is offensive."

"Perhaps, but that doesn't make it any less true." The cold smile never left his face as he spoke. "So you began to welcome the idea of having his child, a part of him you could keep for yourself, a child who could grow up to be like you."

She sighed. "I suppose it's human nature, and I'm only human."

"But it didn't work out that way."

She looked up and met his eyes, those same eyes. "You died at birth," she whispered. "I could never understand it, because you were fine right up until the very end. I heard you cry once, and then only silence. It was as if you just suddenly...were gone." She felt her eyes welling up at the memory of this pain which she had shared with no one. She had labored alone save the midwitch who attended her, and she had delivered alone...and alone she had held the small lifeless body and wept. Her gaze hardened then as she looked on this stranger's face. "If you are my son, then tell me how it is possible that you are both alive and dead."

"You ought to know the answer to that, Allegra. The Circle has its own history of such mischief. I believe you yourself are in possession of...a sort of well-caged pet, am I right? One you inherited from your predecessor?" Her eyes narrowed. Very few people knew about that, only herself, a few of her most trusted wizards, and of course Bob. "But we don't talk about that, I know. However you should know that substitutions can be made for those who we wish the world to believe dead."

"That wasn't my doing. Voldemort..."

"Voldemort was a fool, and those who helped him rise to his former position weren't very happy with how he fulfilled his destined role. They are, however, far more pleased with you."

"Who's pleased? What are you talking about?"

"Open your eyes, my dear mother, for there are greater worlds than these." He leaned closer. "I, too, have a mentor. He raised me, he showed me my destiny. His power is...well, it's best not to dwell on such things. But such barriers as a few contraceptive charms posed no real difficulties. If he wanted you to conceive a child, you did. If he wanted that child for himself, he took it."

Allegra felt quite as though she had fallen into a very deep pit of swirling black lies where the reality she knew was merely a thin veneer. "Who? Who, goddammit?"

"All in good time," he said. "It wouldn't do for me to give you all the answers right at once, would it?"

"But...you must be from the future, right? You were only born eight years ago."

"By the way you reckon time I'm forty-eight. And I suppose I am from the future, in a sense, although in another sense I am not from the future at all."

"Are you trying to confuse me?" she said, crossing her arms across her chest and arching one eyebrow. If he was, he was doing a pretty thorough job.

"No, not in the least. All will become clear. Does it really matter right now?"

She stared up into his face, her mind just catching up to the truth that he was, in fact, her son. She supposed it could still be an elaborate ruse, but she knew it was not. She knew it in her gut, in some long-forgotten and shriveled maternal center that knew her own child on some deeper level that transcended logic and rationality. She shook her head. "It can wait," she said. In spite of herself, her heart was swelling at the sight of him. She had worked very hard to put her baby's death behind her, to deny that it had meant anything to her or that the loss of that child had devastated her. If asked, she would have dismissed the entire episode with an offhand remark...and yet, deep down where she was, she had never really gotten over it. And now, here he was, alive. Even if he were something she didn't understand and something she ought even to fear, he was still her son. "Can I..." she began, then cut her eyes away, uncomfortable. She wanted to ask if she could touch him, but didn't have the words.

He seemed to sense her unease, and a touch of humanity came into his face for the first time. He reached out and took her hand. "I'm glad we've met at last, Allegra," he said, in a gentle tone.

She smiled, a bit shaky. "Me, too," she whispered, squeezing his fingers.

Before she could get out another word, the door to her chamber banged open. "We've got a problem," said Lynch, a Circle wizard whom she generally thought of as her second-in-command.

"What?" she said, considering and then rejecting an impulse to hurl a stream of invective on him for barging in like this. He wouldn't have done if it weren't very important.

Lynch glanced from her to the Master, whom he of course did not recognize. "It's about...the prisoner." He did not elaborate, nor did he need to.

Allegra swallowed hard. She had a feeling that a moment she had dreaded was upon her. "What about him?" she said, imposing calm on her tone of voice.

Lynch's face was grim, and with his next two words drove all tender, maternal thoughts from her mind in a rush. "They know."

---

10:18 a.m.

---

Harry sat in his office, his head in his hands, a cup of coffee cooling untouched on the desk before him. He didn't think he'd ever felt so overwhelmed in his life. The strain of controlling himself was beginning to wear him down; his nerves felt rubbed raw and screaming.

The small team they'd assembled had all assigned themselves tasks and were going about them. He had a few minutes to himself now, though he wasn't sure it was such a good idea to allow himself any downtime. If he kept busy, at least he could avoid being crushed under the weight of the tangled jumble of emotions and new anxieties which had just been heaped on him.

The door opened and Hermione came in, sizable dark circles lurking under her eyes. It hurt his heart to see her looking so pinched and miserable...and yet, even in this state, she was still beautiful to him and still a welcome sight to his weary gaze. "Hi," he said.

She sat down in one of his office chairs. "Hi." For a few beats they just sat there staring at each other. Harry watched her face, and she hardly needed to speak for him to know what was going on in her head. Her features were so well-known to him that her expressions communicated much. Finally, she spoke. "I'm a terrible person, Harry," she said.

He sighed, exasperation rising in his chest. "Yes, of course you are. Terrible, awful, horrendous person. I don't know why I keep you around. We ought to cart you off to the Home for Terrible People. I'm amazed you've gotten by this long among us non-terrible people."

She gave him a withering look. "Sarcasm accomplishes nothing."

"It's sort of an end in itself, actually."

"Fine, forget the whole thing."

"Well, what do you expect when you make a statement like that out of the clear blue sky? You just want me to tell you you're not a terrible person."

"Is that so hard?"

"What's got you thinking such things about yourself?" She blinked a few times, rapidly, and he regretted his flippancy. She was right on the edge, as he himself was, and she'd come to him seeking some reassurance. And what had he done? Shut her down. And why? Because he could have used some reassurance himself, and she'd beaten him to it, forcing him into the role of the supporter rather than the supported. That was all right, they'd take turns as they always did. He got up and hunkered down next to her chair, reaching out to take her hand. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm just about a hair's breadth away from a nervous breakdown, is all."

"Me, too," she whispered.

"How can I help? Tell me."

"I just feel so...selfish."

"Why?"

"Because here we are, and Ron might be alive somewhere, maybe suffering awfully, maybe wondering why it's taking us ten years to rescue him. I won't stop until I find out where he is, and what's happened to him."

"Neither will I."

"I know, and that's just it! If I'm so dedicated to finding my friend and helping him, then why do I keep thinking that..." She hesitated, then started again. "I just keep hearing this little whiny voice that won't go away, and no matter how much I try to focus on Ron and how much I want to think of nothing but him, that stupid little voice keeps screeching 'sure, but will it screw up the wedding?'"

Harry almost laughed, but held himself back just in time. "That doesn't make you a bad person, Hermione. Just a human being. Maybe in a melodramatic movie we'd think of nothing but him, but this is reality. It's perfectly natural to consider the practical implications."

"I just don't want anyone, especially any of the Weasleys, to think that anything right now is more important to me than finding Ron, because nothing is. As far as I'm concerned, everything else gets shoved to the back burner. If we have to put it off, we'll put it off. But dammit, we've waited so long..."

He held up a hand and stopped her. "Let me show you something," he said, standing up and going to his cloak, hanging on its peg on the back of his office door. He withdrew a small box from one of its pockets and moved to sit by her side.

"What's that?" she asked.

"I bought the rings the day before yesterday," he said. He hadn't been planning to show them to her until much later, but now seemed an appropriate time. Her eyes widened a little bit and she stared down at the box. He flipped open the lid, watching her face.

There, secured on a bed of velvet, were two plain wedding bands, one a little larger than the other. They were gold with silver inlays in an abstract swirling pattern. He'd commissioned them custom-made from a London jeweler. Later they would bear an inscription, but he was still pondering the wording. "Oh," she said, reaching out to touch one gently. "They're beautiful." She looked up at him. "Why are you showing these to me now?"

He fixed her with a steady gaze, hoping to communicate his sincerity clearly. "This ring is going on your finger on November 15th. If we've found Ron, or if we haven't. I don't care what we're doing or where we are. If we're in a remote Himalayan village, then dammit I'll find a shaman or something and we'll take fifteen minutes and make our vows to each other." He smiled and leaned a little closer. "You're right, we have to have priorities, and Ron is our priority now, but that doesn't mean we have to shelve all of our plans indefinitely. I will give up our wedding if I have to, but I refuse to give up our marriage. So don't make other plans, because on November 15th I intend to marry you, so you'd better show up. Okay?"

She smiled back. "Okay."

"Promise?"

She leaned in and kissed him. "I promise."

"Good. I'm going to hold you to that, you know."

The door to Harry's office opened and Napoleon entered, bearing two sizable file boxes. He hesitated, seeing them sitting close together, Hermione's hand on Harry's face. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

Harry stood up and took one of the boxes. "No, just some wedding talk. Are these the reports?"

"Yup." Napoleon set the other box on Harry's desk.

"What's all this?" Hermione said.

"Since Ron's disappearance, the I.D. has had twenty-seven different undercover agents working inside the Circle at various times and for various intervals," Harry said. "I'm hoping one of them may have heard or seen something about Ron and not realized at the time what it meant." He looked up at Napoleon. "Get started on orders for each of these agents to report to me here immediately for interviews. Anyone who isn't local, send summons by express owl." He looked down at Hermione, opening his mouth to speak. She held up a hand, stopping him.

"Let me guess. You want me to go through these reports and look for anything that might refer to Ron."

"You're way ahead of me."

She tucked one of the boxes under her arm. "Well, I'll see you in a few days."

"Napoleon will help you when he's done sending the summons." Harry shuffled through the papers on his desk, fighting back fatigue. Hermione hesitated in the doorway.

"Harry, you haven't slept in over 24 hours."

"Neither have you."

"I'm okay." He wasn't fooled. She was pale and drawn, her hair hanging limply around her face and her usually smooth complexion was blotchy. He didn't suppose he looked much better himself.

"So am I."

He could almost see the gears turning in her head as she debated whether or not to argue with him on this issue. She apparently decided against it, perhaps knowing that if she tried to make him rest he'd reciprocate and make her do the same. "What are you going to do?"

"Four of these undercover agents are currently working here at the Home Office, I'm going to get started on their interviews right now."

"Harry...you haven't said anything about...what I told you about the other fake body. The Guardian thought Seth sent it. What if it's him who..."

Harry cut her off. "We can't deal with that now. Voldemort and the last of the old Death Eater cult were involved in Ron's disappearance, we know that much. So if this Seth...what do we call him, the anti-Guardian?...was up to something, then he was working through Voldemort. If that's the case, then he's probably still working through the Circle. That's how we'll have to approach this. I don't think most of the Circle would even be aware they have a more powerful patron, and it wouldn't be smart to let them know that we're aware of it. We can't fight someone like Seth, it's beyond us. We'll have to deal with the Circle on their level."

"Do you think Seth could be Allegra's Master?"

"Seems like the obvious conclusion, which makes me think it's all wrong."

She nodded and headed out into the hallway. "Napoleon, can you bring that other box to my office when you're ready?" she asked.

"Right-o," he said, distracted, as she shut the door behind her. He scanned down the list of undercover agents and Harry saw his eyes widen. "Forth Chism worked undercover in the Circle? You're kidding me, right?"

"No, he was inside for over a year."

"That little ferret-faced bloke in Strategy? Wouldn't say boo to a mouse? I am thinking of the right guy, aren't I?"

"That's him, and don't underestimate him. Under that tax-solicitor exterior Forth Chism is one of the smartest agents I know. His brain would put both of us to shame, that's for sure. Only person could match him wit for wit might be Hermione." Harry could feel Napoleon's eyes on him as he rifled through the file box, his head lowered. He didn't know why he'd brought her up. Things were always easier between him and his second when her name remained unspoken. Just the sound of it reminded both of them of their latent rivalry. Harry and Napoleon had long ago reached a detente on the Hermione issue, at least on the surface. He was secure in his position in her life, but he wasn't above admitting to himself that his inner male possessiveness flared up just knowing that another man had designs on her, so to speak. He knew that Napoleon would never actually make any overt moves toward her, but just the awareness that deep inside he probably wanted to was enough to make Harry silently jealous.

But now Napoleon just commented neutrally, "You really think the world of her, don't you?"

He looked up, frowning at the wondering tone in Napoleon's voice as he made this statement of the blatantly obvious. "Well...of course I do. Why do you..."

Napoleon shrugged, cutting him off. "Nah, never mind. It's just...you're the only bloke I know who I've never heard talk some sort of smack about his lady behind her back. Even blokes that I know really love their wives or girlfriends seem compelled to make smartass jokes about them when they're not around, you know? I guess it's some sort of male bonding thing. Macho posturing. To make it seem like we don't need 'em as much as we bloody do."

Harry pondered this, sparing a moment to be impressed by Napoleon's ever-surprising way of coming out with astute observations, then shrugged. "I know what you mean, but...I guess I just don't understand that kind of male bonding. Ron and I never..." He stopped abruptly, the sound of his friend's name jerking his mind back to the task at hand. He found himself all at once unable to continue, his throat locked up. Napoleon's brow creased a little.

"Hey. Don't worry. We're gonna find your friend, mate. I'm gonna help you, we all are. We'll find him and he'll be just fine and then, well...we'll find him, is all."

Napoleon's heartfelt if awkwardly worded reassurance helped. Harry cleared his throat and blinked, nodding. "Yeah. Thanks. Uh...can you..."

He picked up the list of agents. "I'll just finish these orders then go help The Granger go through the files, okay?"

"Jolly good, yeah." Harry sat down, thinking ahead to the interviews he was about to conduct. "And tell Forth Chism to report to me in fifteen, he's first up."

Napoleon headed for the door, then hesitated and turned back. "Listen, Harry. You both might say you're okay but you and Hermione really need to get some rest soon. I don't fancy having to carry either of you down to the infirmary."

Harry nodded, reluctant to abandon the search for a moment but aware that to work himself into an exhaustion-induced breakdown would help no one. "After these four interviews we'll go home and get some sleep. You and Remus can continue the interviews as agents respond to their summons."

"Aye, sir," Napoleon said, smiling and sketching a quick salute, his offhand delivery of the military acknowledgment robbing it of any formal stiffness. Harry watched him go, puzzling at the unlikely friends life had thrown at him over the years.

---

1:19 p.m.

---

Hermione had worked her way through two inch's worth of reports when Napoleon joined her, taking a seat on the other side of her desk and starting right in. "There's a trick to it," she said. "Take my advice, I'm a file-searching expert. Skip the Personal Status section, briefly glance through the New Contacts notes, skim the Updates section and then read the Notes & Observations section. Don't open up the Transcriptions section unless the agent refers to something they contain that might be relevant, or we'll be here until doomsday."

"Here," he said, setting a steaming mug before her. "I figured now was a good time to bend the no-coffee-after-lunch rule."

"Thanks," she said, blowing on the hot surface.

"Harry said after he finishes some of these interviews you guys are heading home for some sleep."

"That's what he thinks."

"If you don't go willingly I'm sure he'd be delighted to carry you. Or I will."

"I've got work to do." She bent her head over the reports again, her eyes moving quickly over the words. Napoleon didn't press the matter, only set to the reports in silence.

Hermione had to continually will her eyes to focus on the pages, they kept wanting to cross and blur and fall closed. The coffee helped a little but was soon consumed, which was in truth about how she felt...consumed.

For hours they sat reading in silence as the afternoon crept towards evening. Fatigue attempted encroachment on Hermione's body but she battled it back grimly, keeping her goal firmly in mind...to find Ron. Nothing else mattered. Not her heavy eyelids or her aching body or her rumbling stomach. Finally Napoleon spoke, startling her a little. "Need more coffee?" he said.

She shook her head. "No. I need a distraction. Talk to me."

"A distraction?"

"Something to help me keep my mind here in the room. I'm good at multitasking, I can scan reports and listen at the same time. Talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Oh, anything. Anything not remotely connected to this. Tell me...oh, I don't know. Tell me about your childhood. You grew up in Australia, right?"

"No, East London. I was all set to go to Hogwarts when my folks moved to Alice Springs." He went on, talking aimlessly about his education at Swingarten, a wizard school in Australia's Northern Territory. His abysmal Quidditch skills, his captainship of the Dueling Club, his knack for costing his house points and then winning them back the next day. He seemed to sense what she needed and prattled on about things she could half-listen to and still understand while she pored over reports. He continued his own reading while he spoke, though his speed took a hit as he sacrificed some concentration to his discourse.

After over an hour he trailed off, having run out of things to say. She glanced up at him. "Don't stop, this is helping me concentrate. If I have to focus on doing two things at once it keeps me from zoning out."

"I don't know what else to say."

"Tell me something I don't know about you."

He hesitated. "Terk and I divorced because she fell in love with someone else," he blurted out. Hermione paused, this abrupt revelation, the answer to a question she'd long wished to ask, startling her out of her rhythm. He shook his head. "Sorry. That wasn't exactly appropriate, was it?"

"She did?" Her opinion of Terk was circling the drain, a fact that didn't escape Napoleon's attention.

"Don't think less of her for it. We don't choose who we love, a fact we both know all too well. And you should have seen this guy. He was amazing. I half fell in love with him myself. He was a friend of ours, it just sort of happened. I don't hold any grudges. Our relationship was never what you'd call harmonious. We stayed friends. It's not like we stopped loving each other, it's just that...well, he came along and there it was."

Hermione blew air through her teeth. "Wow. You're a lot more charitable about this than I would be in your place. If Harry fell in love with someone else I think I'd have a hard time not murdering her in her sleep."

"Bitterness is no one's friend."

"Why isn't she with him now?"

Napoleon sighed. "He died. Only a few months after our divorce, and shortly before they were supposed to get married."

"He died?"

"He was murdered." Hermione gasped. "Yeah, I know."

"That's horrible!"

"It gets worse. He was murdered by someone who came after her and found him instead. Killed him as a warning, to her. She hasn't been the same since. She got the guy who did it, but she refuses to get involved seriously with anyone else. I know that we've both had thoughts of getting back together but...I think she's afraid to. Why do you think she keeps Tax so close? She's afraid something'll happen to him...though I daresay someone trying to kill Tax would have quite a job of it."

Before Hermione could reply to this the door to her office opened and Harry stood there. "Hermione, let's go home and get some sleep," he said.

"No," she said emphatically, keeping her eyes on the reports. They were about three-quarters of the way done and the end was in sight. "I want to finish this."

"Napoleon can finish it. You're about to pass out, and so am I."

"I'm okay. I want to..."

"No," Harry said. "We'll be back soon. Let the others take care of some of this, you don't have to do everything yourself. Leave off, you've done enough for now."

"I said I'm okay! I can..."

He cut her off again. "That's an order, Lieutenant." His tone was flat and imperative. He was clearly in no mood to argue about this.

Anger clouded her vision and she rose from behind her desk. "How dare you," she said. "How dare you pull rank on me about this! You can't just order me about like an underling, Harry!"

Napoleon leaned forward. "Actually he kinda can," he whispered. "He's sort of a Major and you're really not and he..."

"Shut it, Jones," she snapped. "I'd take his orders just fine if this was an Agency operation in which were were both participating, but not about this. This isn't I.D. business, this is personal, and if there's one thing that he is absolutely not allowed to do it's order me around in our personal lives!" She glared at Harry, who didn't look at all taken aback by her wrath...he just looked resigned, as if he'd expected it and was prepared to weather it.

"Okay, that's my cue," Napoleon said. "Mummy and Daddy are fighting, I'll just slink off to my office and wait it out." He picked up his file box and made himself scarce. Hermione barely noticed.

"Are you going to take back what you just said?" she asked. "And apologize for speaking to me like a subordinate?"

He walked around her desk and stood next to her, leaning into her personal space and speaking quietly. "Our search for Ron may be largely personal, but this is I.D. business," he said, indicating the file box before her. "You're the one who always insists we keep our personal relationship clear of our professional one, and in this building with these files you are my subordinate. I stand by my order to pass this task to someone else. You know I'm right," he said, trying to catch her eye. "You're too tired to work effectively. We're both going on a thirty-six hour jaunt here. I'm sorry if I sounded...imperious. You know how I hate pulling rank on anyone, least of all you. So please, Hermione, I'm asking you to come home with me. I admit it, I need sleep. I'm going home to bed, I don't want to be there alone. I don't want to be anywhere alone just now. I need you." She felt herself weakening as he bent and kissed her neck, low where it met her shoulder. She tried to keep her stiff and angry posture, but his effect on her was as iron filings to a magnet. "We need to hold on to each other," he said quietly into her ear, his breath warm on her cheek.

"Oh, all right," she finally said. He gave no sign of satisfaction at his triumph, just held out her cloak which he must have picked up as he crossed the room. She stuck her arms in it. "But this doesn't mean I forgive you," she added. This fact established, she could let herself sag against his side, her head falling to his shoulder as his arm went around her.

"You can punish me later," he said as they left her office.

---

2:38 a.m.
September 22nd, 2008

---

Hermione was surprised at her mind's perspicacious refusal to think of much else besides Ron's fate. Obsessive worries about his situation would not leave her even now, as she and Harry lay together in their large bed, making love...or trying to.

Upon arriving home they'd both fallen into bed with scarcely a word to each other, barely taking the time to undress, and gone straight to sleep. Her rest had been uneasy, though. Nightmarish visions scampered through her sleeping brain and tormented her with pictures of Ron tortured, imprisoned, disfigured, killed over and over again in a hundred ways that shocked and terrified her and eventually woke her from her sound sleep, rousing Harry with her cries and startling herself as she heard her own loud voice in the room.

He had held her and soothed her and she had begun to relax again, pressing herself close to him, wanting safety in numbers. When he had begun to kiss and caress her she had gone along, although having sex wouldn't have been her first choice of activities. She'd needed his comforting touch when she'd awoken frightened, perhaps he needed hers as well. All things being equal she'd have rather gone back to sleep but if Harry needed this she'd gladly oblige him.

Which was how she found herself here, not giving the act her full attention as she usually did. They were in one of their more favored positions, with Hermione on her right side and Harry spooned up closely behind her. His arms held her tight to his chest, his hands cupping her breasts as he moved within her, a situation which would ordinarily have effectively driven all other thoughts from her mind, but not tonight. She couldn't even muster enough concentration to feign a convincing response. She hoped he didn't notice her distraction but feared the opposite. He seemed a little awkward, his movements less relaxed and spontaneous, and he wasn't kissing her as much as he ordinarily would have done.

All at once, without warning, he withdrew and flopped over onto his back, exhaling mightily. "I'm sorry, darling," he said. "I just can't."

She flipped to her other side so she could look at him, puzzled. "Can't what?"

"I can't quite manage it. I tried."

She let her head drop to the pillow. "Thank God. Sex is about the last thing on my mind right now."

He turned his head, frowning. "But...I was only doing it because I thought you needed it."

She blinked. "I was only doing it because I thought you needed it!" After a brief pause to absorb their mutual idiocy, they smiled ruefully at each other.

"Blimey," he said. "Maybe we'd best discuss it first next time."

"I'm sorry, I just...I've never felt less sexy in my life."

"Me neither. Honestly, you would not believe the naughty thoughts I had to run through my head just to...uh, rouse the beast, as it were."

She chuckled. "I'm not sure how I should take that. I'm here in bed with you, all naked and everything, and you have to think naughty thoughts to get aroused."

He smiled back. "Please. Who do you think my naughty thoughts were about?"

She leaned in and kissed him gently. "I should have said something, but I wasn't prepared. I usually want you so much that it felt strange to have...other thoughts get in the way."

"Thinking about Ron?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "I know you are, too."

He raised one hand to cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. She saw in his eyes complete understanding, and a sympathetic pain to match her own. He reached out and drew her into his arms; she went gladly, tucking her naked body next to his and immersing herself in the familiar scent of his skin. There was a needy tightness in his embrace, the fingers of one hand twisted in her hair and cupping the back of her head. He kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger there, his breath tickling her hair when he spoke. "We're gonna find him," he whispered, repeating it once more. "We'll all be together again. It'll be just like old times."

He fell silent then and she did not offer a reply. What more could be said when they both knew that it would not be like old times, that it could never be that way again? Their trio had been special and unique. Would it still be so after all this time? An equilateral triangle has a sort of magical mysticism about it, a figure of perfect symmetry, with all three points equidistant. How much would it change when two of its vertices had grown so much closer together? The symmetry was lost, the triangle's shape became murky and ill-defined, its angles dissimilar, some obtuse and some acute.

It would be bad enough if they were unable to find Ron, or if they were to find not him but evidence of his more recent death. Yet that was not what haunted her thoughts. The fear that loomed larger was of securing his safe return and finding him a stranger, alienated from them, his years apart continuing to separate them even while they were physically reunited. Suppose he expected to take up with her where they'd left off? Her modesty made her largely discount the possibility, but what if he'd pined for her during his absence? How would he react to find her not only bedding his best friend, but about to become his wife? A choice for her between Ron and Harry was a foregone conclusion. Harry was her life, end of discussion. Merely the prospect of being forced to articulate such a choice made her shiver with dread.

She hardly dared ask him, but she knew Harry must be having these same thoughts. They seemed to be engaged in a mutual conspiracy of silence to deny their existence. If we don't say it out loud, maybe we can pretend we're not worried about it, they said to each other in a hundred silent glances and unspoken communications. We'll focus on finding him and we won't admit we're even thinking about what happens when we do.

---

5:29 p.m.
September 25th, 2008

---

Hermione came into Harry's office in response to his summons to find him not alone. Seated before his desk was a man in a long cloak, the hood raised. They both turned as she entered. "Hermione, this is Sabian," Harry said.

An immediate thrill at finally meeting the mysterious Sabian was mitigated by the fact that she could see nothing of the man himself. His cloak covered him head to toe, his hands encased in leather gloves. His hood cast such an impenetrable darkness before his face that she suspected he used a Concealment Charm to further hide himself. "It's nice to meet you," she stammered lamely, holding out her hand.

He shook it with a firm grip. "The pleasure is mine, Dr. Granger," he said, his gravelly voice familiar from his many Bubble-born reports.

She sat down in Harry's other office chair. "I've asked Sabian to join our investigation," Harry said. She wasn't surprised. If there was any one of the agents in his division Harry would trust implicitly it was this man. "He's spent most of the last few days making some inquiries for me." Harry looked at the hooded agent, an unreadable signal in his eyes. "And he was just leaving, weren't you?"

Sabian rose, his head inclining in slight acknowledgement. "I'll be in touch, Chief," he said. He turned and walked to the door, seeming to float above the ground as he did. "Dr. Granger," he said quietly as he swept out, leaving a faint scent of incense in his wake.

She turned back to face Harry. "Creepy."

"Yes, he is. But effective."

"Do you know why he hides himself so carefully?"

"Not exactly. Personal preference, I believe. It makes him impossible to identify and enables him to blend in anywhere."

"Still. He looks like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come."

Harry set down his pencil and stared at her. "Oh my God. That's exactly who he looks like. That's been bothering me for years. Thank you." He stood up. "Come on, we have a briefing."

They walked in silence to Sukesh's conference room, where their little de facto investigating team had been meeting covertly. Hermione's footsteps were dull and dispirited. She knew she had nothing good to report, nor did she think anyone else would either.

She wasn't wrong. As they went around the table, she saw only depressed faces and frustrated expressions. "I've interviewed every agent who's gone undercover in the Circle and none of them remember anything that seems even remotely connected to Ron," Harry said.

"Remus and I have been through all their field reports twice and turned up nothing," Napoleon said.

Sukesh flipped through his foolscap notebook. "I've been unable to glean any useful physical evidence from the body. I have determined that his last meal consisted of a chicken sandwich and mashed potatoes, not that this information is helpful in the slightest."

"Well...I suppose it suggests they didn't just keep him in a jar until he was needed," Harry said.

Henry spoke next. "I've re-examined the reports and notes of the team who investigated Ron's death back in 98, and I've interviewed all but one of them. There was nothing to suggest that the crime was anything other than what it appeared to be, and none of the Aurors or Enforcers sensed anything even slightly suspicious about any of it."

"As instructed, the two agents I currently have in the Circle have made some very oblique inquiries," Isobel said. "One of them reports that there have long been rumors among Circle wizards that Allegra has some sort of secret hideaway, but as to what she keeps there...well, some say treasure, some say Voldemort's still-beating heart, some say secret political prisoners. None of it is too reliable."

Harry sighed. "Perhaps the most disheartening news of all is that despite two days' effort Sabian has been unable to come up with anything, either." Everyone present sagged just a little. Sabian's skill as an intelligence agent was so legendary that the prevailing attitude was that if Sabian could not discover something, then it didn't exist. "But he's not giving up."

Remus turned to Hermione. "Any progress on using magical means to locate Ron?"

She shook her head. "Homing charms are useless, as there isn't a one of them that doesn't require some preparation of the target. A Seeking charm seemed to have possibilities, but it requires a relatively recent physical image. A ten-year-old photograph isn't going to work. Dragonhounds might work, but we'd have no idea where to start looking."

Silence fell around the table. "How are Molly and Arthur?" Sukesh asked, quietly.

Harry sighed. "How would you be? They're beside themselves. I'm beginning to think I may have to Memory Charm them, for the sake of their own sanity and the security of our investigation."

"Our investigation that's going nowhere fast," Napoleon said. "We're quickly running out of options."

"Oh, we have options," Henry said. "Plenty of options. The problem is that all of them would tip our hand to the Circle. We're hobbled by our need to keep it secret."

"Maybe we're too concerned with that," Remus said. "If we moved quickly enough..."

"It's too risky," Harry said flatly. He was sitting at the head of the table, slumped slightly to one side, arms folded over his chest. "I'll consider it only as a last resort."

"I think we're there."

"No, we're not. Not yet."

Hermione cleared her throat. "I...might have an idea." All heads turned to look at her. "We could try a Phenomorbius Spell." Blank stares met her from every face except Sukesh's. The CMO sat straight up, a look of alarm creasing his handsome features.

"Absolutely not," he said forcefully.

"It might give us just what we need."

Harry held up a hand. "I'm not familiar with that spell."

"With good reason," Sukesh said. "It's a Class D Restricted spell, very dangerous and possibly lethal. They don't even teach it anywhere except in advanced medical training, to reinforce its hazards."

"What does it do?" Napoleon asked.

"Who cares?" Sukesh exclaimed. Hermione had rarely seen him so agitated. "We can't possibly use one."

"Sukesh," Harry said quietly. "Hermione, please tell us about this spell."

She took a breath. "The spell induces a sort of trance in which the caster's mind is opened up, enabling the thoughts and experiences of a target individual to be pulled into the mind of the caster."

"Great Merlin's ghost," Remus murmured. "Such a spell would be extremely difficult."

"Yes. It's Class D because of its extensive brain involvement. Any spell which modifies the brain is dangerous, even plain old Class B Memory Charms should only be attempted by trained practitioners. Lots of wizards do them, but just ask Gilderoy Lockhart how dangerous they can be. He spent five years in Confinement reconstructing his identity after one went wrong on him."

Sukesh jumped in at that point. "But the effects of a botched Memory Charm are nothing compared to the Phenomorbius. When one's mind is opened up to external input, it leaves you very vulnerable. The difficulty lies not in opening the mind of the caster, but in locating and successfully downloading the memories of the target. If the spell goes even a little wrong, it could result in the caster's mind being invaded by the memories of every person on the planet. The resulting neural overload is instantly fatal."

"But if it succeeds, what...you wake up and you have this other person's memories?" Napoleon said. "Because that would be exactly what we need."

Hermione sighed. "Unfortunately it isn't that simple. The relative success of the spell depends a great deal on the caster, as well as a number of other factors beyond anyone's control. There have been cases where the caster does, as you say, wake up remembering whole chunks of the target's life as if they'd lived it themselves. In other cases, the caster retains a sort of cumulative memory, an impression of the target's experiences. In still other cases, the caster receives the information on what could be called a subconscious level. Their only access to the memories is as instinct or hunch."

"This isn't Dark Magic, is it?" Henry asked.

"No," Hermione said firmly. "Absolutely not. The Phenomorbius cannot be used to control or harm another, so it's not Dark Magic. The only danger is to the practitioner."

Harry had not spoken in some time. He just sat at the end of the table, watching her face. Slowly, he shook his head. "No."

"Harry, I want to do this," she said. "It could be our best chance of finding him."

"It's too dangerous."

"You know we need this. I can do it." He said nothing. "It could be our best chance."

"I won't let you risk your own safety for this."

"That's my decision to make." The others were looking back and forth between them as if watching a tennis match. Neither of them raised their voice, speaking in simple, declarative tones as if the outcome were already decided, as perhaps it was. Hermione looked around at the others. "We'll need to make some preparations."

"I won't have any part of this!" Sukesh exclaimed.

"You heard her, it's the best chance we've got!" Napoleon said.

All at once the other team members were speaking over each other, gesturing and interjecting. "The literature is incomplete..."

"...hours or perhaps days, and what if she..."

"...took an oath and I refuse to assist with a procedure that..."

"...still have some options with intelligence that I think..."

"...running out and this could shortcut around..."

Neither Hermione nor Harry took part in this free-for-all, just sat at opposite ends of the table, silent and unmoving, and regarded each other steadily. Hermione could not have described Harry's expression if she'd had a hundred years to think about it. She could see the entire history of her life there on his face. She felt as if a strong undertow had grasped them both by the ankles and were pulling them along toward some conclusion, some future that was fast approaching, the shape of which was sensed if not seen. All she could do was let it sweep her along and keep her head above the water, and hang on to him with all her strength.

None of the others paid them any mind, or were conscious that they were sharing what was starting to feel like a profound moment, they were occupied with their own debates and questions. All Hermione saw was Harry's face, his resigned expression, the helplessness in his eyes, and then the slight movement of his lips as they formed the shape of three silent words meant for only her to see: "I love you."

She looked away quickly, blinking. Harry was rising then, taking Sukesh aside. She gathered her notes and motioned to Napoleon, and then the business of action resumed. The moment, whatever it had meant and whatever had transpired in it, was over.

---

meanwhile...

---

The day had begun like any other, Ron would later recall. Get up, eat something, a little time on the treadmill, read something, wait for the daily delivery. He wasn't to know how different this day would be, nor did he suspect that by the end of it he would have left his comfortable locked-down flat, never to see it again.

He was at his writing desk when he heard the door open...except it was too early for Bob. Something different, then. Anything different was good.

When he saw Allegra come in, he had occasion to doubt that sentiment. He raised one eyebrow as she stood there in the doorway, hips cocked. "Well, well," he said. "Don't you ever knock?"

"Pack your toothbrush, Ron. We're going on a little trip."

He grinned and clapped his hands. "Oh, goody! I've been such a good boy these last ten years and now Santa has answered my prayers and Mummy's taking me to Disneyworld at last! Oh joy, oh rapture!" The grin dropped off his face abruptly and he returned to his writing with a noncommittal grunt. "What do you want?"

"Didn't you hear me? I'm taking you out of here."

He just glared at her. A few moments passed in silence. "Gee, that other shoe is taking a long time to drop."

"I mean what I say."

"Uh-huh. Just like you've said you were letting me go a hundred times over the years. Beg pardon if I don't turn a cartwheel."

"I didn't say I was letting you go. I'm moving you to a more secure facility."

Ron's brow furrowed. Now he was becoming concerned. Her manner was so...not playfully malevolent, her usual mode of discourse. "More secure? What, have I been getting death threats again?"

"It's not you. It's Potter," she said, spitting the name.

Ron's stomach dropped down to his shoes. "Harry?" he said, quietly. "What...what are you talking about?"

Allegra's eyes had narrowed to thin little slits. "He knows."

For a moment Ron wondered if the top of his head were really and truly about to come off. He'd been waiting to hear those two words for ten years. He slowly rose from behind his desk, color rising to his freckled cheeks. "Then it doesn't matter where you take me," he said. "If Harry knows I'm alive he'll find me. He won't stop."

"I know. But that doesn't mean I have to make it easy for him." She reached out and grabbed his arm. With a swirl of Disapparation magic, they vanished, leaving only an empty prison and Ron's quill dripping ink onto a sheet of parchment.

---