Even the Stars Can Be Moved

1943

Uru was saying something, but Bane wasn't listening. "Time passes only so fast for those of us who are not gifted. This is the first chance that we have had to see how closely the data matches up--"

"That is not entirely true," said Griot. "We have seen a bit of Muggle history come to pass. We cannot regard this as anything but a fluke, especially if the philosophy is right--"

"Human information is worthless to us and you know it," Bane spat.

"Gnignahc si erutuf eht," said Uru.

Uru's son, Firenze, was at the edge of the group of foals being tutored on methods of celestial observation. It was clear, at least to Griot, that the lad was making a rather pitiful attempt at eavesdropping. Griot smiled a bit to himself. "Come, Firenze, what is your opinion?" Firenze ducked his head, having the good grace to look ashamed of himself

"That is how little weight you assign to it?" whispered Bane furiously.

Firenze cantered over. "Is it about the books?" The overcurious little thing had stumbled upon the books in the Corner of Perspective, where those of the tribe who had been blessed with unique perceptions lived. He'd been asking incessant questions about them ever since. Though there were those in the upper echelons of the tribe who wanted to harshly restrict access to the books, Griot thought of them simply as scientific data. And as scientific data avoided misinterpretation by being looked at by as many eyes as possible, Griot had given Firenze a book on Muggle geography.

"It is, little Firenze. What say you if a certain event we have been waiting to see happened a few seconds after we expected it to?"

Firenze chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully, and then, suddenly, looked up with bright, clear eyes. "It changed because you looked at it. Observation changes things."

Bane sighed in a rather exaggerated manner at this. Griot, however, was rather pleased at the boy's insight. He wasn't sure if it had come from the boy's reading--the scientist Jille had said something to that effect--or from the boy's own head. He was one of the brightest centaurs of his age that Griot remembered. He wasn't descended from Uru for nothing.

"I think," said Griot, "That I must suspend opinion on the matter, and allow our association with the human to continue for the sake of scientific progress."

1992

Ginny slept for practically a week after the incident in the Chamber of Secrets. Hermione spent so much time in the hospital room waiting for her to wake up that Ron finally told her to calm down and wait for word from him. And when the word came at last, Hermione was so nervous she had to ask Ron to walk her down.

"Absolutely mental, I tell you," Ron was saying as they made the long walk down. "I can't believe you feel nervous. Ginny's been crying ever since she woke up. If anyone's nervous, it's her. You'll just make her worse."

They came to the door. "Ron, could you wait outside?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "First you want me to walk you to the hospital wing, then you want me to wait outside the door. What am I?"

"My best friend," Hermione replied, for once not rising to the bait. "I just want to be alone when I talk to her."

"Oh, all right, then."

Hermione pushed the door open. Madam Pomfrey was bustling around the room as usual. There was a Slytherin Quidditch player with a really nasty-looking broken nose. Unsurprisingly, they had the highest incidence of injuries during practice sessions. She immediately spotted Ginny's bright hair across the room. Ginny spotted her at about the same time. And promptly burst into tears. All nervousness forgotten, Hermione flew over to her side and hugged her.

"How can you--I'm the one who--I petrified you!" she sobbed, and Hermione just tightened her hold on her, making shushing sounds.

"It wasn't you, Ginny."

"It was--I was so stupid--I told him I should return him, I mean it--"

"Who, Ginny?"

"Tom. The boy in the diary."

"Ginny," she said carefully. "You know who it really was, don't you?"

There was a whimper at this. "He told me, at the end," she whispered. "He was so horrible. I tried not to sleep, I tried to tell someone, but in the end--I couldn't fight him."

Hermione drew back to give Ginny a stern look. "Of course you couldn't, Ginny. You're eleven. He's the most powerful dark lord of our age."

Ginny smiled a little at this. "But Harry fought him when he was a baby."

Hermione grinned fully, now. She didn't want to embarrass Ginny, but she thought it would be all right to address the girl's crush, however indirectly. "How does it feel being rescued by your knight in shining armor?"

"Oh, Merlin, I'm so embarrassed. What must he think of me?"

"I know he's very glad that you came out of it. And he did go down as soon as he heard it was you, didn't he?" She didn't mean to give her false hope, but she wasn't entirely sure it was false.

"Oh, Hermione, I'm so sorry. I'm the reason you were petrified and I'm talking about Harry. I told Tom all about him. I'm so stupid."

"Don't say that, Ginny. You thought you were writing in a diary. He hardly needed to persuade you."

"But he... did. He did persuade me. He made me think my roommates were talking about me, and he made me think Harry hated me after I got the diary back. He made me hate Fred and George, and Percy especially because he was the only one who noticed anything was wrong." Hermione said nothing. It was clear Ginny needed to get it out, and she figured she was the best person for hearing it. "He was just so--- at first, he was so nice. He made me... want to tell him everything. It took me a long time to even notice after--you know, after Hagrid's chickens. Oh, he was horrible. But I thought he was good. How will I ever be able to tell again?"

1943

Hermione nearly turned right back around when she turned a corner and saw Tom Riddle striding down the hall. But that wouldn't do at all. That would be showing cowardice. So she squared her shoulders, fully intending to walk by without even a nod. That was how she was going to have to behave, wasn't it? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him notice her, and her heart suddenly started skipping paces and draining her. Walk, just walk, she told herself sternly. She saw him veer toward her. Damn him. And yes, there he was, slowing before her, blocking the perfectly straight line she'd been intending on walking on.

"Avoiding me, Miss Potter?" he drawled. It was different than his normal quiet tone. She wasn't sure she liked it, but at least she could detect some human tone in it. Even if it sounded condescending and self-satisfied.

She intended to give him a withering glance and walk on. She had grown quite good at withering glances in her years with Draco Malfoy. But when she looked up, she stopped at his mouth. This was to be expected, she told herself later. He had kissed her, after all. And surely as a part of this manipulative game he was playing with her. But it was a nice mouth, although she currently refused to admit it.

"Something wrong?"

"Yes," she whispered, and then said, more strongly, "Yes." It occurred to her that it would be much more fitting for a future Dark Lord to be ugly--oily and mean like Snape, for instance. "I seem to be standing in your general vicinity and speaking with you. I find that quite wrong." There. She showed him and she showed herself, at the very same time. It gave her heart, and she couldn't help smiling as she said, "Excuse me," and walked past him. And couldn't help noticing that he was smiling too.

1995

"Mum, you don't understand, Harry's going through a really bad time."

"What's bad, exactly, Hermione? Did a relative of his die or something?"

"No, but Mr Weaseley's been hurt--"

"I don't see what that has to do with Harry, dear. And it sounds like Mr. Weaseley will be fine. I don't mean to sound cold, Hermione, but your father has spent a lot of money on this trip, and it was specifically to spend time with you. We get so little of it."

"Mum, please--Harry doesn't even have any parents. Mr. Weaseley is like a father to him, and Ron and Ginny--"

"What did you say happened to him, exactly?"

"I--I can't say."

"There's so much you can't say these days. You must know we worry more after what happened in your second year."

"Mum, I would, really I would tell you. I want to tell you. It's just that, well, it's a matter of government secrecy. Mr. Weaseley works for the Ministry of Magic."

"Didn't you say his position was equivalent to human resources, or something?"

"Mum, I know how it sounds, but if I even explain to you why I can't explain it to you, I'll be saying to much."

Her mother sighed, and sat down. Her gray was coming out at the roots. Hermione always dyed her hair for her; it was their special thing. Hermione only just now realized, seeing it, that her mother probably hadn't made a hair appointment in at least a month so that Hermione could do it.

"Mum--mummy, you know I love you, don't you?" She circled her arms around her mother's shoulders and her mother offered her a weak smile.

"I just think sometimes that you love them more than me."

1943

As much as it pained him to seek the help of someone who might very well be a mudblood, Pendrake couldn't help but be grateful that Mione had come to the school. He might have been stuck under Tom's thrall forever, and that would have made him quite unable to make a move like the one he was making.

"You wanted to talk, Pendrake?" said Judas, depositing a pile of his books on the library table.

"That I do," he replied to the bulkier boy. He had never cared to associate with Judas before due to his sheer brutishness; Pendrake preferred more subtlety and class. Still, Judas was the only other one of their gang not completely under Tom's influence. "Let's speak bluntly," he drawled, placing his elbows on the table and clasping his hands together. "You don't like Tom Riddle and only associate with him for political reasons."

"If you think I'm dumb enough to fall for one of Tom's little games--"

"I despise Tom Riddle above any other human being," Pendrake interrupted. "And I think its high time to prepare for the time when we shall surely be able to overtake him."

Judas chewed on the inside of his cheek for a time, the gears in his head visible in their turning. "All right," he said. "Tell me the plan."

1998

"You all right?" asked Ron.

"Yes," said Hermione, and snuggled closer to him.

"Was it--all right?"

Hermione grinned at this and glanced at him. "I must say, you have a lot to learn, Ron Weaseley."

"Mione, don't joke with me about this. The male ego is fragile. And you're no good at joking."

"What do you mean I'm no good at joking?"

Ron gave her a serious look. "You think you are?"

"Ron!" she exclaimed, punching him lightly in the arm.

"Well, pardon a guy for caring!" he exclaimed. It's just you were so quiet."

"Yeah," Hermione sighed.

"Well, what is it?"

"I just wanted it to be perfect."

A sudden change in posture alerted her to the fact that that had come out entirely wrong, as always.

"I mean, it was, Ron." A look. "Really. I just meant..." she sighed. "I wish Harry were here."

"Hermione, that's disgusting."

"Ron, you know I don't mean it like that!"

"I'm starting to think I don't," Ron replied in an overly serious tone.

"You are so frustrating sometimes," Hermione sighed. She leaned back against him and looked up at the stars. How nice it must be to have your movements resolute and unchanging, the future utterly determined and lawful.

"I know," Ron said after a time. "I miss him too."

1943

"Pity we didn't see the attacker himself. He was careful enough on that account," Bellonia said, lavishing a loving gaze on the pale, glimmering Pensieve. "You might want to brush up on your Legilimency and Occlumency. You were only able to pull so little from him."

Knauss rubbed his forehead. Sometimes he hated working with Bellonia Zabini. "Yes, I'm sure you would have fared much better, as you always do when comparing yourself to others."

"Thank you kindly for noticing," she replied, smiling to herself. "So we only have the usual intelligence from Dumbledore to report?"

Knauss nodded. He really needed a good sleep after all the pulling and pushing his mind had been through today. Still, though, he thought, smiling to himself. He did gain something from the pensieve session. Too bad Bellonia, for all her bragging, didn't know when to utilize Occlumency. He certainly wouldn't let her get any credit for this.

"Really, who was that girl? She looked like such an insignificant thing."

"Mmm," Knauss replied in a tone of vague agreement. He knew exactly who the girl was. He'd only seen her a few weeks ago from Dumbledore's hearth. Now all he had to do was find some guileless student to extract the memory from. He, unlike Bellonia, understood the importance of seemingly insignificant details. As a result, he looked carefully at everything. He even took notes of his observations. It was what had allowed him to rise through the ranks in service to Grindelwald so quickly.

"Wine?" Bellonia suggested. "I'd prefer a Zinfandel."

"As you wish," Knauss replied, smiling.

1996

Harry was brooding again. Really, he was taking Sirius's death extraordinarily well, hadn't been debilitated at all. He'd thrown himself into Quidditch and special sessions with Dumbledore. But Hermione did find him brooding every once and again. It was obvious that he wanted to be alone; he was sitting under the shade of a sighing willow near the edge of the grounds, near the forest. Hermione never let him alone, though. She knew it annoyed him whenever she gave him understanding looks or asked how he was doing, but she couldn't help it. He was her best friend, and she had been friendless until he and Ron had come around. Harry never thought anyone understood why his friends were family to him, thought no one could relate to having grown up without any. But Hermione understood more than he knew. And he had been hated not for himself, but because of his parents. No one who knew him really disliked him. Except for Malfoy, but that hardly counted. But people had always disliked and been annoyed by Hermione. She'd never had a single friend before that troll. If she was truthful with herself, her mother had been right. She did care more about them than her parents. Sometimes. So she found that she could never let him alone. She went over to where he was sitting and sat down beside him, and didn't say anything.

Surprisingly, he didn't ask her politely to leave, or start talking about something clearly unrelated to whatever it was he was thinking about. He actually spoke.

"I feel... so wrong about thinking this, but I can't stop thinking--sometimes, anyway--that I'm just some tool of Dumbledore's. I mean, I know he cares and everything, and he's helping me all that he can, but... I might die. When it comes down to it, that's what he's preparing me to do. To go find Voldemort, and battle him, and maybe die."

"Oh, Harry," she said, and put a hand on his arm. She had no idea what to say. It was true, and it was awful.

"I mean, I know the whole Wizarding World, and the Muggle world, is more important that me, I just... I don't know, I feel like some sort of sacrifice. Sometimes," he added, as if to make sure he wouldn't be misinterpreted. "I just didn't think he would do that. I thought he wouldn't give a single person up. And obviously it's just not possible to do that. But still."

"Yes. But still," she agreed. What was right, and what was easy. And what was right and easy here? What had ever been easy for Harry?

1943

It is said that you do not always need to fight to establish who is the stronger man. Such was the case on a wintry night on one of the gentler slopes of the Alps. There were two figures on these slopes. One was a rather peculiar looking man with a crooked nose and a long, auburn beard. He wore spangled robes and looked out of place in the whitewashed landscape; too colorful and eccentric for the somber scene. This very discordance might have had an effect, for the other had chosen the setting and was perfectly suited to it. He was much, much larger than the other, having engorged himself with spells due to the effect his bulk tended to have on people. He wore a robe made from the flayed skin of werewolves, and beneath it, dragon-hide armor. His opponent looked ludicrous by comparison, but the message was clear enough: he did not take this meeting or his opponent, in fact he did not take much of anything, seriously.

"Ah, Mr. Grindelwald, how very nice to meet again. I do believe the last time was all those years ago when you disposed of my pupil."

"Dumbledore," grumbled the man, his voice as rough and large as he was. "What do you want?"

"Only to tell you that I cannot defeat you."

"I think I know this already."

"Have you ever noticed what a very dangerous statement that is, to admit your weakness to an enemy? It usually is followed by a bit of a disheartening disclaimer, so to speak."

"Get to the point, man."

"There is someone who can. You do not know who it is. He is not even ready yet. But it is undoubtable that he will be. It is undoubtable that he will see you as an obstacle in his rise to power. And I am so sure of this thing, and so sure that you will be unable to prevent it from happening, that I have asked you for a meeting just to flaunt my knowledge of it. Oh, and I have been passing along false information to Monsieur Knauss for five years to annoy you. I may not have victory, Mr. Grindelwald, but you are assured of a very unhappy fall."

And with that, Albus Dumbledore disapparated.