Getting Closer to Fine

Thirteen

It was the same but it was also different, every time. It never unfolded like a play, curtain up on the Death Eaters taking their places on Aunt Petunia's front lawn, curtain down on twin flashes of green light. He wished it would: then it would have a beginning, and an end, he would know how long it would last, he might even remember something solid when he woke. Some detail that would prove important, make him say aha!, explain the recurring show.

But instead, things would go from last to first to middle and back again, following a dream-logic that made perfect sense, but meant nothing with eyes open. Or sight and sound would fade away and the night become nothing more than its essence, a haze of fear and blood and pain.

Harry kicked back the covers, sweaty and hot, and stared up at the dark blur of the ceiling. All he had were dots, and no idea where to draw the line connecting them. Headaches. Dreams. A bit of flu. And a plot involving known Death Eaters, the Dark Mark, blood from the most powerfully magic creatures known to wizardkind, and, mustn't forget, a little jade snake with something to say.

Dean would say he couldn't draw the line because there wasn't one to be drawn; just Dark wizards to catch and a doctor or - Harry shuddered - a therapist to see.

Not that it mattered what Dean would say, now.

Yesterday at the Burrow, Harry hadn't thought, he hadn't rationalised, he hadn't considered the implications. He'd simply opened his mouth, spoken two sentences, and very neatly sabotaged everything Hermione had been working for.

That was yesterday.

Harry wondered how long it would be before she found out, before she hated him, before she was gone. Today Harry was sorry, but she was safer, and if someone threw a Time-Turner around his neck and spun the glass he knew he'd do the same thing all over again.

Today, he'd had enough.

Harry got out of bed and put on trackpants and a sweatshirt. The sky was lightening, grey instead of black, and even if he thought he could, it would be pointless trying to go back to sleep. Instead, a jog through early-morning streets, a shower, and then work, where he would do something about this, finally.

He made it to Headquarters earlier than usual, before Dean, but not before Moody. Harry wasn't sure that arriving before Moody was even possible; he was quite willing to believe that his boss slept somewhere in the office, perhaps in his chair, or under his desk.

Harry walked up to Moody's desk and said, "Sir."

"Is that you here already, Potter?" Moody pushed aside a scroll and focused his attention on Harry. "Should I put you to some kind of test to make sure you really are Potter, and not someone else in disguise? I think maybe I should."

Harry did not doubt for an instant that the man was completely serious. "It's really me," Harry said. "I wanted to have a word."

Moody regarded him for a moment, magic eye whirring. "If we were Muggles, how would I prove your identity?"

"Fingerprints, sir," Harry said, holding up his hands, palm out.

"Really?" Moody pulled a piece of parchment to him, and scribbled this down. "Interesting. And how would I remove them? A small, sharp knife?"

"No, sir!" Harry hastily stuffed his hands into his pockets. Leaving computer technology out altogether - they were already wasting too much time - he explained about inkpads, and about keeping the prints of known criminals on file. "And you would've taken my fingerprints when I first joined up here, so you could easily check."

"Mmm," Moody said, still writing. "Fascinating, thank you." A twitch of his wand, and a chair slid across the floor to stop in front of his desk. "Sit, sit."

Harry did, taking a deep breath. "Sir," he began, "I want to ask you about some things, but I don't really want to talk about why I want to know. I just. . . want to know."

Moody nodded approvingly. "Tell nothing you do not need to tell. Very wise, boy, very wise. Ask, and I will answer what I am able."

Harry felt something in him unwind. Moody had been the right person to come to. He understood wanting to keep a secret, and he would not consider Harry paranoid - well, he might, but it wouldn't be a problem. To Moody, paranoia was a perfectly rational state of mind.

"Voldemort's body," Harry said. "I know what was done with it, but I'd like to hear exactly how things went, from the moment he and I. . . I'd like to hear it from someone who was there. And you were, weren't you?"

"That I was. I did not see what happened between the two of you - and I don't know that anyone who did see understands what they saw." Moody looked at him steadily. "You have kept that close, as you should. But you're asking about afterwards. . . ."

There was a silence, and as it stretched, Harry became afraid the old man was editing the story down to something he felt it safe to share. He said, "If anyone has a right to know everything, it's me. And it'll go no further, I promise. I've kept bigger secrets than this."

"Yes," Moody said, "I suppose you have." He pinned Harry with that look again, and for some reason that magical eye was more disconcerting when it was still and intent. "Everyone was worried about his soul, or what passed for one. It was understood that the body was his own creation, and that if he had created one, he could create another. There were so-called experts from the Spirit Division combing the area -"

"And at St. Mungo's, doing tests on me." The things they'd done when he'd woken up had been bad enough; Harry didn't like to imagine how invasive they'd been while he'd been out of it.

"And doing tests on you. And they found nothing, anywhere. We can only hope that was because there was nothing to find." The old man's look was sharp and Harry thought, Of course he's still not sure of me.

"I know the body was burned with a torch lit on Fawkes's burning day," Harry said. "But how long until that happened?"

"Three days."

"And was the body moved around at all, during that time?"

"By that lot?" Moody snorted, shaking his head. "None of them wanted to touch him. They stood around and argued and scratched their arses. Didn't know what to do, didn't want to be responsible for doing it. And then that bird of Dumbledore's showed up and burst into flames, and they all said 'jolly good,' and that was that."

Harry could picture it: no Dumbledore to take things in hand, the Ministry a wreck, the members of the Order who were still alive and conscious doing their best and being thwarted more often than not. He was rather glad he'd been out of it in a hospital bed. It would've been left to him to step into Dumbledore's place, and he hadn't been ready for that. Still wasn't. "Good for Fawkes," he said.

"Perhaps," Moody said. "Don't know about letting birds make decisions for me, myself. Still, I suppose what's done is done."

Didn't move the body at all, Harry thought. "So - who was there? Do you remember?"

Moody grunted. "Too many damn people, flit-flit-flitting around. What was left of us - Arthur Weasley, and some of his boys. Lupin, when he wasn't off checking on you. Shacklebolt. Minerva McGonagall. And Magical Law Enforcement, of course, Aurors and Hit Wizards and administrative paper-pushers all over the place. Can't tell you who all was in the Ministry crowd, but the Minister was there, obviously. Healers. Those bloody spirit experts."

Moody was right: too many damn people. The more people, the more noise, the more chaos, the more opportunity. Anyone could've been there. Done anything they liked. Taken anything they liked.

"Were there guards posted over the body?"

"Yes, Aurors, in shifts. The other Order members stuck as close as they could, but not having any official capacity, they were asked to leave after a while." Moody smiled his twisted-up smile. "I didn't have any official capacity either, not at first. It's a wonder how quickly you can get sworn back in as an Auror when you draw your wand and tell 'em to move you if they can."

Harry smiled at that. "So you were there the entire time? Was anyone else?"

Moody tapped two fingers on the table as he thought. "No," he said finally. "Not that I remember. Shacklebolt came close - he didn't take the breaks he was offered - but he still had reports to file and superiors to meet with and all that rubbish." He harrumphed. "There's a time for fooling with the Ministry and Headquarters and reports," Moody waved a piece of parchment for emphasis, "and there's a time for staying put. Wouldn't you say, Potter?"

Harry nodded. What he needed to know was if anyone had acted suspiciously, but Moody's answer to that question would likely involve everyone and everything within a five-kilometre radius. What he really needed was to stop relying on secondhand accounts, and see for himself. . . "Sir? You wouldn't happen to use a Pensieve, ever, would you?"

That was, based on Moody's expression, the stupidest question he'd ever been asked. "You know how those things work, don't you boy? Take a thought out of your head, where it's relatively safe, and put it in a bowl where anyone can get at it? Madness!"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, and sighed. He could go find Kingsley Shacklebolt, and ask him the same question, but there would be gaps in Kingsley's account, and what he needed was certainty. Not to mention the issue of getting hold of a Pensieve.

"An observation, Potter," Moody said. "These are questions that would have been well-asked a year and a half ago."

But he'd been certain then. He'd told the Minister and the Aurors and the Quibbler (in his one and only official interview) that it was because he was confident of the magic. And that was true enough - it was a good spell, the one that three of them had come up with, and he'd had no doubt that it had done what it was supposed to do.

But what he hadn't said, not to anyone but Ron and Hermione, was what it had felt like inside his head at the moment in question. He'd been alone, and massive pain aside, it'd been the best he'd felt in a long, long time.

It's like this, he'd told them: when you have a houseguest that you don't want, one that sticks around for years, you know when they've finally buggered off. There's simply no doubt.

And if they worm their way back in slowly, one visit at a time, how long before you realise they've moved back in?

"I expect you're right, sir," Harry said.

*

The Monday morning zombie that was Dean stumbled in just after nine. Harry took one look at him and went off in search of coffee. There was a surveillance operation to organise, and he wanted someone with functioning brain cells to help him organise it.

Dean made an attempt at stringing together sentences about midway through the first cup.

"That," swallow, "Knockturn Alley. Map."

"Yes," Harry said.

Swallow. "You've got a map, there."

"Drink faster," Harry said.

Dean applied himself as directed while Harry studied the map. They needed a secure location from which to watch Burke's shop, to see who came to pick up the dragon's blood. . . "Oh, bollocks."

"Mmm?"

"I'm going at this wrong," Harry said, rolling up the map with a snap. "We don't know that Burke has a shipment in, and in fact, he probably doesn't - that's why they've got Crabbe running round buying bottles. We should be watching Crabbe's house. Should've been watching Crabbe's house."

Dean shook his head. "Nah," he said, putting down his cup. "I went round last week to check things out. He's just got four bottles of dragon's blood, down on a table in his cellar. We didn't reckon anyone would risk coming in person to pick up that."

"Just four bottles?" Harry contemplated this. "He hasn't made much of an effort, has he?"

"Just enough to show willing," Dean said. "And here he calls his son lazy."

"You're right, of course," Harry said. "They're not going to let Crabbe see them. They probably think. . ." What did they probably think? That Avery had never cracked, so the Aurors had never got on to Crabbe? That the Aurors had sniffed Crabbe out, but when no more of Voldemort's artifacts had appeared, had gone on to other things? Did they suspect that Aurors might be watching him still, but need the dragon's blood so badly that it didn't matter? Harry slammed his hand on the table. "I don't know what they think, that's the problem."

"Hey," Dean said, "hey. It doesn't really matter, does it? They're still using him, so we still use him. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Harry said, reluctantly, "okay. They'll send an owl for those bottles, don't you think?"

"Most likely. We could capture it, put a trace on it, but-"

"But we'd probably just end up getting it killed, and spooking them in the process."

"So, back to the map?" Dean asked.

"Back to the map," Harry said, unrolling it. Back to a person they knew was bad news, through and through. The one person that they'd found on their own, that they hadn't been taken by the hand and led to.

"It'll be a big shipment, and Burke'll expect to be paid," Dean said, "so they might show up personally for that."

"Or send a representative." Harry studied the street in front of him. They needed somewhere close to the shop, somewhere a little more secure than the usual dustbins. And considering the neighborhood, they didn't just have to worry about Burke spotting them. . . anyone who noticed them hanging about was liable to take offence. Violent offence.

"That building there," Dean said, pointing to one behind the shop, "probably gives a good view from one of the upper storeys, or from the roof."

Harry nodded. "And this one," he said, tapping a square on the map, "would do the same for the front."

"Shall we go scout them out? And try to see if Burke has a load in already?"

They both looked across the room instinctively. "Yes," Moody said, from his desk, "but not yet. Wait until lunchtime. The streets will be busier, and it's less likely that you'll be noticed, or remembered."

Harry and Dean exchanged glances. That was fair enough, and if that was the only objection Moody had to their plan, they were doing well indeed. Harry said, "And until then?"

Moody indicated the stack of books they'd been using to research spells that involved dragon's blood. "This, of course, or," he gave Harry a significant look, "if any of your own affairs are pressing, this might be the time to deal with them. I do not know when you will have a better chance."

Harry felt a rush of warmth for the man, but restricted himself to a quick nod. Dean was busy trying not to look delighted, and Harry could guess what his partner was thinking - something about the pressing importance of more coffee, and perhaps the acquisition of a sweet roll or two.

"See that you're back by noon," Moody said. Harry checked his watch: ten-fifteen. It would be enough time. It would have to be.

*

Dean went downstairs, and Harry went up. There might not be any good, quick, complete way of seeing those first days after Voldemort, but there was something he could see, something real and solid. And Moody, who made it his business to know things he wasn't meant to know, had told Harry how to go about doing that.

The sign said MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT, ADMINISTRATION. The door was open, and Harry walked into the small outer office and up to the desk.

"Harry Potter. I need to see Madam Bones. Or Mr. Caval." Not I want, not may I: if he didn't ask, it made it that much harder for her to say no.

"You've an appointment?" The witch behind the reception desk looked through thick glasses at her schedule-book. "I don't see the name. . ."

"Don't have one," Harry said, and let his tone say the rest for him: don't need one. "I just need a minute from either of them, that's all."

He smiled and stood his ground. The witch looked at the book, at him, at the closed doors either side of her desk, back to him. . . finally, she said, "I'll just see, shall I?"

"Thank you."

She took out a small, light-green parchment square and wrote upon it, then turned it into an airplane and sent it flying through a flap built into one of the doors. They waited. Harry listened to the tick of the clock on the wall and thought that he'd made a mistake. He didn't like this entitled-hero persona, and she surely didn't either - and who knew if she'd written anything at all helpful on that paper. . . .

The green airplane returned, landing gently on the desk. After reading it and depositing it neatly in the bin, the witch said, "She'll fit you in as soon as her schedule allows. Wait over there."

"And Mr. Caval?"

The witch repeated the process, wordlessly making it quite clear just how much he was asking of her. When the paper returned, she read it, then gestured again toward a chair along the wall. This time, Harry took it.

Harry waited. The chair was soft and squashy, but he sat up straight in it, jiggling his leg. The clock ticked and tocked, and Harry found himself digging his fingers into the chair arms in order to keep from getting up and pacing round the room.

Ten-thirty-eight. It was too much to hope that he could get things sorted before Percy spoke to Hermione. Or was it? Percy would take his words seriously, that was a given, because the days when he would've believed the exact opposite of whatever Harry said were gone. But what would he do? Would he really pull out of Hermione's project altogether?

No, Harry decided. Percy might see the risk of it now, but that didn't mean he'd stopped seeing the opportunity. And that opportunity in the hands of someone else. . . no, Percy Weasley would not like the look of that at all.

So Percy would stall, then. He would continue working with Hermione, keep the wheels in motion, but turn them at his own pace - that of a bureaucratic snail.

And Hermione, Hermione would still realise that something was wrong, of course. And she would work out his part in it, because she was brilliant, and because Percy was not always subtle.

She was going to be so unhappy.

It was definitely time that he did this.

Ten-forty-three. A door opened, the one on the right, marked DEPUTY HEAD. Mr. Caval stepped out and had a brief conversation with the witch at reception, in the course of which Harry learned several things: that her name was Miss Callendar, that Mr. Caval's wife like to owl a lot, and that his ten-forty-five appointment would be rather late, as security had found a suspect handkerchief, perhaps dangerously enchanted, in her handbag. Harry wondered if he had Moody to thank for that as well.

"Potter," Mr. Caval said, inclining his head toward his open door.

They went into the inner office, Mr. Caval closing the door behind them. Harry sat in the chair he was offered. He was suddenly exponentially more nervous than he had been before talking to Moody; he had little idea how Mr. Caval would react to his request. It might have been better if he'd got Madam Bones. She might be busier and scarier (partly because she was his absolute boss and partly because he'd never forgot being up before her in the Wizengamot at age fifteen), but he knew, at least, that she'd hear what he had to say.

Although he didn't want to say much at all, so maybe things had worked out for the best. . . .

Mr. Caval sat at his desk, folding his hands and giving Harry his full attention. "You wanted to see me?"

You know this much about him - don't waste his time. "Yes, sir. I know you're very busy, and I'm sorry to interrupt. If I could do it by myself I would." He took a breath. "Could we go to Gringotts? Vault eight forty-two?"

The older man's posture didn't change, but his eyes went interested. "Ah," he said. "When?"

In for a penny. . . "Now?"

"Mm. Any particular reason?"

"Not exactly," Harry lied, "it's just something I feel I should do. Should do regularly, in fact, perhaps we could go ahead and schedule in this same time next year?"

Mr. Caval smiled, a brief flash of teeth. "How can I say no? Do you know why we hired you, Potter?"

Because you wanted to keep an eye on me? Because you thought the best way to make people feel safe was to let them know Harry Potter was still taking care of them? Because I asked you to?

He shook his head.

"I shan't speak for Amelia, but this," he gestured between them, "this is why I wanted you here. Precisely this." Mr. Caval stood, and a cloak drifted across the room to come to rest on his shoulders. "No matter how this world of ours may change, Potter, I know I can count on you to never forget where we've been."

*

The main hall of Gringotts was mostly empty, and their footsteps echoed on the marble floor. Mr. Caval conferred briefly with a goblin at the high counter, and in no time they were off in one of the rickety carts, heading down.

"I expect you're wondering why we chose Gringotts? Entrusted something like this to non-wizards?"

Harry wasn't, actually. He hadn't thought too much of it, found himself nodding when Moody had told him, in fact. Gringotts had done for Dumbledore, and Hagrid had had absolute faith in the goblins, and that was plenty good enough for Harry.

Mr. Caval went on, "They may not think like us or play by our rules, but no-one does security better than these fellows. No-one. No point in trying to reinvent the wand, eh?"

Harry shook his head no. He was holding onto his glasses with one hand, because they were moving very fast and very deep, and he didn't want to lose them to an underground ravine. This trip was such a strange echo of his first visit here with Hagrid, all those years ago; back then he had known nothing of this world, and been tremendously excited and only very slightly scared. Now he knew too much and not enough, all at once. Now, today, he was afraid.

"None of you can come here without me. Right?" Harry said, pitching his voice over the click-click-click of the wheels.

"That's correct," Mr. Caval said. "The only people cleared for access are myself, Amelia, and the Minister. And none of us can open the vault without you."

Harry hesitated, casting a glance at the goblin in the front of the cart. Could he hear them? Did it matter? "But we've not come here before, just to check on things."

Mr. Caval said, after a moment, "The Minister didn't want it. He wouldn't like us coming here today, in fact. While I may not exactly be a public figure, you are, and people will see. See, and talk."

"He doesn't want people to know what's here? But they'd never manage to get hold of it, not ever."

"I don't believe that's the issue," Mr. Caval said. "It's my understanding that the Minister wants to usher in a brand-new era. Peace and prosperity -"

"And no-one frightened if he can help it," Harry said. "I get it." He was quiet a moment. "Me, I'd rather be scared than in the dark."

Mr. Caval smiled, that flash of teeth again. "I'd have to agree with you."

Harry was shivering now, and he didn't know whether it was the cold or the anticipation or, as they went over a particularly stomach-dropping bump, if he was about to be nastily sick. He could only hope that it wasn't the latter.

They stopped, finally. There was a door cut into the rock up ahead of their cart; Harry could just see it behind the bloody great dragon that stood before them. He pulled the neck of his robes up over his nose like a five-year-old and breathed through it, trying to filter out the terrible brimstone smell. He rather hoped that goblins were secretly skilled dragon-tamers, because he didn't fancy trying to run past it or under it in order to get to the vault.

The goblin climbed out of the cart and onto the rock ledge. It stood before the dragon, tiny and confident, and raised a hand. The dragon snorted once, then backed away.

Harry scrambled out of the cart, and Mr. Caval followed, a little more slowly. They followed the goblin up to the vault door. Mr. Caval raised his hand to the door and hovered his palm there, careful to not actually touch it. At his look, Harry followed suit. The goblin stepped between them, and at the moment his fingernail touched the lock, they pressed their hands to the door. At once the solid rock door was gone. The goblin stood back, and they entered the vault alone.

It was a very simple little room, just like all the other Gringotts vaults Harry had seen inside. A stone jar sat very unceremoniously in the middle of the floor. Harry stepped towards it, then hesitated. "Are there any other protections on it?"

"We didn't think it necessary," came Mr. Caval's voice from behind him. "But if you wish to put some more in place before you leave, feel free."

Harry crossed the room, heart thumping painfully. It wasn't the ashes that he was here to see. He was not so foolish to think that Voldemort needed the remains of this body to create another one. He was here to see what kept showing up in his dreams, and it should be here. Surely even Fawkes's fire couldn't melt stone.

He stood with his hand on the lid of the jar, thinking. There was a possibility he couldn't ignore. Did Voldemort want him to open this container? Was that the point of all this? He couldn't rule it out.

It must be heaven to be everyone else, to know that right or wrong, your decisions were your own and no-one else's. To have a mind that wasn't a homicidal madman's personal playground.

"This should've ended when you died," he said quietly.

Harry crouched down and ran his wand over the jar. There was magic inside, so much that it rocked him back on his heels, but he felt nothing dark, nothing malevolent. Fawkes, Harry thought, and removed the lid.

Dark ash, filling the jar about halfway. Harry didn't know why he'd thought there would be more; he knew that he was looking at what had once been bone, that everything else had burned away completely.

Hopefully not everything else. That was the point of this, after all.

"Accio stone!" Harry said, quietly but clearly. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing.

He took his wand and put it inside the jar, running it around and about, back and forth. It met no resistance. Finally, desperately, he put his hand in, and did the same.

Still nothing.

So I'm not going mad, Harry thought, staring into the container of ash, and only ash. Well, that's something.

*

The main hall of the bank was busier when they left, the start of the lunch rush, and the streets were busier too. Harry was a little surprised when Mr. Caval showed no signs of wanting to Apparate back to Headquarters, settling instead for a brisk walk. He was probably being watched, he realised, his reactions monitored; Mr. Caval hadn't asked any questions about what Harry had done, but the man had to be curious.

Harry didn't like the idea of being under scrutiny. He picked up the pace.

"You've spotted her, then? I thought you probably had."

Harry had done nothing of the sort, but he wasn't about to admit it. He gave a quick look over his shoulder. It was enough. "The blonde? She's being so obvious, it's hard to imagine her a threat."

The girl really was following them, and she really was being very obvious. She didn't seem to have the nerves for this sort of work at all; she'd actually stumbled in her haste to look away when Harry had glanced at her.

"Probably just can't keep her eyes off the Boy Who Lived. Tell me, is this often a problem when you're out on the job?"

"No sir," Harry said quickly.

"Certain of that?"

Mr. Caval was frowning, undoubtedly thinking up new, stringent disguise protocols for him to follow. Harry groaned.

"Absolutely. Anyhow, it's not that often I'm out here amongst the general public when I'm working. It's usually more, Knockturn Alley, people who aren't going to be pleased to see me." He grinned a bit, thinking of criminals who'd hit the ground immediately, hands behind their backs, when they'd realised it was Harry Potter who'd come to sort them out. Might not have happened often, but it had happened. "Sometimes it's rather an asset, being recognised."

"Mm," Mr. Caval said, which Harry thought might count as acceptance. They kept walking, and she kept following.

Two more blocks to go, and Harry didn't need this girl getting her courage up and coming over to embarrass him in front of his boss. "If you'll excuse me," he said, "I'll just go speak to her for a second. Probably the best thing to do."

"All right," Mr. Caval said, and he continued on towards Headquarters while Harry turned back.

Harry didn't plan on actually speaking to her. He thought that, as nervous as the girl seemed to be, just the act of him walking towards her would probably fluster her so much that she'd just walk right past him, and that would be that. He was wrong, though; as he drew closer, her steps faltered, and she kept giving him quick little looks while she fiddled with her handbag. Oh, bollocks, Harry thought, she's going to try and kill me, and she's going to do a really bung job of it, and I'm going to have to take her down in front of all these people, and please Merlin, has Mr. Caval made it to the next street yet?

He walked straight up to the girl, and she stopped short, eyes wide. "Hi. Listen. Don't do anything silly, and nothing bad will happen, all right? Just take your hands off your bag, and keep them where I can see them - that's right - now -"

"Am - am I being arrested?" she asked. She'd done as he asked, and her hands were shaking as she held them up between them. "I wasn't stalking you, really I wasn't. Well, I suppose I was, but -"

Harry looked her over. "Why were you doing that?"

"I just wanted to ask you some questions. It was a bad idea, obviously, I'm very sorry. . . ."

"And what's in the bag?"

"My notebook," she said. "With the questions."

"Ah," Harry said, "a journalist. My favourite sort of person." He didn't shift his stance in the slightest.

"Not exactly," she said. "I mean, I would like to write up what you say, but I don't work for the Prophet or anything and I don't care how you take your tea or who you went down the pub with last night." She took a breath. "May I start over? My name's Sally-Ann Perks, we were at school together, and I'm working with a friend of yours, Hermione Granger -"

"Oh!" Harry said. "One of Hermione's lot." He waved at her hands, and she put them down, looking fractionally less terrified. "Sorry about all," he fluttered a hand, "that. Thought you were trying to off me, there."

She stared. "What? Oh my God, no, I'm so sorry -"

"It's all right," Harry interrupted, "it happens. Don't worry about it."

One of Hermione's lot. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.

"Listen," he said, "I know what you want, but I can't give it to you. Not right now." She opened her mouth, but he forestalled her with a hand. "And not if we arrange to meet later, either. I -" Give her a reason, give her a reason, Hermione won't see through it but this girl might, and maybe all of this will go no further - "I'm an employee of Magical Law Enforcement, that's no real secret, and as such I can't give an interview about anything without it going through about a hundred official channels. I'm sorry."

"I understand," Sally-Ann said. She looked like she did. She also looked like he'd taken away her very favourite Puffskein. "I suppose that's why Hermione's never interviewed you herself. I thought she just didn't want you to feel obliged, you being so close and everything."

Harry swallowed.

"I'll let you go, then," she said. She smiled. "Sorry about all the stalking."

He forced a smile back. Thanks to her stalking, he'd gone from Hermione, he asked my opinion and I gave it, he made his own choice, didn't he?, to Hermione, I think your law is great and all, but I don't want to help you out with it right now. Brilliant.

"It's forgiven," Harry said.

Not hard words to say at all. Hopefully Hermione would find them that way, too.

*