The Boy Who Died

Chapter 1

Hermione Granger was melting, and it was a most unpleasant experience. She briefly considered a temperature charm, or the Degreum Controlus spell, but with her wand safely tucked into the secret compartment of her beach bag, that idea was close to impossible.

'If only I weren't surrounded by Muggles,' she thought with no small amount of disdain. Of course, Ron would tease her for her superiority, she being Muggle-born herself. That very Muggle history was one of the reasons she had been chosen to investigate this particular site.

Dragon Island lay just off the coast of Mississippi, and was presently dominated by Muggles. Hermione was to “blend in” as a tourist, ostensibly off to sun on the island and visit the museum, but her English accent made that task much more difficult. She felt rather conspicuous in her faded denim shorts and black t-shirt, especially in the absence of her robe. Her rich brown hair was pulled back in a casual ponytail, instead of her usual chignon. Wisps of hair were escaping in the ocean breeze, tickling the corners of her face. Turning her head away from the wind, she pushed a stray lock behind her ear. From the corner of her eye, Hermione spotted two dolphins in the distance, their shiny bodies jumping out of the water at irregular intervals. Her eyes squinted, in a futile attempt to see the silvery sea animals. She wished that she could somehow communicate with the ocean creatures; perhaps they could give her a bit of information, or even a valuable clue, regarding the Atlantean Project. With an inward sigh, she reminded herself that particular project was neither hers to ponder, nor the present job at hand.

The ten mile boat ride was nearly an hour one way. She glanced around and wished yet again that she had brought something to read for the trip. Just then, a blonde girl barreled down her side of the seats, crashing briefly into her knee before tearing off again. A frazzled mother offered a hasty apology in passing as she rushed after the young child. Hermione smiled indulgently; she enjoyed children and could well sympathize with the harried mum.

Again, her thoughts began to drift and she reflected on how very un-Muggle she felt after more than a decade as a witch. Although she still knew how to operate Muggle machinery, such as telephones and ATM’s, it all seemed rather unnecessary and complicated. Life did not remain unfettered, and the days of ease at Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft were far behind her. It was as if the day Ron walked into the dining room, his face flushed in panic, began the complexity that had been a part of every day since.

“Hermione, have you seen Harry?” Ron asked frantically, sliding onto the bench across from her.

Hermione immediately blushed and only stared at Ron.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he asked again, voice rising. “Harry’s bed wasn’t slept in, and I can’t find him anywhere.”

Her brow furrowed. Harry should have returned to his dorm room early this morning. “Have you asked Seamus and Neville? Perhaps he only got up before you, tidied his bed and left the dorm,” she offered.

“I think I know Harry a bit better than that and his bed was not slept in at all,” Ron explained, still out of breath.

Hermione became panicked as well. “We have to find him,” she said, standing. “I just can’t imagine…”

A stern voice interrupted her train of thought. “Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, if you’ll follow me to my office, I need a word with you both.”

“Is it about Harry?” Ron asked hastily.

“Come along,” Professor McGonagall repeated, her tone a bit less severe.

Ever obedient to this admired teacher, even at seventeen, the pair followed the professor out the doors and up the stairs. Hermione and Ron exchanged glances, but kept their questions to themselves.

As they entered Professor McGonagall’s office, she indicated that they take a seat with the wave of her hand.

“As Harry’s two best friends, it is imperative that I speak with you both about the events of this morning,” she began. Hermione thought she saw tears in the older woman’s eyes, but the shine disappeared too quickly to be certain.

“What’s happened to him?” Ron asked, in an almost resigned voice.

Hermione was becoming more frightened with each moment. “Just tell us,” her voice agitated and rising. “What’s happened?” Then, as if remembering her manners or perhaps hoping it would help, Hermione added a soft, “please?”

“This morning, Mr. Potter left the grounds of Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall began. “Professor Dumbledore and I are fairly certain that it was against his will. It was certainly unexpected,” she sighed.

“A portkey?” questioned Hermione.

“Exactly, Miss Granger,” she agreed.

“I hope something’s bloody well being done about it” Ron asserted, trying to restrain his anger. “Are you searching for him? Who was the last person that saw him?”

Professor McGonagall cast a reproachful look in his direction. “I can assure you, Mr. Weasley, we are doing all we can. The Aurors have already been called to search, and we are closing in on You-Know-Who’s whereabouts. As far as the last person to see Mr. Potter,” her gaze turned on Hermione, “well, I was hoping you might help with that.”

A flush crept up Hermione’s neck and covered her cheeks. She visibly swallowed as Ron stared in confusion.

“Did you see ‘im last night?” blurted Ron, his voice questioning.

Hermione cleared her throat, clasped her hands in her lap and sat up straighter in her chair. “Yes, I was with him last night,” her voice was firm even though her eyes looked wary. “We parted about half past three,” she added.

“Very well, Miss Granger. I won’t punish you for your nighttime excursion in light of recent events, but do you have any idea where Mr. Potter was going when you parted ways?”

“He was going back to his dorm,” she answered. “You do think he’ll be fine, don’t you?” Her voice was becoming frantic again. “He’s always defeated Voldemort before.”

“I wish I could say for certain, but that’s impossible. We all know that He Who Must Not Be Named is stronger now than even at his height of power before he first attacked Mr. Potter as a baby. One can only guess,” the professor said sadly. “But we can hope.”

Hermione bit her bottom lip, trying not to cry, but her effort was lost. She choked out a small sob, and Ron immediately wrapped an arm about her shoulders.

“I must ask one more question Miss Granger,” their teacher spoke again. “Where were you and Mr. Potter last night, so that we can try to ascertain just where the portkey might have been?”
Ron watched Hermione’s face as she wiped the tears away. From the moment he had learned that she and Harry had been off alone last night, he had told himself not to assume they were together like that, but he knew her next words could very well possibly confirm his suspicions.

“On the way to the tower, to Professor Trelawney’s Divination class room - there is a room on the right of the corridor, with a small door,” Hermione began.

“Yes, I know the room,” the professor nodded.

“Well I’ve never seen it!” exclaimed Ron.

“We were there,” Hermione said, ignoring Ron’s outburst. She began to cry again.

“I think that’s enough questions, if you don’t mind, Professor,” Ron interrupted. He didn’t want Hermione to answer any more questions, for both their sakes.

“Yes, of course,” McGonagall acknowledged. “With only a few days left to the end of term, I’m sure the rest of final exams will be cancelled.”

Ron was already ushering Hermione toward the office door.

“Professor,” Hermione turned. “How did you know that I was the last person to see Harry?”

The older woman surveyed the younger one for a long moment. Hermione Granger, born of Muggle parents, had surpassed all of her professors’ expectations. She was at the top of the 7th year class and full of potential.

Finally, a small smile tugged the corners of the Professor’s mouth. “Miss Granger, you are only the second smartest witch at Hogwarts. Now off with you - I have to get about finding Mr. Potter.”

The sound of the boat’s horn shook Hermione from her reverie. Shaking that unhappy recollection from her shoulders, Hermione turned her attention back to the business at hand. Thoughts of Ron were always painful, and thoughts of the other one, too heartbreaking to contemplate.

They were approaching the dock of Dragon Island. She tried to look at the island from a Muggle perspective, but instead, she saw all of the possibilities of its magical past. A large white lighthouse stood on the left side of the island, and a large “fort” on the right. At least, the Muggles think it’s merely an old Civil War fort, she thought ruefully.

After a short hike across the island, Muggles could lie about in the sun, watching waves crash into the beach, as children and starfish played in the shallow water. Instead of protecting her fair skin with a magical charm, she used plenty of sunscreen to at least smell the part of an actual tourist.

Upon leaving the boat, she swung her beach bag over her shoulder. From the dock, she could see another island, just off the west coast of Dragon Island. She wondered if most of these Muggles realized this was once one large island, until a magical war split it into two; obviously they didn’t since the general population seemed to think this remnant island was called Dragon because it was shaped like that particular creature. ‘I wonder what they’d say if they knew that it was once inhabited by dragons,’she mused to herself.

With a sure stride, she moved toward the fort. A glance at her watch told her it was about time for the next tour to begin.

As the guide began his monologue, Hermione put on an interested countenance, all the while looking over the site and ignoring those around her. Along with her wand, all of her tools were hidden in the bag. She wished she could sneak off to work immediately, but for appearances, she remained with the tour group.

Hermione Granger worked for a small section of the Ministry of Magic - the division of Magical Archeology. This particular site was first founded by Native American Indians, who performed their magical ceremonies eons before Anglo-Muggles migrated to the North American continent. By the time American wizards and witches discovered the magical island, dragons had taken up residence. Hermione hoped to discover the exact dates and course of events that led to the demise of Paddywacks School of Magic, one of the first in America. The fate of the dragons was also in question.
Without realizing it, Hermione’s guided tour was ending.

“And for those of you who desire a special tour…”

Hermione’s hand immediately shot up, just like she was a student with the correct answer on the tip of her tongue.

“Yes, Miss?” the guide said.

“The special tour,” she explained, frustrated. “I’m interested.”

The guide’s face hid a smirk. “As I was saying, for those of you who wish to take a special tour,” he looked pointedly at the woman who had interrupted him, “please see me at the end of this session.”
Hermione actually looked a bit embarrassed at her apparent over-eagerness. She was indeed anxious to finish this assignment though, so she could return home; the man in her life was waiting for her and separations were difficult. The thought of him brought a brief and wistful smile to her face.

Following along the last bit of the uninformative tour, she desired yet again for the immediate use of her magical abilities. Hermione had to remain casual and unobtrusive. Now that she knew more about the layout, as well as specific sites for exploration, she really wished she could just Apparate here after business hours, but that wasn’t ‘allowed.’ She was anxious to not only complete her research and be done with it, but also investigate without prying eyes. As much as she loved the research aspect of her job, on-site studies were by far her favorite part. Fortunately, her childhood at Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft had imparted a few gifts, and sneakiness was merely one of many.

With an inward sigh, Hermione plastered a pleasant look upon her smooth face, brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear and gripped the handle of her beach bag tighter than necessary. She followed the tour guide through the remainder of the stifling museum while he continued in that droning voice to speak about facts she had found in books an ocean away.

Meanwhile, she silently muttered yet again about the heat in America.

Chapter 2

Fortunately, Dragon Island closed to tourists at dusk which allowed Hermione to begin her task earlier than expected; the tricky part was not getting caught loitering after the island park closed for the night. ‘If only I could just Apparate,’ she bemoaned inwardly, but avoiding all use of magic until absolutely necessary was one of the most important aspects of this task. The Bureau of Magical Affairs (BMA), the wizard police so to speak, would detect the use of even the tiniest magic. The BMA was a division that fell under the Congress of Magical Representatives, America’s answer to a Ministry of Magic. Hermione was not merely assigned to this archeological site as a researcher, but was also under strict orders to do her work covertly.

With only about an hour or so to mill about the island, looking the part of tourist, Hermione decided to take a short, brisk walk. With swift movements, Hermione removed her sandals, placing them in her beach bag. She grinned at the feeling of warm sand beneath the pads of her feet; unconsciously, she squeezed her toes, bunching the fine white grains between them. The responsibilities of the last ten years had left little time for simple and solitary pleasures such as this.

Before beginning her walk along the shore, Hermione made note of the nearest bathroom. She’d have to be back from her jaunt in time to hide in a stall, allowing the last ferry to leave, unwittingly, without her. Gauging the distance, she took off to the west, wanting a closer look at the remnant island. Hermione glanced at the dunes around her, ever shifting and eroding, curious how many dragon bones lay beneath their depths. Instinct, as well as a fair amount of research, had taught her that most of this island’s archeological finds were back in the museum, but that didn’t mean clues weren’t strewn about the entire surface of Dragon Island. If only she had the freedom to literally “dig,” but with all the Muggles present, that action would only lead to curious stares, or worse, questions.

Her swift gait took her to the west beach quickly. The sister island appeared desolate, barren and flat, almost as if cursed. ‘Little wonder the Muggles chose this side to inhabit for their sun and swim,’ she reflected. With a small sigh, she turned around, surprised at how far she had actually strolled from the museum and activity.

The MoM had previously made this particular search low on their priority list; Hermione assumed their neglect stemmed from the islands’ distance from London. For whatever reason, however, it had suddenly been deemed quite important and Hermione was determined to find a wealth of magical information. The island intrigued her - not only because of its missing past, but also because the sun and surf was almost hypnotizing. More of her hair was now coming loose of its tether, and it smelled of the beach; it was both exhilarating and relaxing at the same time.

She began her trek back to the tiny restroom building, and passed a dark haired father flying a kite with his son. Her heart felt a pang of regret that she had never witnessed such an activity from a personal point of view. Briefly, Hermione wondered if the child’s mum was watching and enjoying every second of the father and son playing together, but a small sting began behind her eyes, forcing her to look away. Hermione brushed at her eyes, as if dislodging a piece of sand, squared her shoulders and walked on.

A loudspeaker announced the last boat would be leaving the island in twenty minutes. Choruses of disappointed, childlike moans filtered up and down the shore, answered with the stern, but understanding voices of mothers and fathers hurriedly packing up picnic baskets and beach towels.

Hermione casually entered her hiding place, but was disappointed to find it full of tourists readying themselves to leave. ‘I should have considered this,’fumed Hermione. ‘I’ve let the island lull me into poor planning. Too bad Moaning Myrtle isn’t here to scare the Muggles away.’

Taking her leave of the crowded restroom, Hermione scowled at her surroundings. The island offered little place to hide, and she certainly didn’t have Harry’s invisibility cloak with her. ‘Only one thing to do,’she reasoned. ‘I have to hide in the museum and hope no one does a last check of all the rooms.’

With a hasty look around, Hermione quickly entered the large fort. She was relieved to see no one about, and scurried down the stairs. Within moments, Hermione found herself inside the basement room that had been the sole highlight of the “special tour.”

As the earlier museum tour ended, the elderly guide had shown Hermione, and a few other interested visitors, this single room not available on the main tour. When they had walked into a large stone room in the basement, Hermione had bit her bottom lip in an attempt to hide her growing excitement. This was the mother lode; these Muggles didn’t even know what they were storing away. All around the room were stacks of crates and many strange looking items - items only a witch or wizard would recognize.

Now, Hermione found herself once again in the store room, surrounded by a veritable warehouse of magical objects. Muffled voices came from the rooms above, so she easily shuffled a few of the lighter crates forward and crouched behind them. Briefly, she wondered how long until the last of the Muggles left the island for the night.

Propping her beach bag beneath her, Hermione got comfortable, but kept her ears open. She could hear doors closing and the muffled voices of museum employees, but the shuffle of footsteps remained superior to the basement. She closed her eyes, willing to wait for a complete evacuation of the museum. The stillness of the room allowed her mind to drift.

“You two were almost late again,” Hermione whispered as her two friends entered potions class.

Professor Snape’s hasty entrance stopped any immediate reply that Harry or Ron might have made. As Snape’s black robe brushed past them, Ron grinned at Hermione.

“At least we made it,” the redhead smirked, his voice low.

Snape swept to the front of the room and turned abruptly.

“Are we ready to begin class or do you need more time for your conversation?” he drawled sarcastically, looking straight at Ron, Hermione and Harry. Hermione bit back her reply and Ron wiped the smile off his face. The three friends sat straighter in their chairs, but did not answer the professor.

With a sneer, Snape bent over his desk. “That will be 10 points from Gryffindor. Now, today’s class will consist mainly of a brief overview of Pest Potions; you’ll only want to use them on your enemies,” he said pointedly to Harry, his dislike barely masked. “Let’s get started.”

The trio of friends cast a quick glance at one another before turning their attention completely to the lesson. Hermione felt this potion lesson was a complete waste of time. ‘What a nasty bit of magic, only good for pranksters,’ she thought disparagingly.

Today’s particular concoction of practice was the Lava Potion. The red liquid was said to cause heartburn and a bad case of diarrhea, all within five minutes of drinking. Hermione rather thought that Professor Snape’s perpetual scowl must be the result of a daily diet of the hideous brew.

“I can think of a couple of blokes I’d like to share a sample of this,” Ron muttered as Snape left the classroom briefly, going into his office.

“Hey Weasley,” called Draco Malfoy’s voice from across the room, “Would you like to test my potion?”

“And he’s one of them,” Ron added, pulling at face at Malfoy.

Harry bit back a smile, but Hermione frowned at them both.

“I don’t understand why we should have to learn a nasty potion like this anyway,” she complained. “I honestly can’t think of any reason we’d ever need it.”

“Malfoy is a good reason,” Ron replied. “Definitely a good reason. Not to mention Krum.”

“Watch what you say, Ron,” Hermione hissed, clearly exasperated. “Viktor is my friend.”

“We’re well aware of that,” Ron countered. “Aren’t we Harry?”

“Some of us more than others,” Harry mumbled under his breath.

“What was that, Harry?” Hermione questioned, confused at the comment. Did Harry have a problem with her and Krum’s friendship too? Ron's antagonism was hard enough to bear.

Ron was glaring at Harry, but Hermione wasn’t sure just what the exchange meant. After four years of friendship, Hermione wasn’t pleased at Ron and Harry’s apparent unified front against Viktor. She often felt the outsider, and this situation was exacerbating the uncomfortable and unwelcome feeling.

“Nothing, Hermione, let’s just get this potion completed before Snape gives us detention,” Harry responded quietly.

“Or makes us test it,” Ron added in a huff.

“What exactly are you two on about?” Hermione asked suspiciously.

"Us?" Ron smirked. "What are you two on about?"

Hermione's forehead knitted in a frown. "You well know..." Hermione began.

"What I know is that Krum is Harry's competition in the tournament, and Harry is supposed to be your friend!" Ron finished for her.

"And I've already told you, I'd never betray Harry," Hermione sputtered, tossing her unruly hair with a jerk of her head.

"Shhh," Harry interrupted. "Can you two quit bickering, at least until we're out of Potions?"

A door slammed, jerking Hermione back to the present. She listened, but complete silence rang in her ears. Moving to the basement door, she peered up the stairs before moving upwards slowly. At last, the building was empty. With a sigh, Hermione hurried back to the base of the steps; she was anxious to begin her work.

For the first time since she had seen this wealth of magical history earlier that morning, Hermione allowed herself to really take in the wonder of its existence. She simply stood for several long moments, looking around, smiling in appreciation. The very same feeling of discovery enveloped her each time she entered a library; these items were as exciting as a new book with its spine smooth, begging to be cracked open and read. The only difference was that these 'books' were very old, much worn and very used.

She opened her bag, removing the large beach towel that concealed her tools and instruments underneath. Pulling out a small camera, she began her first task; comprehensive pictures would allow her to catalogue the contents of this warehouse at her leisure later – along with the help of magic.

Next, she pulled out a magnifying glass and headed to the right hand corner of the room. Of all the items, this small sphere was her first priority. Careful not to touch it, she hunkered down to a squat and began reading, with the use of the glass, the small print on the round yellowed glass. "It is a Remembrall," she whispered aloud, victoriously. A myriad of scratches covered the ball’s surface, indicating years of use, or misuse. Prodding it gently with her magnifier, the Remembrall rolled to its other side, exposing the crude lettering of a former owner; Charles Andrews was etched in almost childlike letters onto the exterior. Hermione filed the name into her mind, and moved on to the next items.

Removing another diminutive, yet effective tool from her beach bag, she began plying the lids off crates. Amidst the packing paper of the storage containers were a variety of textiles, implements and objects of art; Hermione began enthusiastically snapping pictures again.

‘Why did the Americans have such an astounding number of artifacts stored here?’ she wondered. She plunged into the wrapping papers with cautious fervor. American history was not a piece of her past, but the magical aspect of this find was a tangible chronicle for wizards and witches everywhere. The next box was clothing of sorts, perfectly preserved and not a moth in sight. “That impressive bit of work can only be the result of a powerful charm,” she laughed softly to the empty room.

With an “ahhh” she discovered a silky scarf; it was quite large she noticed as she carefully wrapped it about her own shoulders. The deep blue fabric draped over her body, pooling into a soft swell of fabric only a few centimeters above the floor. She twirled around, enjoying both the feel and the beauty of the soft shawl. ‘I can be such a girl sometimes,’ she thought wryly. With a shake of her head, she began her work again, in earnest, but she did not remove the shawl.

For hours she worked, until tension in her shoulders and back made her glance at her watch. It was nearly daybreak. She rubbed her tired eyes with a yawn. Heaving a great sigh, she realized it was time – time to both begin the magical spell and also ready herself to Apparate.

Hermione hastily placed her tools back in the beach bag and replaced all the crate lids. She thoughtfully considered packing the Remembrall and taking it with her, but decided against stealing the child’s item. Trafficking of magical artifacts was a serious wizarding crime, and she faced enough danger just in being found in America on a ‘dig.’

At last, she performed the Catalogueum Recordus charm, which placed information of everything she’d seen on a small palm device. Knowing any use of magic would immediately trigger an American investigation, she had just begun a countdown that required her immediate apparition. The room almost hummed as the palm device registered the magical auras housed in the storage area. The Remembrall spun on its side, as if responding to the vibrations.

Hermione prepared to Apparate, but nothing happened. She became nervous when the second attempt failed as well. The humming was growing louder, as if the magical items were celebrating in a chorus of joy at discovery, reveling in the magical power bringing them to life.

Suddenly, a man appeared at the entrance. Hermione clutched her beach bag tightly in her hand, but just as she was about to try Apparating once again, she stopped. Her jaw dropped as vivid green eyes flashed a recognition within her own brown orbs.

She looked at once at his forehead, but no scar was apparent. Instead of dark, messy hair, a short crop of sandy fringe lay neatly against his forehead and just above his ears.

Visibly shaking herself, Hermione studied the man’s face. ‘It can’t be. He’s dead,’ her mind reasoned.

She again stared at his forehead. ‘No scar,’ she resolved. ‘It just couldn’t be him.’ Over and over, her eyes went from his eyes, to his face, to his forehead and back again.

“I think you’d better Apparate before the BMA agents arrive,” his cool, deep voice instructed. “I’ll deflect some of the magic and their attention.”

“Who -- ?? ” she stuttered.

“Apparate!” he nearly shouted.

Hermione did, at once.

Chapter 3

Harry pulled the invisibility cloak out of his Jansen backpack, sweeping it over both his shoulders and head. He strode to one corner of the room, just as BMA agents began to appear in the museum basement.

‘Three gits,’ he counted silently. ‘Four, five…this must be a very important area,’ he mused.

“I don’t see anyone,” said a tall agent, the first to arrive.

“Keep looking,” instructed the shorter fellow. The agent’s auburn hair and long face reminded Harry of Ron; he immediately disliked the man.

Another scout pulled out a Magimeter, to take a reading of magic levels within the room. “The scale definitely indicates a recent use of at least four spells,” he reported to the other two.

Meanwhile, the last two that arrived had headed up the stairs, presumably to investigate other sections of the museum.

“Could they have Apparated that quickly?” asked the first one.

“Of course he, she or they could have,” Mr. Magimeter answered. “Dammit, we can only pinpoint the location of their initial point of Apparation, but not their destination. But what I really want to know is, why were they here?”

“Do you think it’s the Death Eaters at work?” asked the Ron-a-like.

‘You prats,’ thought Harry. ‘Hermione may be a lot of things, but never a Death Eater.’ Of course, he could neither ponder nor investigate the reason for Hermione’s appearance until the coast was cleared of these bumbling Americans; obviously, he was going to be here for a while.

He leaned back against the wall, as if to get comfortable. The Remembrall soundlessly rolled against his foot, invisible under the cloak. Leaning slowly down, keeping his arms beneath the folds, Harry picked up the Remembrall and put it into his pocket. Fortunately, the agents failed to notice any of this, and Harry smiled grimly. ‘Take away their sight, and the other senses are blind as well,’ he thought disdainfully.

He watched the three men poke about the room, obviously in no rush. ‘Don’t they want to go back to sleep, back under their warm duvets? Too much time for thinking,’ he privately complained, ‘and remembering.’

“You’re sounding a bit desperate there, Ron,” Harry warned.

“Then what do you suggest?” Ron demanded. His voice was strained, as if trying to hide even the slightest hint of desperation from spilling into his question.

“Well, I would think that having to use a potion to induce--”

“Stop right there, Harry,” Ron said with a raised hand. “I know exactly what you are going to say. I’ve been doing some reading, and--”

This time, Harry interrupted. “Just the fact that you are reading would impress her.”

Ron’s red eyebrows rose in indignation. “Would you let me finish? I have read that this particular love potion, number nine, doesn’t ‘create feelings, but merely intensifies feelings that are already present.’”

“And you are hoping that she already cares for you and this potion will make her unable to keep it a secret any longer?”

“Exactly,” Ron smiled. “I want to see how she feels before I decide on any course of action.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to just tell her how you feel?”

Ron’s smile disappeared. His shoulders slumped and he heaved a great sigh. “But I’m not sure she feels the same way. And with only two weeks of school, I must do something now. Otherwise, she’ll be off to visit that prat, Krum, this summer.”

Harry looked concerned, but remained silent; this whole situation was vaguely irritating, and he wasn’t sure why.

After a pause, Ron turned to look out the window of their dorm room. “I have this feeling - if I don’t do something soon, I’ll never get a chance,” he mumbled. “And the first step is to find out exactly what Hermione feels about me, if anything.”

“You know I’ll try to help,” Harry offered, albeit reluctantly. Ron was too upset to notice.

“Do you really think I’m desperate? Do you think I’m wasting my time?”

“I still think it’d be simpler to just tell her how you feel, but since you don’t think you can do that, this might work.” Harry tried to sound optimistic.

“We’ve got to gather all the ingredients. Unlike the Polyjuice Potion, it will only take about three hours to get ready,” Ron replied, his voice eager.

“When do you want to do it? And how do you plan to slip it to her?” Harry asked.

“Well, I thought I’d put it in her butterbeer on our next trip to Hogsmeade. What do you think Harry?”

“I think we’d better get to class or we’ll be late!” Harry exclaimed, looking at the Gryffindor wall clock. The hands were pointing to “nearly late for Snape.”

The two boys rushed out of the room, robes flowing behind them. With only minutes to spare, they slid into their seats.

*(*(*(*(*(*(*(*

At dinner that evening, Harry watched the head table carefully. The professors wore unusually grave expressions, and several times, Harry had seen Professor Flitwick mumble something in earnest to Dumbledore. Snape even appeared more grim than usual; his jaw was clenched and his lips were pursed so tightly that white lines were forming around his pale mouth. Harry turned to look at the rest of the Gryffindor table, but his housemates seemed oblivious to the tension at the front of the room.

Hermione and Ron were bickering, as was often the case these days. Harry was finding it difficult to remain benign to their constant discord; he became increasingly annoyed.

“But if you’d read ‘Hogwarts, A History’, then you’d know…” Hermione began.

“Not that infernal book again!” Ron stated emphatically. “If you’d get your nose out of those books, maybe you’d see what I am talking about. Viktor has an agenda, I’m sure of it.”

“You’re just being narrow-minded,” Hermione retorted. “Viktor is my friend. But I’m beginning to wonder if you are!” She stood, plate barely touched on the table in front of her.

“How can you say that?” Ron nearly yelled. Several of their housemates turned to look at them, but Ron pressed on. “Harry and I have been your friends since first year. Haven’t we Harry?” Ron turned for confirmation from his friend, but Harry only stared back, wide-eyed.

When Harry didn’t answer, Ron jumped up, silently facing Hermione down.

“If you’ll recall,” Hermione spoke each word slowly and carefully, “you weren’t always my friend. In fact, you said some pretty nasty things about me.”

“Are you still smarting over that?” Ron asked, incredulous. “I thought, after the troll, we’d all put that behind us. Look, we didn’t--”

Hermione shook her head, stopping his flow of words. “Why is it, Ron, that even though you and I are having this discussion, you keep trying to drag Harry into it? He’s not criticizing my friend, you are!” With that final rebuke, Hermione sailed out of the dinner hall. Ron sank back into his seat.

“What am I going to do, Harry?” Ron asked in a low voice. Even though everyone’s attention waned as soon as Hermione stalked away, Ron did not want to be overheard. “Everything I say is wrong. That’s why I don’t want to just announce how I feel, not until I know how she feels.”

Harry frowned and shook his head. “She doesn’t know why you’re attacking Krum.”

“I’m not attacking him without cause,” Ron said defensively. “He’s a suspicious character.”

“Just the same, if Hermione knew part of your exception is jealousy, she might be a bit more understanding.”

Ron puffed up, his cheeks reddening to match his hair. “I am not jealous,” he enunciated carefully, almost hissing at Harry.

Harry’s eyebrows lifted a notch. “Ron, are you really that dense?”

Ron ignored the question while taking a big bite of chicken from his plate. Harry shrugged and turned to check on the front table again. Sometime during Hermione and Ron’s disagreement, Dumbledore had left the hall.

When the two agents from upstairs returned to the basement an hour later, they had nothing to report. The BMA crew decided to call it a night. ‘Finally,’ Harry thought, but he didn’t move from his spot until they had each Apparated.

Tilting forward away from the wall, Harry stretched the kinks from his muscles. With a languorous reach for the ceiling, he let the cloak fall to the floor. He stretched again as he reached to fold the cloak and return it to his pack.

“Just what was that witch doing here?” he muttered. Along with Sirius and Remus, he had been keeping this area under surveillance for the last two months. Apparently, the Mom wanted their information with greater haste. Or perhaps they simply wanted a different perspective. Harry was fully aware that Hermione was a wizarding archeologist, but he also knew she didn’t have clearance on the Atlantean Project. ‘Why would the Mom send Hermione into an investigation so far afield her scope of practice?’ he wondered, aggravated.

He thoughtfully stroked the Remembrall in his pocket, the pad of his index finger and thumb sliding across the cool, polished surface. Standing in the middle of the room, he looked at the spot Hermione had stood just before Apparating. Before he had even recognized her, his gaze was immediately drawn to the blue shawl around her shoulders; a silvery pattern swirled over the fabric, so shiny it almost glowed.

Mere seconds later, his eyes had been drawn to her face. That image of her flashed across his mind – she had seemed a bit taller, her hair less wild and though her skin was flawlessly smooth, a maturity was etched upon her features that he didn’t remember.

Hermione was a part of his past he long thought dead, but he felt such an overwhelming surge of emotions, he almost failed to hasten her departure. Waves of pain, regret and bitterness swept over him like a gush of foam hitting the beach just outside. She looked completely taken aback and confused; Harry felt some solace in that. Harry truly hoped she found their reunion as painful as he, but with no time for questions, he had urged her to Apparate. Personal issues could not get in the way of the project, and he refused to let the BMA agents take her into custody and ruin all of the hard work he had done with Remus and Sirius.

Though seeing her again had brought a decidedly intense need for revenge, a feeling quite foreign to him. It was because of her that Harry Potter no longer existed, but had become someone else entirely. ‘Yes,’ Harry thought, ‘perhaps Hermione needed a bit of complication.’ After all, Hermione was the witch that had betrayed him.

* * * * *

Harry directly Apparated into the casino parking garage. He had found that area a good place to appear without much notice or regard. He chuckled to himself -- his Apparation would bring the BMA agents back to Dragon Island; the poor blokes would once again be disappointed to find nothing but traces of used magic.

He entered the ornate lobby of the Beau Rivage, oblivious to his surroundings. The plush carpet beneath his feet was ignored, as well as the large chandeliers above his head. All around him, shops and boutiques beckoned the gamblers to spend their winnings, thus keeping the money within the walls of the casino, but he was oblivious. Halfway down the long mall stood a large, round table, supporting a gigantic vase of beautiful blooms -- Harry neither noticed the cloying smell of the bouquet, nor the scores of wealthy women admiring his person. His thoughts were on Hermione, and that bothered him almost as much as the thoughts themselves.

For now, Harry simply wanted to get to his room and stand under the heated shower, as if that would wash away all the uncomfortable emotions clinging to him from the island. Striding past the first set of elevators, he used his room card to access the keyed lift to the floor of suites above. As the numbers lit up at intervals, Harry concentrated on keeping his mind empty.

He swung open the door to his room, and a crease furrowed his brow. Sirius Black, his mentor, godfather and friend sat on the couch. Harry really didn’t want to talk to anyone right now, especially someone who knew him so well.

“Why the frown?” Sirius immediately questioned.

“I thought you’d be gone,” Harry replied honestly.

“Why?” Sirius further interrogated. “It’s not as if you’ve a bird with you.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Why are you still here? I thought you and Remus were taking your leave by now.”

Sirius simply stared at him a moment more, as if to read his mind. Giving up, he shrugged. “He doesn’t begin the change until tonight. Besides we decided to go out to one of the remoter islands, rather than drive out to the country.”

“That would probably be safer, for everyone,” Harry agreed.

“I think so too,” Remus spoke, entering the room, duffel bag in hand. “Less likely for human interaction.” Harry noticed his friend looked haggard, as if his body was already preparing for his imminent werewolf transition. ‘Or perhaps it’s merely his dread,’ Harry pondered.

“But we thought to head over to Mary Mahoney’s to break our fast before we leave. Care to join us?” Sirius added.

“You two eat there all the time,” Harry pointed out. “Can’t you try someplace new?”

“Would you join us if we do?” Remus questioned.

“Not this morning,” Harry sighed.

“So we’ll still go across the street,” Sirius grinned. “Did you find anything out on the island?”

“A bunch of BMA agents running around,” Harry grinned, briefly forgetting his consternation. “They didn’t find anything.”

“And what did you find?” Remus asked thoughtfully.

“More than I bargained for,” replied Harry.

“Death Eaters?”

“I wish it had been,” Harry answered Sirius. “In all honesty, that would have been vastly preferable.”

“What could be worse than Death Eaters?” Remus and Sirius asked in unison.

“It was Hermione, apparently doing a ‘dig’ for the Mom”

“Bloody hell,” breathed Sirius. “What are they thinking? Did she see you?”

“Afraid so, but I don’t think she recognized me,” Harry offered hopefully.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a glance. “I’m sure she did,” Remus nodded. “If I know Hermione, she probably not only recognized you, but she also catalogued you!”

“Bloody hell,” Sirius repeated, “bloody hell.”