Restitution

"Restitution"

by Paracelsus

Chapter 3: The Report of My Death Has Been Grossly Exaggerated

"There's still a great deal yet to be done, Albus," Professor McGonagall reminded him again as she helped him climb into the school carriage that would take them to Hogsmeade.

"I am aware of it, Minerva," replied Professor Dumbledore patiently. "But the majority of the preparations for today's service are well advanced. They no longer need our immediate supervision. We can spare a few minutes for Mr. Weasley - his message seemed most urgent."

As the carriage began to move, McGonagall asked, "Then he told you nothing of his reasons for this... summons?"

"No. And I fear I couldn't send a message in return asking why. With all of today's preparations, I had no time to visit the Owlery... and sadly, I've not seen Fawkes for the last several days. An inopportune time for a holiday, but I'm sure he has his reasons."

It took only a few minutes for the carriage to pull into the town of Hogsmeade, which already showed signs of closing for the afternoon. The carriage turned down a side street and stopped next to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. "Mr. Weasley said to call at the house next to his brothers' shop," explained Dumbledore as they descended from the carriage.

McGonagall took the lead, walking straight to the door and knocking on it sharply. After a moment, the door opened to show a broadly smiling Ronald Weasley. His smile faded somewhat upon seeing her... he blinked rapidly in surprise. "Professor McGonagall? H-hello, I wasn't expecting..."

"Good morning, Mr. Weasley. The Headmaster was sure you wouldn't mind if I accompanied him. Your business sounded so urgent, we thought it might require our combined efforts." McGonagall couldn't keep a touch of tartness from her voice. She was gratified to see Weasley swallow nervously... seven years of conditioned reflexes springing into action.

"Er, sure, right," said Ron. He was momentarily flustered... then quickly, as a thought struck him, he grinned at both of them as he opened the door wider. "Yeah, come on in, this does affect you, doesn't it? Since it's about Harry's memorial service and all..."

"Just so, Mr. Weasley, just so," said Dumbledore as Ron closed the door behind them. "Now what seems to be the problem? Your owl was rather cryptic, but you implied that the memorial would have to be altered in some way..."

"That would be my fault, Albus," came an apologetic baritone from the living room. "You know me, I'm always causing inconvenience..."

Ron could have sold tickets for the view of their faces. McGonagall's stunned expression alone was worth every detention she'd ever given him. And Dumbledore looked absolutely flummoxed for perhaps the first time in his life.

"Potter?" MacGonagall managed to croak.

"Hullo, Professor," said Harry. "Sorry I didn't contact you sooner, but I've been... indisposed for the last few days." To Harry's credit, except for the twinkling green eyes, he really did look sorry.

"But... but this isn't possible! How on earth...?"

"It's, well, it's a long story," said Harry. "I can give you some of the details on our way back to Hogwarts, if you like. Er, Albus?"

Dumbledore had been looking intently at Harry, frowning and squinting as though Harry were out of focus somehow. He started when Harry addressed him, and looked as if he were seeing Harry properly for the first time - his sudden smile practically glowed with delight. "Harry, my boy! You've survived! Well now, this is splendid news. And you're absolutely right, Mr. Weasley," he added, with a courteous bow to Ron. "This will necessitate a change in the service. Now, let me think..."

*

A memorial service for a Famous Person, by definition, rates a story in the Daily Prophet. But when the Famous Person had already managed to telepathically broadcast the details of his death to the entire wizarding world, such a story becomes a tad redundant.

So of course, thought Zacharias Smith grumpily, it gets assigned to the most junior reporter. Me.

He sat in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, over to one side where he could observe without being noticed. The dining tables he remembered from his school days had been removed, with rows of seats taking their place. The head table, where the faculty were used to eating, had been replaced with a raised dais on which stood a large black podium. People were arriving in clumps of twos and threes, and finding seats around the Hall. The majority of them wore somber black, as though mourning a member of their own families.

In some ways, he reflected, it was rather like covering a society wedding. After all, the order of the service was already determined, the speakers already chosen... no surprises of any kind. All Smith could do was take note of who was in attendance, follow the proceedings, and hope that something newsworthy - i.e., unexpected - would happen. Something that might help me get noticed by my editors, he thought. Small chance of that, though. He hadn't even been assigned a photographer - what kind of pictures could the Prophet print from a funeral?

Nonetheless, Smith ran his eye over the assembling crowd. He could already see them separating into groups as they took seats. Surreptitiously he took a quill from his pocket and began to jot notes - a little background material, he rationalized. In his mind he saw a pattern of four distinct groups, groups that had some slight overlap.

The first group, sitting in the front row, were the Politicos. They were here, Smith guessed, out of political expediency: no government official could afford to show anything but sympathy to the memory of the Great Hero. In fairness, Smith allowed that some of them might actually be sympathetic.

He watched Minister Cornelius Fudge take his front-row-center seat, surrounded by Deputy Ministers and Undersecretaries (though not Dolores Umbridge, he noted with satisfaction - the hateful old cow). Next to him sat Madam Amelia Bones, head of the D.M.L.E. and therefore in charge of the Auror Corps - which made her Potter's boss. On his other side sat Chrétien Lemage, the French Minister of Magic. Other important persons of authority, from the Wizengamot or the I.F.W., were spaced among the other seats.

Smith called the second group the Socialites. Like the Politicos, they'd come because it was important that they be seen at Potter's service, honoring his memory. In their case, however, it was social advancement, not political, that brought them here. Smith wondered how many of them were trying to show that, really, they'd had nothing to do with those nasty Death Eaters...

He spied a few former schoolmates as they arrived, and classed them as Socialites. Pansy Quinnett (née Parkinson) arrived on the arm of her husband - eighty years her senior, if a day - and found seats near where the Slytherin house tables sat before they'd been cleared. Habit, I daresay, he mused. Old Quinnett was supposed to be frightfully wealthy, but Parkinson's marriage had nonetheless startled a great many people.

There was a stir at the doors to the Hall, and Smith's eyes grew wide. It was - it was Narcissa Malfoy! Considering that Lucius Malfoy had been one of the Death Eaters taken at the Druid's Dolmen just a few days earlier, Narcissa showed formidable courage (or gall, depending on who was speaking) in coming to Potter's service. Smith guessed she was making a statement: "My husband was a Death Eater. I was not. Get over it."

Directly behind her was a young man in a hoverchair: long blond hair, a thin pallid face. It was Draco Malfoy - and if his looks meant anything, they gave credence to the rumors about his disappearance for the last two years. The rumor mill had it that he'd defied his old man and gotten locked in a dungeon at Malfoy Manor for his pains. He watched as the Malfoys took their places a few seats away from the Quinnetts.

The third group, scattered widely across the Hall, nonetheless made constant eye contact with one another, trading brief smiles of greeting. Smith called them the Phoenixes: those who knew Potter somewhat and supported the fight against the Dark Lord. The true Order of the Phoenix was in this group, of course, but so were most of Hogwarts' professors. Moody, Shacklebolt, Figg and Fletcher sat alongside Sprout, Flitwick, and Sinistra. They'd reserved an empty seat for Severus Snape, though no one expected him to finally reappear after all these years.

And there in the far corner were Dumbledore's Army - who'd used the name publicly and proudly ever since the Battle of Hogsmeade. The Creevey brothers, Chang and Corner, Macmillan and Macmillan (née Abbott), Bones and Goldstein all sat together... not speaking much, but with a bond obvious between them. Smith had never felt welcome in the D.A., but he suddenly found himself wishing he'd stayed with it for more than the one year.

The fourth group overlapped a lot with the third, but you couldn't help distinguish them. They were, quite simply, Potter's friends. The closestPotter had to a family, Smith supposed (no one counted the churlish Muggles - what was their name? - the Dursleys, as Potter's family).

Lovegood was here, probably covering the service for her father's ridiculous Quibbler. (Less ridiculous than it used to be, Smith had to admit, since she'd taken over the magazine's publication.) Brown was there, in a hoverchair like Malfoy, with the Patils on either side and Finnegan behind her. Longbottom and Thomas were just entering the Hall, deep in conversation. Hagrid stood against the back wall, trying to be unobtrusive and failing dismally.

Smith scanned the Hall for a group of redheads - or one bushy-haired brunette. Potter's closest friends had yet to make an appearance. No matter, there were still twenty minutes before the service was scheduled to begin - and these things never ran on time.

He glanced again at the programme for the service. Dumbledore was to speak the eulogy. Bones, as Potter's boss, had been invited to say a few words (Smith had heard that Fudge's request to speak had been declined, politely but firmly). The other scheduled speakers were Lupin, last surviving friend of Potter's parents; Hagrid, Potter's professor and first wizarding friend; and Dobby, whom Potter had freed from slavery.

Inevitable, I suppose, Smith told himself. Only Harry Potter, Saviour of Wizardkind, could have his life commemorated by a house-elf, a half-giant, and a werewolf.

*

Naturally, since everyone expected the service to begin late, Dumbledore started right on time.

He emerged through the teachers' entrance by the dais, walking carefully with the aid of a cane. Professor McGonagall, wearing school robes with a tartan trim, supported him on one side; a figure swathed in a dark green cloak and hood stood by his other side. The three came forward until they reached the podium, where Dumbledore's escorts released him. He took hold of either side of the lectern and murmured the words that activated the localized Sonorus charm built into the podium.

"Good afternoon," his magically amplified voice sounded in the Great Hall. The few remaining whisperers in the audience fell silent. "I should like to thank all of you for being here with us today. Today we mark the death of one of the greatest evils in living memory. Tom Riddle, known to most of us as Lord Voldemort..."

He waited for the uncomfortable mutterings in the Hall to quiet before he continued. "... is no longer a threat to our world. I had prepared a few remarks to honor the remarkable young man who accomplished this heroic act. However, I now believe that another person has some words better suited for this occasion." He stepped back from the podium and gave a polite nod to the hooded figure next to him.

The figure stepped up to the podium, reached up to his hood and threw it from his face - revealing black hair, green eyes behind round spectacles, and the most famous scar in the wizarding world.

Harry had expected some reaction from the crowd, a gasp or a collective shout or a shriek or two - something. Instead he stood immersed in total, absolute silence. It unnerved him so much that he forgot what he was going to say - his mind was a sudden and perfect blank. In desperation, he turned to Dumbledore and said the first thing that came into his head.

"Well, Albus, you win the bet - there are more than twelve people here."

There was still no sound from the people seated in the Great Hall (although Harry could see more than a few jaws dropping). He felt his knees grow wobbly... somehow he didn't think this was entirely due to his weakened condition. Rallying his courage, Harry addressed the audience. "Uh, hello. Thank you all for coming. I'm happy to see you today - happier than I can say, honestly. I can only hope that you're all happy, too.

"Happy because, as Professor Dumbledore has told us, Lord Voldemort -" Well, that got a reaction out of them. Harry tsked impatiently at their discomfiture - he felt himself losing his fear of the crowd, with humor taking its place. "He can't hurt you anymore, people, and his name never could. Voldemort - is - dead. He is not just merely dead, he's really most sincerely dead."

Harry paused and looked over the assembled faces before him. Nobody even smiled? Wow, tough room.

"As you may have heard, I did fight with Voldemort. He was defeated, but in the process I was gravely injured." Ouch. Let's save the stupid jokes for later, okay Potter? "I'm still recovering from those injuries, as you can see - I only made contact with my friends late yesterday. There was no way to let you all know before now that I've survived... I'm sorry to've dragged you all to Hogwarts for no good reason. But," he added helpfully, "those of you who've prepared speeches should hold on to them. We may yet need them."

His strength was starting to ebb. Public speaking is more taxing than I thought. Harry tried to conclude before he collapsed on the dais. "Th-thank you again for coming today. Your presence is an expression of... of loyalty that I don't deserve... and that I will always be grateful for." And now there was a response from the people in the Great Hall, a low roar growing steadily louder - a confused mixture of applause, people shouting his name, everyone talking to everyone else...

His eyes were crossing, the faces in front of him were blurring...

Somehow, Dumbledore was at his side, speaking to the crowd, while McGonagall pulled him away from the lectern and towards the teachers' door. "This way, Potter," she said softly as she all but carried him out of the Hall. "Dumbledore will keep them occupied for a while - they won't dare interrupt him - and that will give us time to get you to Madam Pomfrey."

Harry groaned.

"Yes, I know how much you dislike medical attention, Potter. But you obviously need it, and just as obviously are in no condition to argue with me. So please don't. Just come along, and try to give me some warning if you insist on fainting." McGonagall spoke as sharply as ever, and yet her face managed a tight smile as she led Harry down the unfamiliar corridors.

"If it helps, Potter," she added encouragingly, "this is hardly the first time I've escorted you to the hospital wing. Goodness, it ought to make you feel positively nostalgic."

If Harry made any reply, it was mercifully not recorded.

*

Hermione hadn't waited for Harry to leave the dais before stepping out from the Great Hall and striding swiftly down the corridors. She knew that Harry would quickly exhaust himself; she knew that Professor McGonagall would take Harry to Madam Pomfrey. And she knew that, though the Headmaster would hold the crowd as long as he could, sooner or later they would be pouring out of the Hall, searching en masse for their hero.

But Hermione was determined to reach him first.

There'd been no chance to speak privately with Harry last night, no chance this morning before the service - and there'd be precious little chance once the wizarding world had descended on him. She fully intended to have words with Harry before then - and deliver a well-deserved arse-chewing while it could still do the most good. Ron couldn't be the only one to have that privilege, dammit.

Up the main staircase from the Great Hall... turn left...

Harry'd mentioned, after his last visit to Hogwarts, how the school's hallways kept changing. Hermione doubted anyone in the audience would be able to find their way to the hospital wing without guidance. Fortunately she had guidance, probably the one thing that could lead her unerringly wherever in Hogwarts she wished to go. She'd brought the Marauder's Map.

Harry and Ron had loaned it to her during their seventh year, so she could escape the castle and follow them to Hosgmeade on that fateful Christmas Eve. After the Battle of Hogsmeade, she somehow never got around to returning it... after all, more tools for mischief they didn't need. But it was certainly proving useful today.

Left... another left... down stairs and right...

Arriving at the double doors to the hospital wing, she was startled to see two blue-cloaked Aurors standing there - evidently she wasn't the only one who'd deduced where Harry'd gone. One of the Aurors seemed ready to physically restrain her, but the other Auror interceded - directing him a few steps down the hall with a gesture as she turned to greet Hermione. "Wotcher, Hermione," she said with a grin, and Hermione grinned back as she recognized her. She still favored bubble-gum-pink hair after all these years...

"Hello, Tonks," she returned. "Sentinel duty?"

"For a few. Impressive showing out there today, was it?"

"Pretty fair. I'll tell you about it later." Hermione started to walk around Tonks, but she stretched her arm across the doors barring entry. "Come on, Tonks, I have to get in there."

"Sorry, ducks, you'll just have to wait here for a bit. Soon as the Chief's given the go-ahead, we can start letting folks in." Tonks nodded at Hermione's inquiring look. "Yeah, she's talking to him now, and between you and me, I think they'll want privacy." Keeping her arm across the doors, Tonks gestured with her head for Hermione to back away.

Hermione didn't back away. Instead, she stepped quite close to Tonks and looked her square in the eye. "Nymphadora...?" she said very quietly, very dangerously.

Tonks lost her grin - her posture stiffened slightly. She didn't budge, but returned Hermione's level gaze. They maintained eye contact for several tense moments before Hermione continued in the same low tone, "You know you owe me..."

After another moment, Tonks pursed her lips in a soundless whistle. "Blimey, Hermione, have you been taking Auror training when I wasn't looking?"

"You're not the first person to suggest I might be an Auror. Thanks, but at the moment I have other priorities." Hermione slipped under Tonks's arm and entered the hospital wing. Tonks made no further move to stop her.

Two ghosts stood silently just inside the door, the Fat Friar and the Grey Lady. They seemed to be waiting in queue, as it were. Hermione hardly spared them a glance... she walked past them towards the curtains that hid the hospital beds.

She stopped in her tracks as she heard raised voices - no wonder the ghosts were waiting their turn. She eavesdropped for a moment, then took a cautious step forward until she reached the edge of the curtains, where she could see without being seen. She now realized that, when it came to arse-chewing, she was a mere amateur.

Rachel Naphtali was a professional.

"... in twenty years, the most reckless behaviour I've ever seen. Just what were you thinking, Potter? Were you thinking?! Telling no one of your plans... jeopardizing a dozen covert operations... risking capture, interrogation, even enemy infiltration into the Aurors! Or did you imagine that getting yourself killed was the worst that could happen?! But of course you did, greenhorns always do. Bollocks!! Ten minutes of Legilimency, one of your hairs in some Polyjuice, and all your teammates would have been dead within hours. Of all the idiotic, self-centered, suicidal stunts..."

Harry stood braced at attention, his angry eyes focused on the far wall, as Naphtali berated him at length with a shriveling scorn that could blister dragon hide at a hundred paces. Finally, after cataloging all of Harry's mental, moral, and magical inadequacies - never once repeating herself, Hermione noted - Naphtali started to wind down.

"Sit," she snapped. Harry sat down on the edge of the bed, but didn't relax his braced posture. Naphtali glared at him for another minute before she continued. "I suppose you're now feeling hard put-upon, are you, Potter? You saved the bloody world, what right do I have telling you off?"

Harry snorted in bitter amusement. "Why shouldn't you? Everyone else has." Unseen, Hermione winced at the pain in his voice.

"I don't know from everyone else. But from where I stand, your actions have endangered the entire Auror Corps. Yes, in hindsight things went well. Had your trap failed to stop Himself, however, many more would have died than just you."

"Yes, ma'am," said Harry. His voice was losing its angry edge, as though he were finally realizing the truth in the Chief's words.

"You didn't tell any other Auror what you'd planned... not me, not Bones... not verbally, not even a letter to be opened In-The-Event-Of. Dare I hope you told somebody what to do if things had gone badly?" Naphtali knew the answer already, but waited for Harry to admit it. Harry shook his head silently.

"Very well, then..." Her voice became less harsh as she continued, "You understand, Potter, that a disciplinary hearing must be convened to rule on your little bit of derring-do. And on top of everything else, there appears to have been an unauthorized use of your Auror badge to visit St. Mungo's - though I'll admit that seems to be the least of your worries. However..."

She swept her hand at a goblet sitting on the bedside table. "However, as of this moment you are on medical leave from the Aurors. While on medical leave, you will comply fully with any regimen given you by licensed Healers and mediwizards. You will remain on medical leave until you've recovered from the injuries you sustained at the Dolmen. Once you've returned from medical leave, you will immediately be placed on administrative leave, pending the outcome of your disciplinary hearing. Only if that hearing finds in your favor will you resume your Auror's duties. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Harry tonelessly.

"Good," said Naphtali. She seemed for the first time to hesitate, as if debating how to phrase the next bit. Although she couldn't be said to smile, her features did soften. "Then I want you to rest, drink your potion, and concentrate on getting better. I'll be checking on you later this week." She paused, and added, "Treat it as a holiday, Potter. God knows you've earned it."

She nodded to him, turned and strode briskly around the curtains and towards the door. As Naphtali passed Hermione, her eyebrows rose in surprise. She didn't speak or break stride, but Hermione was sure she saw Naphtali smile for a split-second. Somehow, Hermione knew she'd been given a few extra minutes of privacy.

Hermione turned back to walk to the hospital bed - and her breath caught in her throat. Sitting on the bed, facing away from her, was an empty husk of Harry Potter. Thinking himself alone, he no longer sat at attention. His shoulders were slumped, his head was bowed... every line of his body bespoke depression and rejection. This was no conquering hero. This was a six-year-old boy, locked in a cupboard under the stairs and constantly reminded of his worthlessness.

Harry had never, in all their years together, talked with her about his life with the Dursleys - not once. Ron had described his own visits to number four Privet Drive, but it hadn't been necessary - Hermione had the Dursleys' measure since the end of her first year...

They'd gone to save Flamel's Stone from Lord Voldemort. She and Harry had left Ron in the giant chess room... she had just deduced which of Snape's potions would let Harry advance and which would let her run for help... Harry was preparing to go on, and impulsively she'd hugged him. He hadn't returned her hug... he'd only stood there stiffly. It wasn't simply that he'd been embarrassed (although what eleven-year-old wouldn't be?)... he didn't respond to her at all.

It wasn't until hours later, as she kept vigil over an unconscious Harry in the hospital wing, that she'd finally realized why: She'd been the first person ever to hug Harry.

He'd never been hugged. He didn't respond because he didn't know how.

And that told her all she needed to know about his life with the Dursleys.

Knowing that, she held back from hugging him when she visited his bedside later (although she'd nearly forgotten herself and hugged him anyway). And in their second year, she'd quietly set out to accustom Harry to personal contact - an occasional tap on the shoulder, a momentary touch on the arm, nothing overt or embarrassing, but always there.

After Harry rescued Ginny from the Chamber of Secrets, Hermione gained an unwitting ally in her plan: Mrs. Weasley started hugging Harry as though he were one of her own children. He seemed to accept these embraces more easily, perhaps because they were so obviously "mother hugs". Hermione took more opportunities to hold on to Harry, beneath the Shrieking Shack, riding Buckbeak... always appropriate to the moment, but always there...

In their fourth year, Hermione could hug Harry and Ron together and not have it thought strange... by the end of the year, Harry could accept a friendly kiss from Hermione... her enthusiastic hug when he'd first arrived at Grimmauld Place was received with equal enthusiasm. By the time they'd finished their seventh year at Hogwarts, Harry was actually initiating personal contact, and enjoying it.

And now Hermione saw that, with a few well-chosen words, she could destroy years of progress. She could drive Harry back behind his walls - and watch him lock himself back into that cupboard under the stairs.

She felt her anger and her resolve slipping away together. Obstinately she tried to hold onto her outrage: He manipulated me. He tricked me. He used me. Ten years of patient friendship and then he sent me away from his side... he should have to earn forgiveness...

But echoes of another conversation came back to her memory: If loving someone means I'd give my life to save theirs... and by that measure...

"Hey there," Hermione said in a level voice.

Harry's head swiveled around. His eyes widened (in apprehension?) when he saw her. Unconsciously he sat up straighter. "Um... hi, Hermione. Did you just get here?"

"Mm-hmm. Tonks let me in just as Naphtali was leaving." Wild Abraxans couldn't get Hermione to admit that she'd heard Naphtali's tirade. She kept her face impassive.

Before she could say more, Harry began speaking rapidly. "Listen, Hermione, I'm sorry - no, let me finish," he said, forestalling the interruption she was about to make. "I had no right to treat you as I did... it was wrong, I knew it was wrong... should never have treated you so badly... I was an idiot, please forgive..."

"Shut up, Potter."

"No, please, let me finish... Hermione, I'm..."

"Shut up, Potter."

Harry shut up. Hermione walked over and stood before him as he sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't say anything for several moments. She spent the time putting her thoughts in logical order. In Hermione's mind, there was a definite sequence to be followed in situations like this: start with the airing of grievances...

After a minute, she reached out and lightly touched the back of his right hand. She traced the thin white scars etched there, her fingernail still dark with blood from the night before. "'I must not tell lies'," she quoted. "Good advice."

His eyes flashed at the reminder of that phrase, and how it came to be indelibly graven onto his hand. But he wisely said nothing, though he had to clench his jaws together to do it.

If he thought she wouldn't notice his reaction, he was wrong. She turned coolly formal. "I accept that you trying to save our lives," she said, as though they were laying out propositions in a debate. "I accept that you thought you had to lie to us to do it. But good intentions do not excuse your treatment of us. I have every right to be angry with you."

Harry nodded once. If Hermione wanted to act like a barrister in arbitration... well, he was in no position to stop her. "You do," he said simply. "And I'm sorry." So very, very sorry...

"I am neither a child nor an incompetent, Harry Potter," she continued inexorably, "and I will not be treated like one. If I decide to risk my life, the risk is mine to take. You can try to dissuade me... you can refuse to go along with me... but you will not decide for me."

He licked his lips. "I understand," he whispered. It sounded like Hermione was getting ready to tell him to go his own way while she went hers. The very thought of it made him miserable to the bone, but he told himself he'd lost any right to plead with her... while she had every right... He sat completely motionless, keeping his gaze hooded.

She saw him begin to withdraw into himself. All right Harry, she thought, it's now or never. She leaned down and forward so that their faces were a few inches apart. "We've been true friends - loyal to one another no matter how it hurt. We've stood side by side, always. I will not be shunted aside... I will not accept a place three paces behind you. Only side by side, as equals. Nothing less, you got that?" She held her breath... she'd come this far, the rest was up to him... he had to reach out the last few inches...

Green eyes looked up and locked with brown eyes. Slowly, warily, ready to retreat at the first sign of rejection, Harry brought his head forward... until his forehead butted her own. Hermione felt him push firmly forward, and leaned into him in response.

"Does this mean I get a second chance, Miss Granger?" asked Harry softly, but with a faint hope rising in his voice.

"'Second'? Potter, you passed your 'second' chance years ago," returned Hermione coolly.

"Third chance? Fifth? Tenth?" Hope sounded stronger. Sparkle returned to those eyes so close to hers.

"I got top level N.E.W.T.s in Arithmancy, and even I couldn't say which chance you're on," Hermione reproved, determined to keep her voice and face stern. She only half succeeded. Her voice remained hard, but her face now insisted on displaying a wide dopey grin, no matter how she tried to suppress it.

"Suffice to say," she added, "one more chance." With those words she threw her arms around Harry, and felt his arms go around her. "Harry, you great, clueless prat, did you really think we intended to go through life without you? Do you think we could?"

His answer was to embrace her more strongly than before. She responded in kind. It was communication beyond words, more eloquent than speech... affection, and acceptance, and forgiveness. Once more they understood that each still carried a part of the other within... and would carry it forever, despite misunderstandings, or arguments, or even death.

There was no knowing how much time passed - they didn't notice or care. It was Hermione who broke the silence. "And having said all that," she whispered into his shoulder, "thank you, Harry, for saving us. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Well... you're welcome," said Harry after a moment. "But you know, it's nothing you wouldn't've done. I mean, if you'd been born under a prophecy and everything..."

"Just shut up."

"Right." And proving that magic doesn't know the word 'impossible', they hugged even tighter.

*

All too soon, Madam Pomfrey was bustling back into the room and pressing Harry to drink the rest of his potion. "Blood Replenishing Potion," she told Hermione as Harry drained the goblet. "The boy looks like he'd been attacked by vampires. I'll prepare enough for you to take home, Mr. Potter," she added. "Take one draught every hour for the rest of the day. Miss Granger, please see that he does."

Hermione couldn't help smirking at Harry's groan. He so hated hospitals...

"Well, anything's better than having blood pumped into your arm," Hermione suggested as Pomfrey left with the empty goblet.

"You haven't tasted it yet," Harry reminded her with a grimace. He looked better than she'd seen him since his return - though she suspected the potion wasn't solely responsible for that.

Harry caught her looking him over. "What?" he demanded. "Is my hair blue or something?"

"No, no," she smiled. "Just... it's good to have you back." And so good, she reflected, to be able to finally say so...

"Good to be back. I, uh..." He ducked his head shyly. "I wasn't sure I was back, at first... not where it counts. Thank you, Hermione."

"Well, please remember we didn't leave," she replied, but without rancor. "I still can't believe it... you'd never kept us away before..."

"Um, not quite true. I've tried to keep you out of harm's way before. I never succeeded, but I did try."

Hermione shot Harry a suspicious glance. She was about to pursue this new line of inquiry when she heard familiar voices outside the doors, growing louder every second. "Grab hold of something, Harry. We're about to see whether you're really back or not..."

A grinning Tonks flung the doors open theatrically to admit a flood of Weasleys into the ward. Fred and George led the pack, hooting and laughing, with Bill and Charlie close behind. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley followed at a more sedate pace, bringing an unsmiling Ginny between them. Behind them were the 'honorary Weasleys,' Angelina and Fleur, clearly enjoying themselves but prepared to wait their turn.

George was the first to reach Harry... he wrestled him into a head lock, shouting "I knew it! I knew it!" while Fred pounded Harry's back. Charlie added his own comments, until the noise was too great to distinguish words. For a time, chaos reigned supreme in the Hogwarts hospital wing - and Hermione knew that Madam Pomfrey would, for once, not lift a finger to quell it.

"Well," said a quiet voice beside her, "how go things with you?" Unnoticed, Ron had slipped into the ward and now stood close by Hermione.

She gave him a serene smile. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

"That good?" he grinned.

"That good and better." She leaned against him as they stood watching Harry drowning in Weasleys. Without thinking, she tilted her head and rested it against his shoulder. "You were right," she added. "I admit it, you were right. Given half a chance, he did want to apologize."

"Of course I was right," said Ron smugly.

"Of course you were. Statistically, it has to happen every once in a while."

"Ha bloody ha." Ron looked down fondly at the top of Hermione's head. He put his hand on her shoulder and gave a friendly squeeze, while giving thanks for her to whatever divinity was in charge of redheads. A life without the Trio wasn't worth living.

Ron's attention sharpened on the Weasley clan. His brothers had pulled back a bit from Harry, and Ron saw Mrs. Weasley give Ginny an admonishing look. With a sulky sigh, Ginny approached Harry. Ron chuckled. "Oh ho," he whispered to Hermione. "Looks like Mum's little lecture this morning is bearing fruit... this should be good..."

Ginny glared darkly at Harry, drew herself to her full height, opened her mouth to speak - and caught sight of Ron watching them with that irritating grin. He obviously wasn't going to give her even the pretense of privacy. Fine, then...

She brought her glare back down to Harry's face. "Cochon," she told him scathingly. "Âne. Imbécile acéphale."

Harry blinked. "Um... c'est vrai," he admitted.

Ginny spared a glance at Ron's face, noting with satisfaction how his grin was slipping away. Her other brothers seemed equally at sea... only Hermione and Fleur were smiling appreciatively. Her eyes came back to Harry, and she crossed her arms in front of her. She treated herself to another moment of pure glare before mixing it with resignation... and the beginnings of amusement.

"Mais d'ailleurs, es-tu nos imbécile acéphale."

He considered this. "D'accord," he replied with a shy smile, and held out his hand. Ginny hesitated, then placed her hand in his.

"I'm still mad at you," she said in a low voice, ignoring the collective sigh of relief from the onlookers. Fred and George were openly applauding.

He replied equally low, "And justly so... I really am sorry."

"Is that supposed to make everything better?"

"No... but I have to start somewhere." The corner of Harry's mouth twitched upward. "If it's any consolation, it'll never happen again."

"It bloody well better not. There's only so many times I'm willing to mourn for you."

"Yeah!" Fred interrupted. "What was all that about, anyway? If nothing else, Harry, you owe us for making Mum cry."

"He says he's sorry," said George, taking his twin's cue.

"But how sorry?"

"He should show us how sorry."

"It should involve pain."

"No!" interjected Harry. "I've had enough pain, thank you. I draw the line at more pain." He couldn't help smiling at the Twins' antics, thankful for any relief from the tension of the moment.

"Perhaps," suggested Charlie, "he can come up with another name for himself. I mean, is he really still The Boy Who Lived?"

George immediately took it up. "How about 'The Boy Who Lived Twice'?"

"No, no," cried Fred. "'The Man Who Wouldn't Die!'"

"'Vanquisher of Voldemort!'"

"Naw, nobody could say that but us..."

"Stop it," Harry begged, no longer smiling. His eyes turned to Ron and Hermione. They had no trouble reading his expression: A little help here would be appreciated, please... please?

Ron began a detailed examination of his fingernails. Hermione blinked in happy innocence.

"You're right," said George immediately. "Why bother with a new name? The Prophet will take care of that. No, no, it has to be more of a challenge. Something you've never done..."

"Something you'd prefer not to do..."

"Don't go there," Harry said as sternly as he could. But Fred and George were on a roll, and weren't about to be stopped by anyone - certainly not the butt of their humor. Everyone was laughing now, even Ginny was enjoying his embarrassment.

"Got it!" cried Fred. "Harry, m'lad, when was the last time you were out on a date?"

"Soit!" Fleur shrieked and clapped her hands. Next to her, Angelina shook her head in despair, as though even after all these years, she'd never gotten used to Weasleyan antics.

"It'll get you out of that shell of yours," continued Fred, warming to his theme. "Prove to us you're going to take life easier from now on. And you can't claim that your bird would become a target for You-Know-Who, now can you?"

"Oh yersss," George crowed. "Look at his face, he hates the very thought of this! You want to show how sorry you are, Harry? Talk about punishment!"

Harry's face had, indeed, frozen into an immobile mask. His breathing was shallow, his head shaking slightly. Unable to respond, he sat silently... not meeting the eyes of anyone in the room... hoping, praying that someone would come to his defense...

When rescue did come, it was from the source Harry had least expected.

"Fred? George? Could you step over here for a second?" asked Ginny in her most dulcet voice. "I need to talk to you about your memorial service."