Long-hidden Skies

Chapter Six

Merlin Help Us, We're Doomed

In the deepening twilight, the small-boned tabby cat sat poised in the shadows, muscles quivering in anticipation as her gaze followed the path of a small brown mouse. Hazel eyes glowing, she stalked closer, placing her paws soundlessly on the soft grass. One ear pricked forward, listening intently to the oblivious chirping of the rodent, the other soaking in the surrounding sounds of night.

Sensing the predator, the crickets grew quiet and the mouse froze, nose twitching cautiously in the air. The feline paused as well, settling down patiently under the brush to wait for the yard's creatures to be at ease again.

She certainly didn't have all the time in the world, of course, but her baser instincts wouldn't let her walk away from such a tasty morsel. She hadn't had the pleasure of a fat field mouse for at least six months. The forest housed many smaller preys to feast on, but she'd grown to greatly dislike the aftertaste of magical animals. An ordinary mouse nearly made her mouth water.

A frog chirruped, signaling the chorus of crickets to sing again, and the mouse visibly relaxed, returning to forage in the damp leaves under the bird feeder. The cat resumed her hunt, circling the yard slowly, all the while never losing sight of her quarry. That's right, little one. Keep eating. You're safe.

As if it could hear her, the mouse settled into the scattered leaves. The tiny body slumped, the beady eyes almost slits, the mouth moving ever so slowly as it gnawed on a discarded sunflower seed casing.

Such a sweet little mouse, the cat cooed in her mind, right before her coiled body sprang from the bushes, fangs bared, claws digging into the soft fur as she pounced on top of it.

There was something to be said for the thrill of the hunt; the rush of adrenaline and the heady sense of power and strength; holding a life in one's hands. But there was also something grand about the guarantee of a meal, so she wasn't averse to using a bit of magic to lull the juicy prey into a false sense of security. Even with her sharp nails clamped into his sides, the field mouse lay calmly and silently on its side, its breaths shallow and even.

Delicately, she closed her mouth around the small animal's neck and twisted it until it snapped, as efficient and humane a killing as she could manage in her current form. With a low growl of satisfaction, she poised herself to eat.

The moon was bright overhead when she finally slipped onto the school grounds. Head high, she sniffed the cold air. Magic buzzed and hummed around her; young magic, old magic, powerful and weak alike. She could smell the evil. The fear. Oh, yes, above all there was great fear, and the scent of it eased her soul.

Hogwarts loomed over her, dark and foreboding, no longer the welcome home it had been for years on end. Swiftly, she ran across the open field to leap onto the front steps and then up onto the balustrade, waiting.

The entrance door creaked open soon after, but the person who stepped out into the night was not who she was expecting, and she froze, still as a statue, tail curled protectively around her paws.

The child started when she saw the feline, and then smiled widely. "Hello," she whispered, tiptoeing forward. She was blonde and small and barefoot and the cat hissed in disapproval. Wandering around after curfew; going to catch her death of cold.

Ignoring the cat's obvious disgruntlement, the girl wrapped her arms about her and pulled the feline into her arms, rubbing her cheek against the soft fur. The tabby was at a loss of what to do; she certainly wasn't going to scratch the child, but she couldn't very well let the girl carry her away. She struggled in the girl's arms, giving a piteous mew.

A figure moved into the doorway, frowning down at the tow-headed first-year. "Miss Damsley, what on earth are you doing?"

The girl tilted her head back and gave the woman an angelic grin. "I couldn't sleep, Professor," she replied, still cuddling the protesting cat.

The woman's dark eyes lit on the feline. "Ah, I see you've found Kitty." She moved forward and scooped the cat into her own arms.

The feline, for what it was worth, disliked the excessive attention the witches were giving her. But her struggles once again went unheeded.

"Is it yours, Professor Parkinson?" the girl asked, reaching a hand up to run along the tabby's spine.

As an answer the professor merely tightened her hold on the cat and said, "I've been looking everywhere for you, naughty cat." She looked down at the young student. "Back to your dorm, Linnet," she said softly.

"But, can't I--"

The woman shook her head with a chuckle at the girl's whine. "Kitty will still be here in the morning. I promise you can visit."

Linnet sighed longingly, nodded and slipped back inside, her bare feet slapping against the stone as she ran up the wide staircase to the students' dorms.

"Doesn't belong here in the slightest," the professor murmured as she headed towards her rooms. "Seems you've acquired a fan, Kitty." She slanted her gaze down at the tabby cat who was gazing at her questioningly.

"I'll just get a house-elf to bring you a saucer of milk. You'll have to hang about a bit in case Linnet blabs to her dorm mates, although I don't see why she would. As I said, she's rather out of place. The Headmaster," her tone was dripping with disdain, "has a distinct lack of respect for cats, though, so you best stay out of plain sight. Probably has to do with his son, you know. And you, although I doubt he'd recognize you now. Been dieting, have you?" Her eyes twinkled.

The tabby hissed and pushed her paws against the professor's arms. Stop babbling, you twit. Girl never had sense enough to tie her own shoes when she'd been a student there herself. However she came to be Charm's Professor was a mystery best left unsolved.

"Now, now, Kitty, calm down. We've much to discuss. Although you know as well as I do that here is not the place for chatting."

And yet you never seem to stop, thought the cat.

"Ah, here we are." She paused in front of a large portrait of a snoozing John Parkinson. "Thought it was funny," she commented darkly. "Zabini brought it from our Manor. Said it was a fitting reminder of my traitor husband. Don't pitch a fit, Kitty, no matter how fond you've grown of the man you must admit he's more than a little weak willed. Yoo-hoo, John, wake up." She poked the painting with a sharp fingernail, startling a snort out of the portly man.

He yawned and swiped a hand across his jaw. "Hullo, my love. Password?"

Aubrey Parkinson rolled her eyes. "Tempest tossed."

"Right-o," he yawned again and swung outward, allowing the pair in front of him to pass into the room.

"Hang on a moment and I'll disable the fire," Aubrey said, placing the cat on a light blue settee. She flicked her wand towards a pile of books on the mantle, "Wingardium Leviosa," then fumbled underneath them, pulling out a small gray brick. Setting it in front of the hearth, she tapped it impatiently and enlarged it to cover and seal the entire opening.

"I'm sure there was an easier way of doing that." Minerva's voice was just above a rasp.

"Of course," Aubrey agreed, casting a hasty Silencing Charm on the chamber and tossing the older woman a blood-red dressing gown. "But I am the Charm's Professor."

Whatever that had to do with using a simple disabling spell, Minerva hadn't the slightest clue.

Aubrey sat down across from her in a wing-backed chair. "He's learned how to break the spell," she elaborated, "so I've added the wall as extra insurance."

"Won't he be suspicious of your using it?" the older woman inquired stiffly, tying the satin belt loosely around her waist.

"I use it often. He thinks I'm modest. I've persuaded several of the other professors to perform privacy spells as well, though, just in case. Didn't take much convincing, of course, since everyone knows he's a perverted little voyeur. Honestly, I don't know how Blaise and Michael turned out so normal. Er... well, I suppose normal isn't exactly the right term for Blaise."

Minerva fought the temptation to hex the woman into silence. "Have you heard from Pansy?"

"Often," Aubrey replied, "and between you and me, I think she's got a thing for this Ron Weasley fellow. It's always Ron said this and Ron said that and Ron has the most amazing smile... I suppose it was that last bit that tipped me off. I never heard her raving about that Malfoy boy's smile when Lucius, the crazy sod, tried to convince John and me to force a marriage between them. Which would have been appalling as well as disastrous - their colors clash completely."

"Aubrey," Minerva interrupted testily. "About Miss Weasley's imprisonment?"

"Oh, yes," she waved a hand, "she's out. The Malfoy boy blew his cover, though, so let's cross our fingers that Pansy and I can carry on by ourselves."

Merlin help us, we're doomed, Minerva groaned.

"Now, now, Kitty. Pansy and I can be incredibly deceitful and evil when warranted, you know. Besides," she added, crossing her legs and smoothing a hand over her perfectly tailored robes, "Zabini's blinded by my sinful beauty."

Minerva raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching.

"Was that a smile, Kitty?" Aubrey asked mischievously.

"Of course not," she retorted hotly, with an unarguable grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Don't worry," Aubrey leaned forward conspiratorially, "I won't tell a soul. Well, what else do we need to talk about? Oh, I forgot your milk," she exclaimed. "Although I don't think we should risk a house-elf in your human form--"

"It's quite all right, Aubrey," Minerva cut in. "I've already eaten. Now, I'd like to speak to you about your students."

The dark-haired woman shook her head. "A rebellion here would be useless. It's impossible to ferret out enough that would be willing to rise against their parents, especially since there is no guarantee of their safety."

"I wasn't thinking of a rebellion, Aubrey, but do you really want Miss Damsley and other young innocents in harms way? If all goes as Albus has planned, Hogwarts will receive the brunt of the action."

"Just like you, Kitty," Aubrey sighed, "thinking of the children first."

Minerva pursed her lips. "They--"

"Are the future of our world, the saving grace of the Dark, blah, blah, blah. I've heard it all before, my dear. Now, what do you propose we do?"

"Plan for an evacuation."

"Oh, is that all?" Aubrey snorted.

Minerva arched a disapproving brow. "It's merely the tip of the iceberg, Aubrey. I'd like a list of all the students who are akin to Miss Damsley; not entirely the right sort for this place, shall we say."

"Unfortunately, it will most likely be a very short list." Aubrey bit her lip in thought. "I may just have the perfect person to help compile it, though. Tell me, Kitty, do you remember a Mr. Dean Thomas?"

******

"A goat is a rather angry animal, don't you think?"

Remus, who'd been absently stuffing his face, his nose stuck in an old Quidditch book of Harry's, choked on biscuit. "What?"

"Goats are angry, mean-spirited beasts," Lucius went on, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair.

"Well, I wouldn't say--"

"Who," the blond man cut in, "do you suppose is angrier; a goat, or... say... a man with a hook for a hand?"

Really, Remus knew that Lucius was barmy, but goats and angry, one-handed men? "Is this an important point you're trying to make, Luke?" the werewolf asked tentatively.

"It certainly isn't going to save the world, Mr. Lupin, but you could at least participate in polite conversation when I invite you over for tea."

Remus wisely chose not to point out that he hadn't actually been invited for tea, and also the fact that, up until five minutes ago, Lucius had been staring silently off into space for a good two hours. "Of course, Luke, um... the goat?"

Lucius appeared thoughtful. "I suppose, but don't you think..."

The fireplace suddenly flared up and Remus gave an audible sigh of relief as Dumbledore's head popped into view, flickering green flames framing his face.

"Ah, Remus, Lucius, how are you both?"

"Well, Albus. And you?" Remus asked, at the same moment that Lucius pressed his lips together and growled.

"Old man," the elder Malfoy bit out, inclining his head slightly in greeting.

"Fine, fine," Dumbledore replied with a grin. "Only have a minute, really. Would you please tell Harry to expect some visitors shortly?"

"Hermione?"

"Among them," Dumbledore confirmed happily. "It's all coming together nicely now, Remus."

"I'm so glad to hear that. I'll let Harry know right away, he's been looking forward to this, I know."

"I'm sure we all have."

"Yes, you're right. I wager even Lucius here will be glad when this whole mess is sorted out."

Lucius scoffed. "I could care less about young Potter's problems."

"Well, I'll just be off then," Dumbledore said. "We'll see you in a little while."

The fire blinked out and Lucius rose from his seat, one brow arched as if daring Remus to stop him. "I think I shall retire for the evening."

"Now?" Remus asked, glancing out the window at the recently darkened sky.

"I've had an exhausting day," he explained imperiously. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"None at all," Remus muttered under his breath, watching as the tall blond man stalked from the room. That bugger was up to something. He'd bet his last sickle on it.

******

It was past dark when Ginny heard Malfoy stir.

She was sitting at her desk in the small front room, writing a rough draft of a speech on tolerance she planned to present to the Order children at the next gathering. "Tolerance is more than its definition..." she murmured, biting the end of her quill absently.

Her biggest problem was making it understandable to the ten and under crowd. She needed to make it simple and concise rather than passionate and grandiose, as was her usual forte. She wasn't used to toning it down.

A curse behind her broke her concentration and she tossed an annoyed look over her shoulder. "Still alive?" she asked as Malfoy stumbled into the room.

"Barely," he croaked. "Didn't whatever the hell you gave me take care of hangovers, too?"

"No," she replied, grinning as she turned back to her parchment.

Draco groaned and lowered himself to the sofa, a hand pressed to his forehead and an arm wrapped around his stomach. "Evil wench."

Ginny chuckled. "Evil, eh? Well, I can live with that." She went back to her work, largely ignoring his pained moans.

"Weasley," he whined after a few moments of silence.

"I'm sure you can find something in the loo to help you out, Malfoy," she commented without lifting her head from her work.

He groaned. "But I can't move."

"You managed to make it out here, didn't you?" Still unsatisfied with her opening remarks, she scratched out the entire first paragraph in mild frustration.

"Well, you couldn't hear me from the bedroom. I was forced to drag myself out here," he complained.

Finally turning fully in her seat to look at him, she said, "I'm not here to wait on you."

He leant back and closed his eyes, pale face grimacing. "I don't suppose you'd do it anyway?"

With a small disgusted huff, she retreated to the bathroom and dug out yet another potion for the annoying git, if only just to shut him up and let her get back to work. Or better yet, get him to explain why he was still there.

He gratefully gulped the liquid and the tense creases on his face eased with a sigh. Gray eyes suddenly alert, he said, "Personal favor to Dumbledore."

"What?"

"Dumbledore. He asked me to stay and keep an eye on you," he elaborated.

"How did you--"

"It was written all over your face. Honestly, Weasley, how the fuck did you survive in prison for nearly two weeks?"

"Well, they--"

"Kept you in solitary. I know. Huge mistake on their part, if you ask me. Although I suppose that made it better for our side," he went on with a touch of bitterness. "Bloody selfless, good side."

"Um..." Ginny glanced down at the empty vial of headache remedy, realizing Harry must have added some of his 'special touches' to the brew. She obviously shouldn't have let him down the whole thing.

"So I'm stuck babysitting you."

"Hang on, I don't need--"

"Yes you do," he cut in again, voice nearly a growl. "You're as hotheaded as the Weasel, yet without a trace of his healthy sense of fear. Left to your own devices, you're more dangerous than a newborn dragon."

As he took a breath, Ginny hastily cupped a hand over his mouth. "Malfoy, shut up. Please."

His eyes were both questioning and indignant and she dropped her palm from his lips, wagging the small bottle in front of his face. "You'll be hyper for a while. I've got to work," she stated firmly. "Why don't you go outside and play?"

He opened his mouth to protest and she flicked out her wand. "Don't make me hex you," she threatened.

"Fine." Draco got up and stalked out of the room, but didn't leave the cottage. It was too dark out to risk fooling about outside when it wasn't absolutely necessary, so he headed for the kitchen instead.

His stomach growled, and he realized he hadn't eaten anything since the small stack of pancakes Mrs. Weasley had forced down his throat that morning. Body thrumming with extra energy, he went about fixing himself some dinner, noting with satisfaction that the little Weasley had left a pot of something edible on stove.

He lifted the lid and sniffed. Beef Stew. Not his favorite, but he was too ravenous to care.

He ate standing up, shifting from foot to foot and wondering how long it would be before the restless itch under his skin faded. Finished, he found himself wandering back into the front room, noticing absently that the little Weasley was still bent over her desk, muttering to herself and scrawling furiously on a piece of parchment.

Circling the room, he fidgeted with a small figurine, a cheap bone-china lion in mid roar, and then stalked over to a cluster of framed photos arranged on the mantle. Family photos, he knew, noting that each picture had at least one redhead present. Chuckling lightly he picked up one that spotlighted a prim and proper little girl; Mel Weasley, obviously, when she was five or six. Beside her sat a sullen-faced Andrew Flint, glaring at the camera and sending occasional pouting glances at Mel. He looked ready to bolt at any moment, the wrath of the little girl next to him the only thing gluing him to his seat.

"She reminds me of you," he murmured.

"Hmmm?"

"Mel," he said, walking over to the little Weasley and pointing to the photo in his hands.

She laughed and watched her niece effortlessly handle Andrew; one disdainful arch of a brow and he slumped in defeat. "Makes sense, I suppose. I take after Percy the most."

Draco sneered, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Please don't say that."

She shrugged. "Percy was a rat bastard. I've accepted that and moved on. But he wasn't always a prick. Before he decided Fudge was a god, he was simply bossy and protective and he could nag just like Mum. Take away his gender and sensible nature, and you've got me."

"Never let it be said that you're sensible," Draco commented dryly.

"Now," she continued, ignoring him, "Mel's got the best of it. I know it's horrible of me to say that she's better off not being raised by her father, but Ron's an infinitely better influence on her."

"With luck, she'll turn out just like you."

Ginny stared at him, incredulous. "Was that a compliment, Malfoy?"

"Savor it, Weasley," he scowled darkly at her. "I don't think it'll happen again."

"I think there was a compliment for Ron in there, too," she needled.

"Shut it."

She smiled widely at him, pressing a palm to her heart. "Why, I do believe you're fonder of us Weasleys than you've let on."

He crossed his arms over his chest and clamped his mouth shut, narrowing his eyes dangerously.

"You know," she said, twirling her quill in between her fingers, "you wouldn't have liked Hawaii anyway. All that sand and sun; you would've ended up sun burnt and chapped, finding sand in your most unmentionable places. You'd have complained the entire time."

Cocking his head, he asked, "How did you know about Hawaii?"

"Oh, you mean besides the fact that you begged me to frolic with you on an exotic island, surrounded by bare-chested natives?"

Draco seemed to have a vague recollection of doing just that. He also recalled that at one point he'd been snuggled very comfortably between the girl's breasts. Hmmm... Leaning down towards her, placing a hand on the back of her chair, he whispered suggestively, "I could always get you half-naked in the garden instead."

For a moment, Ginny stared at him, wide-eyed and stunned and just a bit breathless. Then she burst out laughing.

He straightened almost immediately, a scowl at his lips and his hands clenched at his sides. "What?"

"You..." she started, shaking her head and struggling for breath amid giggles, "you weren't serious, were you?"

"Of course not," he said stiffly, although of course he had been serious. Judging from her reaction, though, it wasn't something he would be inclined to bring up again.

Her laughter died off and she looked up at him incredulously, taking in his mulish expression and fisted hands. "You were," she accused.

"No."

"Completely serious."

"Not at all," he insisted, voice clipped.

She rose from her chair and took a step towards him. "You sound put out."

"You're mistaken." He hardened his jaw, slate-gray eyes glaring her down.

She paused and crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you sure you don't want me... half-naked... in the garden?" The words, which could have been taunting and seductive, were delivered in such a biting huff that they could only be taken as petulant.

Thus giving Draco the upper hand.

"You sound... disappointed, Weasley," he drawled.

Acutely aware that he'd just turned the tables on her, she refused to give an inch and matched his relaxed stance. "Think so?" she smirked.

He almost smiled at her gall. Moving closer, he trailed a fingertip lightly down her forearm and over the back of her hand, grasping her fingers and lifting them to his lips. Her breath hitched as he nipped at her thumb. "Definitely a note of disappointment in there."

She tugged her hand out of his grasp. "You're mistaken," she said, unwittingly parroting Malfoy's earlier retort.

"We'll see, Weasley," he said slyly. "We'll see."

******

Ron tugged Mel's blankets up under her chin, smoothing stray strands of dark red hair back from her forehead as she snuggled into her pillows.

"Hey, Dad?"

Five years later and it still made his heart skip a beat every time his niece called him dad. He gave her a grin and tweaked the end of her nose. "Yeah?"

Picking at the covers absently with her fingers, she asked with forced nonchalance, "Can I go to Beauxbatons with Andrew next year?"

"No, my little nine-year-old beauty, you may not."

"But why?" she pouted, giving him a wide-eyed look that would have put her Aunt Ginny to shame.

"Because I'm selfish and wish to keep you all to myself. And because eleven is young enough to be living away from home."

Maneuvering into a sitting position, she dislodged the blankets he'd just tucked around her and crossed her arms over her chest. "You know," she said, the disapproving look in her eyes so entirely Percy-like that Ron visibly blanched, "Andrew is going to be completely impossible without me."

Ron sighed. "He's exactly like his father, Mel, and Flint managed to get through eight years of school without killing anybody. I think you need to have a little faith in your best friend."

"But..." She bit her lip, her eyes glistening.

He reached out and brushed his thumb across her cheek. "What's wrong?"

"What if he forgets about me?" she asked in a broken whisper, blinking back tears. "What if he gets a new best friend... a boy? What if he gets a girlfriend, and when I finally get there he ignores me? I can't let him go without me, Dad. I just can't."

"Mel." Ron shifted his position on the bed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and bringing her head to his chest. "First off, he'll only be there two terms without you, not even a full year. And he'll be home for Christmas, right?"

She sniffed and nodded into his shirt.

"And I truly pity the girl or boy who tries to replace you, love. I have every faith you could kick their arse."

"Dad!"

"What? It's true." He chuckled lightly, running a hand over her hair. "As for him getting a girlfriend, well... he'll only be eleven, Mel. He's got at least two years of torturous pre-pubescent bumbling before he could ever hope to land a girl. Especially with his sunny disposition."

"You think so?"

"I do," he said, at the same time thinking that he really, really hoped their friendship never grew into anything deeper over the years. He couldn't even imagine having Andrew as a son-in-law; or rather, he could, and it didn't make him happy. He fought off a shudder and gave Mel one last squeeze before rising from the bed. "And it's also entirely too soon to be worrying about him leaving for school, you know."

"I guess," Mel grumbled, wiggling back down under her covers. "Dad?"

Ron paused before extinguishing the bedside candle. "Yeah?"

"D'you... do you think Aunt Hermione will like me?"

Mel had been raised on tales of Harry, Hermione and Ron and their eventful years at Hogwarts. Hermione had, understandably, become something of an idol to the young girl.

Ron reached out and tugged on a curl. "She's gonna love you."

******

Although the cottage was sealed up tight, a chilly breeze swept through the front room, causing the back of Parvati's neck to prickle as she bent over the Potion's text. Andrew's cat, which had been curled up comfortably on her lap, hissed and leaped off of her, claws digging sharply into her thighs. "Damn cat," Parvati muttered, sighing as she looked at the thick line of black ink that now marred her notes.

"Helloooo, Parvati," a voice rasped in her ear, the shell suddenly almost painfully numb. She threw down her quill with a huff and whirled around in her seat.

"I hate it when you do that, Dean," she spat out, rubbing her frozen ear with a palm. The near transparent form of Dean Thomas hovered just behind her chair, a smile so wide splitting his face that she could have sworn his ghostly teeth glowed.

"Aw, Parv, can't a benign apparition have a little fun?"

Parvati arched a brow. "Been into Lavender's Muggle books again, have you?"

Dean shrugged and floated to the sofa, sprawling out on his stomach, his hands cupping his cheeks. He looked very much as he had back in school, the easy-going Gryffindor who'd go along with practically anything Seamus cooked up, just to make his friend happy.

The ghost of her old classmate didn't have any gruesome afflictions, no ghastly stories to spread of his demise. Dean Thomas hadn't even had the chance to fight in the War. He'd died in his sleep one night at the end of their sixth year; Madame Pomfrey explained that his heart simply just gave out.

Perhaps that accounted for the boyish happiness the dead boy always exuded. He hadn't seen half the things that the rest of them had. Hadn't had to kill, or bury friends and lovers.

Seamus had aged ten years in a matter of minutes the morning he'd found Dean in his bed, cold and stiff and somehow disturbingly peaceful.

"Making the rounds?" she asked, getting up to gather an afghan around her shoulders. She didn't mind Dean's visits, welcomed them, in fact, but she never got used to the dramatic drop in temperature. Despite warming spells, she could see her breath puff out as she spoke.

Officially, Dean was a Hogwarts' ghost, but he was well aware of the New Ministry and the Order's struggle, and often visited the shantytown to check in with Seamus, Lavender and Parvati. He would have been happy to help out, she knew, but ghosts weren't really the best sorts of spies. It wasn't that they lacked the focus or even that they spoke in riddles - although some of them undoubtedly did - but that they had no concept of time, no sense of immediacy.

"McGonagall's at Hogwarts," he said, and Parvati knew that she could have been there months ago, and he wouldn't know the difference.

Still, she asked curiously, "Do you know why?"

He grinned. "I'm going to make naughty and nice lists."

"What?"

He held up a long, pale finger. "One list of good students and one list of evil students." Shifting his faded eyes back and forth comically, he added, "I'll be deep undercover. Call me the Ghostly Avenger!"

"You're not normal," Parvati pointed out, rolling her eyes.

"I'm dead; of course I'm not normal."

She nodded. "Yes, you're dead, and you seem to have taken on quite a bit of Seamus' characteristics. Namely, you've bats in your belfry."

"Impossible," he replied good-naturedly, "they'd fly right through." Then he proceeded to demonstrate by wiggling his own paranormal hand through his nonexistent skull. "So," he said, moving right along, "have you told him yet?"

"There's nothing to tell," she stated with a defiant tilt to her chin.

Dean groaned. "So you haven't. Coward."

Parvati bit back a growl. She wasn't in any way, shape or form a coward.

"You're in love with Harry. Just admit it and tell him."

"I love Marcus," she said firmly. It didn't matter that he was gone. Not to her, at least.

"Marcus was a right bastard," Dean said amiably, a grin on his face.

"I know," Parvati sighed wistfully. "I miss him."

In school, Marcus had been a beast in both form and action; mean, petty, spiteful and as unappealing as a rabid bear. Parvati had hated him on sight, and grew to dislike him even more over his last three years at Hogwarts.

The year she had graduated she attended her first Order meeting, and there he'd been, still sneering, still a bastard and still sporting those horrid, crooked, yellowed teeth. She did her best to avoid him, but after overhearing him call Lavender a stupid cow, she Transfigured a quill into a toothbrush, stalked up to him and shoved it into his hands. As everyone paused to watch them, she shouted, "If you aren't going to fix the bloody things, the least you could do is keep them clean," then spun on her heel, leaving him staring mutely after her.

At the next gathering, his teeth, although still crooked, were gleaming white, and she gave him a bright smile and a wink. He kept his intense gaze on her the entire meeting, then cornered her afterwards and asked her to dinner. He'd refused to take no for an answer.

It had been all down hill from there, of course. They were married within the month, she was pregnant with Andrew soon after, and she had five wonderful years with a man who made everyday a challenge and a joy, and who was spiteful and passionate by turns and who loved her with every beat of his admittedly too tiny heart.

She couldn't help but feel guilty, as if allowing herself to love someone Marcus had hated so thoroughly was some sort of betrayal.

"You know what I miss the most?" Dean asked, breaking into her revelry with something completely off-topic, as was his wont.

Parvati knew exactly what he was going to say, too, since he said it every time he stopped by. "Drawing," she supplied.

He looked over at her, surprised for a moment. "Well, I was going to say touching, but..."

Yeah, right, Parvati nearly snorted.

Lifting an incorporeal hand, gray fingers splayed, he said, "I miss feeling the quill between my fingers... flicking my wand. I can't feel magic anymore." His voice had grown sad and Parvati was slightly concerned. She hadn't heard this variation of his I Miss... speech before. He'd never before mentioned magic.

She didn't know how to comfort a ghost, though, so she sat quietly, watching as he closed his eyes, a grimace of concentration on his face.

It started at his fingertips, spreading like a flush to darken his palm until the appendage seemed almost opaque, then flooding past his thin wrist and halfway down his arm. Fascinated, Parvati reached out, extending her digits past the rim of frigid air that filmed his body, her own fingertips turning blue as they brushed against his oddly solid hand.

He let out a wispy laugh and his fingers convulsed, shifting clear again. "I couldn't do that before. I could feel you," he said, wonder in his words. "Just wait till I tell Seamus."

Parvati rubbed her fingers, the skin prickling painfully as warmth rushed back into them. "That was… weird."

"It was brilliant. Why couldn't I do that before?"

"Maybe it's something that comes with time?" Parvati suggested, watching as the ghost moved to her desk, solidifying the tips of his fingers again and pushing gleefully at her discarded quill.

"I can be the new Peeves," he exclaimed happily.

Parvati frowned. "We all hated Peeves," she pointed out.

"Yes, well, most of the students now are nasty little buggers. Since Peeves followed Dumbledore to France, they've been getting off easy." He threw back his head, cackling just a little bit maniacally.

The Death Eater's children at Hogwarts didn't stand a chance.

******

Hermione sat cross-legged in the middle of Harry's guest bed, clad in a thin lawn nightgown she hadn't donned in over ten years. At the foot of the bed was her old careworn trunk, lid yawning open with all manner of books and clothes and notes spread around it. With a strange sort of reverential awe, she held her sturdy wand in her hands, running her fingers over the smooth length, marveling at the tiny vibrations that spangled against her skin.

She was home.

It didn't matter that she'd never before slept in that bed, in that room, in that house, in that town. She was with Harry, and the minute she'd seen him, framed in his doorway with a sheepish smile lighting his face, his messy hair curling over his ears and looking so much like the boy she'd left behind, she'd known she was home.

It was a little overwhelming.

They'd stumbled out of the hearth and into Dumbledore's office at Beauxbatons only a couple hours before, and almost immediately followed the Headmaster to Order Headquarters. She'd barely had time to breathe before she was standing in front of Harry's cottage, hands sweating and heart beating erratically and throat so tight she thought she'd choke on her fear.

Which had been completely ridiculous. Afraid? Of Harry, of all things?

She slid from the bed with a sigh and knelt by her trunk, systematically placing her belongings neatly back inside, smiling at an old photo of her and Harry and Ron. They were in their Hogwarts' uniforms, arms slung about each other's shoulders, and they looked so incredibly happy. Ron's smile was so wide his face nearly cracked in half, and every so often he'd slant a glance at Hermione and laugh.

Ron. She could be seeing him as early as the next morning. Would it be as easy a reconciliation as she'd had with Harry? Would they simply smile and hug and the years would melt away until the time in between didn't matter at all?

She certainly hoped so.

Exhausted, she climbed into bed and extinguished the bedside candle, lying back under the covers to stare at the ceiling. It didn't take long before her eyelids felt heavy, a near constant yawn at her lips. For the first time in years, she slipped right into a peaceful sleep.

A creaking sound awakened her sometime later, and her eyes searched the darkness. "Zabini?" she whispered, spotting a shadow in the corner of the room that she hadn't noticed before. When no one answered, she groped for her wand, biting her lip with worry when her hand came up empty.

"Lumos."

A soft light filled the bedroom and Hermione blinked at the vision before her.

The tall man, shoulder length blond hair neatly parted in the middle, purple dress robes immaculately pressed, twirled her own wand in his fingers, watching her intently from the foot of the bed. "Hello, my dear."

Hermione gaped at him, stunned into momentary silence, then finally rasped, "I thought you were dead."

"Oh no, far from it, I'm afraid. Now," he went on, giving her a heated look and a self-satisfied grin, "I happen to be in possession of a wand. I'm quite proud of my stealth."

"B-but..." she stammered, sitting up and folding her knees into her chest. "Lucius?"

"Enough pleasantries, darling," he drawled, moving forward to settle next to her on the bed. He reached out and caught one of her hands in a narrow cold one, his long fingers wrapping around her wrist. "You have some explaining to do."