Lux Aeterna

* * * * *

 

Chapter One: Many Unhappy Returns
 

... Ron found that he did not really care; he felt empty, tainted, betrayed. How could he live now? Without her? Without him? Knowing that it was his fault they died...

He did not look back at the bodies, did not need to. The sight of their inanimate faces, so composed in death, had become imprinted on his mind. Their hands, joined together, had been so cold to the touch, the pulse in Harry's wrist non-existent. They were really dead.

Wearily, Ron trudged through the labyrinthine corridors of Azkaban, grateful for the darkness that made him feel alone and unwatched, despite the heavy grip on his shoulder. His spent mind blotted out the presence of Sirius, and he wept without embarrassment, all pretence at Gryffindor bravado consumed in the reflexive dismissal of his surroundings.

The tears that rolled steadily down his hot cheeks felt strange and empty, for they held only water and not a hint of emotion. He felt the familiar itch on his skin, and his vision blurred, but there was no release. It was a novel experience, this sterile, detached crying that seemed to bear no relation to the confused thoughts swirling in his head. It felt wrong, almost egocentric, and he longed to stop, but found that he couldn't. The tears just kept coming, and he felt so very, very tired.

It was difficult to keep moving, when all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep, perhaps forever, but consideration for the tall man beside him, and his
deep loss, stirred him onward. That was why the tears that fell down his face made him feel so guilty. His loss was nothing, nothing, compared to that of Harry's godfather. Yet Sirius did not cry.

He was surprised by this, and a little unsettled, but supposed that everyone dealt with grief in their own way. Somehow, Sirius was managing to control his rampaging sorrow, and Ron did not want to destroy all his efforts by breaking down here, on the cold stone floor.

Swallowing hard, Ron stared straight ahead, and recognized the long tunnel they were now entering. They were going home. Alone. Unable to halt the raging torrent of woe rising in his gut, Ron cried out heartfelt, senseless words, and threw himself down onto the ground, hammering his fist onto the hard,
unyielding limestone. It didn't help. How could Sirius be so calm, after all they had lost?

* * * * *

 

Eight Months Earlier...

Harry's thin frame shuddered under the insubstantial covering of his school robes, and his trembling digits clutched weakly at the sleeves, pulling them taut over white, fisted hands. It was a futile measure, one borne more out of a vague decision to reach a compromise with his shaking limbs than an actual desire to warm himself up. It didn't really help.

The three hours spent craning his neck over various texts in the Hogwarts Library had not given him the answers he sought, but Harry had to admit they had certainly provided excellent training, both for his present undertaking and for the exams that loomed ominously on the horizon. His eyes had become remarkably adept at scanning information, stopping with great accuracy at the all-important keywords he kept locked in his mind.

So far, he had encountered Necromancy twenty-two times, resurrection five times, Dark Magic thirty times, and Voodoo eight times. A typical day's spoils, which were, as usual, completely useless. None of the references could tell him how to get his parents back.

He was starting to wonder if Sirius was right. Maybe raising the dead truly was impossible.

Yet somehow, Lord Voldemort had done it. He had resurrected Lily and James, and they had appeared wholly in the flesh. Harry had held their hands, had hugged them, had buried his face in their hair. They had been so perfect and beautiful, so proud of him. The experience had resembled some of his most treasured fantasies, and yet it had been real.

Why couldn't he do it?

His motives for wanting them back weren't entirely selfish. Ever since he had seen their ghosts during the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament, Harry
had ceased to regard death as anything final and irreversible. The fact that his parents had been so sentient and aware at his last encounter with them tormented him. He knew they were, 'out there,' somewhere, held captive in a place he could not get to, and that they longed to return to him.

But as the weeks went by with no progress, he just felt more and more guilty. Every day, the sense of panic increased, making it difficult to sleep, to eat, and even to laugh, without a sharp check from his conscience. And then there was the strange feeling that came over him every time he looked at the Forbidden Forest, like it was calling to him. Was it connected to his quest to save his parents? It was all so confusing, and he was so very tired. He was in hell, and he just wanted them back.

But that seemed impossible, especially if the book he was reading now was anything to go by. "The Dark Arts From A Muggle Perspective," was little more than a ludicrous collection of Muggle horror stories, describing the early practise of necromancy in the most absurd and disgusting terms imaginable.

"...  Nothing certain can be said concerning the rites or incantations which were used; they seem to have been very complex, and to have varied in almost every instance. In the Odyssey, Ulysses digs a trench, pours libations around it, and sacrifices black sheep whose blood the shades drink before speaking to him. Lucan describes at length many incantations, and speaks of warm blood poured into the veins of a corpse as if to restore it to life. Cicero relates that Vatinius, in connexion with the evocation of the dead, offered to the manes the entrails of children, and St. Gregory Nazianzen mentions that boys and virgins were sacrificed and dissected for conjuring up the dead and divining (Orat. I contra Julianum, xcii, in P. G., XXV 624)..."

It may have been the first book he had come across that actually mentioned how the dead were brought back to life, but Harry really didn't want to have to roam the countryside looking for black sheep and virgins. Nor was he inclined to pour blood into his parents's corpses, wherever they were.

There was no way he would give up, however, no matter how crazy and obsessed his friends said he was. So far, he had only examined those books in the Hogwarts Library deemed suitable for students. He had yet to explore the Restricted Section.

With just a hint of anger, Harry reminded himself that he wouldn't have to break school rules and enter the Restricted Section if Sirius had been just a little more forthcoming with information. Harry had only asked about the spell Lord Voldemort used to bring back his parents out of curiosity and morbid fascination. At the time, he had had no intention of attempting it himself. Nevertheless, Sirius had looked terrified, and told him in no uncertain terms that resurrecting the dead was impossible.

Sirius could be so selfish at times.

A gust of wind rushed through the high-ceilinged room, making the sea of parchment littering Harry's desk scatter into an even more intimidating heap. He quickly slammed his fists down to contain the sheets, wincing as his neck screamed in protest, and his sleeves sprang back around his elbows. Shivering in the cold, he looked over at Madam Pince's enormous fire and wondered that such an able witch could not conjure a fire that actually exuded heat. That was the purpose of fire, after all, wasn't it?

No wonder he was the only person who stayed here these days, Harry reflected glumly, rearranging his belongings. Hermione would drop by every couple of days and collect another stack of books, Draco Malfoy had been in twice for some reason or other, and there were a few stoic Ravenclaws willing to brave the sub-Arctic conditions for an hour's revision, but other than those few, he was the only student who stayed for any considerable length of time. And it wasn't surprising.

The library must have been the coldest room in the castle, even colder than the outdoor tool shed the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor used for a toilet between classes. Harry even suspected that it was warmer on the northern limb of the Forbidden Forest, where he had his Care of Magical Creatures classes with Hagrid, than it was in the library.

The cold had its uses, however. Harry found he was glad of the privacy it allowed him as he didn't like to think what Sirius, or Professor Dumbledore, would say if they discovered what he was doing in his spare time. He was in enough trouble with Sirius as it was.

Well, if his godfather just wasn't so selfish...

There was no time to think about his recent fight with Sirius now, however. His mind had wandered far enough for one day, and he was still no closer to getting his parents back.

Sitting back in his now customary hunched position, Harry resumed scanning the book before him, subconsciously deciding (as he had before every book he'd read over the last month) that this would be the last useless text he looked at. It was tedious work.

"... The oldest mention of necromancy is the narrative of Ulysses' voyage to Hades (Odyssey, XI) and of his evocation of souls by means of the various rites indicated by Circe..."

Gradually he lapsed into his usual routine of scanning the text and underlining keywords. Page after page, he encountered more and more names familiar from his childhood education, but whose relevance he had long forgotten. Æneas, Horace, Cicero... It all meant nothing to him. He just wanted to know what Lord Voldemort had done. It had involved a blue fire, Priori Incantatem, a spell... But none of these appeared in the books he read. As the time passed, so his pile of rejected volumes and manuscripts grew.

Another day wasted, he thought finally, when the sting in his eyes became too painful to carry on. It was time to stop. No sooner had he made this decision than a pair of familiar voices rose up behind him. It was Ron and Hermione, arguing.

They'd come to fetch him. Again.

"... 'Been up here for hours. It's getting ridiculous. Fred and George keep calling him a psycho!"

"Keep it down, Ron!"

"It's just a joke. They said it to his face yesterday."

"No, I mean, keep it down. We're in the library, remember?"

"Huh? Oh, right," Ron whispered contritely. The rest of what he said was inaudible.

"That's not nice, Ron," said Hermione.

Harry smiled and turned stiffly to face them. "What's not nice?" he croaked.

"Your voice is going, Harry," said Hermione.

Ron scrunched his nose in disgust. "Would you stop fussing over him? Honestly, you're worse than Mum. Oh, Harry dear, are you sure you'll have enough underwear? Is that Sirius Black feeding you at all? You will wear your thermals, when you're playing Quidditch, won't you, dear? It makes me want to puke!"

"Oh, be quiet!" Hermione snapped.

Harry couldn't help the grin that spread over his face at Ron's impression of an over-protective Mrs. Weasley. "What's not funny?" he repeated patiently, after clearing his throat.

"Having two complete bookworms for friends, that's what!"

Hermione eyed him severely. "Ron, you know full well the O.W.L.s are in just two hundred and one days. And as a prefect I have to set a good example. Besides, Harry's not a bookworm. I think what he's doing is very noble."

"Thanks, Hermione," said Harry. "Cheer up, Ron. In just over two hundred and one days you'll at least have Hermione. Me too, if I'm finished..."

"You will be, Harry," Hermione replied softly, squeezing his arm.

Harry pretended not to notice as Ron shifted his feet noisily and turned away at the solicitous gesture. Harry had been very preoccupied in recent months, worrying almost constantly about his parents, but he had not failed to notice, with some dismay, the growing rift between himself and Ron.

The truth was that Ron still blamed him for Percy's death, and while nothing had been said out straight there had been slight hints and subtle slips of the
tongue that, while accidental, had hurt him greatly. Hermione, mistaking these little slip-ups, borne as they were from Ron's intense grief, for genuine taunts, continually jumped to Harry's defence, which only made the situation worse.

Ron's pain was entirely understandable. For the first time in his life, he had a grievance to compare with Harry's own and yet, at least to his mind,
Hermione continued to think Harry more deserving of her sympathy and comfort. Harry knew that this wasn't what Hermione intended. Hurting Ron was
the last thing she wanted to do, but with Ron's twisted feelings of grief, self-pity and jealousy, he had warped her actions into something cruel and
something they quite simply were not.

He had been envious of the attention Harry received before, but this time that envy was fuelled by a deeper and more personal grudge. He was in love
with Hermione.

And for some reason, Ron viewed him as a threat. Harry considered this to be ridiculous. Girls were the last thing on his mind, so consumed was he with his quest to save his parents. He hardly even noticed Cho anymore, despite the tragic circumstances that would ordinarily have allowed him to forge a friendship based on their mutual loss. And while Hermione was certainly very pretty, he just wasn't interested. Hopefully, Ron would come round in time.

Sighing, Harry looked around at the deserted library and laughed. "Fred and George are right. I am a psycho!"

That seemed to revive Ron's cheerfulness. "Told you! Nobody comes in here these days. It's freezing."

Harry began stuffing books and parchment into his already overflowing bag. "Tell me about it. Come on, let's go. We can make a start on Snape's essay."

"Oh, we've already done ours," Hermione said. "Let's go down for some supper. I didn't care for that turkey they gave us for dinner one little bit. Besides, you haven't eaten since breakfast, Harry."

Ron laughed, but it sounded hollow, unamused.

Harry didn't seem to notice. "All right, but only if we're quick and you promise to help me with that damn essay. I mean, how can anyone write two rolls of parchment on Flobberworm mucus? It's impossible!"

"It's not as hard as you might think!" Hermione enthused. "I found this great book-"

Ron glared at her. "Hermione..."

Hermione sighed. "My brains are lost on you two. All right... Ron, while Harry's working on his essay you can make that revision timetable you were talking about earlier."

Ron groaned so only Harry could hear him, and picked up the last of Harry's books. "Come on. Mum may have bought you thermal underwear, but I'm bloody freezing."

Chuckling, the three friends hurried out into the corridor, each shouldering the weight of some of Harry's belongings. The stone walls echoed their laughter as they went.

* * * * *

In her usual dark corner of the library, Ginny waited until the three friends had exited before pulling her heaviest cloak tightly around her shoulders and gathering up her books. Rubbing her trembling hands and wrists to warm them, she glanced down at her watch in surprise. It was just after nine. Harry had spent only four hours in the library tonight!

Bewildered at this unexpected turn of events, she hastened from her chair to see if he had left anything behind that might show what progress he had made. She was mainly looking for used parchment, something with his cute, childish handwritig on it, but sadly all that remained was a large stack of rejected, rather boring books.

Her knees ached from the cold, and as she stood by Harry's desk, an image of him, dressed in his cosy green jumper and sprawled comfortably on the soft common room couch, just relaxing, made her turn to the exit in deep longing. Just seeing him like that, so peaceful and content, was enough to expel all the chills from her body in an instant, yet something kept her pinned to the spot.

She felt uneasy, like there was somebody watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and her nose itched as if the dust around her had suddenly been disturbed. Paralysed, her feet held her firmly to the floor, preventing her from obeying the instinctive urge to bolt. She glanced furtively around, taking in the dusty, book-lined shelves, the ancient oak desks with their brass castors, and the harsh glow of the fire. The room seemed completely deserted, even Madam Pince was nowhere to be seen, though Ginny knew the library was due to close in twenty minutes.

It was a dreadfully eerie feeling, and reminded her of the strange paranoia that had come over her just after she received the news of Percy's death, when Hermione had left her alone in her room to sleep. Later her Mum had told her that she experienced the same thing. She described it as the tread of someone walking over her grave.

Shuddering, Ginny let out the breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding, and walked swiftly to the library doors. Deciding that she didn't want to spend another second alone in that creepy place, she took a final sharp glance at the darkened room, and then hurried on her way. Following the corridors to Gryffindor Tower, the unsettling feeling gradually dissipated, leaving her tired and cold.

* * * * *

As industrious little hands snatched away the greasy remnants of yet another satisfactory supper, and as the first drops of rain pattered down upon
the youthful, leafy canopy of the Forbidden Forest, many of the Gryffindors turned gratefully to the flickering blaze of their common room fire and silently
thanked whatever deity had spared them the icy torment of life in the Slytherin dungeons. Lazing in soft, cushioned seats, and chatting companionably over
blotted sheets of parchment that bore some hazy resemblance to homework, they exuded a cheerful, relaxed demeanor that would make any teacher
frown and declare an exam.

Not that Gryffindor's newest, and self-professed most qualified, prefect would have any objection to displaying her unbounded knowledge yet again.
Hermione Granger was currently undertaking a thorough revision of four years of beautifully prepared and sectioned notes, and was therefore, to coin an
annoyingly dull phrase, in her element. She would delight in such an opportunity to flaunt her intellect since, with the O.W.L.s only two hundred and one days away (that's eight months to you and I), it would give her a much-needed opportunity to work in exam conditions.

Even better, it might also distract the unwanted attentions of a certain, at the moment rather annoying, person, who was responsible for her now frequent
lapses in concentration. Said person seemed to be having quite severe, not to mention, noisy, trouble with their throat, and insisted on clearing it every two
seconds, in between blatant attempts to shove a large, grid-covered sheet of parchment directly in her line of view. Ron really had a lot to learn about
subtlety.

Deciding she would not make any headway on Switching Spells until she criticised his new revision timetable at least once, Hermione snatched her head
up, made an unsuccessful attempt to smooth down her long, bushy hair behind one ear, and leaned over to examine Ron's work.

It was quite impressive. Perfectly ruled black lines divided the week into intervals of forty-five minutes duration, each box colour-coded to represent a
particular subject. The penmanship was loose, but tidy, the vowels excessively rounded like the bubbles of a simmering Polyjuice Potion. There was an
underlying confidence in the quill strokes, however, that created a stark, and quite attractive contrast against the background of alternating pastels. It wasa beautiful design, one suspiciously similar to that of her own timetable, which lay on the ground next to Ron's orange Chudley Canons hat.

"Hmmm… not bad. But you need more time for History of Magic. It's not a skilful subject, like Charms, so you really have to learn it off. Put it in here,
on Wednesday, instead of Divination. I don't know why you didn’t drop that…" she muttered, scanning the chart quickly.

"Um, yeah… I was going to…" Ron replied faintly, eyes flashing nervously to the window seat, betraying his acute awareness of Harry sitting there, his
face concealed behind the long roll of parchment he was holding up to read.

Harry seemed to sense his regard, for he lowered his Potions essay and unflinchingly met his friend's eyes. His expression was closed, but Hermione thought she could discern a hint of amusement behind the pale, stony facade. She glanced curiously from one boy to the other, but failed to grasp the unspoken conversation the two seemed to be sharing. Not for the first time, she noted how accurate Jack Wilde had been in, "Snap! I Swear I Didn't Know that Card was Coming!" when he described the many valuable uses of telepathy for the modern witch or wizard.

Finally the staring contest ended, and Ron turned away to look at Hermione. Quickly returning to the parchment in her hand, she pretended to continue her evaluation, all the while trying to figure out exactly what was going on between her two friends. They had been behaving strangely for weeks, hardly
speaking to each other at all, and even arguing. It was bewildering, and she was a little concerned for Harry, who seemed tired and reticent, and could
probably do without Ron's childish fits of petulance.

"Do you like the way I colour-coded the subjects?" Ron asked brightly as the silence lengthened, "I noticed you'd done the same, and it seemed a good
idea…"

He's trying to impress me, Hermione thought with a strange jolt of excitement. Trying hard not to giggle, she smiled sympathetically at Harry, who had
kept his book lowered. He appeared slightly nauseated.

 "Yes, the colour-coding helps.... You okay, Harry?" she asked, receiving a patient nod in return. "Good... Now, Ron, let me see… Monday... Ah, yes. By delaying to make this timetable, you've missed studying Defence and Charms."

"Oh," Ron replied, in a abashed, disappointed tone of voice, "Yeah, I… I suppose I should. I'd better make a start, then."

"Only two hundred and one days to go, after all," she said brightly, and returned to her studies, a look of supreme satisfaction on her sharp visage. Yes, she thought mildly, only two hundred and one days to go, but she would be ready. She had been unable to think of anything else all summer. The O.W.L.s represented the culmination of five years of hard work and dedication, and she crossed off the days to the big event on her calendar with all the eagerness of a child awaiting the arrival of Father Christmas.

It wasn't like she had imagined it would be, however. She had always pictured the run up to her exams as a time of shared excitement, when she, Ron and Harry would work together over their books, predicting the topics that would be examined, working through their nerves and building each other's confidences. Instead, she felt utterly alone in her endeavours, for all Ron's newly acquired studiousness.

She knew he was just trying to impress her, that he held not the slightest interest in preparing for the exams. Over the last month he had made several attempts to study alongside her, but they all resulted in failure. He would invariably start chatting, offering haphazard compliments on her notes, her clothing, anything he could think of. It was sweet in a way, but not the study environment she had been hoping for in this, the second most important year of her education.

Harry was no better. Far from it, in fact. He seemed to be functioning on a work-to-rule basis, attending classes and being polite to the teachers, but doing nothing else at all to further his education. He had even been summoned to Professor McGonagall's office to account for his lax attitude. Hermione knew it wasn't his fault. He was dedicating all his time to finding a way to save his parents and, were she in his situation, she would probably be doing just the same. Still, she missed having him around, listening to him and Ron joke over their Divination homework. It would have been nice to work through her Charms notes with him.

With a stab of regret, she realised she'd just read four pages without learning a thing. She was distracted. Looking around, she saw that Ron had started to fidget with his hat, and that Harry was rubbing his eyes in that pitiful gesture that had become so characteristic of him in recent weeks.

"Are you nearly finished?" she asked.

Harry looked up. "Still got another roll to go, and I'm running out of ideas. It's rubbish, but I don't really care. I could write the most inciteful essay on Flobberworm mucus ever contrived, and Snape would still fail me!"

Hermione smiled sadly. "True... Here, you can look at mine, but don't copy it word for word."

"Hey!" Ron exclaimed, indignation plain on his face. "You didn't let me read it."

"That's because you didn't need to. You had all day to write your essay, Ron, whereas Harry hasn't stopped working since morning. Besides, it's nearly eleven o'clock, and if he doesn't finish soon, he'll be up all night."

Ron grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a sarcastic, "Poor Harry!"

Hermione gritted her teeth at yet another display of Ron's insensitivity. How could he be like this, after all Harry had suffered? She just couldn't understand it. Best to avoid an argument, however.

"Would you like me to ask you questions on what you've been studying?" she asked with forced kindness.

A panicked expression assaulted Ron's face, and he quickly stuffed the book he had been reading under a nearby cushion. "Em, no thanks. I'll wait until I've finished the entire chapter."

"Good idea... Oh, hi, Ginny!"

"Hey," she replied in a weak voice.

Hermione had just spotted Ginny at the base of the stairs to the dormitories, dressed in her pyjamas and clutching a blanket around her shoulders. She walked slowly across the common room floor, her eyes flitting to Harry every now and then, and she sat down on the couch next to Hermione.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked, concerned. "You look sick."

"Yeah... I'm just cold."

"You think it's cold here, you should go up to the library!" said Harry.

Hermione shivered in confirmation, and was stunned at the fearful expression on Ginny's face. "Are you sure you're all right? Do you want me to take you down to Madam Pomfrey?"

"No, no!" Ginny exclaimed. "I'm fine, really."

Hermione looked at her thoughtfully. She hadn't seen Ginny look that scared since the day she'd learned of Percy's death.

"Where have you been all day, anyway?" Ron asked.

"Oh, em, just upstairs. It's warmer there."

Ron just nodded. "Well, I hope you're not getting sick. You wouldn't want to miss the big showdown on Friday, now, would you?"

Ginny smiled warmly, and looked over at Harry, who was still scribbling. "No, I just love watching Harry kick Slytherin's ass!"

Without raising his eyes from the parchment, Harry said, "There are six other people on the team, you know. It's not just me. And I don't know how much ass we'll be kicking if the weather stays like this."

The anxious tone of Harry's voice was not surprising. With such a slight build, he was always at risk of being thrown off his broom when he played in strong winds with poor visibility. Hermione would never forget that one fateful match in their third year when such a disaster had occured. Cedric Diggory had caught the Snitch, and poor Harry had plummeted to the muddy ground. True, the presence of over a hundred Dementors on the pitch had caused the fall, but watching Harry struggle to keep control of a wildly bucking broom up until that point had been no less nerve-wracking.

"I'm sure you'll win, though," Ginny said, beaming.

Harry remained silent, and returned to his essay. Hermione stifled a yawn, wishing that he would hurry up and finish it so they could all get some sleep. A typical day of school, and yet she was exhausted. How Harry could keep going with his workload was a mystery. She relaxed back into the couch and closed her eyes. It was so very comfortable...

Harry's voice pervaded her consciousness, dragging her away from her pleasant drifting and back to reality.

"You awake?" he asked.

"I am now."

Harry handed her back her essay. "Thanks, I'm finished."

Hermione accepted the two rolls of parchment blearily, and saw that Ginny was still sitting next to her, wide awake. Ron's snores were travelling up from the floor next to the couch.

"What time is it?" she asked groggily.

"Half twelve," said Ginny.

Hermione started. "Half twelve! No wonder I'm falling asleep. Come on, Ginny, let's go up."

Ginny nodded, and rose. "What about him?" she said, kicking Ron lightly in the leg.

Harry began to consider. "Hmmm. What's that Charm Sirius told me about? The one that makes the victim's underwear get tighter and tighter..."

Ginny chuckled.

Harry took out his wand and continued speaking in a tone of mock seriousness. "Damn, if only I could remember... Oh well, I suppose I'll just have to wake him. Enervate!"

Ron woke up immediately and glared murderously at Harry. "Damn, I was just getting to the part where the amazing bouncing ferret bounces into the Hogwarts Express. What time's it?"

"Half twelve."

Ron looked incredulous. "From now on, Harry, you do your essays before supper. Got it?"

"You didn't have to wait up," said Harry.

Ron followed him up the stairs to the dormitories on the next floor. "Hermione would beg to differ, I think."

Those were the last words Hermione heard from the two boys before she entered the fifth year girls's dormitory. The room was almost completely black, as all the rooms of Hogwarts were at night, but it was a welcome change from the constant glow of the city's lamplights. Hands outstretched, she felt her way to her bed, and began to undress. It was awkward changing in the dark, but her anger at the words she had just heard her friend mutter kept her from caring.

It irked her that Ron always seemed to think she was bossy. She wasn't really like that, was she? No, she decided, she was just confident about her abilities and so tended to take charge of the situation. It was nothing to be ashamed of. Nevertheless, it hurt to hear him say it in a derogatory tone, and with such vehemence. It was just another striking instance of his insensitive nature.

Had he changed, she wondered, or had he always been so selfish? Perhaps he was still grieving for his brother. He had certainly taken the loss very hard, to the extent of running away from home with the ridiculous intention of murdering the perpetrator of the crime. That could have been it. Or perhaps his unpredictable, hurtful nature was simply a result of his awkwardness in trying to make her fancy him. Whatever the cause, she hoped he would stop, if not for her sake then for Harry's.

The last thing Harry needed right now was to lose his best friend.
 

* * * * *

Pleiades (August 29th, 2001).