Getting Closer to Fine

Eight

There's a progress we have found, a way to talk around the problem. --R.E.M.

*

On Saturday morning, Harry woke up and immediately tried to burrow back under his blankets. His head hurt. There was pain on the inside, a lot of it, all concentrated right over his eye. There was also pain on the outside, all sharp and pointy, which didn't make any sense at all. Either someone had thoughtfully added nails to his bed linens, or. . . .

. . .Or he had an owl that thought it perfectly appropriate to sharpen her claws on his scalp.

"Okay, okay, Hedwig," Harry grumbled, struggling to sit and take the post from her. It took a full minute before he realised why it was so terribly blurry. After popping on his glasses, Harry made another attempt, and found it to be a note from Hermione. He began groaning before he even reached second line. "Ron!"

A faint voice drifted in from the bedroom across the hall. "Wha-?"

"We're supposed to go to your parents' today. For lunch, remember? Hermione's going to be here in an hour."

Harry heard muffled swearing. "Tell her it's off."

"Ron." Harry put every ounce of finality he could into the word.

"Fine." Ron changed tack immediately. "Don't you want to shower first?" he called plaintively. "The chance to enjoy a loo completely free of ginger hair?"

"Yeah, fine." Harry slid to his feet and rubbed his forehead. That pain didn't make a lot of sense, either. True, he and Ron had stayed up fairly late the previous night, after he'd got home from his walk and dinner with Hermione, and Ron had returned from his date. There'd been Quidditch on the wireless, and Butterbeer - at least, Harry thought there'd only been Butterbeer. Perhaps Ron had made a few enhancements. In slow motion so as not to make things worse, he fished a fresh pair of pants out of his dresser and headed for the shower.

When Hermione popped into the living room exactly one hour later, Harry was clean, dressed, and stretched out on the couch. She grinned at him. "Am I to deduce by the splashing sounds that Mr. Weasley is not yet ready to leave?"

"Got it in one." Harry smiled back. It was good to see Hermione taking a day off; she looked casual and happy in jeans and a dark red pullover, a heavy coat tossed over her arm. He suddenly felt eager to join in her good mood. "Although," Harry added, "his inspired rendition of Some Witches Are Bigger Than Others should've also been a clue."

She laughed. "What you call inspired, I call wailing." Harry shifted his feet, and Hermione settled in on the end of the couch. She patted her lap. "Go on, put your feet back up. Your socks look clean."

Harry grinned to himself as he swung his feet onto her lap. That was Hermione all right - kind, yet infinitely practical. She leaned forward to peer into his face, and he instinctively moved away, back into the cushions. He knew there were shadows under his eyes, he'd seen them in the bathroom mirror. "How late did you two stay up last night?" she asked. "You look knackered."

Harry shrugged. "Don't remember. We were listening to the Cannons."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There are plenty of other programmes you could listen to, if you refuse to sleep at night like a sensible person," she said, poking his foot for emphasis. "Programmes that enlighten and educate, that examine the issues of modern wizarding society. . . ."

"Oh, bloody hell." Ron appeared in the doorway, wearing jeans and rubbing his hair with a towel. "It's not even noon, and she's already started! It's indecent, that's what it is!"

"I was talking to Harry," Hermione said icily. "If someone addresses you, do feel free to contribute an opinion. Until then, shut it!"

Harry groaned and inched a cushion over his face in an attempt to become one with the couch. Last week's row was evidently still fresh in both his friends' minds, and he knew what was coming next: a tug-of-war match, with his support as top prize. And even though Harry knew where he stood, it wasn't something he felt like being dragged into at the moment.

It was rather nice under the pillow, he thought. Dark and quiet. Actually. . . it seemed rather quiet outside his little nest as well. The only noise he heard sounded like retreating footsteps.

Harry peeked out from under the cushion. "Is it safe to come out?"

"For now," Hermione said ominously. Her eyes flashed one last time toward the spot Ron had vacated, then softened into concern as they focused on him. Harry sighed quietly. One way or another, it looked like it was going to be a long day.

*

Twenty minutes later, Harry shrugged off his coat inside the front door of the Burrow. It was still his very favourite house in the wizarding world, even after so many years. The Weasleys had done so much to make him feel wanted, loved, part of a family; being friendly and social when he didn't quite feel like it was a very small thing to do in return. And there was a silver lining - the buzz of activity definitely promised to overshadow Ron and Hermione's continuing glares and frosty politeness. For that, he was grateful.

It was less than a minute before their presence was noted, and they were descended upon by a variety of happy Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley rushed forward and hugged them all about the neck relentlessly; when she was done, Percy stepped forward and shook their hands in his patented pompous way. Fred and George jumped into the fray at once, trading fake punches and manly slappy hugs with Ron. Harry backed away slightly, so as not to be injured by wayward arms.

Unfortunately, his amusement did not go unnoticed. Fred elbowed George, and the twins shared meaningful looks.

"Is he laughing at us? Us?"

"It certainly appears that way-"

"No, no, I wasn't, really," Harry said hastily, backing away from the dual gleams in their eyes.

"You know what that means-"

In a flurry of red hair and grins, Harry was bear-hugged and mock-punched; his sides were tickled and his hair was ruffled by not two, but three Weasleys at once.

"Ron," Harry sputtered, "remember who cleans! And lets you borrow his clothes!"

Ron shrugged, then put him in a headlock.

When they all finally let go, Harry found himself wondering if he'd ever get completely used to the Weasleys' uninhibited, hands-on approach towards him and each other. He rather hoped so. Although today it wasn't necessarily the best day for it. Instead of following Ron and the twins into the kitchen to forage for snacks, Harry sneaked off upstairs, in search of the loo and a pain-killing potion for his headache.

Harry paused at the foot of the stairs a few minutes later, unsure where to go. There was a great deal of noise emanating from the kitchen; from the feminine squeaking, he reckoned that Fred and George's raid might have been successful. Harry turned and went into the living room instead, which was quiet, and proved to be occupied by only Mr. Weasley.

"Hullo, Harry." Mr. Weasley was seated in a chair before the fireplace, carefully sorting little bits of wire into an old tackle box. "Just the person I wanted to see."

"Hullo, sir."

"Do me a favour, boy, will you? Squirt a bit more of that on the fire." He gestured towards a dingy bottle on the hearth. Harry picked up the bottle; its cap reminded him of a creature's head, although it was impossible to say what kind, due to a thick coat of grease and grime. He squeezed, and a stream of liquid shot out through what looked like teeth and onto the flames.

"Thank you, Harry. We need a really roaring blaze. It's so cold today." Mr. Weasley closed his box with a loud, metallic clang. "Now, sit down, sit down. I wanted to ask you about something."

Harry sat down on the floor in front of him, his back to the hearth. "Yes, sir?"

Mr. Weasley looked left, then right. "I heard a rumour," he whispered, leaning forward. "Is it true? Ron's got himself a Muggle girlfriend?"

"Er. . .Where did you hear that?"

"Colleen Finnegan - your friend Seamus's mother - was in the office the other day. Slight problem with her Muggle in-laws and an enchanted ice-pick."

Harry blinked, opened his mouth, and closed it quickly. It was probably best not to ask for details.

"Now, is it true?"

Harry nodded. "But. . . I'm not sure Ron's quite ready to tell everyone, just yet."

Mr. Weasley nodded knowingly. "Oh, don't worry about me, boy. I can keep a secret as good as any of you - spies, is it?"

Harry grinned. "Right."

Mr. Weasley turned back to his work, measuring wires against each other with painstaking care before placing in them in appropriate slots of his tackle box. Harry closed his eyes and leaned back, basking in the glow of the fire. Maybe, if he was lucky, no-one would come looking for him until it was time to eat. Maybe he could get a good solid kip in, and wake up rejuvenated and refreshed and ready to join in the Weasley family fun. Maybe....

"Ah, there you are, Harry!"

. . .Maybe Trelawney had been right all along. Maybe he was the most ill-fated being on two legs.

Harry cracked open his eyes. "Oh, hallo, Percy."

Percy looked a bit miffed that Harry didn't hop up and embark on a second round of handshaking, but recovered quickly enough. "How are things in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement these days?"

"Fine, fine." Percy continued to hover in front of him, and Harry resigned himself to observing the social niceties. "And you? How are things in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?"

Percy rubbed his hands eagerly. "Absolutely smashing," he began. "In a time when both our societies are expanding, it is imperative that we wizards respect the culture of our fellow humans; that we. . . ."

It was funny, Harry noted, how very less effective someone's pontificating was when you were in a position to look up their nose. Harry reckoned by the deliberate way Percy was projecting his words that he would very much like for Harry to stand - it would, of course, be entirely too undignified for Percy to join him on the floor. But Harry had no intention of standing at all. His headache had begun shifting; it was becoming less a throbbing and more an unpleasant, worrisome fuzziness. His stomach wasn't too happy either, and instinct told him that standing would be a very bad idea.

"Without a doubt," Percy was saying when Harry tuned back in, "going to work with Father was truly one of the most inspired decisions I've ever made."

Harry gave something between a snort and a cough. The way he'd understood it, Percy hadn't had a great deal of choice in the matter. There wasn't exactly a booming job market for those who'd once defended the Ministry's old guard and supported men like Barty Crouch, Sr. and Cornelius Fudge. Percy owed his second chance at a career to his father, and as Harry understood it, his second chance with the family as well. It had been Mr. Weasley who had made certain, in his quiet way, that when the time came and Percy was ready to come home, there was a welcome waiting.

"Well, Harry, it's been perfectly splendid speaking with you," Percy said. "But if you'll excuse me, I must go see if Hermione is free. She made a most interesting comment about her current legal activities earlier. I should like to discuss it with her further."

Harry waved a vague goodbye to Percy and let his eyes slide closed again. Maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to get in some sleep. . .and maybe the potion would work its magic on his fuzzy head and increasingly unsettled stomach before lunch made it to the table.

*

Harry's luck, or lack of it, held up through the meal. Like all good Weasley gatherings, it was a bright, happy, boisterous affair, with more food than Harry could bear to look at, much less smell, heaped upon his plate. The moment it seemed polite for him to do so, Harry excused himself from the table and slipped out the kitchen door. It was a typical English winter day, the air cold, the sky dark and heavy with the threat of cold rain. Harry sank down onto the Burrow's back stoop, drew his knees up to his chest and made a bony pillow out of his arms. He buried his head in it gratefully and concentrated on taking long, slow breaths.

Harry wasn't sure how long he sat like that, enjoying the cold, clean air, blessedly free of any sort of food-related smell. The sound of his breathing and the wind in the trees was finally broken by a voice saying, "You're ill."

He lifted his head enough to see Hermione, shivering and rocking on her heels, arms crossed over her chest. Harry opened his mouth to say, "Am not," realised it would lead them quickly into school playground territory ("Am not!" "Are too!"), and thought the better of it. "Maybe a little."

Hermione sat down beside him. "Same as last night?"

Harry bit his lip, considering. "Yeah, I reckon. Just - more so."

Hermione's eyes searched his face; Harry could practically hear her brain proposing and rejecting one diagnosis after another. "It's nothing to worry about, Hermione," he said. "Look." He clasped her hand and pressed the back of it to his forehead, pushing his hair out of the way. "See? No fever."

She furrowed her brow doubtfully. Harry was actually a bit doubtful as well; it was wonderfully cool everywhere her skin met his. That probably wasn't normal. He began to drop his hand, and she did too; somehow, they stayed connected, lying on the frigid cement between them.

"You were doing shrinking charms on your roast, weren't you?"

"Bugger," Harry said. "Did anyone else notice?"

She shook her head. "No. Not as far as I could tell. How were you doing it, anyway? I never saw your wand."

"You won't tell?"

"Promise."

"You sure? This is a top-level Auror secret, this is."

"I'm sure."

He leaned close to her. "Wand up my sleeve," he whispered.

Hermione smiled, and it lit up her face. She nudged his shoulder with hers. "Now why don't I believe you?"

Harry blinked innocently. "I'm sure I don't know." He moved to nudge her back, but suddenly, didn't feel as if he could. He plunged his head down between his knees instead.

"Harry?"

Hermione's voice seemed to come from a long way away, like he was deep underwater and she was calling down to him from the surface. Harry wanted to tell her that he was fine, not to worry, but he didn't trust himself to open his mouth right then. He closed his eyes and concentrated on not passing out, or throwing up, or both.

When he felt able, Harry lifted his head slightly and looked at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. She was biting her lip, and shivering, and he gave himself a mental slap for not registering her lack of a coat before. He'd come out here so he wouldn't worry anyone, and here he was, worrying Hermione. And turning her into an icicle at the same time. "You should go in. I'm fine."

She shook her head stubbornly. "I'm not going to leave you out here by yourself."

"Hermione-" Harry closed his eyes and tried to will the nausea away. "Hermione, if I do lose my lunch here, I really don't want you to see it."

"Harry-"

"Just go. Please."

He was prepared for her to get up and leave, in one quick, silent motion; he was prepared for her to take her fingers away when she did. He wasn't prepared to miss them, to feel oddly incomplete.

Harry sighed. He didn't know what to do next. He wanted to Apparate straight home to bed, but he couldn't do that without at least telling someone first. But that would mean going inside, something he didn't feel like doing at all.

At that moment, Ron appeared on the stoop behind him with a biscuit in each hand, in the manner of an overgrown, continually snacking guardian angel. "Well, you look horrid," he said conversationally. "What's wrong? Did Fred show you what he's growing in the garage?"

Harry shuddered. "No. No, just feeling a bit off, is all."

Ron plopped down beside him and took a bite. "Sorry about that, mate," he said around a mouthful of cookie. "Hey, what'd you do to Hermione? Her eyes were all red, when she came in. I thought if anybody'd make her cry today, it'd be me."

Harry groaned. "Never mind. . . Look, do something for me, will you? Tell her I'm sorry, and that I had to go home. And tell her I want to talk to her later, if she'll talk to me. Okay?"

Ron, clearly dying of curiosity, stopped the biscuit en route to his mouth. "Okay. You going to tell me why?"

"Nope. And - tell your mum thanks for everything, all right?"

Ron nodded. "All right, I'll deliver your messages. But," he drew himself up to his full height, "I should just like to point out that I have neither feathers, nor a beak, nor claws. And I cannot be mollified with those foul owl treats."

"Duly noted. Thanks, mate." Harry closed his eyes, concentrated, and was gone a second later.

*

"Well!" Ron popped into the flat a few hours later, with Hermione close on his heels. "Somebody must be feeling better!"

Harry nodded vaguely, most of his attention fixed upon Hermione. Her face was set in a cold mask, one he had seen before - usually when Ron had pushed her too far in one direction or another. Harry wasn't used to being the cause himself, though, and he felt a slight panic coming on. This was going to be harder than he'd thought.

Harry put the sandwich he'd been devouring down and shifted his attention to Ron. "Yeah, I am," he said. "It just went away, an hour ago. Just like that."

"Hmpfh," Ron grumbled. "Sounds like a right convenient illness to me. Sounds like your Inner Eye told you that mum was going to ask us boys to do all the dishes."

Hermione sighed loudly. Harry knew it was just her knee-jerk reaction to the mere mention of Inner Eyes and other assorted Divination nonsense; still, it was discouraging.

"Ron?" Harry asked quietly. "Can you give us a minute?"

"Huh? Oh." Ron took off his coat and dropped it on a chair. "Right, going to feed Pig now," he proclaimed loudly, then swiftly exited the room.

Harry turned to Hermione at once. "Hermione? Will you sit down?" He patted the couch beside him. She did so, but stiffly, and made no move to take off her coat. Harry chewed on his lip thoughtfully. He needed something to say, something that would get them back to the easy camaraderie they'd shared this morning, right on this very spot. An abject apology seemed the way to go.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For. . . being so rude?"

"No need to be sorry," Hermione said coolly. "You were ill. It's hard to be perfectly polite when you're ill. I understand."

"Hermione-"

"And you explained already," she said, her voice strained but calm. "You don't want anyone to see you like that, to see you lose control. Anyone. I understand."

"Hermione-"

"In fact, there's no reason for us to still be talking about this." Her hands shook slightly in her lap, belying the control in her voice. "Ron!" she shouted. "You can come out now!"

Ron appeared in less than a second and dropped down into the armchair. Hermione pulled off her coat and turned in her seat so that her back was to Harry. As she and Ron began talking, Harry returned to his sandwich, not paying any attention to what they were saying. He tried to think through what had happened at the Burrow logically, step by step, but he just couldn't see what he'd done that had been so wrong. Harry knew he hadn't been terribly nice, and he was sorry about that; but he'd been thinking of her, and that couldn't be wrong. Could it?

He shrugged. Witches were strange, he decided. Strange and unusual. And it probably wasn't just witches, either; probably Muggle females were every bit as unfathomable as well. Which reminded him. . . .

"Ron! Your dad knows about Sarah. Seamus's mum told him."

Ron gaped, speechless, for a moment. "Bloody buggery fuck!"

"Ron!" Hermione leaned over and smacked his arm. "What's so awful about that? You did plan on introducing them at some point, didn't you?"

"Yes, but. . ." Ron shook his head. "Never mind. You're right." To Harry's surprise, Ron was still visibly shaken, his face paler than usual, with his freckles standing out sharply. Harry didn't know much about the whole introducing-your-girlfriend-to-the-family thing personally, but he wouldn't have thought it to be so bad. Although with Fred and George around, maybe Ron did have reason to worry.

Ron seemed to draw himself together. "Right. Harry, are you going to be really busy at work this week?"

Harry blinked, startled by the change of subject. "Probably not," he said resignedly. Downtime was all very well and good, but right now it only served to remind him of how in the dark he and Dean and Moody were. . . that they knew nothing more about that bloody snake and Crabbe and Avery than they had weeks ago.

"Do you think you could get some time off to come to Diagon Alley? And bring Sarah with you, so she can visit me at work?"

"Most likely," Harry replied. "I'll ask Moody on Monday."

"Brilliant," Ron muttered. "I think."

*

Ron hovered outside Sarah's flat on Monday evening, holding a few takeaway cartons and trying to talk his hand into knocking on the door. Between Seamus's mum and his own bloody brilliant suggestion about Diagon Alley, he was quite firmly painted into a corner. There was only one way out: he had to tell Sarah everything he hadn't told her yet about the wizarding world, and he had to do it tonight. Because if his dad knew about Sarah, chances were good more Weasleys would know sooner rather than later, and if Harry accompanied Sarah to Diagon Alley tomorrow, chances were even better that he would be recognized and that some sort of Boy Who Lived comment would be made.

Ron had a tight deadline, thanks to Moody, who had given Harry time off for the very next day. Unfortunately, his Gryffindor courage seemed to have taken a holiday, leaving him with only a long list of fears: Sarah would be angry at him for keeping more secrets. . .she would be afraid of wizards once she learned about Dark ones. . . she would turn into a Boy Who Lived fan.

She let him in, and her eyes flicked to the cartons in surprise. "You brought food? I thought we were going out."

"Well. . ." Ron dumped his armload onto her oddly immaculate dining table. "I thought this would be more intimate." She raised her eyebrows, and his ears burned in response. He hadn't meant it like that. . . unless, of course, she didn't mind him meaning it like that. "For conversation, I mean."

"Oh, that's fine. It's sort of wet and icky out, anyway. Help me set the table?"

It was intimate, Ron decided a few minutes later. The room was lit by just one lamp, rather than the overhead light, and Sarah had put some sort of soft Muggle music on the stereo. Ron hoped he'd remember to try this again, someday. . . a day when his brain wasn't too numb to carry on conversation, and his stomach was calm enough to actually allow him to eat.

"Hermione came by today."

"Oh?"

"She lent me some robes and a cloak to wear tomorrow. She says I'll feel more comfortable if I blend in."

Ron swallowed. "Yeah, she's probably right."

"She also said something about you being a self-centred prat."

Ron took a deep breath, stared at his plate, and dove in. "She's probably right about that too. But not for the reason she thinks." He couldn't stop himself from muttering, "I'm still right about the bloody beasts."

Sarah gave a small, uncertain laugh. "Ron? What's wrong? You're not going to start banging your head into things again, are you?"

"No. No, I'm not." He looked up to meet her eyes. "It's just - there are a few more things you should probably know about wizards, before tomorrow. And I should have told you sooner, and I'm sorry."

She reached across the table and grabbed his hand. "That's okay, Ron. The way I see it, the fact that I know about magic at all. . . I mean, it's a pretty huge thing, and you've trusted me with it. That means a lot."

Oh, how brilliant. How absolutely bloody brilliant. Sarah could have given Dumbledore lessons on killing with kindness.

He offered up a weak smile. "Okay. Here goes. Um. . . wizards are people, right? And some people are good, and some people are sort of okay, and some people are just diabolically evil?"

Sarah nodded. "Sure. There's Mother Teresa, and then there's the rest of us, and then there's Hitler."

"Right. Well, there was a wizard like Hitler, until a year or so ago." Ron looked away, not sure what to say next. How do you tell someone that they had been the target of genocide, without even knowing it? How do you say, Some of my people wanted you dead?

"Was there a war?" Sarah whispered.

Ron nodded.

"Were you in it?"

He nodded again. Before he could say anything else, Sarah darted out of her seat and around the table. She threw herself in his lap and buried her face in his shoulder. "You don't have to tell me," she said. "You don't have to tell me anything that's too hard."

Ron considered that. What could he say that wasn't too hard? Not just for him to talk about, but for her to hear?

Not a whole hell of a lot, Ron decided. She didn't need to know about the power of green light, or creatures that could eat your soul, or words that could set every nerve in your body on fire. She simply didn't need to know.

"I was really lucky," he said finally, into her hair. "My whole family survived. Pretty surprising, considering how many of us there are." He took a deep breath. "And my two best friends survived. . .I didn't expect that, either. After fourth year, I was so sure that Harry. . .Some nights, I'd make sure that the curtains were open on both our beds, so I could see him, all night, and know that he was okay. But some nights, he'd be sleeping on his back, perfectly still, and all I could think was, That's how he'll look in his coffin. And I'd get up and close them, and try to pretend I'd never had a friend called Harry Potter. Just so I could sleep." He paused, and wiped at his eyes. "See, I told you I was a prat."

"You're not," Sarah said quietly. "Not at all."

She stroked the back of his neck and Ron found that he couldn't say any more. It had been a good while since he'd let himself truly think about their last few years at school, to slip into those days and feel them again. It wasn't pleasant.

But then Sarah's lips were on his cheek, softly, and then on his mouth; Ron seized the distraction, the opportunity to let go, and kissed her back appreciatively.

Some time passed quite pleasantly, before Ron remembered one thing he absolutely had to say. He moved his lips away, just a centimetre, and said, "Oh yeah - Harry's a war hero."

Sarah placed her mouth back on his. "Okay," she said against his lips.

It tasted wonderful.

*

At quarter of ten the next morning, Sarah huddled under her umbrella just outside the entrance to the Charing Cross Underground station. It was miserable weather, cold but not cold enough for snow, and she had to squint through the rain and mist to try and spot Harry.

Sarah was practically beside herself with excitement, and if truth be told, a little fear. She had been surprised last night at Ron's revelations, but in retrospect, she shouldn't have been. Ron had been exactly right: wizards were people. And, unfortunately, death and destruction were things that some people did.

And one person had done them well, if the pain in Ron's eyes last night was anything to go on. She'd set out to cheer him up, to wipe that expression off his face, and she'd succeeded. And in doing so, she had also managed to quiet a little voice in her head, one that had said over and over, You don't want to know, you don't want to know. . . .

But Ron had promised that she would be as safe in wizarding London as anywhere in the city. Especially with Harry, he had said. And the more she thought about it, the more she believed him. Harry was a wizard policeman, and, apparently, a war hero. She didn't feel like she knew him very well; he was much more reserved than Ron, and she simply hadn't been around him as often. She would feel more comfortable if Ron was here now, she knew that. But it would be ages before they could work it out, he'd said, and her curiosity was definitely getting the better of her.

"Sorry I'm late," came a deep voice from just over her shoulder.

Sarah jumped slightly. Wizards really did have an unfair advantage at sneaking up on people unawares. "You're fine, right on time."

She was relieved to see that he was dressed in Muggle clothes as well. She had Hermione's robes folded up in her backpack, ready to slip on when the time was right. She looked Harry over critically, wondering where his robes were hidden. Special magical pockets? Invisible backpack? Maybe he would just tap his clothes with his magic wand and they would change instantly. The possibilities seemed endless.

"Want to share my brolly?" he asked. "I've made a few, er, enhancements."

"That'd be brilliant, thanks," she said, moving over to take him up on his offer.

"Plus," Harry added quietly as they started off down the pavement, "when we get there, you're going to need to hold onto me. I don't think you'll be able to see the entrance on your own - although I'm not quite sure. I should've asked Hermione how it was for her parents."

"That's right, they're Muggles too, aren't they?"

"Right."

"Huh." Sarah thought about it for a minute as they squished along. "That must happen fairly often, then. Wizards in Muggle families. I mean, your aunt -" She broke off, noticing that Harry was gripping the umbrella handle more tightly than strictly necessary.

"Fairly often." His voice was strained, but polite, and Sarah got the message that his family was off-limits for discussion. Which was okay, because hers rather was too.

After a few more minutes of walking in silence, Harry stopped on the pavement, right between a bookshop and a record shop. "Do you see a pub?" he whispered.

"No, should I?"

Harry shook his head. "Nah. Just hold onto my arm. You might want to close your eyes, so you don't see yourself walking into a wall."

Sarah determinedly ignored the squirming in her stomach, where excited butterflies were fighting with scared ones for the upper hand. She hung onto Harry and walked forward with her eyes squeezed shut. She heard him fumble with a knob, and the sounds of the street melted away as they stepped through a doorway.

"Mr. Potter!"

"Hullo, Tom," Harry said.

Sarah opened her eyes slowly. They were in a very small, very grubby, very empty pub. At first glance, it looked much as any pub would during off-hours, and Sarah felt a stab of disappointment. A bald, ancient man in a faded brown robe began shuffling out from behind the counter.

Harry took a few quick strides forward. "Good to see you, Tom," he said, shaking the old man's hand. "But we mustn't stop. Lots to do today."

Sarah let Harry hustle her out through the back of the pub, into a small courtyard. She surveyed the wet brick walls and the grungy dustbins skeptically. "What now?"

"First, we should change." Harry brought a little folded square of cloth out of his pocket, took out his wand, muttered something, and was suddenly holding long black robes and a cloak. Sarah pulled off her backpack and rustled out Hermione's dark blue ones. She had tried it on in front of the mirror last night, so she knew how she looked. Different. Blending in with the witches and wizards was a good idea, but it was also faintly unsettling.

When they were both changed, Harry studied the wall for a moment, took out his wand, and tapped a brick three times. Sarah sucked in her breath as the bricks began to move and shift, every twist enlarging her view of a very different world beyond. "Oh," she said quietly.

Sarah nodded and pulled up the hood on Hermione's warm winter cloak, shielding her face from the rain. It was amazing. It was every Dickens novel she'd never finished, and every fantasy one she had, tossed together and brought to life in full colour. The street was quiet, with only a few witches and wizards scurrying about under cloaks. But the shop windows told the story - shiny cauldrons and polished broomsticks, spell books and bottles of potions. . . .

"Ready?" Harry asking, still grinning at her amazement.

They set off down the alley, Sarah twisting her neck left, then right, furiously snapping mental pictures to pore over later. "Is it always this quiet here?"

Harry laughed. "Not at all. It's the rain, for one. Plus, this time of day, most people are at work. That's one reason Ron picked it. He didn't want you to be overwhelmed."

They drew closer to a white building at the end of the street that loomed over the others.

"There. That's Gringotts."

"Wow."

As they approached the bank's great silver doors, coherent speech left Sarah entirely. A short creepy thing let them in; she couldn't help staring at its face, its ears, its teeth. Inside the hushed marble hall, there were more of them - she assumed they had to be goblins - along with wizards and witches and some creatures she couldn't even begin to classify. Getting a good look at them all simply wasn't possible, but she gave it a go anyway.

Sarah noted vaguely that she had attached herself to Harry's arm again. He didn't seem to mind; he smiled as he propelled her toward one of goblins seated behind a high counter, where he plunked down a stack of heavy coins. "Harry Potter. Need to change this for Muggle money, please." Money was exchanged, normal, everyday pounds and pence looking incongruous in wrinkled goblin hands. When the transaction was completed, Harry added, "And we'd like to see Ron Weasley, if at all possible. I have a few investment questions."

The goblin looked at them closely, and Sarah shivered at the scrutiny. Finally, it nodded. "You may, Mr. Potter."

A few minutes later, Sarah and Harry were ushered into an office that was mercifully free of goblins. Ron jumped up from behind a small desk in the corner. "Brilliant! You made it!"

They settled into chairs in front of the desk. "Thanks, mate," Ron said.

"Oh, it was nothing. I needed to get some Muggle money for the rent, anyway."

Sarah scooted forward, and began to relate every sight and sound she'd experienced in an animated whisper. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Harry politely burying himself in an assortment of financial-looking parchments. The time flew by; Sarah had no idea how long they'd been talking when a goblin appeared in the doorway and fixed them all with a powerful stare.

"Right," Harry said loudly, laying the parchments on the desk. "Investing in dragon's blood seems like a good idea. These import figures are truly staggering."

Ron mouthed a silent thank-you.

"We'll get back to you on the details," Harry added, rising to his feet. Sarah followed, giving Ron a tiny, undetectable wave with her fingers. She hoped the incomprehensible goblin noises that followed them out into the corridor were happy ones.

*

Hermione watched the rain fall outside a window in Harry and Ron's flat, ignoring the books spread out on the table around her. She'd come over to the boys' flat because she was in a mood to be distracted from her work (something she would never, ever admit aloud) and because she had hoped Harry might drop by after he was done in Diagon Alley. She needed a chance to see him, to talk to him casually one-on-one and prove that everything was completely normal and best friend-like between them.

"Because it would be," she muttered angrily, "if I weren't wandering around like some lovesick fourth year, taking it personally when a bloke wants to throw up alone!"

"Thanks," Hermione said sourly.

Hedwig hooted again, but this time it was because Harry had appeared in the middle of the room. He was shaking water out of his hair like some sort of disheveled, black-furred animal, and holding what was unmistakably a Flourish and Blotts bag in one hand. It took less than five seconds for him to tense up, slip a hand inside his pocket, then visibly relax as he recognized his visitor.

"I hope you don't mind," Hermione said quickly, uncomfortably aware that if the room had been any darker, she would have probably been hexed into the new year. "I just - well," she shrugged, "it gets quiet at home."

"Don't mind at all," Harry said. Hermione couldn't help but watch, smiling, as he made a pathetic attempt to hide the shopping bag behind his back.

Harry followed her eyes and blushed. "You might as well see," he mumbled, walking over to the table and dumping the bag down on top of it. "I got it for you. I was thinking Christmas, but - I don't know. I always get you a book for Christmas."

Hermione looked up into his face, which was rather adorably pink. "Harry! You didn't have to - and anyway, save it for Christmas."

"No." Harry shrugged off his cloak and sat down at the table beside her. "Go ahead. I want you to."

Hermione slid a heavy book out of the bag and gasped. "Oh Harry, it's beautiful!" A shimmering, magnificent dragon blew smoke and breathed fire underneath the title: A Compendium of Creatures (That Can Kill You If You're Not Careful).

"You think so?" Harry asked eagerly, sliding his chair over. "And - I know how important they are to you - it's even got an index." He flipped rapidly to the back of the book. "There," he said proudly.

Hermione beamed. "Perfect," she said. "Cross-references and everything."

She began to browse her new book, impressed with the intricate illustrations and the sheer wealth of information provided on each creature. Harry read along over her shoulder, his breath warm on her neck as he pointed out the entry on hippogriffs, or laughed at the drawing of a gnome fiercely attached to an old wizard's ear. Hermione knew - knew - that reading out of the same book did not strictly require two people to sit so closely. She'd shared books with plenty of study partners at uni, and never had a shoulder pressed against her back, or her leg outlined by the warmth of another's.

She tilted her head at Hedwig, the closest thing to a girlfriend in the room, as if to say, "Do you see it? Have you been seeing it?" But Hedwig chose to be maddeningly, owlishly enigmatic, and refused to even blink her eyes in reply.

Hermione was so busy shooting her best glare back at Hedwig that it was a moment or two before she realised that Harry had gone completely still, and possibly even stopped breathing. She turned her head and sucked in a breath at the sight of his face, pale and frozen, eyes wide behind his glasses. "Everything all right?" she asked quietly.

He started at the sound of her voice. "Yeah," he said quickly. "Fine."

Hermione didn't believe him in the slightest, but was determined not to push, this time. "Okay." She turned back to the book in an attempt to demonstrate just how non-pushy she could be, and was treated to the barest glimpse of a giant snake before the volume was closed abruptly.

"I should go to work, I think," Harry said, standing. "Before Dean gets all shirty about me getting too much time off."

"Okay," she repeated, watching his back as he put on his cloak.

He might be fine, and she might not be pushy. . . but she was going to read every last word of that serpent entry, the minute he popped out of the building.

No ifs, ands, or buts about it.