The Promised End

Devouring time, blunt thou the lion's paws,

And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;

Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,

And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood.

Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,

And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed time,

To the wide world and all her fading sweets.

(William Shakespeare, from Sonnet #19)

~~~ o0o ~~~

"Tell us the story of how Uncle Harry defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort."

Instead of grimacing as he once had at hearing the familiar request, Harry smiled and watched Hermione lean back into the pillows, drawing both girls into the circle of her arm. Although they'd gotten too big to entirely fit, she was able to tuck Eleanor close to her side, and drape her hand over Louisa's nearest shoulder. Louisa responded by clasping hold of Hermione's wrist with both of her hands, then nestled her cheek against them. The twins seemed to have lost some of their energy to the hot, steamy bath, and Harry dared to hope that he wouldn't have to hear too much of the story before they drifted off to sleep. It was a tense, gory tale and, like the movie, it might not have been a good choice for inducing sleep had it not been so familiar and so ritualized after so many years of re-telling. Hermione had the story by heart now - they all did - though it had been a challenge to develop it in the first place.

The truth was, of course, that the details of how Harry Potter finally killed Voldemort were shrouded in mystery. In the end, there had been only three persons present for Voldemort's final stand: the two principals and Severus Snape, Harry's most reluctant supporter. None of them had been forthcoming with the story in the event's aftermath: Voldemort, because he was beyond speech; Harry, because his injuries cost him all memory of the encounter; Snape, because he was as surly and tight-lipped as ever and remained stubbornly disinclined to add to the celebrity of the Boy Who Lived. On such small evidence as existed, then, Ron and Hermione and others had built a suitably epic tale to satisfy the next generation's curiosity.

This tale, like all proper epics, began in medias res.

"Well..." said Aunt Hermione in a solemn tone that conveyed the great importance of the narrative to come, "Harry Potter squared his shoulders and bravely looked right into the eyes of the dark sorcerer, Lord Voldemort, even though the Dark Lord towered head and shoulders above the slight lad. On his forehead, young Harry bore a scar that was the insignia of his life-long struggle against the evil wizard." Hermione turned to Eleanor and traced the shape of the lightning bolt scar across her forehead. Though he was pretending to have his eyes closed - "The better to listen to the story," he would have said, if asked - Harry could see Louisa shift forward to sneak a glance at him over her sister's shoulder. At the same time, Eleanor's red curls jiggled, betraying the surreptitious look she, too, cast his way. It didn't matter that he kept his hair long to obscure the famous scar: Louisa and Eleanor looked for it nonetheless, as if its existence were irrefutable proof of the incredible tale to follow.

Hermione resumed the tale, her resonant voice a stage whisper, which swelled with declarative power as she proceeded: "That scar was one of the Dark Lord's terrible weapons against the boy, for when they met one another face to face, the scar burned on Harry's head, causing pain unlike anything you or I have ever experienced."

"Did it really hurt awfully much, Uncle Harry?" asked Louisa. Harry opened his eyes to meet her enormously round, blue ones. Although her question was really very dear, Harry groaned inwardly at being asked to contribute to the tale's histrionics. The only response he could muster was a slight, acknowledging nod. This was not his favorite story, but he understood its importance to the girls. Long ago, he had imposed certain restrictions on its content to keep his friends (particularly Fred and George Weasley) from blowing things totally out of proportion. As a precaution, however, Harry lowered his eyelids again; that way, when the story lapsed into silly superheroics - as inevitably it would - he could roll his eyes unobserved by his two young admirers.

Louisa, who was still considering the painful scar, piped up again. "Does it ever hurt anymore?"

Harry heard Eleanor cross her arms with an irritated shrug before harrumphing, "Be quiet, Louisa, you're ruining the story."

"That's all right," Hermione intervened. "I was just going to continue. ...Harry Potter stood there facing his enemy, and he felt very alone: a treacherous Portkey had transported the boy from the safety of Hogwarts to a dreary and isolated place far from any help. Standing there with his scar aching and a cold wind biting through his robes, Harry realised how very alone he was. His scar reminded him that he had no parents: they had died trying to protect him on the night when he received that scar. They had been unable to withstand the Dark Lord, and yet they had helped to keep their son safe by proving how deeply they loved him.

"All those years later, facing Voldemort for the last time, Harry must have wished that he had his parents to stand with him, but it was a vain wish. They could not come to his aid. ...Neither could any of his friends. They were all safely asleep back in Hogwarts Castle, completely unaware that their friend was in such grave danger.

"The situation looked very grim for young Harry Potter as he stood there in that lonely place, facing the most powerful dark wizard of his age. And yet..." Here Hermione supplied a dramatic pause to indicate a turn of events, and as she did so, she used her wand to lower the lights by the bedside.

"There were one or two things in Harry's favour as he confronted his great enemy. It would have surprised him had he known - but he did not know - that the Dark Lord was as unprepared as Harry was to confront his enemy on that night." Hermione's voice dropped to a softer tone. "In fact, it was the Dark Lord's followers who had brought Harry and presented him to their Lord. In their foolish eagerness, they did not realize that Lord Voldemort would wish to have planned his meeting with Harry Potter or that he might need to prepare his body and his mind for that encounter. The Dark Lord was taken by surprise - and he was a man who did not like surprises." The girls' attention had given way to yawns; they snuggled down now into the scarlet covers, nestled close to one another. Harry caught his friend's eye and smiled his approval.

"In his surprise, Lord Voldemort made a mistake: he took the present his followers had offered him, young Harry Potter served up to him bound and disarmed, and he transported Harry to a place where they would be alone, where the Death Eaters could not follow. Perhaps the Dark Lord did not wish his minions to see if he had difficulty in disposing of the young wizard; perhaps he was afraid that he would be humiliated once again by this boy."

Hermione's voice became softer still as she continued. "Lord Voldemort had reason to be worried. The first time he'd met Harry Potter, he had very nearly been destroyed by the boy's power - and Harry had been only a baby then. The Dark Lord had met Harry three times since, and each time he had failed to defeat the boy. Each time the dark wizard had been frustrated and weakened by the encounter. Now, even though he had Harry at his mercy, wandless and bound by magical cords, Voldemort could not be certain that an attempt on Harry's life would not merely reflect back to harm and perhaps destroy the dark wizard himself."

As Hermione began the next section of the tale - "There was something else that neither Voldemort nor Harry realised about their situation" - Harry touched her arm, signalling that the familiar story had done its work. Eleanor and Louisa Weasley were asleep.

Harry tiptoed to the door and waited while Hermione eased herself from the bed; he watched as she turned back to stroke a lock of hair from Eleanor's brow and to gently slide Louisa's thumb from her mouth. A little gurgle of protest followed that, but then with a small snuffle, Louisa turned on her side and curled her hand around her sister's arm. They looked very small tucked up in the big bed with Harry's old Gryffindor quilt pulled up around them.

The room was a cozy garret at the top of the townhouse. Harry was especially fond of this place: though the walls were a standard beige, it was a hue that warmed in the lamplight at night. The furniture was rather too massive for the available space, but that was somehow comforting to Harry. Most of all, he liked the room because it was here that he and Sirius had mounted their collection of Quidditch bats and vintage brooms, filling all of the available wall space, including the place above the dresser where Hermione argued they ought to have hung a mirror. Harry smiled to think how much the twins seemed to enjoy looking at this collection; they were already itching to join in the Weasley family Quidditch games, and it seemed certain that they would both be avid players one day, just like their Aunt Ginny, their uncles and their older cousins.

A slight movement from Hermione drew Harry's attention back to the scene before him. She continued to stand by the bed, gazing down on Ron's daughters, her head tilted forward to hear the softening rhythms of the girls' breathing; and though she had drawn back from touching them, one hand lingered on the quilt just shy of Eleanor's pillow-tousled hair. It occurred to Harry, not for the first time, to wonder whether Hermione and Paul would eventually have children. It wasn't a subject Harry had ever raised with her, because... well, honestly, the subject of children was just one that Harry tended to avoid, even with himself. Still, he enjoyed the experience of substitute parenting and there was no one better to share an evening of child-minding than Hermione. Harry was happy just to stand there in the doorway, watching her watch the children. After several minutes, she slipped quietly from the room and the two of them retreated downstairs.

***

"Why didn't we have Samuel with us tonight?" Hermione asked as they reached the foot of the staircase. "Surely it would have been easier for Ron and Jen to drop them all in one place."

"As I understand it, Molly insisted on having a little grandmotherly time with Samuel before he gets too big to be babied. I guess she picked him up at daycare."

"I suppose it lets Samuel have a bit of undiluted attention for a change," she said. "I'm not complaining, but I miss him."

"I'm not complaining, either," Harry grinned. "It makes things a lot easier when there's only one mealtime and one bedtime to manage. I'm still a rank amateur at this, you know."

"Well, it's undoubtedly easier when the adults aren't outnumbered by the children."

"If we'd had Samuel, I'd have needed Paul's help as well as yours. Have I told you how glad I am you could make it?"

"Hmph! An hour ago you were telling the girls you might not invite me next time." She scrunched her nose at him and stuck out her tongue. "Now, not to change the subject, but if I made some tea, would you have a cup?"

"I could make it," Harry offered. "You don't have to wait on me in my own flat!" Hermione just laughed and waved him off, then disappeared around the corner.

Harry returned to the lounge and sat down on the sofa, wincing sharply at the twinge of pain in his lower back and hips. He'd stiffened up while slumped in the armchair upstairs. Warning: Storytime may be hazardous to your health, he thought. He could hear Hermione rattling about in the little kitchen. She knew the place as well as she knew her own flat, and she'd ask if she needed anything, so he just let her go about it. With a flick of his wand, he lit the gas-sconces, then extinguished the glaring overhead fixture.

In this light, the room wasn't such an eyesore. The lounge was a casualty of the fact that neither Harry nor Sirius wished to inflict his tastes on the other, so they'd just not done much to the room besides adding furniture to it, and that haphazardly. They were men, not decorators, after all, and yet, Harry felt mildly ashamed of the room whenever he had his friends there. Hermione and Paul's flat was all quite tastefully decorated, and Ginny's place was very modern and spare, but deliberately and pleasingly so. Ron and Jennifer's house was all cottagey-cozy and their furniture was mismatched in just the right sort of way. Harry sighed: it was a fine pass he'd come to, moping about with interior-design envy.

Still, with the chrome and glass entertainment unit looming immodestly on the far wall and the worn leather sofa and the steamer trunk that served for a coffee table and the mismatched end-tables and the two brocaded wing chairs, the room was a jumble of incompatible stuff. And that didn't even address the unhappy issue of the once-white carpet. Harry scuffed at it with his toe and thought it might be time to ask Hermione to help them dress the place up. They'd been there for... gads, nine years, almost a decade, so it was probably time to think about the flat as a permanent home.

Sirius didn't seem likely to marry and move out, though for years Harry had expected that might happen at any time. At last, he'd realised that Sirius was simply a serial monogamist, who would never follow through on any of his engagements. Each of his fiancées came to this realisation eventually and removed herself from the scene, only to be replaced in short order by a new heart's joy. Harry could never quite decide whether Sirius was hiding behind that string of failed relationships in order to provide a companionable home for Harry, or hiding behind his poor, orphaned godson to excuse never marrying.

Harry leaned back against the blotched green leather of the sofa, stretched his legs to full length, and rubbed his eyes. And what is my excuse? He was happy enough living there with Sirius. They were sufficiently compatible; each allowed the other to come and go as he pleased; both of them had work to consume them. And yet... Harry lowered his hands and opened his eyes. Maybe if we hung some pictures...

A shadow-movement at the edge of his field of vision caught his attention, alerting him to Hermione's presence. She was standing in the doorway between kitchen and dining room, studying him. Harry turned to acknowledge her presence, but that didn't seem to pierce her thoughtful concentration. His view of her was framed by the open French doors separating the dining room from the lounge, and again by the narrow doorway in which she stood. Her form was a dark silhouette outlined against the harsh kitchen light, which filtered around her to cast a distorted shadow-double on the cluttered floor of the darkened dining room.

"'Mione, what do you think this lounge needs?"

It took her a moment to answer, and when she did, it was merely a diplomatic repetition of his final word. "Needs?"

"Mm. Should we hang some pictures?"

"Start with the carpet. I recommend a bonfire." A buzzer sounded from the kitchen behind her.

"Hang on a moment, I'll be right there."

Harry heard the oven door open, then he smelled them. Cookies. Ginger cookies. Merlin, she'd made his favorite cookies. That couldn't be a good sign.

Pitching his voice so that he could be heard in the kitchen, Harry tried to forestall the attack by striking first, "You are a goddess, a domestic deity! Who knew?" He imagined the grimace that would twist across Hermione's face at that. For all the gracious hostessing skills she possessed - her mother had schooled her well - Hermione was not the Domestic Princess type. That's why the cookies were such a bad sign. She was digging in for a long evening, and Harry knew enough to be concerned.

Hermione wove her way through the dining room into the lounge, bearing a tray loaded with warm cookies and assorted tea accessories. Setting down the tray, she handed him the mugs, then carefully filled them from the pot, which opened its jaws accommodatingly and licked its lips with a little pink tongue to prevent any drop from escaping.

"Awfully cute, but I wouldn't have thought it your style," was Hermione's comment as she set the pot carefully on the table. The rotund little dragon-shaped vessel settled down in a comfortable spot, then curled its tail about itself.

Harry shrugged. "We smashed the old pot last weekend. Had to dig this one out of the cupboard. Sirius' last bride-to-be... no maybe she was the one before that... anyway, one of them gave me this pot at Christmas. I think we can both see why that relationship didn't last." Hermione, caught with tea in her mouth, snorted her agreement, then pressed the back of her hand quickly to her nose: neither Harry nor Sirius were the sort of men to appreciate cute pottery. The little dragon turned its head to look crossly at Harry, then snorted a steamy breath of disapproval before closing its eyes and lowering its head to the table.

"It's rather dear, actually," said Hermione. The eyelid rose a tiny bit at this, and Harry thought he saw the corner of the little pot's mouth curl up slightly. He patted its head with the cookies he'd picked up.

Hermione came to sit beside him, drawing her legs beneath her and arranging a look of careful concern on her face. "Harry, I want to talk about that movie." This line of questioning came as a surprise. "How many times have you seen it?"

"Counting the times I went to the cinema?"

"How many times?"

"I don't know. It's been out for ages." He hadn't meant to sound petulant, but his control slipped. She was getting to him already. He looked determinedly across the room at the projection equipment, refusing to meet Hermione's eyes.

"Harry. Ten? Twenty? ...Thirty?"

Harry frowned and took his time swallowing his bite of cookie. "Maybe. I don't know."

"I was watching you watch that battle. - It was pretty disturbing."

He sat forward on the sofa, leaning his elbows on his knees and dropping his head to fix his eyes on the floor. His hands betrayed his growing tension as he rubbed the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. He could have tried to laugh away her seriousness, but she'd hit a nerve, and he couldn't muster either a grin or a joke. With his eyes still downcast, he said, "I'm sorry if it upset you."

"Harry," she said, and placed her hand on his forearm, as though willing him to look up. He couldn't outlast her, and he knew she wouldn't let him remain sullen. "It's just that you seemed so absorbed in the violence of it, like you were there in the midst of it. Like you relished it."

"Wizard projection does that, doesn't it?" he said, latching on to this corner of her topic with enthusiasm. "Makes it all three-dimensional and real. Sometimes I get up and stand right in the middle of the image. I let it play on around me. It's so much better than going to a Muggle theatre, you know?"

"You aren't really answering me, Harry." Hermione moved her hand to his shoulder and shifted slightly closer to him. "Look, I'm worried about you. It's not just that you're watching a war movie as though you had sinews and veins caught in your teeth." Harry opened his mouth to protest this exaggeration, but Hermione cut him off. "Well, that's just what it looked like. You looked like you could drink hot blood and commit such bitter deeds the day would quake to see them. ...It would have scared the girls if they'd seen you."

"Hermione, I'm not turning all dark and evil on you." He gave her the best crooked smile he could muster, then took another bite of cookie. The cookies, at least, were wonderful.

"It's just that you've seemed sort of withdrawn recently," Hermione was saying. "You've been hanging back at the fringes, not joining in, watching us all have a good time."

"That's just me, Hermione. Hadn't you noticed? I've always been the outsider, the guest, the third wheel. It's my lot in life."

Hermione winced at this; they'd been here before over the years. "Harry, I'm so sorry. Really." She slid her arm around his shoulders. "But this is different. I can see that it is. Aren't you going to tell me?"

Harry sighed before turning to face her. "I've been thinking about war a lot lately," he finally conceded.

"Why, Harry? What's going on that I don't know about?"

"I'm not sure. I... I just hear hints and rumours, really, from Sirius and his lot. You know, they're pretty careful even around me to play Ministry business close to the robe. He only talks about the petty, surface stuff - never what's really going on. But there is something brewing. For one thing, Remus and I are getting a lot more calls: people are worrying, gearing up defensively, but no one has a very clear sense of why they're feeling threatened. They just talk about feeling 'rusty' and wanting to brush up on 'the latest tools and techniques.' You know, just vague apprehensions."

Hermione sipped her tea, then asked, "What about you? Are your apprehensions vague, or is there something more specific?"

There was a long interval before Harry answered. "Oh, not really, I suppose. Just a lot of late-night thinking. ...I haven't been sleeping very well." After a moment, he sighed. There wasn't really any reason not to tell her - aside from the fact that he was going to feel foolish. Better get it over with before she concluded that he was holding back some sort of earth-shattering secret.

"I'm dreaming again," he said.

"You mean... the way you used to?"

"Yeah, the kind of dreams that used to turn out to be warnings: the Voldemort dreams."

"Harry-" He held up his hand to cut her off.

"Just let me tell this. Don't play twenty questions till I've finished. Then, if you still have questions, you can ask whatever you want." Hermione nodded and remained silent. Harry paused to sip at his tea, then began again.

"There are different kinds of dreams. Some of them are about the past; others... I think some of them are about the future." Harry shook his head, then started again. "Most of them are the first kind, anyway. I'm dreaming about all the times I met with Voldemort, reliving them. Over and over. ...There are other memory dreams, too, about our last year at Hogwarts. Most of those are about the DADA projects we did. Maybe I'm just spending too much time working!" Harry laughed, but sobered a moment later as Hermione's eyes widened in an expression of tested patience.

"It is about work, though, Hermione. I've started tinkering with liminosus spells again. The dreams are a kind of inspiration, I guess: I wake up with a burst of energy and new ideas, then work all night. I can't tell you what a rush it is. ...Anyway, it's taking me back to that DADA project from our final year, the one I never finished, because..."

Hermione waited to see if he would go on, then finished his thought for him: "Because Voldemort interrupted you." She fell back into patient silence, but the thought of Voldemort had stopped Harry cold. A moment before, he'd felt such a rush of enthusiasm while telling Hermione about his work on new defence spells, and now he didn't have another word to say. He knew why, if he would admit it to himself. For as long as he could remember, whenever he let himself get caught up in the sheer rush of thinking and creating... and living, something would jerk him up short and remind him how quickly it could all change. His work wasn't a matter of playing brain games with tricky spells; he couldn't afford to think of it that way.

"Is it my turn?" Hermione asked. Harry shrugged, then quirked the left side of his mouth in a brief gesture of resignation. "Okay," she said in a tone of voice that made him think she was on the verge of rubbing her hands together with anticipation. "Let's take the different kinds of dream separately. They all sound serious, and I'm going to have lots of questions about the Voldemort dreams, but let's hold off on those for a minute. I want to start with the ones you think might be prophetic, the ones that aren't about the past. Tell me what those are about."

Harry hesitated, then shrugged. "Sometimes they're great raging battle scenes; sometimes they're about single combat - sometimes a duel, sometimes a surprise attack where someone jumps me out of the darkness."

Hermione shuddered. "Do you win?"

"I never know. I just fight and struggle... and try to hang on."

"What makes you think these things are going to happen? I mean," she paused, then gentled her voice, "couldn't they be, well, general anxiety dreams about the possibility of a war?"

His voice came out low and urgent. "I don't know, Hermione." She responded by tilting her head slightly toward him. "I have plenty of anxiety dreams. Like the one where I'm fighting someone and just before he kills me his hood falls back and it's someone I know, except then the face shifts and it's someone else I know, and the next time I have the dream, it's someone else again. Those are just regular dreams that show I'm completely nutters and distrust all my friends." He winked at her and grinned, before turning serious again. "I know they're regular dreams, because things happen that shouldn't, that can't really. In ordinary dreams things shift or slow or all of a sudden you've got no clothes on or you walk into the hall closet and find you're in China. I'd don't mean those dreams are unimportant; it's just that the dreams I'm really worried about are different. I... I can't explain it, I guess, but-" He hated that it was such a struggle to explain himself, so he took a moment to pull his thoughts together before continuing. "It's like the memory dreams, I guess, where I relive something just the way it happened, and it's so real it's like I'm there all over again. In these dreams, I'm living something new, something I've not done before, but it's something I will do. I can't explain how I know that, I just do."

Her eyes said, Tell me, but she remained still, waiting for him.

He drew a breath, feeling grateful for Hermione - feeling ruthlessly dissected by her, too, of course. She was relentless, but that was exactly what Harry needed her to be. He did know that, so he swallowed and spoke again. "The dreams are always so vivid, full of noise and smoke and the smell of curses hitting bodies, the feel of my wand in my hand, the pain of my knees hitting pavement, the sting of blood swirling into my eyes, the agony of gasping for breath while someone's strangling me or while a curse is suffocating me."

Hermione shuddered, then asked softly, "How often do these dreams come?"

"Sometimes I get two or three in a row, sometimes a week goes by and I don't have a single dream I remember. So it's hard to say how often they come. The most recent dream like that was... last Wednesday night, I think."

"Tell me about that one."

"It was chaotic. I was in an ancient city, on a narrow, cobbled street that climbed steeply. ...It was dead dark, 'Mione, no moon, no streetlights, no light from the houses." Harry closed his eyes then, trying to remember the details of the vision. Hermione watched him closely, but did nothing to break his concentration.

"I'm in a crowd and we're all running uphill, then suddenly there are figures running toward us. They break through, weave in amongst us, and people are panicking. It's not safe to go back, but something awful is coming down the hill, driving this other crowd ahead of it."

Harry's voice dropped almost to a whisper. "And then there are curses flying everywhere. Pieces of buildings fall. Glass storefronts shatter and spray shards into the crowd. Great holes blow out of the pavement. People are screaming and pushing. And I realize that they all look alike. They're all wearing cloaks, all wielding wands." He looked at Hermione for a long moment, then lowered his eyes. "I can't tell who we're fighting. I can't tell who's on my side. I'm just trying to get out of the street, out of the crowd. I have to protect myself, and there are spells shooting every direction. I try to Apparate to the Ministry, but there's so much magic built up in that narrow street that it's impossible." He lapsed into silence.

"Is that how the dream ended?"

"Yes, I woke up in a panic about not being able to Apparate. I had my wand in my hand." Harry paused, then let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I think I'm lucky I didn't wake up at the Ministry of Magic in my pajamas. That would have been difficult to explain."

Hermione's answering smile was no more than a flicker. "So, what do you think the dreams mean?"

Harry barked out another laugh. "Apparently, I think we are going to have to fight a war."

Hermione sighed. "Let me try a different question, then. Is there anything the dreams have in common?"

The temptation to repeat the obvious connection was strong, but Harry resisted it. Hermione didn't ask stupid questions, so he tried to think what this one might mean. "There are some common themes, if that's what you mean. In lots of the dreams, the battle gets all mixed up because there are crowds of people running about panicking and getting in the way; they're too afraid to stand and fight. Sometimes I'm the one panicking. Lots of times there's a problem because spells stop working the way they should - like my not being able to Apparate, but there are other spells that misbehave. Sometimes I'm too tired to cast them properly; sometimes there's too much loose magic hovering over the battle, so spells get twisted or deflected or transformed as they move."

"That sounds like an important thing for a defence consultant to look into. Maybe that's the point of the dreams, Harry. Maybe they really are like the others ... just evidence that your professional mind is working overtime on important projects." Hermione shifted, unfolding her legs. "Or maybe they are prophecies and they're preparing you for situations you'll have to face someday. I hope that's not true, but I know enough to take your dreaming seriously." She looked at him for a long moment before cocking her head at him and saying, "I don't suppose you've told anyone about this besides me." It was an assessment, not a question, but her tone was light.

"Only you. No one else has your powers of interrogation." Harry allowed a smile to begin at one corner of his mouth. "Shall I make some more tea?"

"Sure, but let me get it," Hermione said, as she used his knee to push herself up from the sofa.

"You sit here and decide what you want to tell me about the memory dreams." Harry grimaced.

He couldn't just sit there, however, so he took the mugs and followed Hermione to the kitchen. The smell of ginger and cinnamon and warm cookies intensified as he turned the corner into the little room; this was what he imagined the perfect home would smell like. Not that he'd ever lived in such a place. He turned a chair around and straddled it, waiting for his friend to finish fiddling with the tea.

"So what did you want to know first?" he asked her.

Still engaged in casting the heating and steeping spells on the teapot, Hermione asked, "You've dreamed about your meetings with Voldemort. All of them? I mean, have you dreamed about that last time?"

"No," Harry replied with a sigh. "I wonder if I'll ever know what happened that night."

"Has the scar been hurting? I noticed that you didn't give Louisa an answer to that earlier."

"No. Well, not exactly. It hurts in the dreams, but when I wake up, there's only a ghost of the pain left - like an echo out of the dream. It's not fresh pain, though."

Hermione brought the teapot to the table, then returned to pull a fresh sheet of cookies from the oven, charming them off the hot tray and onto a plate. "So you're not hinting that Voldemort, himself, has found a way to return."

"No! I really believe he's gone forever. Really, Hermione. I would tell you if I'd any worries about that." Harry poured the tea. "That doesn't mean there'll never be another threat we'll have to face. That's what I'm worried about. I think there's something new and powerful growing out there. But what it is, who it is, those things I can't see."

"And yet, you are seeing things, Harry. Have you realised how important that is? It always seemed probable that your visions about Voldemort happened because of the magical link between the two of you. Through the scar... and later, through your blood bond. But this new dreaming makes me think you have broader visionary powers than we supposed. ...It's possible, anyway."

"It's possible, but we don't have any confirmation of that. I could just be the next crackpot after Trelawney. Don't put too much stock in my bad dreams. That may be all they are."

She leaned across the table and stuffed a cookie between his teeth. "Maybe you should try a different pillow."

"It's crossed my mind," Harry mumbled around the cookie.

"Maybe a new pair of lucky PJs is in order."

"If you could find a pair of pajamas that would help me get lucky, I'd be most grateful, my dear."

Hermione blushed and rolled her eyes. "Would you settle for a Sweet Dreaming charm on the bed?"

"Could you up the rating on that? Perhaps something a bit spicier than 'sweet'?"

"Hmm. Candied ginger instead visions of sugar plums? Is that what you have in mind?"

"Not exactly, but if it's the best you can do..."

"I'm actually serious about the offer, Harry, but I draw the line at making the charm adult-rated. I'm the wrong friend to ask about that. Besides, I'm not sure my taste would quite match yours."

"Oh, it might come close enough," he said with a naughty waggle of his left eyebrow and a twirl of an invisible handlebar moustache. Hermione was just leaning across the table to bop him over the head for his impertinence when the little teapot, its cheeks flaming red, stood up, walked over in front of Harry and blew a great puff of indignant steam in his face. Hermione clapped her hand to her mouth, trying without success to swallow her giggles. Harry sat perfectly still for a moment before he collapsed in a great shuddering convulsion of laughter.

***

"What's so funny? And, great goblins, what smells so good?" called a deep voice from the entryway. Both Harry and Hermione jumped as though they'd been zapped by lightning, but a look at one another was all it took to send them back into the gales of laughter that had prevented them from hearing Sirius' arrival.

Though still unable to sit up properly, Harry nonetheless managed to offer the plate of cookies as his godfather entered the room. The older wizard juggled an armload of brown paper parcels, before realising that he might best unburden himself before indulging. He moved further into the kitchen, strewing the satchel and groceries he'd been carrying across all of the remaining counter space. The limitations of the little kitchen became markedly more noticeable with the addition of this third body and its accessories.

Hermione managed to speak first, "Grab a mug and join us for some tea." Then, on seeing Sirius' expression, "Hard day at the Ministry? You look knackered."

Instead of a tea mug, Sirius pulled a tumbler from the cupboard, then returned to the table with an oddly dimpled, pear-shaped bottle. One whiff of the aromatic fumes that burst forth when he unstoppered it confirmed that it was Peat, a potent magical alcohol. "I think it will take something more than tea to unwind tonight," Sirius said. Harry observed the subtle marks of exhaustion on his godfather's face: the fine lines around his dark eyes, the way the slightly hooded eyelids drooped at the outside corners, the way his cheeks looked taut, as though the skin was drawn too tightly across his bones. Sirius rubbed his temples.

"Is it anything in particular that's got you wound so tightly?" Hermione asked. "Anything you can discuss, that is?"

Sirius swirled the amber liquid in his glass, then took a sip and savoured it for a long moment before answering. "The latest version of the usual shite. There's a new row brewing over standards for home-schooling primary-aged children."

"Well, there's peacetime for you!" Hermione offered. "Surely, it's a good sign if all we've got to bicker about is educational standards!"

"I wish you were right, but I don't think we can afford to relax into a sense of peacetime complacency," Sirius said wearily. Hermione flushed scarlet. She hated to be shown up, even in casual conversation; Harry knew she'd only meant her remark flippantly. But, for the moment at least, Minister Black was being utterly serious. "It's the old issue rearing its foul head, of course: should magical families send their children to Muggle primaries or should we all pack up and remove ourselves into wizarding enclaves and separate completely from the big wide world."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, what on earth is the matter with these people?" Hermione asked. "It's not as though Muggles are a threat. Really! If we never interact with them, things will be so much worse. And, goodness, what about the Muggle children who grow up exhibiting magic? I can't imagine if I'd had to enter Hogwarts surrounded only by wizard children with no experience of the Muggle world at all. They'd all have been like Malfoy!"

"Perish the thought," Harry chimed in. For a moment, a mental image of pale hair and a sharp, scornful face reminded him how he'd felt at age eleven, a Muggle-raised outsider in this wizarding world.

"What this world does not need is a new generation of magical children raised to be paranoid, elitist, separatist fanatics," Hermione asserted. "We've seen what that looked like. It wasn't even all that widespread in our generation, but it still caused an awful lot of harm."

"How do you stop it, though?" Harry asked in a tone that did not expect they'd find an answer. "You'd have to get inside every wizarding home and change what parents are saying to their children. I don't see how you break the cycle."

Hermione turned to Sirius, "What's causing the uproar now?"

"The Free party," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. "They're collecting signatures and planning to stage a protest. Mind you, it's supposed to be a surprise, but they're doing a miserable job of keeping their secret. Hard to drum up a crowd if no one knows about it, and all. Silly sots."

"That doesn't sound like much to worry about," Hermione observed. "But you're worried."

Sirius looked at her and shook his head. "Do you never take a night off from being whip-smart? It must get tiring."

"Only tire-some, apparently," she replied brightly. "How about sharing the Peat, Minister Black?"

Harry took the hint and got two more glasses. Sirius poured generous shots in both, then refilled his own.

"All right, Granger. You. Did. Not. Hear. This. From. Me. The Conservatives are backing this business with the Frees, slipping them funds and providing them access to personnel and mail services. It's all very much on the sly. Publicly, as we all know, the Conservatives view the Free party as part of the lunatic fringe, but they share some key interests. With a bit of work, we've turned up a money trail connecting several key Conservative ministers with the nuts leading Free."

"Where's the Heritage coalition in all this?" Harry asked.

Sirius groaned. "Right. Just grab hold of that dagger!" He mimed a stab wound to the chest, grimacing melodramatically. "Twist it a little harder, would you? - We can't prove anything. Seems we never can, slippery bastards. But they're the ones to be worried about, and folks are worried. It's just about reached fever pitch; all the top-level people will be drowning themselves in the Thames by this time next week."

"Oh, puh-lease!" Hermione rolled her eyes at Sirius. "You politicians live for this sort of fight! Don't expect me to believe that you're all frozen with despair over a bit of really vile dirty dealing; though, it would make the villains' work simpler if you lot would just do yourselves in! That'd save all sorts of bother about campaigning and vote-rigging. Not to mention there'd be no need for evil henchmen or even for blackmail," said Hermione. Harry saw Sirius blanch at her last word even as he cloaked it with a tongue stuck out in flippant response to her teasing. Harry assumed Hermione had noted Sirius' discomfiture as well, but to her credit, she didn't press him to reveal what was obviously closed Ministry business. In fact, Hermione chose that moment to rise and begin the washing up.

"I'll do that," Harry offered.

"Well, I really should get home. Paul will be waiting up and we've all got work in the morning. When was Ron going to pick up the girls? Does it mesh with your morning schedule? Harry, you know that I could stop over if you need-"

"'Mione, I've got it all planned and taken care of. It's fine. I'll drop them at school on my way to work. I put in so many hours, nobody minds if I'm a bit later some mornings."

"It is good to have a flexible schedule," Hermione said breezily as she walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to the entryway. "I've never minded the travel with my job, and it's such a good thing to be able to shift my hours when I need to. Especially when Mum wants me for something."

"Thanks, Aunt Hermione," said Harry.

"Any time." She kissed Sirius' cheek, then Harry's. "You know I mean that."

Harry saw her out the door and into the vestibule, the little room outside the flat's wards to and from which it was possible to Apparate. When they were alone, Hermione hugged him and said, "I'm still worried about you, Harry. I want to help any way I can. Any way you'll let me."

"I know," said Harry, as he pressed his cheek against her dark hair. "Thanks."

***

By the time Harry collected himself and returned to the kitchen, its mess had been set to rights and Sirius had disappeared up to his first-floor suite of rooms. Grateful to be left to his own resources, Harry walked through the dining room to the lounge. Sitting down on the worn sofa, he sighed, then stretched his legs out before him and leaned back, grimacing at the nagging pain in his joints. With a flick of his wand, the movie jumped back into action, filling the room with hectic light and angry sound.

A great flash of lightning drew him back to the magical scene before him, and he crossed his arms, hugging himself tightly in the darkened room. The film's principals, a rugged warrior prince and a tall elvish bowman, fought side by side before the fortress's gates. Together they slew scores of the misshapen foes who sprang and sprawled around them. The rain pelted their bodies, pouring into their eyes, into their mouths, down their necks. Shoulder to shoulder they fought, unflinching. The truth was that he watched this battle nearly every night before he went to bed, mesmerized by the sheer physicality of their performance. Often, he'd pause the scene so he could stand in its midst, allowing the rain to drench him, while he appreciated the two fighters at length, wondering about transfiguration spells he might use to give substance to those shadow forms.

But now he couldn't focus on them, couldn't lose himself in the illusion. He closed his eyes for a moment, then rose to his feet, passing into the thick of the battle. All about him arrows whined, goblins leaped and shrieked, war-hardened men grimaced. As he stooped, a great warrior took an arrow through the eye and fell to the ground at his feet. Reaching around the corpse, he pressed the stop button on the projection machine; the three-dimensional carnage disappeared abruptly. Harry sank back to the floor, hugging his legs to his chest. He crouched there for a long time with his forehead pressed against his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Finally, when he knew he must choose between waking up on that floor in the morning or going to bed, he stood, stretched his aching limbs, and made his way to his own suite - to sleep, to dream, if Chance would have it so.