Without Wand or Wire

Harry's eyes had been roving over the scene all around him as he'd walked; they were drawn forward to Ron when the boy began keening. The sound made the hair on Harry's neck stand on end; if he hadn't known it was Ron making it, he'd have been certain it was a banshee. His heart began to race, and he quickly slowed it with the force of his will. Judging by the state of the burrow, Voldemort had already felt an answered to Harry's last surge of emotion. He could ill afford to let anything disturb his inner piece. He drew deep breathes, coughing a little on the dust that still hung in the air like a low, faint cloud or weak fog. He thought of ice, of night, of the dark depths of space. He thought of himself as invisible, even more than when under his cloak or under Moody's Disillusionment charm. He was nothing, intangible, ineffectual, less than a ghost. He accepted the world as it was, good and bad, because in the end, he could change nothing, and therefore nothing really mattered.

No one need fear me, for I may as well not exist. I am no cause, no effect, no resolution, for there is nothing to resolve. What is, is, what will be, will be. I have no warmth, no light, no life -- you cannot find me for I have no flame. There had been a time when those words weren't belief, but rather a way to simply hide his mental self from prying eyes. But now he had told the lie so much, he was staring to believe it.

When he came to stand near the collapsed Weasley boy, somewhere, deep within himself, Harry was horrified to find Hermione's mutilated form, her eyes open and sightless. That small, inner voice was disgusted that his outer self did not cry, did not scream, did not sick up as Ron was now doing. But that small voice was also powerless to do about it. Perhaps this only went to show just how valid that Muggle article Harry had read, the about "desensitizing", had actually been. Certainly he had already seen this scene often enough, in the days after the Ministry battle, dreams in which Antonin Dolohov was not silenced when he threw a deadly spell at Hermione, dreams in which the slashing motion he made with his wand worked far more effectively than the keenest blade.

It even felt, to Harry, a bit like he was dreaming now. He thought, vaguely, that he ought to be sadder, his consciousness not even reconciling the lack of reaction with the fact that he was really trying to keep from feeling emotion in the first place.

[Finding Hermione ...]

And now, faintly, he felt the stirrings of panic -- the kind of panic one feels when one knows one's body isn’t functioning properly, and suddenly wonders earnestly if one's heart is actually still beating. He felt fear at feeling no fear, worry over his own lack of remorse at the loss of one of his best friends. He felt revulsion at the indifference that had settled over him, like a malaise. But these feelings also seemed detached from his self, like they were behaviors he was watching in someone else. It was as if he were only a visitor in his own body, an observer who did not fully understand what he was witnessing; a witless man who was watching his own execution, oblivious to his pending demise.

Or perhaps not witless so much as unperturbed.

So non-interested in his surroundings was Harry, that he didn’t notice at all when Fred Weasley arrived with a loud snap.

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Hermione and George ran into Snape and Faelyn (once again wearing their Muggle London disguises), who were just coming through the main Floo in the Leaky Cauldron. In as few words as possible, not wanting to give anything away to the curious onlookers in the tavern, the two pairs determined that they were on the same mission. Tom wasn't around, so they were on their own. They departed into the Muggle outside together.

If George was put off by seeing Fae drag Snape around by the hand, as if the greasy git were her boyfriend, the young man at least managed to keep any comments to himslef; although when the Dungeon Master (as the twins oh-so-affectionately referred to Snape) had his back turned, Hermione noticed a look of revulsion pass over the Weasley's face. If matters weren't so serious, she would have grinned.

Having told Fae where she had intended to look first, Hermione was content to let Fae lead the way. After all, it gave her a chance to observe the Potions Mistress and DADA teacher undetected, as she walked behind them. ...

Personally, while Snape was the last man on earth she would ever want to date herself, Hermione couldn't help but think there was something a bit romantic about it, in a Beauty and the Beast sort of way. Snape still wore a perpetual scowl, but it softened considerably whenever he looked Fae's way -- and so did his manner. With any luck, he would be a bit more tolerable as a teacher this year. But Hermione could also understand if the Weasley children were having a hard time seeing the bright side, Fae being their flesh and blood. In fact, Hermione thought she might enjoy torturing Ron a bit with this prospect later, as punishment for running off like a prat.

Harry and Ron's search party hadn't gotten very far when they were waylaid by someone Fae apparently knew. Knew very well, in fact, as the Muggle, a man in his mid-to-late twenties with spiky blue hair and a white tank top that said "The Ramones", threw his arms around her, and she happily reciprocated.

"Ohmigod, Tobias!!! When did yeh get back in t' town?" Fae asked the newcomer with a grin, gripping his forearm. She wasn't worried about missing Harry or Ron -- the nearest Floo was in the Leaky Cauldron, after all, and they would have to pass the search party to reach it.

Snape's usual glower returned, with an extra certain something Hermione didn’t think she had ever seen on him before, but was fairly certain was jealousy of the romantic variety. She never really thought she'd feel sorry for Snape before. George of course noted the reaction as well, and responded with an unabashed grin -- anything that upset the Potions Master was okay in his book.

"So what's with the old man?" Tobias asked Fae playfully, glancing at Snape.

"Ohmigod, stop, you!" Fae chided the man, swatting his arm with a laugh. "Anyway, yeh have a flyer on yeh?"

Tobias looked a little surprised as he pulled one out of his messenger bag and handed it to her. "How'd you--"

"C'mon, luv, when have yeh ever not had a flyer on you? You're the biggest pimp I know!" Fae retorted. "We're in a bit of a hurry at the moment, but I'll give you a call," she added, waving the paper before folding it and sticking it in a pocket in her skirts. She then air-kissed the man on each cheek, as he did to her.

Waving goodbye, she turned and carried on. Her companions, a little flummoxed, took a few seconds to gather their wits and follow.

"You've worked with him before?" Hermione asked casually.

"Oh yeah, loads of times, him and his boys," Fae answered over her shoulder. "There's a pub just down the street where a lot of us get together. It's pretty casual; sometimes I've been with two or three groups a night."

Snape, completely misunderstanding, gave a little jerk. George, also mistaking the context of some of Fae and Hermione's words, goggled at his cousin. Hermione, who knew full well what she and Fae were saying but also what Snape and George were probably thinking, grinned.

"So what's his band's name?" Hermione asked.

"Piccadilly Surplus," Fae replied. "Toby is the bassist, but he's also the best PR man this side of the Thames. His boyfriend, Ritchie, is lead vocals and guitar."

Snape actually stopped a moment at that, and George stepped on his heel. Snape glared at George, and the Weasley boy had the good sense, for once, not to talk back, but instead apologise -- even if it was really Snape's own fault for stopping so suddenly. The ex-Potions Master spun forward again and walked a little faster, in order to catch back up with Fae. George exchanged an amused look with Hermione, both of them glad to forget about their worries, if only for a moment, seeing as they were already doing all they could to help anyway.

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It just shouldn’t be possible for a person to feel so much at once.

Stark terror: well, it was only natural when faced with a mutilated corpse, whether you knew the victim or not, and Ronald Weasley didn’t have a lifetime of Muggle horror movies behind him to prepare him in any way for such a sight. The fact that he did know her, had loved her, of course only made it so much worse.

Then there was the guilt: she'd come to the Burrow to find him, he bet, and he hadn't been here to protect her. He should have spent every waking moment at her side! He shouldn’t have gotten mad over her doting on Krum; she had a right to love others, in whatever fashion, be it as friend, lover, or brother, and show her affection accordingly.

He should have told her he loved her, no matter what she might have felt towards him.

Guilt paved way to a similar, far more intense emotion: despair. He would never get the chance to tell her how he felt now, she would never know. He would never see her sparkling brown eyes, hear her laughter, see her lips in that adorable pout as she reprimanded him for not doing his homework. Despair walked hand-in-hand with grief. He'd give anything to be able to have another screaming match with her, for even if it left him feeling raw and miserable when they weren't speaking to each other for a while after, it would at least mean she was alive. Even if she hated him for the rest of her life, she'd be living, breathing.

Of course, he wasn't actually having such coherent thoughts -- just the emotions that went with them. The only sound in his mind was the same as in his ears, a horrid scream that could only be made by those who'd had their hearts torn out. It was so loud he couldn't hear his brother calling his name.

Ron didn’t even know that the sound was coming from his own throat.

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"Hey! Watch where you is going!" snapped one house-elf to another, catching Dobby's attention as a group of them cleaned a Granger-free Gryffindor Tower.

"Sorries! Peaky is new here, and--"

"Auntie Peaky?!" Dobby interrupted before the second elf could finish explaining. "Is it really you?"

"Dobby!" Peaky gasped in surprise, as the other house-elf hurried away from them both, wearing a scowl.

Aunt and nephew hugged eachother fiercely. "Master Lucius told us he killed you!" Peaky cried.

"No, no! The great Harry Potter fooled the bad wizard Malfoy and set Dobby free!"

Peaky's eyes went wide. "Dobby! You spoke badly of Master Malfoy! You musn't do that!"

"I can and I will, Auntie! Lucius Malfoy is not Dobby's master anymore! Dobby is free, and serves whom he pleases!"

"But Dobby!" Peaky pleaded. "Lucius is dead now! Young Draco is Master now, and he is not wanting to be like his father! He is wanting to change! He is needing us -- and we is needing you! We is your family!"

Her nephew scowled at her. "Dobby is confused, Auntie! If you has not been set free, why is you working here?"

And Peaky filled Dobby in on recent events.

"I don't know," Dobby began skeptically. "Dobby remembers when he used to play with Draco, when he was a little boy, but ... Dobby has also seen how Draco has treated Harry Potter! Draco has become much like Lucius Malfoy! Dobby is not so sure a human heart can change so easily! Besides, here Dobby gets to serve Harry Potter and his noble Wheezy!"

Peaky pursed her lips, but didn't argue, nor did she point out that, by working at Hogwarts, Dobby was still serving Draco. In fact, she had a feeling that Draco would at least keep her, if not his entire house-elf staff, at Hogwarts with him, come September 1st.

Well, if he lived through his current mission, he would. Of course, house elves were beneath the concern of wizards, or so she believed; it was no surprise to her that no one had come to tell the house-elves of the Malfoy family how their young master fared.

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"You know, you could undo the jinx, I won't go anywhere," Draco pleaded from his spot against the wall, near the table. "You can even put the Leg-Locker on me; just free my hands so I can have some tea or something!

"Forget it, Malfoy," Ginny told him absently as she browsed the front page of the Daily Prophet. They didn't actually subscribe to the paper; it was just that her mother had bought a fish the other day, and it had come wrapped in the paper. A quick charm had removed the smell and fishguts, making it readable again.

Fleur had a page of her own, from another fish, but only pretended to read it, hiding her smirk behind it as she listened to the bickering. Beauxbatons' students had certainly been more civilised than these Hogwarts students seemed to be.

"It's not like I had specifically been told I couldn't go anywhere before, when I ran off this morning or when I followed you and Granger!" Draco protested. "I have been told to stay put now, though, so I will! I promise!"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Like I'd trust the word of a Slytherin," she told him with an amused glance, before going back to her paper. Now that Draco wasn't a sobbing mess of grief, it was easier to see him with her old Gryffindor eyes again.

He scowled. "What's that supposed to mean? I mean, yeah, my friends and I haven't exactly been nice to you lot, but when have we ever given you a reason to think we can't keep a promise? Besides, it's not like you Gryffindors are so squeaky clean! Just look at your own twin brothers!"

She laughed at that. "I don't recall ever claiming we were 'squeaky clean'. But I also don't think that Fred and George are exactly candidates for You-Know-Who's job once we take him down, either."

Draco was silent for so long, she finally couldn't help but look his way. He looked stricken, and she suddenly wished she could take her words back.

"But I am," he said finally. There was no malice in the words, no injury, only resignation. He couldn't blame her if that was how she felt. He did bear the Dark Mark, after all, as his bared arm so glaringly reminded them.

Ginny wanted to tell him she didn't mean it that way; her spirit wasn't so pristine that she couldn't tell a lie, after all, especially to spare someone's feelings. And she wasn't so vindictive that she wanted to make him suffer now for past slights, especially in light of recent events. But somehow, she couldn't lie to him either. She also realised there was more to the truth. "All right, so maybe your behavior in the past hasn't inspired a lot of confidence, but ..." she sighed. "I don't really think you're that person anymore," she admitted. She pursed her lips for a moment, then, "Ah, hell. Here." She withdrew her wand and undid the Body-Bind.

He wavered a moment, caught his balance, then sat across from her at the table. "Thanks," he said softly, looking chagrined.

"No problem. Well, unless Snape pitches a fit. Of course then I'll just remind him that we're not in school right now, so he can't give me detention for it."

Draco gave a half-hearted chuckle. Then, "Weasley ... Ginny, I ... I'm sorry about your house, I really am. ..."

She was surprised at how much the gesture moved her, but she was pretty sure he was being genuine, and knew it had to be hard for him to be so. The smile she granted him was equally genuine, if a bit sad. "Thanks. Some birthday present, huh? Now for the rest of my life I get to be reminded of the day my house got blown up. As if I won't have reason enough to hate my birthday when I'm thirty," she added wryly.

Draco couldn't help but marvel a little at her strength; something horrible had happened, and here she was making jokes! He'd probably be a bawling wreck, just as he had been the night before. Maybe it's because of that big family of hers. They may not have much, but they do have each other, which was more than I had even when my parents and Pansy were still alive -- and now I have no one. Which wasn't him wallowing in self-pity: he knew very well that his recent losses were as much his own fault as they were the Dark Lord's. His mother lost her mind trying to save him, he should never have let Pansy come with him, and he'd killed his father himself -- twice. No, this was just him finally understanding that while he'd ridiculed Weasley's for all these years over the size of their family versus the quality of their living conditions, they were really the rich ones. All his wealth couldn't fill the emptiness in his heart with any warmth now. Perhaps he'd known that all along, really. ...

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The boggart at The Burrow was smarter than the average boggart. For years it had lived at there, sustaining itself by popping out as a spider at the red-haired young male before him, or as other small, scurrying things that each member of the family feared. It wasn't greedy; it knew full well that it was much more sensible to have an ongoing foodsource than to have to keep moving about. Going for the big scare usually ended with a boggart on the receiving end of ridiculous; once logic kicked in, humans usually were able to figure out that what they were being confronted with wasn't real. But a mouse, a snake, something that was here and gone … they didn’t have time or reason to question the reality of what they were seeing. And the boggart had also found that it could feed off of the humans without doing a thing some days; they seemed quite capable of scaring themselves! He just needed to be close enough to feed on it.

And so the boggart had survived in the Weasley home, for well nigh twenty years, even lived well -- until recently. The summer before, it had nearly died, the Weasleys had been gone so much. This year, again, summer found The Burrow usually empty. And now, The Burrow was destroyed. In its desperation, when the humans had returned, it decided drastic measures were necessary. One last big gulp of fear before it would hopefully manage to scurry off to a new home.

One of the biggest problems a boggart could have was to be confronted by two or more people at once -- it was hard to choose what form to take. But this boggart, having lived so long, was better at the game than most. It recognized a common fear in both the young humans before it, fear over the loss of a certain girl. It took a dream image from one of them, recognizing that the image would have a similar effect on the other.

Except that it didn’t quite work as planned.

Oh, it worked just fine on the red-haired boy -- better than the boggart had expected, even -- but the dark-haired boy, from which the image had originated, had only been afraid for a moment, then … nothing. It was as if the boy wasn't even alive. But as the boy also didn't seem to be doing anything about the sight before him, the boggart decided not to worry about it, concentrating on getting all he could from the redhead.

And then a third boy arrived. The boggart almost wavered, almost tried to take on another form, but it was wise enough to stop itself -- if it changed, it would reveal its true nature. Besides, perhaps this form might frighten the newcomer as well, and if it didn't, so what? The boggart was getting a good meal off the other one; another moment or two, and it would be strong enough to escape.

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Lupin heard Petunia stir, and went to sit by her, in case she was frightened by the strange surroundings. Sure enough, she didn't know where she was for a few moments, and seemed confused to see him. When it finally registered that she was not at home, and she remembered the discovery that her nephew had been indulging in cutting, her son was missing, and her husband was dead, the memories hit her like a Kinight Bus, her eyes filling with tears. Lupin gathered her up in his arms, rocking her and stoking her hair while she buried her wails in his shoulder. Once she collected herself, she, perhaps a bit ungratefully, pulled away, wiping her eyes.

Why don't you come downstairs and we'll get you something to eat?" Lupin asked her gently.

She wouldn't meet his gaze as she told him "I'm not hungry." She had enough pain to deal with at the moment without re-opening old wounds.

Lupin knew better, though. She'd let her emotional wounds fester long enough; it was time to clean them out. To clear the air between them. "Petunia, I don't really care if you're not hungry," he told her gently but firmly, sounding all too much like Dumbledore for her liking. "You may not care about your own fate now, but you have your son and Harry to think of. You need to keep up your strength for them!" Yes, definitely too much like Dumbledore.

Too worn out to protest, she let him help her out of the bed and lead her down the stairs.

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Fred wasted no time when he arrived back home, but scrambled through the ruins to his screaming brother's side, calling out Ron's name as he went. Ron didn't seem to hear a word, but sat on his knees, hunched over, grabbing his hair in his fists as he screamed like a frightened, wounded animal. The sight and sound of his brother in such agony distrubed Fred to his very core -- as did Harry's perfect stillness, though in a diffrent way. Ron was setting off Fred's protective instincts, while Harry had a disquieting aura, the kind that said something was very, very wrong. When Fred was close enough to finally see what affected the boys so, he was very nearly ill himself. He was only saved by the knowledge that he had just left a living, breathing Hermione in his shop. No matter how clever a witch she might be, she couldn't possibly have beaten him there, as he had Apparated to the scene, into the nearby garden.

He knelt before Ron, blocking the view of the not-Hermione, and grabbed hold of his younger's arms, pulling them from the boy's head, pulling him upright. "Ron! Ron! It's me, Fred! Listen to me! That's not Hermione! Hear me?" Ron didn't seem to see him at all, but kept on screaming. Fred shook the younger boy, roughly. "I just saw Hermione in Diagon Alley -- she's alive! That's a boggart, Ron! A boggart!"

Ron stopped screaming, and slowly came to his senses. "B-boggart?" he asked, bewildered, his face streaked with tears. He tried to look over Fred's shoulder, as if to determine for himself, but Fred wouldn't let him.

"No, don't try to see it again! Let me take care of it, then we'll call Hermione, okay?" Still gripping one of Ron's arms firmly in his left hand, Fred drew his wand with his right and half-turned. He tried to think of something funny, to use for Riddikulus -- whch he'd never actually cast before -- but for once in Fred's life, he couldn't think of a single thing to laugh about. Even though he knew very well that Hermione was safe and sound, the image of her that the boggart had conjured, coupled with how it had affected Ron, had in turn affected Fred far more deeply than he would have thought. What if this really was their future? The possibility of Voldemort taking everything from them was just too real, too palpable.

Unless ... what if the ruins of The Burrow were juat a part of the boggart's illusion as well?

With a swell of hope in his chest, Fred once again tried to think of something funny for the boggart to become. Unfortunately, Harry had beaten him to it.

Now they faced a dementor.

Now Fred felt that hope fade as quickly as it had come. The boggart might not have been as effective as the real deal, but it was enough. He was bombarded with the horrors of the night before, during the battle with the Death Eaters.

Fred shifted slightly as the cold sadness overcome him, and felt the awkward tightness of something in his back pocket. With a last burst of will, he pulled his Glass out of his pocket.

"George!"

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Hearing his name being emitted from his pocket, George hissed to his companions and looked anxiously about for a place to answer his brother in privacy. He spotted an empty telephone booth and rushed inside, the others squeezing in after him.

"George!" came the muffled voice again, and it took a few seconds for the Weasley boy to wrestle the Glass out of his pocket.

"Yeah, Fred, we're here!"

"Harry and Ron are here now, and we've got a serious boggart problem! Ron's a mess, and Harry's just made the damn thing turn into a dementor!"

"Right, we'll be right there!" And George Disapparated.

Hermione blinked. "Uh-oh! I can't Apparate!" There was a tone there that said she didn't trust George with this task -- as well as a hint of fear that her other two companions might leave her as well.

"I'll Apparate there," Snape said, sounding slightly put-out. "Fae, you make a Portkey for Granger here." And without even waiting for a reply, Snape was gone.

"But I can't make Portkeys!" Fae protested to the empty air. "Men. And they didn't bother to make sure no Muggles could see them before Disapparating, either!" she clucked. Luckily, none apparently had. "Honestly!" she muttered. Then she sighed. "Well, Hermione, you up for a run back to the Cauldron?"

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It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

When it registered in Harry's brain what it was Fred was saying -- that Hermione was not dead, but rather what they were seeing was a boggart -- he figured he would do what he had during his Patronus lessons with Lupin, back in his third year. He'd make the boggart turn into a dementor, and then use his Patronus to drive it back into the wardrobe behind it. And it worked, to a degree: the boggart, knowing the gig was up, decided it had to take on a form that was so very scary it would (hopefully) shock the three boys into immobility and give itself a chance to escape.

It picked up the dementor idea from Harry. Unfortunately for it, it didn’t happen to notice that Harry wasn't actually afraid of dementors anymore. The boy was only projecting memories of his previous encounters with dementors, encounters in which he had been afraid.

While his plan worked initially, Harry quickly realised he'd forgotten an important detail himself.

Conjuring a Patronus required a happy memory, and right now he had all his happy memories, which could put his friends in danger if Voldemort caught wind of them, locked up in his noggin tighter than the Crown Jewels. He hadn't been so careful with his bad memories, though. The pseudo-dementor was able to remind him of his mother's death, as well as Cedric's and Sirius'. It was all he could do to keep the emotions associated with the memories -- grief, guilt -- at bay. He certainly couldn't produce a Patronus! Slowly, he fell to his knees, as cold creeped over him in spite of the summer heat.