Long-hidden Skies

Chapter Eight

And So Here We Are

Harry gave Lucius a suspicious glare when the older man strolled into the kitchen sometime after lunch. Ron and Hermione were out in the yard, Parvati had already slipped downstairs, and Harry wanted some answers. He didn't know exactly what had happened the night before, and Hermione hadn't been very forthcoming when he questioned her, but it suddenly made him a hell of a lot more wary about the blond.

Not that he'd trusted the Death Eater to begin with, of course, but Lucius' obvious mental imbalance had lulled Harry into thinking the man wasn't half as dangerous as he most likely really was.

It was strange, the way he'd learned to take life's lumps so complacently. The haze of inevitability that coated his view of the world he currently lived in. The seaside shanty and enforced isolation. The minimal use of magic. He'd grown... stagnant. A different sort of uselessness altogether, and he hadn't seen it, hadn't noticed it, until he'd witnessed Zabini ready to rip out Malfoy's throat and Hermione choking back tears, and his carefully constructed, fucked-up universe was finally crumbling. The end was coming. Soon.

Lucius purred a perfectly content "Good morning," ignoring Harry's steady glare.

"What the devil do you think you were doing last night?" Harry demanded.

"I suspect I was sleeping, Mr. Potter," he answered haughtily, brows raised in question. "What else?"

Harry watched him as he filled up a mug of stale, leftover coffee, wordlessly holding it out for the brunette to heat. With a disgruntled scowl, Harry grabbed the cup from him, thankful that Parvati wasn't around to see him exercise what little magic he had left to heat it. He couldn't tell if the blond was lying, or if he really didn't recall the entire incident in Hermione's bedroom, but he doubted he'd get any information out of the man at the moment. When pressed, Lucius tended to clam up completely, and getting him to talk, for days after even, was like pulling teeth.

Malfoy strode calmly from the kitchen when his coffee was sufficiently hot, and Harry heaved a sigh, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He couldn't dwell, couldn't brood, he knew. Because he'd gone down that road before, and this time both Severus and Parvati would kick his arse. The thought made his lips pull slightly, threatening to smile.

When Harry opened the basement door, Parvati was sitting on the third set from the bottom, her chin in her hands and knees drawn up. "Parv?"

Her eyes were round and watery as she twisted to look up at him, and something painful wrenched in his chest.

"Hey, Harry," she said softly.

A frown settling onto his mouth, he trudged down the steps and bent to sit beside her. "What's wrong?" he asked, dipping his head to catch her eyes.

"Do you think," she started slowly, staring straight ahead and gnawing on her lower lip. "Do you think Marcus could," she waved her hand, trying for flippancy and failing miserably, "be out there somewhere?"

Harry flinched. "What?"

"Could he still be alive?" Parvati asked, fisting the pool of material in her lap, twisting her robes between her hands.

"Parvati, it's been years," he pointed out, not unkindly, sliding his palm over her shoulder blades to wrap her in a one-armed hug.

She scooted sideways, curving her back away from his touch. "It's possible, though. They never," she swallowed thickly. "We never got..." She turned desperate eyes to his. "He just disappeared, didn't he?"

He nodded slowly. "Parv..."

"No. No, please don't say it, Harry. It's stupid," she blurted out rapidly, already rising to her feet. "I just. Lavender. And." What the hell were the chances anyway? Both Neville and Marcus? She was crazy even remotely pondering the possibility, but ever since that morning, ever since witnessing the blind hope in Lavender's eyes... she couldn't not think about it.

"Parv," Harry repeated, following her up and reaching for her again, this time managing to fold her small frame against his own, urging her cheek into the crook of his neck. "You know I love you, right?" he breathed. Her head shot up, clipping his chin, and he jerked away, rubbing both his jaw and the crown of her head gingerly. "Ow."

"Did you just...?" Her eyes were wide and breathing uneven.

He chuckled lightly. "Hasn't it been obvious?"

"Love," she whispered.

"In love, actually. As in more than friends. More than family." His voice dipped low. "More than anything."

Parvati grimaced and tried to twist away from him. "You can't tell me this now. Why are you telling me this now? Harry, you just..."

"You needed to hear it," he replied calmly, not loosening his grip.

She slumped against him. "I didn't," she mumbled into his shirt.

"You did. I didn't need to say it. I've never needed to say it, because I don't expect anything from you, Parvati," he explained seriously. "I don't need you to love me back. This isn't that sort of... declaration. But you can't think that with Marcus gone..." He trailed off, tucking in his chin and looking down at her with sad green eyes, a small frown on his lips.

Despite herself, Parvati smiled.

"You can't think," Harry went on slowly, "that you're alone."

She snorted a laugh, the situation so beyond pathetic it struck her as funny. Marcus wasn't coming back. She could feel it deep in her bones, no matter what wayward thoughts Lav's revelation about Neville brought on.

And Gods, she loved Harry.

But he didn't need to hear that right then, not with her blubbering about her dead husband, so she murmured a low "Thank you," and kissed the side of his mouth before stepping away.

*****

The smell of food eventually coaxed Ginny out of bed, and her stomach growled loudly as she padded down the hall. "Cooking, Malfoy?" she asked, stepping into the kitchen and surveying the mess with wide eyes. Dirty dishes were piled high by the sink, something yellowish was spilled all over one side of the table, and two chairs were knocked over and pushed towards the backdoor. "What on earth did you do?"

"Had a bit of an accident with the roast," he said absently, looking dubiously into a deep pot simmering on the stove.

Ginny's brows furrowed. "The roast? The one my mum left?"

"Yes," he nodded, taking up a large spoon and poking at the pot's contents hesitantly.

Ginny was a bit afraid of what could possibly be in there. "The one that only needed to be heated?"

"Yes. It wasn't being cooperative."

"Wasn't being... cooperative," Ginny repeated, expression deadpan.

"You want to laugh. I can tell," he said without glancing at her.

"No," Ginny shook her head slowly, lips twitching. "No, of course not. It isn't funny in the least."

Draco slanted her a glance and arched a skeptical brow. "Right," he drew out.

She rocked back on her heels, tucking her hands behind her back. "What are you cooking now, then, and why are you poking at it?"

He gave her a mild, 'are you stupid?' sneer. "It's the roast, Weasley; we already went over this."

Well, no. They really hadn't. She blinked. "You're boiling the roast?" Malfoy mumbled something intelligible and Ginny leaned forward. "What was that?"

"I said," he bit out tightly, "the spell was too strong, and the damn thing caught on fire."

That explained the black scorch marks on her countertop, then. She slid her eyes from the charring to the pot and then back again, before refocusing her attention on the blond. "So. You threw it in the pot. When it... caught on fire." She was trying very, very hard not to laugh.

"I'm afraid the rice will taste a bit like burnt cow."

His frown of concentration was entirely too serious when he turned back to the stove, and Ginny dropped down into a kitchen chair, covered her mouth with a hand, and let out a soft chuckle. And then her fingers slipped from her face and her shoulders started shaking, and the laughter that spilled out of her was loud and harsh and so powerful she thought she'd start choking. But tears sprang to her eyes and she bent over, folding her arms on the table and burying her face in them, hardly able to breath.

"It's not that funny," Malfoy said, affronted.

It wasn't, really, except it was. Because it was Malfoy, and Ginny knew he wasn't perfect but she didn't know it, and he'd battled a roast and lost. Somehow, that was the most hysterical thing she'd heard of in a good long while.

When she finally lifted her head, Malfoy was sitting across from her, arms folded over his chest and gray eyes glaring daggers, and he looked so much like the spoiled brat of a boy he'd been at Hogwarts that even more laughter bubbled up from her belly.

"I'm seriously doubting your sanity again," he said calmly.

"Gods, so am I," she chuckled, digging palms into her eyes and shaking her head. She gazed at him, taking in the hidden humor in his eyes, the faint grin at the corner of his mouth, the contrasting hard edge that age had lent to his face. And after a few moments the smile slid from her lips. "What happened to you, Malfoy?"

"When?" he asked, brows furrowed.

"Whenever. Before. After school. After Avignon."

"Nothing happened to me, Weasley. Believe it or not," Draco drawled, "I've never been particularly fond of Voldemort."

Ginny blinked, confused. "Then... why did you...? Why would you join them?"

"Why do you think?" he sneered. "I'm a Death Eater's son. I was labeled well before I was branded. Do you honestly think there were any choices left to me about the matter?" His voice was bitter and cutting and Ginny flinched perceptively.

"I--"

"Wasn't thinking at all. How like a Weasley." Malfoy pushed back his chair abruptly and got to his feet, then bent down and shoved his nose close to hers. "I'm not the sort of man who gets to choose how his life crumbles."

Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Having a pity party, then? I've been locked up tight for eleven years, Malfoy," she bit out. "Don't preach to me about choices."

They were silent for a moment, glaring at each other with equal hostility, bitterness and enmity. Then Malfoy nodded and growled, "Fair enough," and stalked out of the room without a backwards glance.

Ginny sank back into her chair and rubbed a hand over her eyes. She wasn't all that hungry anymore.

*****

Hermione was completely fascinated by Mel. By the turn of her head, the open-mouthed laughter, the way the sun made her hair gleam a soft bronze. "She reminds me so much of Ginny," she breathed, watching the girl play with Andrew Flint.

"Gin was so shy she barely squeaked when she was Mel's age," Ron pointed out, leaning back on the garden bench they were sharing and stretching his legs out.

"But Ginny now," she stressed.

Ron nodded. "She'll be ten times worse growing up. Believe me, I'm not looking forward to her teenage years," he said wryly.

Hermione laughed and reached over to squeeze his hand. "I just... gods, Ron, I haven't been this happy in years."

Turning his hand over, he clasped her fingers with his. "I'm sorry," he said softly, and they both knew he wasn't simply talking about the Memory Charm.

"No," she shook her head emphatically, "don't be. You can't... I mean..." she trailed off helplessly, staring into the middle distance and absently rubbing her thumb along the edge of his hand. "I had to, Ron," she said finally, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. "You know that. There's nothing for anybody to be sorry about."

"But if I hadn't refused--"

"You had your reasons, Ron." Hermione smiled at him. "Valid reasons. And I had mine. Besides, you wouldn't have worked half so well. Lucius never had a taste for men." Her voice was slightly bitter, and she knew Ron only understood half of it.

He'd been the only one, other than her direct superior and partner, Adrian Pucey, who knew what that final undercover mission had exactly been, and Ron only knew that much because he'd been offered the position first. He'd known his limits, though, and rightly decided that even in disguise his temperament wasn't in anyway conducive to lulling Lucius Malfoy into complacency. So Hermione had gone instead.

She gently extracted her hand from Ron's and wiped her palms on her trousers. "Andrew's a surprise," she said, changing the subject none too subtly. The boy, big for his age, had Parvati's look about him - the same wide brown eyes and thick, shining black hair - but his shape and height were all Flint.

"Andrew's a pain in my arse," Ron grumbled.

"He looks up to you."

Ron blinked. "What?"

"He looks up to you," she reiterated, smiling at his disbelieving expression. "He's got a bit of a hero-worship boy-crush on Harry, but you... Well, it's obvious he thinks you're the best dad... ever."

Ron gazed at her blankly. "Andrew Flint," he said, pointing over to where Mel and the boy in question were playing a rough and tumble pick-up game of Quidditch, "thinks I'm the best dad ever?"

She rolled her eyes. "Really, Ron, it's not that hard to see. Mel thinks the world of you, and Andrew's got the biggest crush on Mel since Dennis Creevey's spectacular infatuation with Harry in sixth year. Connect the dots. You gave him Mel and let him have Mel and you, my dear Ron, are the best... dad... ever."

A reluctant grin spread across his face. "You keep saying that and I'll have to get a mug. Or a t-shirt."

"I can't believe you didn't notice it before." Hermione's lips twitched with laughter. "Well, perhaps I can."

"He's a rude little bugger," Ron muttered, but his eyes were shining. Truthfully, the boy didn't give him half as much trouble as he gave everyone else. He probably should have noticed that before.

"Er... Ron?" Hermione threaded her hands in her lap and twisted her fingers.

"Yeah?"

"You and Parvati... you aren't... I mean, are you...?"

"What? Me and Parvati?" Ron chuckled and slapped his knees. "Merlin, Harry would kill me."

"Harry and Parvati?"

Ron nodded. "They've been dancing around each other for years. Rather funny, yet pathetic."

Hermione giggled and leaned into his side, and felt younger than she had ever really felt since discovering she was a Witch. Gods, she'd been helping defeat evil since she was eleven. That hardly seemed fair.

Colin was chasing the children around the yard, barking and jumping up to nip at their hovering feet as they kept their brooms low to the ground, taunting him with laughter. Hermione hadn't seen Blaise since that morning, in either form, and she sighed, torn between relief and disappointment.

It'd been easy to gloss over her breakdown the night before with Harry, stating physical and emotional exhaustion with a plea in her eyes not to push, but she had a feeling Blaise wouldn't let her get away with shallow excuses. He wasn't the sort to let her take the easy road, never had been, and she had to wonder what would have happened, before, if she'd had Blaise with her instead of Pucey.

Pucey had wanted results, and hadn't cared how they came about. He'd wanted Lucius Malfoy dead and Voldemort trussed up like a Christmas goose, neck exposed for Harry to slit open. He'd turned a blind eye to her, hadn't seen that the events along the way cleaved a rut in an entirely different direction than originally planned, and that it had been embarrassingly easy for Hermione to lose track of their goal. Blaise would have known.

But Blaise had long since fallen out with his father by that time, and no amount of acting on his part would have reconciled the two.

"Stop," Ron said, knocking her shoulder with his.

"Stop what?"

"Thinking about it," he said, voice low. "Just stop for a little while."

She glanced up at him, but he was looking out across the yard, eyes bright on Mel and Andrew and Colin. The afternoon sunlight was stark, shining more white than gold, reflecting off the nearby beach and the clouded sky. A brisk breeze blew in from the ocean, bringing with it the tang of salt and the high-throated call of gulls. "All right," she whispered, and closed her eyes.

*****

Leaving Cull behind, it took longer than she'd anticipated to make her way into the heart of London, and the late-afternoon sun was dying slowly in the sky by the time she reached the Leaky Cauldron. The crowd inside made her skittish and she weaved her way quickly past the tables, dodging feet adroitly, slipping out the back to crouch in the shadows.

She'd never felt more annoyed at being stuck as a cat. Or, rather, stuck in civilization without a prehensile thumb. Her tail twitched, and she licked a paw, gnawed on a few blades of grass, and then finally a few giggling Witches stepped out of the pub and tapped the requisite stones until they folded back on themselves, revealing the bustling storefronts of Diagon Alley.

The feline snaked through their legs and out into the narrow street, making a beeline for Ollivander's. The backdoor of the wand shop was propped open slightly with a narrow stick, and she thanked Merlin that Aubrey had remembered to Owl the man about her forthcoming visit at some point that day. She didn't fancy trying to slip in the front, unnoticed.

Nudging her nose into the crack, she pried it wider with a paw and maneuvered inside, tail flicking with instinctive feline pride at her cleverness. She prowled past the stacks of dusty boxes in the backroom and paused in the doorway, peeping around the thin curtain that separated the chambers. Ollivander was stooped over the counter, finishing up a sale with a thickly-padded red-faced Wizard, and she waited somewhat patiently, carefully watching the interaction, and then let out a soft, inquiring meow when the customer lumbered out of the shop, purchases in hand.

Ollivander turned and gazed down at her fondly as she twined about his legs. "Ah, Kitty, Aubrey said you'd be coming today. I trust the journey wasn't trying? Excellent." He clapped his hands together briskly, and then gave her a mischievous grin. "Just in time for the dinner hour." Striding towards the door, he flipped the lock and turned the posted Open sign to Closed.

Minerva meowed again; louder this time, in honest greeting.

"All right, then. Business?" He crooked a gnarled finger. "You can't Floo like that, my dear. Follow me and we'll see that you have something proper to travel in."

He creaked as loudly as the stairs as they ascended them and Minerva marveled at how long they'd been at this. She couldn't remember a time now, when they'd all been young.

Ollivander muttered to himself as he moved about the upstairs room. Wand boxes, crushed and ripped and dirty and old, lined the walls like books, and he stood beside the single, narrow window, palm to his chin. "Now, where would it be, hmm?" He lifted his hand, fingers walking along the cracked cardboard. "No, no." He pulled one out, lips in a frown, but face expectant. "Ah, not that one either. Let me just see," he murmured, "five from left, last time. One down, diagonal from the dragon heartstring. So. Yes."

And then the floorboards groaned and the wall broke open in a puff of dust motes. He smiled down at her. "Always changes sequences," he explained. "Keeps me on my toes."

Before them stood a massive fireplace, the stone cut from gray-pink granite, carved into ornate griffins and hawks and spirals that drew the eye and left one dizzy.

"Don't look too long, Kitty," he admonished. "Confuddlement charms all etched inside." He patted the stone mantel with pride, then narrowed his eyes at her. "Right. Robes."

He disappeared into the darkened hallway, then returned a few minutes later, a bundle of dark blue cloth in his arms. "Here you are, my dear," he said, placing the robes on an old office chair before turning back around and stepping out of the room.

Regaining her human form, she chuckled under her breath. It'd been surprisingly easy to become comfortable in her bare flesh over the years, but she found his politeness endearing. "I'm completely decent, Howard," she called out once she fastened the last button at her throat.

Ollivander moved into the doorway. "Well," he said, looking her up and down, eyes twinkling. "Still as beautiful as ever."

Minerva's brows arched. "Still a terrible liar."

"You know you're lovely," he countered good-naturedly. "And you know I tell excellent fibs. Keeps the proverbial wolves at bay. Well," he rubbed his hands together, "let's get you on your way, shall we? I'm sure Albus is anxious to see you." He reached for a small, white porcelain box. "Floo powder, Kitty."

"You'll let Aubrey know?" she asked, curling her fingers into the offered dust, the magic buried in it strangely abrasive against her dry palm.

"Yes, yes, of course. And let me know about the," he waved his right hand in a vague explosive gesture, "Hogwarts festivities, eh? I'd hate to miss them."

"I'm sure we'll need everyone we can get to join in, Howard," Minerva said, a sad smile gracing her face.

He cleared his throat. "Yes, well..."

"Yes," she echoed softly, then stepped into the hearth and disappeared.

*****

The panther prowled restlessly, pacing back and forth in front of the hearth, eyeing the flames intently, an absent rumble sounding deep in his chest.

Albus watched him with a bemused air, leaning back in his seat, knowing that the increased storm and stress of the big cat most likely meant that Minerva was near. He smiled as the sparks flared brightly a minute later, and the woman's willowy frame stepped out of the fire.

Blaise's roar vibrated through the floorboards, and he nuzzled the back of her legs affectionately.

Chuckling, Minerva dropped her hand to rub the top of his head. "Hello, Cub," she said fondly, and then Blaise's form spun up into a man, and his arms wrapped around her in a fierce hug.

"Kitty," he greeted gruffly.

Albus wasn't especially surprised by the display, but it was rather odd to see a naked ex-student hugging the old Transfiguration professor. Although she, at least, was thankfully robed. He cleared his throat. "Mr. Zabini, if you'd care to," he gestured towards a robe he'd left on a chair for him.

"Albus." Minerva released Blaise and came towards him, her face creased with a warm smile, and he caught her hands in his.

"You look wonderful, my dear. The wilderness suits you."

"You look old," she stated bluntly, looking him up and down with a critical eye.

He chuckled. "I am old."

"You look older than you are," she clarified.

"There's no such thing with me, I'm afraid," he countered with a grin. "The two are in direct correlation with each other, which puts me at about--"

"Three hundred and forty," she finished for him, eyes still narrowed in speculation. "Not a day over one seventy, I'll warrant."

"After one fifty, the years stop mattering."

Minerva nodded, squeezed his hands once, then let go to take a seat next to Blaise, who'd shrugged on his robes and was impatiently tapping his fingers against the chair arm. "And so here we are."

"Yes," Blaise nodded. "And I think we've got a slight problem." He'd been mulling over the incident with the London-bound bus in his mind, and didn't quite like how the facts added up.

The old wizard gazed at him steadily. Their compounded problems over the years were certainly more than slight, but one more was never good news.

"I don't think they care one way or the other anymore," Blaise started, "about gaining Potter's powers from Granger and Weasley. I'd wager a guess that old Voldie isn't much interested in Potter's remaining magic, either, and would prefer it if he just buggered off and died already."

Albus nodded. "Having Miss Weasley in his grasp, and then letting her slip away again, couldn't have put him in a particularly patient mood." He sighed heavily and smoothed his beard idly down his robe-front. "As long as Harry's alive, weak or not, he's a threat to him."

"The Prophesy," Minerva said.

"The Prophesy, yes," Albus agreed. "He'll try to flush Harry out, now that Miss Weaslsey's been exposed, before anything can be done about his depleted magic. He's protected enough where he is for the time being, but we'll have to be careful."

"So what about Granger, then?" Blaise demanded, irritated by the lack of concern for his own charge. "Leaving her and the little Weasley as sacrificial lambs?"

"You're not quite getting the point, Cub--"

"I know exactly what the point is, Kitty," he interrupted tightly. He knew the Prophesy, knew what it entailed, what had to be done, but "Up 'til now, you haven't managed to figure out a way, beyond death or Voldemort, of giving back Potter's magic."

Minerva, who'd witnessed Blaise's temper many times over the years, reached out and patted his hand. "Unfortunately, the timing wasn't and isn't right," she said calmly, "as far as the stars are concerned. You're correct, I don't know if we'll be able to return any of Mr. Potter's powers to him without access to Voldemort's original spell--"

"And you're bloody well not killing Hermione to get them," Blaise growled.

Minerva gave him a reprimanding look, and Albus arched a brow.

"That was never an option, Mr. Zabini," Albus said, before taking a deep breath. "I've already sent for someone who might be able to even the odds, at least. A bit risky, I'm afraid, but we don't have many options at the moment."

"You knew this would happen?" Blaise turned narrowed eyes on the Headmaster.

"I knew it might, Mr. Zabini. I believe in being as prepared as I possibly can for any situation."

"We could have left Hermione alone, then?" he persisted, jaw tight.

The wizened man shook his head slightly. "No, of course not. Miss Weasley could have compromised her position at any point, had Mr. Malfoy not gotten her out in time."

"But he did."

"Which couldn't have been predicted," Albus pointed out.

Blaise dug his fingers into his forehead. "But he did," he repeated, his voice almost a guttural growl. "We could have watched her, you know. Not interfered."

"Blaise," Minerva said gently, gripping his arm. "We discussed this before. We had to bring her back."

"No," he said, shaking her off. "No. You didn't know if any of this would work, if any of it served a purpose, and you let me drag her out of..." He trailed off, eyes downcast, and then went on with deceptive quietness, "Do you know how hard it's been for her? How she hasn't slept, hardly eats, and how she walks around with a hollow look in her eyes? How something's been painfully gnawing away at her insides? Whatever it was," he lifted his head, his gaze hard. "Whatever it was you made her do. She shouldn't have had to remember it. Not like this."

"That's hardly fair, Cub."

"What isn't fair," he snarled, "is that she even had the Memory Charm to begin with."

The room was silent for a moment, Minerva's mouth tight and Blaise's black eyes accusing. Then Albus cleared his throat and said levelly, "What's done is, unfortunately, done; bad decisions and good. We haven't completely abandoned the plan to gain Harry his powers again. And Minerva, I'm sure you've started gathering what you need...?"

She nodded, then shifted to look at Blaise and said hesitantly, "Cull is sending Pey," referring to the lean, gray wolf they called a brother. He'd been the Director of Spell Reform at the Ministry in his former life, and was the most adept of any of them at bastardizing spells to suit their needs, integrating old ways with the new.

Blaise slumped into his seat, his anger spent. He wasn't used to dwelling on 'what ifs' and disliked the feeling of helplessness they inspired. Hermione was here, the danger was now, and Dumbledore was right. Good and bad, it was done, and the only thing left was to move forward.

And Kitty had been right as well. He hadn't felt any reservations about bringing Hermione back into the fold, nor about returning her memories. But that was before he'd seen how much bleakness she'd been holding deep inside. Hermione's run-in with Lucius Malfoy and subsequent breakdown had affected him more than he'd let on, more than he wanted to admit.

"Why is Lucius staying with Potter?" Blaise asked.

"Because he wanted to," Dumbledore offered cryptically.

"And you always allow Death Eaters to just do what they want?" He snorted derisively. "There must be a reason." He'd be willing to bet money it had something to do with Hermione.

"It has nothing to do with Miss Granger," he said smoothly, as if reading Blaise's mind.

Blaise gazed at him suspiciously, threading his fingers through Kitty's when she reached for his hand. "Then why?"

Albus' face was stony, as hard as Blaise had ever seen it, and his voice was flat and nearly emotionless. "I have absolutely no qualms about using that man for our own ends. With luck, he'll be sacrificed to save the rest of us."

"Part of your alternate plan," Blaise said cautiously, wary of the old Wizard's demeanor.

"You can't mean that, Albus," Minerva protested lightly.

The Headmaster furrowed bushy white brows. "You can't think I don't," he countered, perfectly serious, and the two old friends stared at each other silently for a few moments.

"He upsets Granger," Blaise broke in finally, not nervous, exactly, but somewhat disturbed by the Wizard's bluntness. He hadn't been around him in years, true, but he never thought the man's steady kindness would waver the way it apparently had.

Dumbledore settled level blue eyes on him and said, "Then I suggest you find out why."

*****

The airport was hardly an airport at all. Just a line of cracked plastic seats bolted to a cement sidewalk, a sagging awning providing barely adequate protection from the sun, and a narrow strip of asphalt that stretched out into a tangle of trees and vines and discarded machinery that was slowly being swallowed up by twining lianas. A shitty oasis in the middle of a lush, tropical jungle.

The black-haired man, so used to the thick, wet Brazilian heat, barely noticed the thin sheen of sweat covering his body, and watched absently as a small two-seater buzzed nosily down the track to slide to a stop near the edge of the tarmac. A small box sat on his lap, brown and unassuming; a magically contained, heated stasis. Under his seat, a carrier yipped and growled and he shoved his heel back, rocking the cage slightly and muttering, "Settle down, Sal."

He shouldn't have written her. Or rather, he shouldn't have sent the letter. He'd written to her thousands of times over the years, but not one of them had ever left his rooms, had ever traveled across the ocean and told her all the things he'd wanted to tell her since the whole thing began. The War.

"Senhor?"

Neville slowly lifted his head, tipping back his wide-brimmed hat. A heavy-set woman stared down at him with black eyes. "Yes?"

"Sua passagem, por favor?"

"Of course," Neville answered, nodding and patting the pocket of his linen shirt before pulling out a manila colored receipt that served as a ticket for the next available flight out. Sal barked at his feet again and the woman harrumphed disapprovingly, narrowing her eyes as the rat terrier's snout pressed up against the wire.

Neville wasn't exactly fond of the mutt either, but he'd saved Sal from a life of crime on the streets some months before, and felt a certain amount of responsibility for him. When he'd gotten the call back to the Order, he hadn't thought twice about packing the terrier up to take with him. As the dog's yapping got louder, Neville grimaced apologetically at the woman and kicked the carrier again.

Expression still dark, she grunted and said, "O avião irá decolar em alguns minutos," and started lumbering away before Neville could say thanks.

Three years, and he'd never felt completely comfortable in Brazil. Although, Neville really hadn't ever felt comfortable in his own skin, let alone his own country, with the possible exception of his time spent with Lavender. Lav had been his entire life before the War, and his only reason for doing what he'd been told to do during it.

War nurse didn't even begin to describe what Neville had been trained for. It was what he'd told Lavender, what he'd told everyone - what his entire operative unit told the Wizarding world. Because what they had been, what Neville still was, wasn't exactly the prettiest thing. In any light.

Prisoners had died on their cots in make-shift hospital tents. Information had been ruthlessly extracted, and Medi-Wizards and Witches, bound by oaths and ethics, turned blind eyes to the torture. They didn't save enemy lives on the battlefield. Neville was a scientist, and a precisely trained killer, and saving Sal, perhaps, had given him a little of his humanity back.

Merlin knew he hadn't found it in the cloying orchids and poisonous flora hybrids he'd been working on for the better part of five years.

The pilot was young, had an exaggerated swagger, and spoke to him in thickly accented English as Neville made his way over the crumbling airstrip. He'd been on countless short-run planes in and out of the rainforest, though, and wasn't the least bit apprehensive about climbing into the small belly of the army-green flyer, smiling and nodding pleasantly in return of the rapid-fire small talk. The harsh drone of the engine soon drowned the man out, and Neville sank back in his seat, one hand draped across Sal's carrier, the other still tightly clutching his precious cargo.

Strangely, he hadn't gotten the official summons to France from his superior, but rather Kingsley Shacklebolt, who held a high-level position as a Nightstalker and should have, by all rights, not known anything about Neville and his work at all. The Order had dwindling numbers, though, and Neville wasn't going to refuse any directive that let him come home. He wasn't that stupid.

He hopped three more planes before landing in São Paulo, and Luis, a lean, sun-browned American, met him at outside customs with a somewhat grim smile on his dark face and a sheaf of papers clutched in his hands.

"The last of it," he said, passing the bundle to Neville before crouching down to poke at Sal. "I'll miss this little shithead."

Sal yipped menacingly and the cage door rattled.

"Meanest rat-dog I've ever come across." Luis shook his head and straightened, sending the curious security guards standing nearby a jaunty wave.

Neville absently shoved the carrier with a foot, leafing through the documents that forged a dozen or so shots and vaccines for the dog. Sal had been cleared magically, but that didn't do any good on a Muggle flight. "Thanks, Lu."

Luis nodded. "Later, Nev. Have fun storming the castle."

Neville blinked at him blankly.

"My humor is lost on you, oh mighty Wizard." He shook his head in mock disgust.

"Lu--"

"Relax, meu amigo. See ya, Salvatore." He tapped the top of Sal's carrier, saluted Neville, then slid seamlessly into the crowd and disappeared. Luis was a master at blending in, and had been invaluable in the more covert aspects of Neville's research - despite being a Muggle, and wanted for various crimes in at least four states.

Staring into the crush of travelers after the man, Neville let out a long, shaky breath, before noticing a thickly-mustached guard watching him with suspicious eyes. Quickly, he pasted on a smile and nodded. He was going to see Lavender. And quite possibly get them all killed.