Perfection

Perfection

Chapter 25: Memento Mori

Ron was dreaming; he was perfectly aware of the fact. However, in spite of his lucidity, it didn't feel like a dream, and he found that odd, especially given the circumstances that his dream-self was in. He was sitting cross-legged in a circle with Neville, Fleur Delacour, of all people, and a black-haired girl that he didn't know. They were playing a hand-clapping game. Ron had his hands resting on the black-haired girl's and Fleur's knees and as the former chanted, they clapped their right hand over to the person on the left.

The game continued in a dizzying circle, picking up speed until Ron could hardly keep up. Mesmerised, he allowed himself to be caught up in it, abandoning himself to the rhythm and letting his mind slip free.

*

"Weasley? Weasley?"

The voice was Draco's, and she could tell that he was scared. Ginny struggled to pull herself from sleep. Still only half-awake, she shot up into a sitting position and was jolted into full awareness by an intense pain in her shoulder.

"Dra--Fuck!"

She sank back onto the pillows, realising that "Weasley" hadn't been referring to her at all, but Ron, who was two beds over, yelling frantically in his sleep. At the sound of her voice, he jerked around, pushing pieces of hair out of his face and smiling wearily.

"You're awake."

"Observant of you," she remarked dryly, trying to breathe as best she could through the pain. "I sort of wish that I wasn't."

He winced. "This probably won't move me up in your list of favourite people, but it turns out that the anaesthetic I gave you actually delayed the healing process. Pomfrey's doing the best she can, but it will take a while."

She scowled back at him. "Well, I'm the one who told you to give it to me and it worked well enough for easing the pain. Just promise me that you won't ever heal people professionally."

Ron let out another cry, interrupting their banter--the anguish in it sent chills down Ginny's spine.

"Is he okay?"

Draco responded with a slow nod. "He's got a fairly serious abdominal wound, but it should be all right. He's woken up a few times and it doesn't seem to be that that's bothering him."

She furrowed her brow. "Why? What happened?"

"Longbottom, Gin. Your brother was with him when he died--the only reason Ron survived was because he took the worst of the hit."

Something inside of her withered without warning, and she had to hold back the tears threatening to spill over. "Not Neville," she whispered in a pained voice. "He didn't deserve that."

He placed a hand on hers to calm its trembling. "I don't think anyone really does. If he had only..."

"What?"

"Dumbledore had everyone underground in the castle's secret tunnels, but Longbottom--thick bastard--decided to leave and, well, I've already told you the rest."

They sat in perfect silence for a moment, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. She tried to read his expression, decipher what was going through his mind, but it was impassive. She was just about to let herself drift back into sleep when a grin broke out on his features.

"You haven't heard the exciting news, though!" he exclaimed, eyes lighting up with conspiracy. "It seems that your brother has a little thing going with Lupin."

This time, she managed to restrain herself from sitting up too quickly. "What? Which brother?"

"Charlie," he replied smugly. "I walked in on them snogging after the battle ended. You know that they say one in ten... One of you Weasleys was bound to be eventually."

She let out a faint giggle. "And?"

"That's it. I ran away once my poor, scarred eyes registered the fact and I have a feeling that they want to keep it hushed up."

"I'd say," Ginny agreed, biting her lower lip in concern. "Mum's going to kill the bugger."

*

Agrippa hugged her coat more tightly around herself, pressing the cell phone tight to her ear as she said her goodbyes. She didn't want to forget a moment of this conversation, didn't want to lose one single, vital detail. Her ticket to freedom was hanging up on the other end and as she pressed the button to end the discussion, she felt a sense of elation fill her.

Five months. Five months until Africa.

She lingered outside a moment longer, not sure whether she wanted to rejoin the celebrations just yet. She understood that they were happy; she only wished that she could properly understand why. Her only direct emotional investment in the situation had been the survival of her daughter and Remus. That the realisation of this hope had now been fulfilled left her with the choking sort of relief that she couldn't bring herself to express with anything but the tight, wordless hug that mother and daughter had already shared.

Hermione had Severus; Agrippa had herself.

Something, too, had changed with Remus. She hadn't had a chance to drag him off yet and ask what, but something in her lower abdomen told her that it had to do with Charlie. And while she was genuinely happy for her friend, she wished that it didn't leave her feeling so horribly alone.

She heard the creaking of a door behind her and turned to see Remus carrying a mug towards her.

"I brought you some tea," he said.

"With milk?"

"And two sugars. Do you have a moment? I'd like to talk."

With those words, all the fear and insecurity that she had been trying to brush aside rolled off of her shoulders, giving her room to properly straighten her back. "For you? Always."

He sat down on the front steps, patting the space next to her and pointing his wand at it, muttering something. She sank down next to him, surprised at the warmth, and leaned against his shoulder.

"Something happened, didn't it?" she asked. "With Charlie?"

Remus nodded. "You guessed. Of course you did."

"You are an open book to me," she teased. "You'll never have another secret as long as you live."

He laughed throatily and continued. "Well, something happened and nothing happened. I mean, we've kissed a couple of times, but nothing else. And he told me that he's gay--"

"Ha!" she interrupted, then looked sheepish. "Sorry, continue."

"And that he's interested. But I don't know... Am I ready for it?"

She snorted with laughter. "You have got to be joking. If it's about what's-his-name, well, he's dead. Get over it."

Remus looked embarrassed.

"Do you like the boy?" she asked firmly. "Because that's really all that matters. Are you interested in him? Just be selfish for a moment and ask yourself, if you could have him, would you?"

"Of course I would."

"Well, if he's already made it clear that he's interested, then you can have him."

His eyes glazed over with a strange look of wonder, as though he was really seeing her for the first time. "Agrippa," he said with a half-smile, "if you were a man, I'd love you."

She giggled. "Honestly, I'm just hoping that I get a threesome out of this somehow."

"At the rate you're going, I'm going to have to arrange that."

They sat for a moment in companionable silence, until Agrippa turned and looked at him. "Seriously, though--I really believe that you deserve someone who can make you properly happy." She leaned over, kissing him on the cheek. "You've been the best person to have around that I could have possibly asked for. Thank you."

He wrapped his bare hand around her gloved one and squeezed it gently. "Thank you," he replied, "for helping me work myself out."

There was another silence as they leaned into each other, both wrapped up in their own thoughts.

"What if," she said slowly, chewing on her words before she released them, "I told you that I'm going to Rwanda in June?"

He let out a whoop and hugged her. "I'd say, 'Rwanda? That's in Africa, isn't it?'"

Her eyes lit up, giving a renewed vigour to her face that hadn't been there for years. "Of course it is, you sod."

*

Hermione was languishing on the bed, enjoying the feel of cool air on bare skin. Severus was asleep next to her, tangled in the sheets that he had stolen from her, and she gazed fondly at him through drooping eyes.

She hadn't managed a decent night of sleep for two days, since the battle with Voldemort, and couldn't work out why. Her conscious was clear--you couldn't feel much guilt about killing someone who had been about to kill you--and while she did feel mildly bad over taking advantage of some poor boy's fondness for Jaffa Cakes in order to run a sword through him, it was hardly something that should be keeping her up at night. She supposed that she could mark it down to the strange predicament that she now found herself in; she wasn't entirely sure that she had wrapped her head around the concept that there was no longer any imminent danger lurking just round the bend. In fact, that was the most likely cause of her current state of confusion.

With a sigh, she raised herself off of the bed, wrapping Severus's dressing gown around her tightly and wandering out into the corridor. In the early hours of the morning, Grimmauld Place was completely devoid of sound and movement--she wasn't sure if she found this more disturbing or comforting. Making her way down the stairs, she was about to head into the kitchen when she noticed a light on in the drawing room. Confused, she pushed the door fully open and was surprised to see her mother curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine and a stack of papers on the coffee table next to her.

"Mum?" she asked. "Why are you still up?"

The older woman jerked into awareness, smiling faintly. "I could be asking you the same question."

"Can't sleep."

"Same here." Agrippa set aside the papers that she had been holding in her lap and beckoned her daughter over. "Why don't you grab a glass out of that cabinet and have some wine?"

Hermione obeyed, settling herself into an armchair and allowing her mother to pour. She sipped at the sweet, red liquid and closed her eyes. "Why are there three glasses out already?"

"Remus and Charlie were down here a while ago. They've long since gone to bed."

"Ah..."

She wondered why she should find it odd that her mother had made friends with wizards--it was mildly disturbing that she, of all people, should have these barriers between 'Muggle' and 'magic' constructed in her mind.

"What's the paperwork for?" she asked finally.

Agrippa sighed and adjusted her reading glasses. "I've decided to take part in an aid mission to Rwanda in a few months and I've got to fill out all sorts of forms... I'm also doing some background reading on the situation."

"Rwanda?" Hermione repeated, surprised. She had never pegged her mother for a humanitarian. "Wasn't there a genocide there a few years back?"

The other woman nodded. "The entire country's been ripped apart. And I suppose that I won't actually be in Rwanda--a refugee camp in Eastern Zaire, I think Jeanine said."

"Er, Mum, you do know that by 'refugee camp' this woman meant living in tents with minimal luxury and probably no running water, right?"

Agrippa only laughed. "And here I was expecting a five star hotel. Darling, I'm perfectly aware what I'm getting myself into."

"Just checking."

Picking her wine glass off of the table, Agrippa grinned. "How do you feel about buying a goat?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "For a pet?"

"No, a village," she said with a snort.

Seeing the way her mother's eyes lit up, Hermione couldn't help but feel herself becoming almost as excited. While the news was certainly surprising, it was no shock that Agrippa was setting out to change things; everyone had to move on, eventually.

She wondered briefly whether she was, in fact, advancing by making the decision to leave with Helena come summer. Several times the possibility had struck her that she was running away, and she couldn't quite dismiss the thought fully. However, she also recognised that Severus was essentially the only tie she had left here--she hadn't spoken to her father for a year, her mother was going to Africa, and while she would miss her friends, they didn't have the same relationship that they had once shared--and he was the one insisting that she go.

Her mother reached over and touched her on the knee. "Is everything all right with you?"

Hermione sighed. "I'm not sure," she replied honestly. "I think that it is. Or, at least, it will be. And that's what is important, I suppose."

*

Ginny wasn't entirely sure where the idea had come from. Sometime during the night, she had found herself lying awake on the side that hadn't been pierced by a spear, with it firmly emblazoned in her mind and, now that it was morning, it seemed as though it weren't about to go away.

It wasn't that it was a bad idea; as a matter of fact, it was probably an extremely good idea. It was just that it would involve facing realities that she wished more than anything she could ignore.

It would involve examining the part of her that, until now, she had been content to simply allow to exist, but, more than that, it meant she might have to discover that the wolf in her wasn't solely to blame.

She hadn't mentioned the idea to Draco, merely asked Madam Pomfrey to see if Dumbledore would be willing to pay her a visit. She didn't particularly want to tell him until she knew whether she would be going to prison or not.

*

Harry was standing in silence out by the lake, watching the ripples on the water through streaked glasses. Sleet was coming down around him, melting before he could identify the shapes of the snowflakes that landed on his jacket. He felt as though he had been frozen to the spot for days, even though it had only been a matter of minutes. He fancied that, if he tried hard enough, he would be able to find that oblivious state he had existed in before the battle, that he could allow himself to slip back into the comfortingly empty void.

It was to no avail. With a heavy sigh, he sat down on a nearby log, ignoring the dampness that absorbed into his jeans. He was already almost completely wet through, anyway.

Memories. There were so many of them. How had he dealt with them before, their pressing need in the back of his retinas, blinding him, forcing him to only look behind.

He didn't want to look at all.

A crackling twig alerted him to another's presence. He jerked around at the suddenness of it and was surprised to see the woman from the battle. She raised a hand in greeting and approached.

"Mr Potter," she said, in a voice that felt as though it should be familiar.

"Who are you?" was his only response, flat and apathetic.

"Hardly the most important question to be asking," she responded, not appearing to take offence. It struck him that this might be how Dumbledore would have turned out had he been a woman and lacked a fondness for sherbet lemons.

"Why do I need to ask questions?" he snapped back. "If there's something I need to know, why don't you just give me the answer?"

"That hardly encourages personal growth," she reprimanded.

So she was Dumbledore with a sex change, if he had decided to become a shrink.

"Maybe I'm not looking for personal growth," he snarled. "Maybe I'm not looking for anything."

"And that," she replied, a sudden hint of steel in her voice, "is why I'm trying to give it to you. I know that you chose to sink into that state, and I'm perfectly aware that you want back in. Frankly, it's a wonder that you lasted as long as you did. I only pulled you out of it because a great deal of people, including my son--who I do happen to care about, never mind what he seems to believe--needed you to get them out of a certain situation that you and I are both aware of. I pieced your mind together for you, and, in the process, I saw a fair bit of what was in there, so don't go acting all mysterious and brooding on me, young man. It's hardly worse than what the rest of us have gone through."

"You're the one who..."

She pulled bits of hair off of her face. "Yes. And before you go asking, no, I won't undo it for you. But I can help you find the missing pieces."

Her eyes bored into him, making him feel as though she were pushing her way into his mind. It reminded him of Snape at his most piercing. "What missing pieces?"

She sank down next to him on the log. "I hope you don't mind. My strength isn't what it once was."

He shook his head.

"Boy," she said slowly, "for whatever reason, a few months ago your mind shattered. The immediate cause, I believe, was witnessing my son after he had been brutalised--"

"Hang on," Harry interrupted. "Snape is your son?"

"Well"--her mouth twisted wryly--"someone had to give birth to him. But that isn't the point. You saw him and your mind shattered."

"How can my mind 'shatter'?"

"Quite simply," she replied. "The same way anything breaks under too much stress. But that particular incident wasn't the full reason; it was something that anyone should have foreseen. I've managed to put it back together--glued it, if you will--but there are bits missing and it's cracked. And it's up to you to fix that."

As she spoke, he began to feel the extent of the icy breeze and closed his eyes against the sleet that was coming down harder. "But I don't want to. I don't want to remember things; I don't want to think about right and wrong. I don't want to be the fucking Boy Who Lived any more. If there are holes in my memory then, quite frankly, I want them to stay there because everything I do remember is bloody awful."

She only looked at him, something foreign that was almost like pity shining in her eyes. "Then I will only give you this advice: when you do want to look--and, sooner or later, you will--just remember that the fragments cannot leave your mind. If you dig enough, you will find them."

*

The game continued, growing more and more frenzied until the girl stopped chanting altogether, merely giggling as the three of them tried to keep up with her rapid movements. In unison, all four of them froze.

Ron found it mildly disturbing that he wasn't bothering to question his actions. He felt as though he had no control over himself; she was merely stringing him along as if he were a marionette.

"What's going on?" he finally asked. Only the black-haired girl seemed able to hear him.

"One of those questions that you should answer for yourself. It's your mind that the rest of us are sitting in."

Her gaze was surprisingly direct, but he was surprised to find that it was still filled with a sense of compassion for his confused predicament.

"If it's my head, why are you in charge?"

"I'm not in charge of a damn thing," she replied. "I'm in here because you invited me and, well, the other two are memories that were already in here. I'm Liv, by the way. Or that's what Neville called me, at least."

"You knew Neville?"

She gave him a withering look, as if to say, Of course I did, and he could practically hear the heavy inflection in his head. "That isn't really the point," she commented acidly.

"Dreams don't have points," Ron shot back. "They're completely useless and I don't know why I'm even bothering to have this stupid conversation with you."

"Well, hell if I know," she shot back. "One minute I'm out wandering through a daisy-filled field and the next I'm stuck in here playing your silly game. You even had me doing a sodding chant."

"And why would I do that?"

Ron could feel his face begin to heat up; no doubt his ears were bright red by now. For a moment he felt ashamed over how wound up he was allowing himself to become, but reminded himself that it was just a dream. He could do whatever he wanted.

Liv, however, surprised him. "Because you want answers," she said simply. "And I can give them to you. That's understandable enough, I suppose--you've just been asking all the wrong questions."

"There's such a thing as a 'right' question?" he snorted.

"Well, naturally. You've been asking all these questions about where we are and what we're doing--that's not what you really want to know. They're just cover-ups."

"So what do I want to know?"

"What happens after death, I suppose. And whether or not there's any point to it all. It's what everyone wants to know when they see someone die."

With a flash of horror, Ron remembered Neville--Neville, who was dead, with a sword plunged through him. Neville, who, of everyone in that room, least deserved his fate.

Neville, who had saved his life.

Still, Ron wasn't sure that was what he wanted to know. He sat in silence for a moment--the Fleur and Neville in his mind were still frozen in place--contemplating the enormous opportunity for knowledge that had just been handed to him.

"Why Neville?" he finally asked.

"Why not?" she countered. "He was there, just like everyone else. And he wasn't the only one."

Liv had paused to allow her message to sink in. Now Ron looked at her, as though seeing her for the first time. "How do you know all this?"

She grinned, her dark-rimmed eyes squinting with mirth. "Good question. An eternity of experience in billions of people's minds. Death is a funny thing: it brings out the best and the worst in people."

"What did it do to Neville?" Ron asked, remembering that this was the main purpose of the conversation.

"It gave him strength," she said quietly. "Strength and life."

In a sudden flash, he remembered Neville as he had been during the battle--confident, unflinching, and maybe even a little cheeky. "You did that to him?" he said.

"No. It was something only he could do to himself,"

Bewildered, the redhead shook his head. "I still don't get where this is coming from."

"Your grief. But for now, the why doesn't matter--understanding will come with time. It's only important, really, that you know the what. Neville is dead, but he died well. He died at peace with himself. Does that make sense to you?"

A lump seemed to be forming at the back of his throat, making words impossible to form, so he only nodded. Coming right out and saying that Neville had been killed was somehow different, more painful, than abstract discussion. She wrapped her arms around him sympathetically as tears began to sting his eyes.

"Memento mori," she whispered in his ear before everything around them dissolved.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting up in his bed in the hospital wing, asking himself what the hell had just happened. Oddly enough, though, he felt a bit better.

Not much, but it was a start.

*

Siberia. She didn't know a damn thing about it, except that it was in Russia and it was bloody cold. And that she had just agreed to spend a year there.

Now, Draco was insisting on coming along.

"Could you even find it on a map?" Ginny snapped at him. "I don't even want to go there, and it was my idea."

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course I could find it. Or I'd look it up, at least--I am literate, you know."

She felt mildly silly being this angry with him in the face of his unflappable arrogance. "It's where they send you for exile when they really hate you," she continued. "They kill people like you there, I'm pretty sure. They did it to the Romanovs."

"I'm better looking than the Romanovs, and even if that doesn't stop them, I'll just kill them first."

"I'm living with a tribe of werewolves; you hate werewolves."

"No, I just didn't like Lupin much. Mostly because my father told me not to, but we'll ignore that."

She glared at him mutinously. Privately, she knew that she was only afraid of him being disturbed by what he would see in her, but logically that was nonsense. If they were going to last, he'd have to see it all eventually.

"Fine," she barked after a long silence. "But you'll hate it there, so don't come crying to me."

*

Agrippa watched, amused, as Remus paced back and forth in front of her. He had been doing so for the last twenty minutes, spewing out a stream of consciousness as he did.

"What am I doing this for? I don't want to! I swear it's entirely your fault--it has to be... You talked me into this!"

She sat up a bit straighter on the edge of her bed and snorted. "Why on earth would I do a thing like that?"

"I don't know!"

"Besides, even if it is my fault--which is highly unlikely, as I wasn't even there at the time--it's just a date."

"Yes... Well..." he spluttered. "One thing leads to another and the next thing you know..."

"There'll be little baby werewolves running around? Given the circumstances, that's hardly likely."

"Shut up!" he shot back and resumed pacing, giving Agrippa another chance to scrutinise him. Something seemed... different.

"Hang on," she blurted. "You've done something to your hair."

He froze mid-step. "No I didn't."

"Yes," she accused, "it's straighter."

"No it's not."

"You straightened it! Wait--did you use my flat iron? I've been looking everywhere for the damn thing!"

"I most certainly didn't!"

His eyes, however, glanced down at the floor shiftily, making Agrippa smirk. "So if I went and looked in your room, I wouldn't find a thing resembling two ceramic hotplates that clamp together anywhere in the vicinity?"

He sighed heavily. "You're perfectly aware of the fact that I need a pep talk. Stop mocking me."

"I'm not bloody mocking you; I was about to say that it looked nice."

"Oh, well, then." He seemed taken aback. "You don't mind, then?"

"Of course I don't," she snapped. "Just ask next time, so I don't go hunting through the kitchen, worrying that Molly Weasley thought it was for making Paninis."

"An easy mistake for anyone to make," he replied sympathetically. "But, really, how do you think it's going to go?"

"Wonderfully," she assured him. "And it's almost seven--would you like me to see you out?"

Uncertainty scrawled itself across his face. "Could you?" he asked in a tone reminiscent of a child pleading its parent to leave the nightlight on.

She stood and led him out of the room by his arm, proceeding to march him down the stairs.

"Now, remember: no sex on the first date if you want this to work out."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "That's horribly old-fashioned of you."

"Nonsense. It's common sense. And don't worry--that rule doesn't extend to groping."

When they arrived at the entranceway, Charlie was already standing there, looking sick to his stomach. Noticing them, he straightened and did his best to remove some of the green colour from his complexion, but the effect was minimal.

"Is my mother coming?" he hissed.

"I don't think so," Agrippa replied cheerily. "But if she is, I promise to distract her with talk of curry."

The two men smiled weakly, making movements towards the door.

"Have fun, lads," she said, with the air of a woman watching her daughter marching down the altar. "And Charlie--if you break his heart, I'll make you wish that you were eaten by one of your dragons."

She had been about to add more, but was prevented from doing so by Remus slamming the door in her face. Smirking, she turned to head into the drawing room, only to find herself face-to-face with Molly Weasley.

"What," the red-haired woman asked, making a visible effort to keep her tone measured, "exactly was that about?"

Agrippa stared her dead in the eye. "If you want to know so badly, then maybe it's something you're happier not asking."

*

It was a rainy night, the kind when the wind twisted her hair into damp ribbons and filled her lungs, making her feel capable of breathing again. Hermione stood at the top of the astronomy tower, practically hanging out of a window as she attempted to catch sight of the lake.

It was in moments like these that she longed to fly.

They had returned to Hogwarts earlier that day after spending another night in London and, since then, she had felt conflicted. Surely she was too old for this now?

But, once again, she seemed to be expected to be able to slide back into the role of the diligent pupil with minimal effort, as though the confrontation with Voldemort had never happened, as though she hadn't experienced the horrifying moment of watching her mother powerless.

As though she hadn't admitted, at long last, to love.

She and Severus had had a long talk on the train ride, during which they had sorted out all the things that needed sorting. He had been hiding feelings of betrayal that she seemed to be choosing his mother over him; she had been secretly afraid that he was worrying over this. She had been terrified that his words in the hotel room had merely been said in the heat of the moment, but he assured her that nothing had been truer.

And, suddenly, it seemed as though she would be letting him go before she had got a proper hold on him.

Tears filled her eyes and she felt them mingling with the rain that was driving against her face. She wasn't going to stay--in some deep, half-hidden part of her, she knew that--but, just then, the thought of leaving sent stabbings of pain through her lower abdomen. She groaned, trying not to sob, and straightened. There were still classes to study for, Severus was still down in the dungeons waiting for her, and she had a vague memory of promising Helena that she would manage to become an Animagus by the end of term. Someday, she might be able to examine the inner workings of her mind, but she had a feeling that it wouldn't be for a while.

Slowly, as though reluctant to leave, she closed the window and began the descent down the winding staircase, leaving a piece of her hovering above, flying around the towers of Hogwarts.

*

The evening, Remus would later reflect, had been hardly less than perfect. In spite of a somewhat rocky start--he had been so nervous that he had repeatedly dropped dining utensils on the floor--things had soon smoothed themselves over. By the time they made it to dessert, both of them were chatting easily. Remus found himself more than grateful that Agrippa had recommended a Muggle restaurant--he didn't think that he could have handled knowing half the people in the room.

"So if my mother is the root of all my emotional problems, what's your excuse?" Charlie teased.

"Werewolf, societal outcast... Just to name a few."

"That hardly counts compared to being raised by Molly Weasley," Charlie snorted.

"Yes, well, anything would pale in comparison."

"I'm glad you can see my perspective."

"It's one of my many good qualities." Remus smirked. "But, out of curiosity, what would she say about... y'know, this?" He gestured at the two of them as he spoke.

Charlie's lips tightened. "Don't even want to consider it."

"That's what I thought."

"But let's not talk about that," the redhead continued. "She's not here, so I don't want to think about it."

After splitting the bill, they wandered out into the London streets, standing close together without touching. They walked in silence for a while, giving Remus a moment to assess the situation. He ran a hand through his hair, marvelling at the softness that had been created by Agrippa's flat iron, and wondered, not for the first time that evening, how this had managed to happen to him. Although he was perfectly aware that one date was hardly a basis for a lasting relationship, he was beginning to feel that he might have a chance at happiness. The thought emboldened him, leading him to reach out and twine his fingers around Charlie's, almost unthinkingly.

*

The moment he stepped in the door, Charlie felt ill. Molly Weasley was standing in the hallway, blocking it as though she had simply been waiting for the two of them arrive. He had a nasty feeling that that had been the case. A quick glance at Remus told him that the other man was currently weighing the pros and cons of bolting back out into the street.

"And where, exactly, have you been?" she asked, primarily directing the question at her son.

"Out," he said tersely, knowing full well that his response was only likely to infuriate her more and finding he didn't care.

"Really?"

Charlie was receiving a vibe that told him if she were holding a bat at this point in time, his head would be taking on the roll of a bludger. "Yes, really. What sort of answer were you expecting?"

"Certainly one that was more descriptive."

"So sorry to disappoint."

His entire body had tensed to the point where he was afraid a tendon was going to snap. He had never felt so incensed in his entire life, especially not at his mother. Throughout his life, there had been moments when he found himself convinced that his mother lived to manipulate her children into carbon copies of an ideal, but none of them compared to this in the slightest.

They stared each other down for a moment as Molly grew redder, neither of them able to find the appropriate words to voice their fury. It was she who finally broke.

"Charles Weasley--how can you do this to me?" she exploded. "It was bad enough when it was just him and that other one carrying on in the house, doing who-knows-what at every hour of the day, but my own son? How can you do this to me? You can't expect me to put up with this nonsense because, as a matter of fact, I refuse to. It's wrong, and it's disgusting, and it's shameful--I won't have it under my roof, especially not from you." She paused to take a breath before rounding on Remus. "And you. You should know better than to lead him along in your little games. I was willing to ignore it when it was just you and Sirius Black, but not when you're using my son for your own ends. This ends here. Am I understood?"

Charlie was about to shoot as many harsh words back at her, but Remus's hand on his shoulder held him back. The other man stepped forward slightly, face impassive. Looking at Charlie, he said quietly, "Something that ignorant doesn't deserve to be dignified by a response." Then, staring Molly dead in the eye, he continued, "Maybe next time, before you go on one of your tirades, you should consider asking your son what he wants and finding out who he is."

Charlie doubted that he would have been able to speak now, even if he had wanted to. His mother, too, appeared dumbfounded, judging by the way her mouth was flapping open and closed, fish-like. Remus simply walked past her, Charlie following close behind.

Halfway up the stairs, he turned and said, "Oh, by the way, Mum, I've taken the job in Ireland. It starts in February," before continuing upwards, leaving his mother conflicted between the warring emotions of horror and joy.

*

Along the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the wind was more biting than she had anticipated. Hermione pulled her cloak more tightly around her and waited for Ginny, who seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

"We couldn't have done your rehabilitation walk inside?" she half-teased, teeth chattering.

"I needed air," Ginny responded. "Besides, there's something I need your opinion on and I didn't want to discuss it in there."

"Well, hurry up because I'm bloody cold."

The redhead sat down on the side of the hill, casting a charm to repel the large, wet flakes of snow that were hitting them. Hermione followed suit and for a moment they remained in silence, listening to the wind howl past them.

"What would you say," Ginny began slowly, as though tasting each word before releasing it, "if I told you about an awful thing that I did?"

"How awful?" Hermione tried to push away the gnawing feeling that stabbed at her gut as all of her fears regarding Ginny's behaviour in the past few months came rushing back.

"It was after the attack on Snape... When I was still furious with Draco, right when we put Harry under the Imperius. I was... I was out of control, I guess, and I made him..."

Ginny broke off, but the unspoken words formed into a bullet that plunged into Hermione's lower abdomen in spite of it. It tore her in two--half of her was screaming in horror, while the other half was desperately trying to remind her that this was Genevra Weasley, whom she had known for the past six years.

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

"I thought it was the wolf part of me acting out," Ginny continued in a rush, "but I think that's just an excuse I've given myself. I knew what I was doing and I've gone to Dumbledore, but he didn't seem to care much. His solution is to send me to some wolf tribe thing in Siberia for a year--I think he was too busy trying to plan a celebration based around sherbet lemons at the time to bother putting thought into it."

Hermione smiled weakly, not sure that her voice would work properly if she tried to speak. "When... H-how many times?" she croaked, not sure she wanted to know.

"Just the once," came the reply that she had been hoping for. "I felt so sick looking at him after that... I started just sending him to the library."

Hermione closed her eyes. "Have you talked to him? Does he remember it?"

"He must--he's been avoiding me."

She inhaled deeply, hating Ginny in that moment for putting her in the position of judge, jury, and executioner. She wasn't the moral authority; she wasn't even sure what wizarding law said about this sort of thing. Not to mention that if this were to be brought to the attention of the Ministry, they'd likely care more about the use of the Imperius Curse than the violation of Harry's rights and, deep within her, she knew that it had been the only answer in that situation. Licking her lips, she began to speak.

"Then what I think you should do is go and talk to him. Find out what he thinks that you should do; it's his opinion that really matters here. Apologise, let him press charges if he wants, whatever. He already knows why we used Imperius, so I doubt that he's upset about that.

"And, then, I think you should walk away. You'll no doubt see him again, but try to avoid it unless he seeks you out. I think that, in this situation, you've given up your right to defend yourself unless it's revenge he's after."

Ginny blanched visibly at the harsh tone that Hermione's voice had taken on. "Are you angry with me?"

"No. I'm being honest. We've no proof that I wouldn't have done something very similar in that situation. It doesn't mean that I don't hold you at fault for it, but power does corrupt and that's not a concept that's beyond me."

*

Remus awoke the next morning to a pounding somewhere in the vicinity. At first, he thought that it was only the after-effects of the night before, but he quickly came to realise that it was, in fact, a knocking on his bedroom door. The second shock of the morning came about five seconds later when, after half-leaping out of bed, he noticed that he was stuck.

Stuck because his legs were tangled in someone else's legs. A red-haired someone else's to be precise.

Given that he was sharing a house with the Weasley family, he had been bound to wind up in this predicament eventually.

His hand was on the door, about to turn the knob, when it struck him that he was stark naked. As the pounding continued, he fumbled around for a robe, which he promptly yanked over his head. Swinging the door open, putting an end to the banging at long last, he found himself face-to-face with Arthur Weasley.

"Charlie, what is this that your mother..." He had been about to start on a tirade, but his voice, which had begun at a volume almost worthy of his wife, dwindled away as he realised that he was, in fact, speaking to the object of the planned rant.

With a strange, detached sense of horror, Remus observed that the room he was standing in wasn't his at all. Mustering up all the composure that could be had this soon after waking up, he said pleasantly, "Good morning, Arthur."

Turning beet red, the other man replied, "Morning, Remus."

At a loss for things to say, he opted for the traditional, "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Quite. Listen, this business that my wife told me about with you and my son..."

"It's true," Remus cut in, feeling his congenial attitude beginning to wane.

"Ah. I see..."

"Excellent. I suppose that I'll see you at breakfast, then?"

He didn't wait for Arthur's reply before shutting the door in his face and crawling back into bed.

"What was all that about?" Charlie mumbled. "And you've gone and made the bed go all cold."

"I expect you'll find out soon enough and I'm sorry."

"It was Dad, wasn't it?"

"Yes, now go back to sleep."

Hoisting himself into a half-sitting position, Charlie let a grin spread across his face. "Well, now I'm not sure that I want to."

*

Ron flipped the chessboard around so he could play from the side of the white pieces as Hermione looked on, bemused, from her seat across the table. She hadn't been in the Gryffindor common room for ages, especially not when it was this empty.

"Why are you playing against yourself?"

He shrugged. "I got sick of always winning."

"Braggart," she teased.

"It's not like there's anyone to play with, anyway," he said defensively.

She laughed at him, setting closing her book on her lap. "I know. Although I must say that your pieces are much quieter than they used to be."

"I cast a silencing charm." He looked as though he was about to make another move, and then paused. "Hermione, do you know what Ginny's dragged Harry off to talk about?"

Her face froze momentarily before she regained control of it. "I think they just need to work through some things," she replied calmly.

"Oh," he said. "Okay."

He frowned, returning his attention to the game. The white knight captured the black bishop before it, in turn, was taken by the queen. Hermione watched as he silently directed pieces, captivated by the complicated dance that they seemed to be following. When it ended as the black king was trapped in a corner, he finally seemed to regain a sense of his surroundings and looked up at her.

"I wonder if whoever invented chess ever saw a real battle," he commented quietly.

"It seems likely," she said, taken aback by the emptiness that had filled his eyes.

"But do you think that he saw people as expendable pieces?" he asked. "Killing one off so that another one can live?"

"I have no idea, Ron."

It struck her that she wasn't the only one who had been left dealing with some sort of emotional turmoil in the wake of the battle. Maybe it was crass of her, but she hadn't expected it of him at all. Harry, certainly, Ginny, herself, even Severus, but not Ron. He was the only one who never seemed to change.

"I was right there, 'Mione," he said, grief overwhelming his features. "It could have been me. It could have been both of us... On some level, I know that it doesn't really matter who it was, but I keep thinking that of all the people it had to happen to..."

Something twisted horribly in her chest and she closed her eyes to stop the tears that were threatening to spill over. "I know."

"And then there's Percy," he said, face contorting with the effort to keep from crying. "Do you know what 'Memento mori' means?"

"Remember you will die," she half-whispered.

"I can't bloody forget," he snapped. "I don't even feel like I survived that. I wish that I didn't have to think about it, but everywhere I go it's like there's someone whispering in my ear. Sometimes I think that it would have been easier to just die with Neville."

"Of course it would have been easy," she replied. "Nothing about living is ever as simple."

"I know."

They sat in contemplative silence as Hermione studied him, trying to find the words she was looking for. "Memento mori," she finally began. "Where did you hear that?"

"A dream," he said. "Some girl told it to me. I think she meant it to be comforting."

"Did it work? I mean, did it make you feel at all better?"

"For a while, yeah. It made it seem like death was okay, like it's the end that matters, not how you got there. Or maybe it's the getting there that's important. I'm not sure."

"I think it's the getting there," she commented. "Otherwise, what would be the point?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and Hermione suddenly saw him as being much older than he looked. Noticing her stare, he shifted uncomfortably.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded, wondering for the first time when, precisely, their friendship had lapsed into awkward silences.

We're too old, she thought. We've seen too much to ever go back to what we were.

"You know," Ron said, "I think this is the first time we've really talked for ages."

"I think it is," she agreed. "But did we ever really talk?"

Both of them considered this, arriving at the same conclusion.

"No," he replied.

"It was always Harry..."

Just as Hermione spoke his name, he and Ginny broke into the common room, arguing loudly.

"Stop arguing with me!" he roared. "Do you honestly think that, given the same circumstances, you would have been any better off than I was? I know myself a hell of a lot better than you do, Ginny, and you can believe me when I tell you that anything I could have possibly done to you would be worse than that. That you're sorry only makes it worse."

"Yes, but you didn't and I did. What you could have done doesn't matter when you compare it to what I did."

"You don't know that," he hissed, suddenly noticing Hermione and Ron staring. "What?" he snarled at them, sprinting up to the dormitories before they could react.

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to keep her face impassive--the last thing she needed was Ron asking her if she knew anything.

He opted for the more direct and therefore less subtle approach of asking Ginny instead, who was frozen in place, staring after Harry. "What was that about?"

"Nothing," she snarled, turning and stalking out of the room.

*

Severus watched another class file out of the room with a sigh. The more he examined it, the more he became aware that his teaching career was nearing its end. Hermione had discussed it with him at length, and she agreed that the time had come for him to move on. Unfortunately, before he could do that he needed money and he needed a business plan.

If he wanted to use a loan, the business plan would have to come first.

He arranged the stack of essays neatly on the corner of his desk and had just stood to leave, when the door opened and Helena walked in.

"Mother," he greeted her. For the first time in years, she didn't correct him.

"Sit down. We need to talk."

"But we don't talk," he responded, sinking back down in confusion. "It just isn't in the relationship description."

"We need to talk about this girl of yours."

"Hermione?"

"No, one of the other dozens of women that you have been involved with. Yes, Hermione," Agrippa snapped, leaning against a desk.

He groaned. "What has she done now?"

"Nothing. I'm just curious--does she truly want to leave?"

Severus squinted at her in disbelief. "She hasn't said otherwise to me."

Helena visibly breathed a sigh of relief. "Excellent."

"Why? Why did you think that she would have?"

"The girl's heartsick. I've spoken to her twice in the last few days and each time she seemed reluctant to see me. I was wondering if she was reconsidering the matter; so much has changed in the past few months."

He shook his head. "She's hardly the type to change her mind for a bit of romance and I'm hardly one to disagree with that. We've been over this before."

"You wish you were, don't you?" Helena asked directly, and he found himself hating the calmness that was being directed at him, the total understanding he found in her eyes. This wasn't the mother that had raised him, he suddenly realised. That quiet, subordinate creature had died years ago, in a tiny, run-down house as she stared down at the body of a man who had terrorised them both.

"No," he replied, surprising them both.

"You don't want her to stay?"

"What sort of question is that? Mother--Helena, of course I do. Just not that much. Not enough to compromise what she wants."

To his bewilderment, she smiled at him tiredly. "I'll give you both a week after term ends. I wanted to leave immediately, but I think I owe you that, at least."

As she left the room, it occurred to him that the conversation he had just had could, at best, be described as perplexing.

*

Winter faded into spring, but Hermione almost failed to notice. There was too much to do, too many things to cram into too few days, that she woke up every morning with the panic of knowing there was one day fewer to accomplish it in. NEWTs were the last of her worries when Helena was hounding her about learning to become an animagus constantly and her mother was sending daily messages about whether she ought to bring cases of water bottles just in case the water was contaminated. Spare moments were spent in Severus' quarters--he was talking about resigning his post at Hogwarts either this year or the next and she was trying to help him with his plan to open a business of some sort.

Before she so much as had time to draw breath, summer was practically in full force and the time was rapidly approaching to leave. She and Agrippa had both said their goodbyes the week before, tearfully hugging at Heathrow as she boarded the plane that would take her first to Cairo, then to Kigali; the house was being rented to Remus for the year at a rate that everyone knew was well below the average. Harry and Ron had both muttered gruff farewells and offered hugs, Ginny had cried a bit, and even Draco had bothered to track her down before term ended and ask whether she thought his wardrobe would survive Siberia. Now, the only person left was Severus, who had left her with the instruction not to plan anything for the week before she and Helena had agreed to leave and been remarkably silent on the subject ever since.

She had her suspicions, but, for the most part, kept them to herself. She wasn't about to discourage him.

*

Remus flopped down onto the couch, setting his feet on the coffee table and opening his book to the page he had left off on. After several days of creeping round the house, afraid to touch anything and sleeping in the guest bedroom, he was gradually beginning to take over pockets of the house. He had started with the living room--that was an easy enough. Then, last night, he had grown even more daring by moving his clothing into Agrippa's room and was now working on the kitchen. In about a month, the entire house would be his to roam through freely. The only thing that he didn't have qualms about using was Agrippa's flat iron, which she had left for him on her dresser, with a note telling him not to bury the bloody house down with it.

He had just begun to settle into the book when there was a knock on the door. With a sigh, he stood and went to answer it, only mildly surprised to see Charlie Weasley on the other side.

"Hullo, darling," the redhead announced cheerfully. "I've brought dinner. I know how terrified you are about using Agrippa's kitchen."

"Oh, shut up," Remus replied, holding open the door with a grin. "As if you wouldn't feel strange living in another person's house without them there. And what kind of food is it?"

"Good food. But before we discuss that any further, I have a somewhat pressing matter to attend to."

Remus was about to ask what, exactly this matter was, but the words only made it halfway out of his mouth before they were being shoved back down by a probing tongue, whose owner was pushing him against the wall. Naturally, Remus responded by barrelling them in the other direction until they slammed into the wall on the other side of the entrance, nearly knocking a picture frame off of it.

Charlie pulled back only long enough to say, "D'you think you can get past your fear of someone else's bedroom?" before darting up the stairs with Remus chasing after him.

*

As they wandered down the path to the cove, Hermione turned to Severus and squinted up at him, trying to smooth her face into a mask of austerity.

"You didn't have to do this, you know. A cottage in Cornwall, especially at this time of year, can't be cheap. Not unless you were using blackmail."

He raised his eyebrows at her, smirking faintly. "I didn't pay a cent for it."

"Oh, lovely, you're cheap then?"

He snorted lightly. "Of course I am."

"As long as you're up front about it, I'm sure I'll survive."

"In all honesty, it's Malfoy property. I talked Draco into--"

"Ha!" Hermione cut in. "Threatened him, I'll bet."

"--lending it to me for the week," he finished. "And I most certainly didn't threaten him, although I hinted that his Potions mark depended rather heavily on his answer."

"I thought he'd been disowned," Hermione said, furrowing her brow. "Or did his mother..."

"Yes."

"Ah," she responded. "I'm glad. I don't know how he managed to, you know..."

The sentence refused to finish itself, preferring to trail off into awkward silence. Kill his father, echoed in Hermione's mind, but she couldn't bring herself to speak the words.

"Do what he thought necessary?" Severus offered, sighing. "It's a Slytherin trait--one that I would have thought you had picked up by now."

"I'm working on it, don't worry. If all else fails, I'm spending the next year with your mother; she's bound to rub off on me."

He chuckled. "She will, indeed, be good for you."

"She can fill in all those gaps in my education that you left."

His expression became offended, but there was a mocking gleam in his eyes. "Surely I wasn't so horrible a teacher."

"I would never suggest such a thing."

He smirked, pulling her closer and making her breath catch. "I should hope you wouldn't."

Tracing a hand down his chest with a faint smile, she added, "In fact, there are some areas in which I'm tempted to say your methods were positively stimulating."

"I'm glad to hear it," he replied, pressing his lips against the base of her neck.

She let herself sink into him gratefully, feeling for the first time in months that her guard was allowed to slip. There was no one present to defend their relationship to, her life was no longer an endless string of memorial services and celebrations, and she had no good reason to think about the future. Yet. In a week's time, she would have to deal with the reality of leaving Severus behind, but right now there was the ocean pounding the rocky beach and a cottage where they could finally be completely alone.

Deep inside her chest, she felt something swell almost to the point of bursting and she threw her arms around him in a sudden burst of affection.

"You know I'll miss you, right?" she asked.

He blinked at her, startled.

"I mean, have I made that clear?"

She waited for his response, but he only nodded, drawing her attention to a strange glittering in his eyes. "Perfectly," he replied hoarsely, after a moment of trying to compose himself. "And I feel perfectly confident in saying that the feeling will be reciprocated."

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to eradicate all traces of the future from her mind. Neither of them wanted it just then, not when there were empty beaches and sunsets and sheets to be tangled in. It might be the last chance the would have to pretend there was no world outside of their self-imposed isolation, and she wasn't about to watch it slip through her fingers before she could hand it to him.

In that moment, she could feel something inside her chest swelling and bursting. If she had been feeling rational, she might have assumed her lung had punctured, but she wasn't. Instead, she let herself believe that it was her heart expanding outwards and engulfing the man whose arms were wrapped around her.

And, there was absolutely no proof to the contrary.