A fan-fiction by Arabella

Based on the works of J.K. Rowling

CHAPTER ONE

***

This fanfic requires an explanation at the top of every section because it is written as though I’ve lifted random chapters from the "next book", imagining the logical steps between the chapters without actually bothering to write them out (because, quite frankly, I don’t really feel like writing a book. I just want a little fun, thank you very much, heh heh.) However, since you have no way of reading my mind, I’ve done summaries of these imaginings to take you from chapter to chapter — hopefully without confusion.

So then, that established, let’s imagine for the sake of this fanfic that it’s the end of summer just before fifth year. Harry’s just arrived at the Burrow from the Dursleys’. Hermione has also come to stay, and they’ll be there, all together, for a little over a week...

***

When Harry woke up it was to the cat-calling of Fred and George, who, at a distance outside his window, were having a game of mock-Quidditch in the glen. From the yells he heard below them, he guessed that Hermione and Ron were outside, too and for a moment he was annoyed that they had let him sleep in. He hadn’t passed out the night before; it had only been a bad headache. And though everyone seemed to fear that the headache had been something to do with Voldemort, Harry knew this wasn’t true. His scar hadn’t hurt him at all. The headache had just been his mind’s way of burning off that last horrible day with the Dursleys.

Or had it?

Harry’s nightmare suddenly flashed back upon him with startling clarity and he winced. As scene upon scene washed over him, he felt the old, familiar burn in his scar — slowly mounting, becoming blinding — and he clapped his palm to his head in agony, burrowing backwards into the pillows of his bed and praying the anguish would be short-lived.

Just as suddenly, the pain was cut off. For a moment Harry didn’t know what had happened; he sat dazed with his hand to his head; blinking around him unseeingly. The pain had never stopped like that before — wiped out as quickly and completely as if it had never been there at all. Harry fumbled for his glasses and put them on, staring around Ron’s room for something — he wasn’t quite sure what.

And then he heard it. Singing. Somebody was singing — far off, it sounded, and careless and sweet, a female voice that Harry didn’t know. Not understanding how he knew it, he realized that this was the reason that the burning sensation in his head had stopped. He rubbed two fingers on his scar as if making a connection between the sound of the voice and the sudden cessation of pain, wondering if he was still asleep, perhaps, and dreaming. The singing went on for another moment, and then trailed off...the voice was no longer audible... he shut his eyes, straining to hear it but the moment his eyes closed, he saw again the gruesome, red-eyed, snakelike face of Voldemort — and the pain returned with a vengeance.

In confusion, Harry wondered if he had imagined the voice, if it had been some echo or enchantment, and he wished it would start again as the throbbing in his scar continued to build. A minute later and not a moment too soon, he heard the voice again.

Harry leapt out of bed, his pain eradicated again completely, and went quickly through the door into the hall, toward the faint sound of the singing. Was it a real voice? Where was it coming from? It seemed to be carried up along the stairs. Determinedly he followed the sound, leaving Ron’s room at the top of the Burrow and hastening down the narrow stairway into the hall below. Here the sound was much more distinct, and quite obviously coming from the left. Harry strode toward it doggedly, and found that its source was concealed behind a door at the end of the hall.

He hadn’t been behind this particular door in the Burrow before and it didn’t occur to him to think whose it must be. Silently he nudged it open, praying not disturb anybody’s privacy but desperately wanting to know whose the voice was. The door swung softly ajar. Harry saw the singer.

Ginny Weasley, her back to the door, was tidying up her little room, moving objects here and there and humming to herself as she went about it. Too shocked by this discovery to think properly, Harry found himself conducting an internal test — had he been right in his connection? Was it this humming that had cleared his head so swiftly, after the nightmare? He shut his eyes and brought it back into his mind. There was Wormtail’s wand, raised high — there was the blinding flash of green light — there was the sickening thump of Cedric’s body beside him — there was the cold, familiar laughter of his mortal enemy.... but there was no pain... only a feeling of peace. His scar sat harmlessly on his forehead, as if he didn’t have any scar there at all.

"Harry!"

His eyes flew open and he jerked himself into reality. Ginny was staring at him in horror, her face utterly pink. Harry felt his own cheeks become extremely warm. Suddenly he felt neither pain, nor peace. He felt like an idiot.

"Harry!" Ginny repeated, seeming to choke on the word. "What are you doing in here?"

Harry was at a loss.

"Just — heard you up the stairs is all — wanted to see who it was..." He suddenly found a spot on the doorframe particularly interesting and fixed his eyes away from her, wishing very much that he had never opened the door in the first place.

"Oh..." Ginny’s voice was unreadable. Harry couldn’t tell if she was frightened — her breath seemed unsteady. "Everyone else is outside," she faltered, "I thought I was all by myself." She looked at him quickly. "Sorry if I woke you, or anything."

"Oh, no — you didn’t." There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Harry couldn’t say, really, why it was uncomfortable to be standing there — after all, it was only Ginny — yet he was sure he wanted to get away from her rather quickly. "Er," he attempted, "everyone’s outside then?" He knew very well that they were, but he very much wanted to make an escape.

"Hmmm....?" Ginny returned, thoughtfully. Harry didn’t think she’d heard a word he’d said. He chanced a look at her. She had gone back to staring at him, but she wasn’t blushing anymore — instead, she appeared to be considering him.

"Are they all outside?" he said again. He felt very odd, with her looking at him like that. Presently, though, she seemed to come to some conclusion because she sighed and shook her head slightly.

"Yes. They’re all out playing Quidditch," she said shortly.

"Oh." Harry hesitated.

"Why don’t you go and join them, then?" she suggested after a moment, when he still hadn’t moved.

"Right," he said, awkwardly. "See you."

Harry bolted. He got dressed in five minutes, quit the Burrow for the glen and joined Ron and Hermione as soon as he could, feeling extremely strange.

"Oh, good," called George from above, seeing Harry. "Come on up. Ron, Hermione, you too. We’ll scrimmage."

"But I don’t know how to play," Hermione protested, looking anxious and flattered together.

"Bet you do," said Ron, who had run to grab their broomsticks and returned panting. He threw one at her. "You’ve seen enough matches by now. C’mon up."

Harry was glad of the scrimmage. There was no room in Quidditch for thoughts of Voldemort, or his scar, or that uncomfortable scene between himself and Ginny. Quidditch was perfect freedom from all these things. And playing with this particular crew was especially entertaining.

They made two teams: Hermione, Fred and George against Harry and Ron. The summer before, Charlie had enchanted a couple of balls to act as a Quaffle and Bludgers, but there wasn’t any way to fake a decent Snitch, so they decided to cut the Seeker and just play for goal points. Ron played Keeper and Beater with Harry as Chaser, while on the opposing side Hermione was the Keeper, Fred a Beater, and George their Chaser. It was a highly improbable scrimmage and there was more than one yelp from Hermione as Ron mercilessly hit Bludgers toward her. Eventually, though, she became very good at dodging, and by the end of the match she had managed to keep the Quaffle from passing her twice, which earned her approving grins from all ‘round. When Mrs. Weasley yelled at them to come in and eat lunch they were laughing and famished, and Harry had quite forgotten the morning’s earlier confusion.

It was after lunch, sitting in the front yard with Hermione, while Ron and his brothers de-gnomed Mrs. Weasley’s flowerbeds, that Harry heard the singing again. He glanced at the windows above him and saw a movement in Ginny’s room, but Ginny did not appear to be aware that anyone was listening. She sang as unselfconsciously as she had before.

"How pretty," murmured Hermione. Since she could not possibly be referring to the red, struggling gnome in Ron’s dirt-covered fist, Harry assumed that she too was listening to Ginny sing. He glanced sideways at Hermione, frowning. The way that the pain in his head had come and gone — he wanted to tell somebody what had happened. Somehow, he didn’t think it was a wise idea to talk to Ron about it.

"Hermione?"

"Wait, Harry, I’m trying to listen." So she had meant the singing. Harry pressed on.

"It’s about that. Look — Ginny’s voice — it somehow..." he trailed off. It somehow what? Made his pain go away? Harry recoiled from the sound of that. It healed him? That sounded even worse. "Never mind," he finished lamely.

But Hermione had turned and was facing him, her eyes full of interest. ‘No — what were you going to say, Harry? What about Ginny’s voice?"

The singing above them stopped abruptly, and Harry had the horrible feeling that Ginny could hear them as well as they could hear her.

"Nothing," he muttered, his face suddenly filled with heat again. And before Hermione could urge him any further, he had stalked across the yard and begun flinging gnomes over the hedge with the Weasleys.

***

It took Hermione a week of constant questions, meaningful looks and surprise attacks to wear Harry down. The following Friday at dinner, when she began to involve the rest of the family — "Mrs. Weasley, I heard Ginny singing so nicely the other day; Harry and I were wondering — does it run in the family?" — that he finally gave in. One swift kick under the table was all it took to cut Hermione off and though she pressed her lips together in pain, her eyes were alight in triumph. Harry glared at her. He stole a look at Ginny, but she neither lifted her own eyes from her dinner, nor registered any reaction at all.

After dinner, Hermione volunteered to do the dishes with Harry.

"Oh, I can do it, dear, that’s fine," protested Mrs. Weasley, looking obviously pleased at the offer nonetheless.

"That’s all right, Mrs. Weasley. It was such a lovely supper and Harry and I really want to do it, don’t we Harry?"

"Er —yeah. We really do," said Harry flatly.

Mrs. Weasley beamed at the pair of them. "How nice! Well, you’re both welcome to come and stay whenever you like!" She shot a look at her own children. "You, on the other hand..." she said warningly, raising an eyebrow and trying not to smile.

When Hermione had Harry alone in the kitchen, she grabbed a sponge but made no move toward the dishes. Instead, she folded her arms, pursed her lips and stared at him. "Well?"

"All right, Hermione." He sighed, disgusted that he’d ever mentioned anything. "Look, it’s just this. I had one of my — you know, my bad nightmares, Voldemort and all that — and I got that pain in my scar. But when I woke up and heard Ginny singing, it stopped." He felt himself going red again, and wished he could retrieve the words as soon as they were out. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much that these were the facts of the matter, but it did bother him, and quite a lot. However, to his great relief, it didn’t seem Hermione would give him any trouble on the subject.

"What, your scar stopped hurting?" She looked suddenly businesslike and worried.

"Well, yeah," he continued, feeling validated by her concern. "The pain just... left. Really fast. It’s never done that before."

"And you’re sure it’s because of Ginny’s singing?" Hermione’s voice was still quite clinical, but Harry could’ve sworn he saw something like girlish delight flash across her serious demeanor. He gritted his teeth.

"I’m sure," he answered.

Hermione sighed, a little too happily, Harry thought, as she turned back to the sink and started to soak the pans. "I wish I could use a Scouring Charm," she muttered. Then she peered back at Harry keenly. "So, Ginny’s voice....that’s really... interesting...." She didn’t need to say anything else. Harry knew what she was getting at.

"Look," he retorted, annoyed, "it’s nothing like that!"

Behind them, someone snorted derisively. "Hope not!" It was Ron. Harry felt himself go from red to white. "What’s that you say then, Harry? About my little sister’s voice?" His voice was dangerously light. Harry gulped and shrugged, trying to seem offhand, but feeling as though he was suddenly skating on very thin ice.

"I dunno — it was just weird. It was probably nothing," he said defensively. Ron eyed him narrowly, but didn’t respond.

"It is too something!" Hermione said hotly, turning back from the sink and dripping sudsy water at her feet. "Harry, if Ginny’s voice can get between your scar and You-Know-Who, that’s a very important thing to know about! We should test it and make sure!"

"Test it?" Ron’s voice dripped with sarcasm and he snorted again. "That’s rich. But yeah, all right, we’ll see about this. Oi! Ginny!" he hollered suddenly, his eyes still on Harry, challenging him.

"What is it?" she called back from up the stairs.

"C’mere — we’re doing an experiment. Harry wants to find — "

"Wait, never mind, I found it!" cried Harry hastily. What was Ron on about? "You don’t have to come down!"

There was a silence from upstairs and then, "Okay. Goodnight, Ron, Hermione — goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight," they called back all together. There was a light sound of footsteps, a door closing, and then it was safe to continue.

"What’s your problem?" Harry hissed. But Ron ignored him.

"If it’s just nothing," he demanded in a low voice, "then why’d you tell Hermione and not me?"

Harry answered honestly. "Because I knew you’d take it like that," he said, hoping it would be enough. The two looked hard at each other for a moment, and then Ron seemed to be satisfied because he took his eyes off Harry and frowned at Hermione instead.

"You reckon anybody’s singing could do it?" he asked her. She pondered this for a moment, tilting her head to one side.

"Maybe...." she answered slowly. "We’d have to test, though, to really know. Harry, next time your scar gives a twinge, tell us, and we’ll sing for you and see what happens."

"You, sing?" Ron snickered. "If we test that, it’ll kill him."

Harry bit back a laugh, suddenly feeling much more normal about everything as Hermione gave Ron her usual huff and put her hands on her hips, accidentally soaking herself with the sponge. "And you sing like a bird, I suppose?" she retorted tartly. "I’m just trying to help, there isn’t any need for you to be rude!"

Ron merely grinned, gesturing at the now large-ish puddle that Hermione had let drip to the floor. "You’re making a terrible mess," he pointed out, raising his eyebrows roguishly at her as he backed toward the door. "Get back to those dishes, why don’t you—"

And Harry laughed outright as Ron fled, narrowly escaping being hit by a very soapy sponge.

CHAPTER TWO

***

Let us assume, for the purposes of this next bit, that it is around Halloween at Hogwarts. And let us also assume that Hermione, in an effort to help Harry discover the truth about why Ginny’s singing clears the pain out of his scar, has lent him her enchanted music box. (The music box is something I made up as a gift that Hermione received from her parents. It plays whatever music one tells it to play. It will, for example, play the Weird Sisters, or Tchaikovsky, or even sing in the voice of Professor McGonagall, if for some strange reason Harry should desire to hear this. Don’t worry, he won’t.)

Hermione has suggested that he keep the music box near his bed, in case of another nightmare. The next time his scar hurts him, he plans to tell the music box to play all kinds of different voices, to see if any music other than Ginny’s voice has a similarly healing effect on his scar. Ron has been apprised of this plan and thinks it is a good one — anything that makes Harry’s scar have less to do with Ginny is fine by him. Ginny herself has no idea that she’s had any effect on Harry’s scar

None of this is really discussed in Chapter Two, but you should know about it now anyway. Also (though this is not really integral to the story) I like to imagine that Harry has asked the music box to play in his mother’s voice, and that this has afforded him some personal comfort. That said, let’s move on to the next part that I actually bothered to write down in story form. J

***

Things are better up here, Harry thought, feeling the wind whip his hair back from his face. He was in the air on his broomstick, having a rousing Quidditch practice with his fellow Gryffindors. He dove suddenly, streaking toward a spot on the ground as if he had just seen the Snitch. Above him, he heard Ron’s whoop from the goal posts.

"Getting good at that Wronski Feint, Harry!" Harry pulled out of the dive and grinned heartily at his best friend. Nothing could have made him happier than to be practicing for the House Cup alongside Ron. They’d been in the air for some time now and the sky was growing dusky as light snapped into the many windows of Hogwarts Castle, beyond the Quidditch field. In the midst of his enjoyment, Harry could almost forget, for a moment, that Voldemort had risen again.

But not quite. As they called off practice and Harry flew downward for a landing, he caught sight of the Whomping Willow. It reminded him of the first time he’d met Sirius... which put him in mind of where Sirius was right now... out gathering forces to fight the monster who had murdered his best friends, and Harry’s own parents. Harry felt the all-too-familiar sickness in his stomach at the thought of these events, the nausea stopped him from concentrating on his flying, and his landing was therefore an uncharacteristically rocky one — he tripped over his feet, stumbled and sliced open his shin on a sharp bit of rock. "Ow," he muttered, picking himself up and examining the bloody rip in his pant-leg. The cut was fairly deep, but less painful than it looked.

"You okay, Harry?" called Ron, catching up to him and looking surprised. It wasn’t like Harry to fumble on a broomstick.

"Fine," said Harry flatly. "Just preoccupied." Ron glanced warily at down at his bleeding leg, but nodded and let him alone. There wasn’t much to say. Everyone who really knew what was happening in their world had good reason to be preoccupied.

The two boys gathered their things and walked in silence up the lawn and into the entrance hall. They were met by the heavenly smell of dinner, wafting up from the doors of the Great Hall. Ron popped his head in to surmise the supper. "Roast beef," he said hungrily. "I’m starving. Think I’ll just go in — Hermione’s already in there — you coming?" But Harry shook his head and gestured to his leg. "I’ll go and clean this first," he said. "Be right back."

Ron nodded and made his way in among the tables toward Hermione. Harry watched the two of them for a moment as Ron seated himself at the Gryffindor table and said something Harry couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it obviously annoyed Hermione greatly — she gave Ron a withering look and pretended to ignore him until he leaned in and said something else that sent her into a fit of involuntary giggles. Harry shook his head, smiling a little, though in truth he felt slightly left out. He’d been the odd man out more than once lately, in Ron and Hermione’s company.

Feeling pensive, he turned away and climbed the stairs to Gryffindor. His whole body, which had just felt so exhilarated out on the field, was suddenly tired. He didn’t want to wash up his leg so much as he wanted a moment of quiet, away from everyone. There was too much in his head that he couldn’t put into words lately — it made him feel more alone than usual, even around his closest friends.

"Bubotuber," he said dully to the Fat Lady, who swung open to admit him, clucking her disapproval. "Horrible password, that," she mused. "I’ll change it tomorrow." Harry gave a shrug and climbed through the portrait hole into a blessedly quiet common room, which was almost entirely uninhabited. In fact, there was only one other person in the room.

"Hi, Ginny," said Harry absently, tossing his bag at the foot of a chair and making for the stairs, quite caught up in thoughts of Sirius and Voldemort, Ron and Hermione all at once.

"Oh, hi," Ginny answered dispiritedly, slamming The Standard Book of Spells; Grade Four on the table beside her. "What’s up," she asked, her voice listless.

Harry stopped on the first step and turned, taken aback by her tone. He noticed that her face was tense and inattentive and her red hair, which was gathered into a knot by way of a pencil stuck through it, was sticking around a bit wildly. "What’s the matter with you?" he asked in surprise.

Ginny shook her head and flopped back in her chair with her eyes shut. "I’m in a horrid mood," she told him, "for no reason. Well, yes, there’s a reason — Transfiguration — this is hard."

Harry was doubly surprised. To his recollection, this was the first time Ginny had not seemed at all tongue-tied around him and he stepped back into the room entirely as he said, "Well, what are you working on in there?"

"Guinea fowl," Ginny muttered, opening her eyes to glare at her spell book murderously. "Why do I need to turn that stupid thing into a guinea pig? Who’d ever want to do that anyway?"

Harry laughed. He’d often wondered the same sorts of things about their assignments. "I don’t know," he confessed, watching curiously as Ginny now began to dig through her bag in an exasperated manner.

"I mean, when in my whole life," she continued irritably, pulling out a quill with one hand, "am I going to have the sudden urge to change a guinea fowl into anything?" She slapped a roll of parchment on the table impatiently and looked at Harry for an answer. He could only grin at her frustration.

"Well, you never know, do you?" he returned easily, making her laugh in spite of herself. And then, not knowing quite what he was saying, he offered, "Want help, or anything?"

In the midst of a laugh, Ginny caught her breath and looked at Harry as though she had only just recognized him. She turned slightly pink, but seemed determined not to let it affect her. "Erm..." she managed, looking at his eyes for a split second, and then quickly down at her spellbook, "That’s... that’s okay. I was just going to write a letter to Bill instead, but.... Actually I still need to go to dinner."

"Me too," Harry said, still not sure of what he was saying. "Want to wait for me? I’ve just got to wash this up." He motioned to the cut on his leg, which had momentarily begun to throb.

Ginny met his eyes again, still blushing slightly. "Yes, I’ll wait..." she began, but stopped suddenly, her eyes flitting to his sliced shin. She stretched her fingers out instinctively. "You’re bleeding!" she exclaimed. "What happened?"

Harry flinched at her tone of concern and took a step backwards up the stairs. He wasn’t sure why, but the look on her face unnerved him. "Nothing," he said in an automatic voice, "I tripped — I’m fine."

Ginny didn’t seem convinced. Her eyes lingered on the now-congealing cut. "Shouldn’t you..." she began hesitantly, "...shouldn’t you just go to the hospital wing? Madam Pomfrey could fix it in two seconds."

Harry shook his head firmly. He wouldn’t admit it to Ginny, or to anyone, but he was in no hurry to go back to the hospital wing. The last time he’d been in there had been the absolute most painful of his life. Just thinking about the infirmary brought back an instant memory of the Diggorys. His heart clenched as he recalled how he had been made to explain their son’s death to them... and there were so many other horrible memories of the Triwizard Championship... No, he never wanted to see the inside of the hospital wing again if he could help it.

Although he had explained none of this aloud, Ginny gave him a look that suggested comprehension. "I don’t like to go up there either," she said frankly, after a moment. "It’s depressing."

Harry jumped. "What?" he exclaimed, unprepared for her truthful estimation of his motives.

"Well," she said slowly, shrugging, "whenever I go up there for anything, all I can think of is the end of first year..." She blushed, looking at her hands, "Tom Riddle and all that," she explained in a quick, embarrassed tone. "And I know that’s nothing to what you must feel— I mean especially after Cedric and everything that happened to you last year — it must be hard to face..." Ginny trailed off, and pressed her lips together. "Sorry," she finished softly, after a short silence. "You can’t want to talk about all that."

Harry was staring at her, openmouthed. The truth was, he desperately wanted to talk about "all that" but everyone else — Ron and Hermione included — seemed uncomfortable on the subject. Neither of them ever brought up Cedric if it could be helped, and although Harry knew it was only because they didn’t want to hurt him, often he felt that the careful silence was equally as painful. Then again, he reasoned, even if his best friends had been perfectly open on the subject, he had to admit that he wasn’t always very keen to pour his heart out to them. Ron often became confused and doubtful; Hermione, panicked with worry. Though they cared about him very much, sometimes Harry found that it was less trouble just to keep things quiet.

But Ginny didn’t appear to be confused, or panicked. She was looking at him quietly, waiting for him to answer, and Harry felt suddenly as though the great weights that pressed on his heart were aching for release. He realized how much he wanted to be perfectly straightforward with someone — certainly he had Sirius, but Harry didn’t want to write a letter. He wanted a friend in the here and now, someone to trust who wouldn’t be frightened or shocked by everything he had to share. Into his chest rushed an overwhelming desire to tell Ginny that she was very right, that it was difficult to face what had happened last year, that Cedric was often on his mind, and that he didn’t know how to deal with the reality of a returned Voldemort. Harry drew a deep breath and spoke.

"Look, I’m fine," he said loudly, shattering the quiet of the common room and startling them both. He hadn’t meant to say that at all, and he could tell by the look on Ginny’s face that she didn’t believe him in the slightest. But, "I’m fine," he repeated in a more normal tone of voice, working to convince her. "Really, it’s just a scratch —" he indicated his leg — "I don’t need to see Madam Pomfrey about it. I’m fine," he concluded for the third time.

Ginny sighed almost inaudibly and unrolled her parchment, returning, it seemed, to letter-writing. "Yes, okay, you’re fine," she said under her breath, "you’re always fine. You’re Harry Potter." She said the last two words in a tone that struck his nerves with a clang — he felt suddenly and inexplicably defensive.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" he shot at her.

"It doesn’t mean anything," she said, attempting to dismiss him as she unscrewed the top of her ink bottle. But Harry wasn’t interested in being dismissed.

"Then why’d you say it?" he demanded hotly.

Ginny loaded her quill with ink and set her hand on the parchment, but did not begin to write. "It’s only...." she faltered, looking up at him. For a moment she appeared to be suffering a painful internal struggle, but then she lay her quill down abruptly and braced her arms on the chair. "It’s just you’re very hard to talk to, because you’re scared someone’s going to see you lose it," she said in a rush, "even though you deserve to break down, Harry, you really do!" She crossed her arms defiantly, as if daring him to contradict her. Through his shock, Harry could tell that she’d wanted to say that for quite some time.

But the fact remained that it stung him very badly to hear those things — Harry felt as if Ginny had just opened a very private, sealed door, one which most people tiptoed carefully around. And though he struggled not to admit the truth to himself, he knew she was right. He was Harry Potter. And whatever else that meant, it certainly made it difficult to break down and hash things out like everybody else. So what made her think he was about to do it now?

"You don’t know what you’re talking about," he said, much more coldly than he’d intended. Ginny recoiled, her eyes registering hurt, and Harry, feeling immediately contrite, back-pedaled as well as he could. "Seriously," he said, trying to sound friendlier, "I’m fine." But he regretted those words, too, as soon as they were out, because Ginny seemed to expect them. She laughed slightly, put her letter aside, and stood up.

"Well, good. As long as you’re fine," she said evenly, pulling the pencil out of her knotted hair and letting it fall back around her face. She tossed the pencil onto her things with a clatter. "I’m going to dinner now, before it’s over," she announced. And as Harry watched, she went to the portrait hole, pushed it open, and let it fall shut behind her. It was a long moment before he was able to gather his wits and continue up the stairs.

You’re Harry Potter. The words came back into his head and he tried to shake them out as he stalked past the boys’ dormitory and into the lavatory, where he went about washing his leg in the sink. You’re scared someone’s going to see you lose it. No, he thought, that wasn’t true at all. It’s just that there was no sense in making a sap out of himself. He scrubbed at his cut roughly, though it hurt him, trying to distract himself from his thoughts. But it was very difficult to escape the dim, guilty feeling that he had lied to Ginny — made worse by the fact that she had been remarkably honest with him. He blotted the slice on his leg with a pounding motion, threw the tissue furiously into the bin, and caught sight of himself in the mirror.

Arrested, he stared at the lightning bolt on his forehead. It had been several weeks since he’d thought about the way in which Ginny’s voice had affected him at the Burrow. In fact, ever since Hermione had given him the enchanted music box he’d avoided the subject entirely, both with his friends and with himself. Now, however, Harry found himself once again trying to work out the possible connection... his scar... Voldemort.... Ginny... It was difficult to draw conclusions about any of it.

Instead, his mind began to draw a few conclusions about Ginny herself. Vaguely it occurred to him that though he’d known her for nearing four years, he had only just met her for the first time. He had certainly never had anything approaching a serious conversation with her. She was somehow more opinionated than he had expected — and she had made more than one startlingly perceptive observation about him — it led him to wonder just how closely she’d been paying attention all this time.

Harry smiled at himself sheepishly in the mirror. He was rather used to the idea that Ginny was a bit... taken with him. There was something very flattering about the way she’d always looked at him, even if he didn’t return the feelings. Which, he reminded himself, he didn’t. Not at all. He liked her all right — he liked all the Weasleys. It didn’t mean anything more with Ginny — not even if, for reasons he couldn’t explain to himself, he had been about to confide in her about everything in a way it had never occurred to him to do with Fred and George — or even Ron.

It was several minutes before Harry snapped out of these thoughts and realized that his delays meant he would now have missed dinner — unless he ran for it. Drying his hands quickly, he raced down to the common room, which was filling up with students returning from the Great Hall. He flung open the portrait hole and came face to face with Hermione, who clambered inside. She was followed closely by Ron, and was carrying a sandwich in a napkin. "Dinner’s almost over," she explained, holding it out to him. "I didn’t know if you’d make it, so I put this together."

"Thanks," Harry said, accepting it gratefully. And then, without thinking, he added, "Did you see Ginny?" He could have hit himself for asking. Ron looked at him sharply.

"Yeah, we passed her, why?" he asked, his tone suspicious.

Harry berated himself inwardly as he fumbled for an explanation. "No reason — she just had a question — about Transfiguration. Guinea fowl, or something."

But Ron was not put off track by this feeble attempt. "What took you so long up here, anyway?" he interrogated, watching Harry closely.

"Er," Harry said, making a very great effort not to show strain, "nothing really — you know, just got held up — had to wash out my leg —" He stopped talking and slapped himself mentally a second time, because that had been another stupid thing to say. Hermione now looked at the cut on his leg and sucked in her breath.

"Hospital wing," she said reflexively. But Harry refused, point-blank, to comply with this, explaining that it looked a lot worse than it was and it didn’t really hurt at all. Eventually he stopped acknowledging her arguments altogether and Hermione had to give up. She sighed, still tutting in the direction of his shin, but let it go for the moment. "Ginny’s having trouble with Transfiguration then?" she asked, changing the subject as she hefted her own schoolbooks to the table and sat down. "Cross-Species Switches?"

"I guess," replied Harry noncommittally, thumping into a chair and tearing into his sandwich without meeting Ron’s eyes. But Hermione seemed to be oblivious to the tension between Harry and Ron. She picked up Ginny’s spellbook and thumbed through it methodically.

"I’ll help her when she gets back then," she decided. "I did rather well in that section. I loved that part of the exam — it was fun, learning to switch them over, didn’t you think?"

Ron now looked despairingly at Hermione — if he still had misgivings about what had taken Harry so long upstairs, he lost sight of them in the wake of her comment. "Hermione," he said patronizingly, as if she were a very small child, "you’re mental. You can’t love any part of an exam. It’s against nature."

"Oh, hush," she returned, pouting into her bag. "Do you have an extra quill, please? I think I lent my last one to Neville." Ron rolled his eyes in Harry’s direction, but quickly dug a quill out of his own bag and presented it to Hermione. She smiled up at him as he settled in the next chair over, and Harry couldn’t help but grin into his sandwich, thinking that Ron had become rather obedient lately. However, he was too grateful for the distraction to make any comments. To his great relief, it seemed that neither of his friends had really noticed his unease regarding Ginny, and he almost forgot it himself as he pulled up his school bag and began to work on their latest assignment for History of Magic.

Harry could not explain why his head snapped to the portrait hole as if it were on a string when Ginny climbed through it half an hour later. To his great annoyance he felt his face grow rather flushed as he turned quickly back to his essay — and if he thought this too would pass unnoticed, he was wrong. A slight, "Ahem," from Hermione made him glance up warily, and when he did, Harry felt himself grow red all over again. Hermione was looking at him quite as if she knew what was going on. Her gaze shifted meaningfully from Harry to Ginny and back again. With the slightest lift of her eyebrows, she effectively communicated to Harry that she, at least, was on to him. And though she busied herself about her books again without a single word, Harry insides squirmed horribly.

Ginny, on the other hand, did not look at him. With an easy, "Hello," to all of them, she returned to the chair she’d been in previously and began to discuss her Transfiguration assignment with Hermione. Harry was at once disappointed by her nonchalance, and grateful for it. He didn’t particularly want to look her in the eye, especially considering the things she’d said to him before she’d gone to dinner. You deserve to break down, Harry, you really do, his mind echoed.

But even though they didn’t look at one another, Harry felt far too uncomfortably aware of her to get any work done. He could hardly sit still, though he worked very hard to do so. He was sure that any moment, Ron would notice something was wrong with him and ask what was up — and it was a question Harry simply couldn’t answer. After a torturous fifteen minutes in which he wrote exactly four words of his essay, Harry finally begged a headache and returned upstairs to complete his assignments, seriously frustrated with himself.

He stormed into his dormitory and crashed onto his four-poster with a disgusted sigh. It’s only Ginny, he told his brain angrily. But this was a most unhelpful consolation when his brain reminded him that only an hour ago, Ginny had seemed to be the one person in the world who actually understood what he was thinking. Just as importantly, she seemed to be tied into his connection with Voldemort...

Harry pushed aside his homework, pulled on his pajamas and shut his bed-curtains with a violent yank. He lay awake for some time, his palm resting across his scar, trying to understand. But he couldn’t make sense of anything — least of all the fact that, quite against his will, he suddenly found himself thinking that Ginny Weasley was getting rather pretty.

"No way," he muttered into his pillow, burying his face and wishing for the comfort of thoughtless slumber. It was a long time tossing, though, before he finally got his wish and fell asleep.

CHAPTER THREE

***

Okay. So let’s pretend that now it’s Christmas Eve. Our favorite four have obviously remained at Hogwarts. At the beginning of the month, something happened involving Voldemort. I don’t know what, it doesn’t matter, just pretend it’s something bad (I’m such a slave to detail) and that Voldemort is near enough now to be giving Harry a constant, dull pain in his head. Harry’s been rather on edge lately because he doesn’t want to admit he’s in pain. Instead, he’s just been pretending not to feel it. He doesn’t want to bring it up, mostly because of Ron but also because he’s been avoiding dealing with his possible feelings for Ginny — and he knows that the second he admits his head is throbbing, he may also have to admit to Ginny that she’s capable of helping him. (And what boy would want to do that?)

Let’s also pretend, just for the fun of it, that over the previous summer Hermione did indeed visit Viktor Krum in Bulgaria — and let us imagine that a very jealous Ron sent her a letter containing Floo Powder, demanding that she get into the nearest fireplace and come back to Britain at once. J Ron and Hermione, for the purposes of this story, have not confessed to liking one another. Yet.

***

The night before Christmas, Harry woke with a start. He was shivering and his head was in a vise-like grip of agony. Voldemort was near. Very near. Panicked, Harry snatched up Hermione’s music box as he had planned to do in case of this event, opened it, and began to direct it to sing. He was determined, even through the crazy throbbing, not to call out for Ginny Weasley.

"Dumbledore," he muttered unthinkingly, "Ron Weasley — Hermione Granger..." he winced fiercely — nothing was happening to stop the pain. "The Weird Sisters — Neville Longbottom — oh, anybody, come on —" Harry rattled off a long string of popular musicians and famous singers. No-one’s voice relieved him in the slightest.

Voldemort must be right outside the door, thought Harry blindly, gripping his forehead with both hands. He felt as if his head were splitting along his scar, breaking in two, and he knew it would only be another moment before he had to do it. "Cho Chang!" he cried desperately, and then, "Lily Potter!" Yes, there was his mother’s voice, as clear as it had been the first time he had told her name to the music box. But even this did not relieve his beating brain. Finally, he surrendered to the inevitable. Doubling over, he managed to croak, "Ginny Weasley."

It was only a whisper, but someone moved in the next bed. Ron was awake. Harry heard the thump of Ron’s feet on the floor — winced as the curtains of his four-poster were pushed apart — but before Ron could ask Harry if he was all right, the music box began to sing in Ginny’s voice.

The throbbing in Harry’s head was instantaneously reduced by half. It was still very painful, but at least he could think. He could see Ron looking from his scar to the music box mistrustfully — but this was no time to defend himself; he was still in far too much pain. He knew why it wasn’t stopping completely as it had before. The music box voice couldn’t do as well as Ginny herself.

"Get Ginny," Harry gasped, his eyes shut, the flat of his palm pressed over his scar. "Please, Ron. Get me downstairs and get Ginny." Ron took him by the elbow no questions asked, and once Harry was lying on the sofa in the shadowy common room, Ron sprinted up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. He returned pushing Ginny before him drowsily, Hermione beside them.

"Harry!" she called, running ahead of Ginny and Ron. "Are you all right?"

He nodded — a stupid move on his part, which made his head throb so hard he thought he might retch. "Ginny — sing something —" he managed weakly, too much in pain to care what he was saying. "Please hurry."

Ginny, who had been rubbing her eyes a moment before, barely awake, was startled into her senses.

"What — now?!"

"Yes," said Hermione quickly, seeing how ill equipped Harry was to explain the situation at present. "You have to sing, Ginny. Harry heard you this summer — for some reason it stops the pain in his scar."

Ron’s face grew very dark at this, and he opened his mouth to protest. But before he could speak, Ginny unhesitatingly dropped to her knees beside the sofa. Her face had taken on a remarkable luminescent quality — Harry felt a pale, cool energy radiating from her as she leaned close and began to hum a low lullaby melody close by his ear.

Harry’s head, at once, was perfectly clear. There was not even a shadow of the pain. He reveled in the peace of it for only a second before he became fully aware of what was going on around him. Ron was standing over him, looking grim. Hermione was next to him, her eyes round and anxious. And here was Ginny, kneeling by him, humming steadily.

He sat bolt upright, startling her into silence. She looked at him, a touch apprehensively. "Are you better, Harry? Or do you need me to keep on?" For a moment, they looked at each other. Ginny’s face was pale, but Harry noticed she looked... determined, somehow.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, Ginny, I’m better." There was a pause between them as each took in what had just happened. Harry studied Ginny’s eyes in the silence. She did not look away.

"I heard you trying that music box, Harry," said Ron suddenly, stepping up behind Ginny. "But I guess none of those other voices can do it, eh?" A note of sarcasm lingered in the still air. "Well, isn’t that good to know, then."

"Shhh," said Hermione impatiently, pulling him back by his pajama sleeve and keeping a hold on him. "This is important, Ron."

Harry agreed. It was important. Ginny’s voice had a power — a very useful power, to him. It could keep his head clear near Voldemort. HHHarry knew that half the advantage Voldemort had over him was the fact that his very presence splintered Harry’s head in agony. He had never been able to keep a clear head, with Voldemort nearby. But with Ginny, perhaps.... Harry turned to Ron, determined to make him see sense.

"I tried the music box, Ron," he said. "You heard me. Nobody else’s voice helped."

"How sweet," said Ron darkly. Harry opened his hands in appeal, ready to argue again, but Hermione stopped him.

"Look, do you want him to suffer?" she demanded, letting go of Ron’s sleeve and rounding on him. "If Ginny can kill the pain like that, imagine how much better Harry’s chances are if You-Know-Who should ever—"

"My little sister is NOT going ‘round with Harry to fight You-Know-Who!" Ron roared. "You want her to get killed?"

"Of course not! It’s just that she’s —"

"STOP IT!"

Ginny had never said anything so forcefully in her life. Everybody stared. She was looking up at Ron furiously from her position by the sofa, illuminated by a long shaft of moonlight.

"I’m not," she said sharply, "little. I’m one year behind you Ron — one — and think of all you did in four years at Hogwarts. I’ve done things, too. I’ve seen things. I’ve met Voldemort." She had said the name. Ron winced.

"Say You-Know-Who."

"Voldemort," said Ginny and Harry together.

Ginny turned back to Harry. "If that helps at all — me singing — I want to do it," she said, looking paler than ever, and older somehow. "You have to let me help you."

Ron made a move forward, but Hermione put a hand on his arm and he stopped.

Harry was still staring at Ginny. He had been doing so, intensely, since the first time she had said "Voldemort." She had not sounded afraid. And as he looked at her now, Harry saw no fear — only something else, like a fever. He knew somehow that the next time he faced Voldemort, he wanted her to be standing by him. The idea gave him a rush of courage, and of... something else. He felt a sudden, deep pang that had nothing to do with his scar.

Harry nodded faintly at Ginny, who was still kneeling there, her hands clasped together on the sofa cushion so tightly that her knuckles were white. He reached out without thinking straight, and tugged a lock of her disheveled hair, very gently. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

Ron made a strangled sort of noise, and Harry retracted his hand as thought it was on fire. Ginny remained frozen for one breathless second, then stood up, looking very tall and white in her nightdress, her red hair a ghostly pallor in the moonlit room. "Goodnight Hermione," she said, and Harry saw that her fingers were trembling. "Goodnight, Ron."

"Goodnight," said Hermione. Ron was silent.

Ginny turned to Harry. "If you need me..." she began quietly.

"I’ll come get you," he finished, without skipping a beat. "I promise."

She nodded simply, smiled in a way that made Harry’s heart clap against his ribs, then climbed up the stairs and disappeared, leaving the three of them very quiet for several minutes, Harry staring at the stairs and wondering what exactly had just happened. His scar was forgotten. He wanted to know why his insides were behaving this way — what had made him reach out and tug Ginny’s hair — why, when he’d noticed her fingers shaking, he’d wanted to —

"If she gets killed, I’ll never forgive you," Ron hissed suddenly into the dark room, interrupting Harry’s reverie. Then he looked a little sick. "Harry, honestly — you don’t — you don’t like her or anything — do you?"

Harry, his panic and all other serious feelings subsiding now, had room to be annoyed. "Come off it, Ron, will you?" he said, rubbing his head and getting up off the couch. "I’m going to bed."

"So you don’t, then?" Ron pressed.

"Ron," Harry entreated, "C’mon, I’m dead tired —"

"Then say you don’t."

"And what if he does?" Hermione suddenly snapped, her eyes flashing dangerously at Ron. "Ginny’s smart and good and brave and pretty — and — well — Harry’s an idiot if he doesn’t like her!"

"He’s an idiot if he does!"

But Harry’d had quite enough of the conversation. He wasn’t going to be third party to his own love life. "Why, Ron?" he challenged, standing very straight and looking his friend directly in the eye. "What if I did? What would you do?"

Ron looked revolted. "Oh, now, this is just sick —"

"Is it?" Harry retorted. "Any sicker than you liking Hermione?"

The second the words left him, Harry tried to vacuum them back inside — to unsay them — but it was no good. It was out. It was too late. Ron was staggered. Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth. For a moment, Harry was absolutely certain that neither of them would ever speak to him again and he held his breath, waiting for somebody to punch him.

Hermione broke the silence. She let out a high pitched sound through her hands, and then took them down from her face. "Oh, Harry," she breathed, unsteadily, "you’re... you’re not supposed to say that..." And then, to everyone’s immense surprise, Hermione let out a sudden shriek of laughter, fell into a chair, and pointed up at Ron. "But it’s so... it’s so.... it’s so true!" she gasped.

"What?!" Ron pivoted, incredulous. "It is not!"

"Oh, yes it is," Hermione was now giggling uncontrollably. "Sending me Floo Powder this summer — honestly."

Ron gazed at her in a sort of half-horror and then Harry saw him do an unexpected thing. He grinned broadly at Hermione, and ran a hand through his hair so that it stuck up wildly in every direction. "Couldn’t have you off with Vicky forever," he said staunchly. "How’d I ever pass the O.W.L.’s?"

"Oh, that’s why you wanted me back is it?" she said, crossing her arms and attempting to look injured. But it didn’t last. Ron drummed his fingers lightly on her head. Hermione allowed this, beaming up at him. His ears went very red. Harry was now the one who felt slightly sick.

"Seriously, cut it out," he said feebly.

"Seriously, cut it out!" mocked Ron. "Shut it, Harry — this is your fault, mate," he said through a lopsided grin. Harry had to admit that this was true, therefore he did manage to hold back from making any further comments. But he also had to avert his eyes from the very strange sight of Hermione and Ron, blushing at each other like a couple of idiots.

"Hey," Harry said suddenly, remembering something. "I don’t want to er... interrupt..."

"Then don’t," said Ron dryly. Hermione giggled.

"I have to," Harry pressed. "It’s this — you know... Dumbledore said last year that he thinks the only times my scar ever hurts like that are when Voldemort — sorry —" Ron had winced again— "when He’s close by or... or feeling really murderous."

Hermione was already on her feet. "I’ll get Professor Dumbledore right now," she said. "I’ll tell him."

"You don’t have to go right now," Harry protested, "I just meant, you know, tomorrow we should probably say something." Even with all that had happened in his years at Hogwarts, Harry was never in a hurry to disclose his aches and pains to Dumbledore — and he knew he’d feel especially idiotic waking his Headmaster in the middle of the night before Christmas to discuss the pains in his scar. But Hermione wasn’t listening to him.

"Harry, don’t be stupid, what if You-Know-Who is really close? We can’t afford to wait until tomorrow, you know that. And anyway, I’m a prefect, I’m supposed to get Dumbledore if there’s an emergency," she said briskly, striding to the portrait hole.

"Starting to sound like Percy, that one," Ron muttered to Harry.

"I heard that," Hermione tossed over her shoulder. "Are you coming?" She pushed open the portrait and climbed through it herself. "Come on," she urged, holding it open.

Shrugging at each other, Ron and Harry followed. Ron climbed through first and Harry had one leg over the frame when he stopped. "Shouldn’t we get Ginny?" he said tentatively. "Dumbledore’s going to want to know...." he trailed off. Ron’s eyes were boring holes into him again.

"Let her sleep," he said shortly. "You can explain it just as well without her."

Harry gave a nod. That was true. He didn’t want to wake Ginny again, after all, even though when she’d been downstairs, he’d felt... Harry struggled to put his finger on what he’d felt, but he couldn’t. The strange pang his heart had given didn’t have a name. But he cast a look behind him at the girls’ staircase as the portrait swung shut, and wished that Ginny were with them anyhow.

They hurried along the drafty passages toward Dumbledore’s office without making a sound — for even on Christmas Eve, even on official prefect business, Filch was likely to give them all detention for running through the corridors in their pajamas. When they arrived at the stone gargoyle that marked the entrance, Hermione tapped it and said, "Canary Cream," in the lowest possible voice.

"That’s his password?" laughed Ron aloud. She nodded curtly, holding a finger to her lips in silent reprimand. "He’s a nutter all right," Ron whispered admiringly, dodging a swat from Hermione as the wall sprang open to reveal the escalator. It rose directly up to the oak door of the Headmaster’s office, and Hermione and Ron stepped on without hesitation.

Harry, however, looked askance at the door — he didn’t want to disrupt Dumbledore — he wished beyond anything that his scar had never hurt him — that he could just go back to Gryffindor and get some sleep. But he knew Hermione was right — they couldn’t afford to wait when his scar acted up like this. Not anymore. Voldemort could be anywhere now. The thought gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stepped onto the escalator, touching two fingers to his scar, which had just begun to throb again. He hoped it wasn’t going to get very painful this time — not with Ginny so far off.

Harry froze at the thought, his fingers still on his forehead. Not with Ginny so far off, he repeated to himself, remembering that she was asleep in Gryffindor Tower, not far off at all. Harry smiled slightly and squared his shoulders, feeling his courage rise.

CHAPTER FOUR

***

This is a Valentine’s Day chapter. It was not originally a part of this fanfic, but I had a mush attack when I realized that it could be, and so I wrote it very happily on the bus, giggling so hard that I frightened people. This chapter doesn’t further the "plot" so much as it makes me happy, and reveals information to the players that they may need later on.

All you need to know is this — though Ron and Hermione obviously like each other, Ron has not bothered to ask Hermione out "properly" and so they are not boyfriend-girlfriend because she’s not having any of that crap. (Heh heh.) Which of course, makes Ron totally insane, because he has no idea what he’s supposed to do. (He should really get a clue. Too bad I don’t feel like giving him one.) Harry and Ginny are acutely aware of one another, but due to the seeming omnipresence of Ron, they haven’t had a lot of time to become close.

Voldemort, for his part, is lurking somewhere with a sneer distorting his otherwise charming (if you’re into the serpent-type) face. Because he has returned, and because of the distress Harry’s been experiencing with his scar, Dumbledore has put Hogwarts in a sort of lockdown. There’s no going out after sunset, no Hogsmeade without teacher chaperones, no Hagrid’s cabin — you get the picture.

And to top things off....

***

February the fourteenth dawned in a terrible thunderstorm. "Bloody hellish holiday," Ron complained the moment Harry rolled out of bed. "If you do anything, you look like a prat. If you don’t..." Ron shook his head. "Trouble. Either way, you’re dead."

Harry pushed his glasses on, squinting as lightning lit the dark windows. "Miserable," he agreed, not really caring either way. After all, he wasn’t the one who had to bother with figuring out Hermione.

"I mean, she’s not even my — my — you know —" Ron spluttered, pacing around the room. "This is stupid. I’m not doing anything. I mean, if it were a Hogsmeade weekend I could do something — we could get out of here — I don’t know," he finished, almost wailing, "Harry, I really don’t know! I don’t have to say anything to her, do I?" A giant clap of thunder sounded, as if to punctuate Ron’s distress.

Harry had to work very, very hard not to laugh. "You could wait and see if she says something," he suggested, turning away quickly.

Ron looked at Harry as though he’d just been handed the key to his prison cell. "I could wait..." he repeated, turning the idea over in his head and finding it more than suitable. "That’s the most brilliant thing you’ve ever said. I’ll just wait and see what she does." Ron laughed in relief. "Good show, Harry."

For his part, Harry didn’t actually think his suggestion was a very good one, and he imagined that Hermione wouldn’t either. But he didn’t want to put Ron back in a terrible mood, so he said nothing. Instead he began to throw on his robes and gather his books together, idly wondering if Ginny was going to be at breakfast.

His difficult puzzle worked out, Ron seemed to put the thought of Valentine’s Day out of his head altogether. He laced up his rather large shoes, grabbed his book bag and went for the door. "C’mon, hurry up," he urged. "I’m hungry." So Harry hurried up and the two of them went out of the tower and down into the Great Hall. Dark clouds rolled and billowed across the enchanted ceiling, cracking with thunder and keeping the room quite dark. Torches were flaming along the walls, making breakfast visible. But Hermione wasn’t present at the Gryffindor table.

"Where d’you think she is?" asked Ron, craning his head around the hall. Harry shrugged.

"Arithmancy?" he suggested. "Maybe she had somewhere to be early today."

"She did," said an informed voice. Ginny slid into the seat across from them and reached for the jam as the ceiling split with lightning above her. "Professor Vector asked her to tutor one of the third years for half an hour, Thursday mornings."

Ron looked dismayed. "And she said yes? Doesn’t she have enough to do?"

"Guess not," said Ginny impishly, throwing Harry a look. He caught it and grinned. "She’s not going to be at lunch today either," Ginny continued, picking up her knife. "She said she’d help me with my Transfiguration again."

"Guinea fowl giving you trouble again?" Harry asked, feigning deep, studious interest.

"Porcupines," returned Ginny, with equal gravity.

"Ah," said Harry.

"Well it’s probably for the best," sighed Ron, not noticing, for once, what was passing between Harry and Ginny. He was too much occupied with what he was going to do about Hermione. "I’ll see her in Charms... then maybe I’ll know..."

"Know what?" asked Ginny pointedly.

Ron looked at her, annoyed, as if he’d forgotten she was there and hadn’t meant for her to overhear him. "None of your business."

But Ginny was not offended by this brush-off. On the contrary — she looked to be enjoying some great personal joke. She dipped her knife into the jam and paused. "Get her a Valentine?" she asked lightly. Harry repressed a smile.

Ron gaped. "How did you know —"

"Tuh, Ron," she said, tossing her head impatiently at her brother. "I knew before you did."

Harry laughed this time — he couldn’t help it — though he did his best to turn it into a hacking cough. Ginny smoothed her ponytail and resumed putting jam on her toast as if nothing unusual had been said. Ron glared at both of them and chomped down a serving of eggs without deigning to reply.

"Right," he announced, when he’d swallowed. "Double Divination. C’mon."

With a swift look at Ginny, whose eyes were still full of amusement, Harry left the table alongside Ron and tromped off through the wet stone hallways to the north tower classroom. There they suffered through two hours of death omens from Professor Trelawney and an almost unendurable volume of giggling from Lavender and Parvati, both of whom were wearing pink under their robes and doing their best to predict romantic futures for themselves.

Lunch came as a welcome interruption, though the castle was by this time very sweaty and damp with the comings and goings of students from their outdoor classes in the storm. Harry saw Ginny pass by on her way out to Care of Magical Creatures with the other fourth year Gryffindors. She didn’t see Harry as she went through the oak doors and squeezed under an umbrella with three of her friends. Five feet from the castle, she reached her hand out to catch the rain and Harry watched her, wondering why he was affected by the gesture, and wishing he were on his way to Care of Magical Creatures himself.

He wished even more that he were outside and far away when Professor Flitwick shut the door to their Charms classroom, stood up in his chair and addressed the class. "As you are no doubt aware," he piped, "teaching love charms is frowned upon at Hogwarts, and the use of them is expressly forbidden on school grounds." Here the air was split by a peal of laughter from Parvati, and a loud, "Stop it!" from Lavender, who was looking very guilty.

"However," Professor Flitwick continued merrily, "in light of this holiday, and as we are moving on to the section in your books that deals with Emotional Charm Adaptation Theorems — " Hermione nodded and flipped her book open to the proper page, which was already marked — "I will be teaching you an ancient love spell this afternoon."

His speech was punctuated by a series of remarks.

"Great," muttered Dean.

"You’re kidding?" suggested Seamus, hopefully.

"Which one?" questioned Hermione, entirely unruffled, taking out a quill as though this were a perfectly legitimate way to run a lesson — which, in Harry’s opinion, it was not.

"What do you mean, ‘which one’?" repeated Ron, in a low voice. "What — d’you know a lot of — of love charms, or something?"

"I know a few," she replied coolly. Harry looked at her impassive face and realized he had been right that morning. Ron’s decision to wait for Hermione’s reaction to Valentine’s Day was not going to pay off very well.

"The spell," Flitwick went on, smiling around at them as though entertained by their acute discomfort with the lesson, "is called Amora Primus. And although none of you will have heard of it —"

But Hermione’s hand had shot into the air. Ron edged his chair away from her slightly and gave Harry a look of apprehension, though Harry was unsurprised. He couldn’t remember a time when Hermione hadn’t known the lesson beforehand, no matter what it was.

"Very well, Miss Granger," Professor Flitwick conceded in his little voice, "What type of spell is it?"

"Well, roughly translated it means ‘First Love’, although it’s actually one of the four basic kissing spells —" Ron pushed his chair back another inch and eyed her warily while Lavender burst into a fit of giggles at this description. Hermione looked over her shoulder and made an impatient sound. "Anyway," she continued, drawing herself up, "it is the strongest of the four, and only invoked under emergency circumstances of exceptional rarity." Hermione finished her definition, sounding much as though she’d quoted it straight from Moste Potente Potions.

Professor Flitwick looked impressed. "That’s quite right. I’ve never had a student — that is, I wouldn’t have expected — where did you learn that, Miss Granger?"

Ron peered at her, waiting for her answer, and Hermione finally blushed. "From a... friend..." she stammered.

"Who?" Ron asked immediately, in an undertone. But Hermione, it seemed, was finished giving answers. She concentrated now entirely on note-taking, and ignored Ron’s question.

"Professor Flitwick?" ventured a timid voice. Neville Longbottom had raised a tentative hand, looking very anxious. "You’re not going to — to make us — practice this — this kissing spell — on each other?"

Every head in the class whipped around to the Professor in half-horrified, half-hopeful agony — except Hermione’s. She tutted at all of them.

"You can’t practice it. Not ever," she informed them, in her most maddening adult tones. "Because it only works once."

"Saved!" sniggered Dean, high-fiving Seamus. Neville looked exhausted with relief. Parvati and Lavender sat back, slightly disappointed. Ron pestered Hermione a second time about how she knew so much about love charms, while Hermione refused, not only to answer Ron, but to acknowledge his existence. Harry, however, found himself somehow interested in the lesson, now that Hermione had clarified that it wouldn’t be participatory.

"Only once?" he asked, curious. "You can’t practice it? Why not?"

Professor Flitwick arched his eyebrow mysteriously. "It is extremely powerful magic — an ancient spell — last used successfully in the thirteenth century, I believe."

"Fourteenth," said Hermione automatically, and then gasped in horror at having corrected a teacher. "Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m sure you’re right —" she began, but Professor Flitwick waved her off with a laugh.

"I’ll take your word for it," he said wryly. "Now then. Amora Primus.... and you’ll want to take notes. Just because you can’t use this spell doesn’t mean it won’t turn up on your O.W.L.’s." There was a rustle of parchment and quills, during which Hermione sat impatiently, drumming her fingers on the desk and waiting for the rest of them to catch her up. Professor Flitwick moved to sit on his desk, his little legs sticking straight off the front edge. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and when they were all settled again, he spoke as if telling a story.

"As you may imagine, many love charms are used to create what is not there — to inspire feelings that may never have arisen naturally. Not so Amora Primus. It only reveals what already exists."

"What — like a truth serum?" Ron ventured, still glancing edgily at Hermione as if expecting her to try one on him at any second.

"In a way," allowed Professor Flitwick, "for there is no way to fool Amora Primus. It either succeeds or fails — and the only opportunity to test its power comes at the moment of a lover’s near death."

Lavender ooohed instinctively at this and Professor Flitwick fixed his twinkling eyes on her. "Imagine, Miss Brown," he began, as Parvati pressed her mouth shut painfully to keep herself from laughing, "that your true love lies unconscious and perishing — that help is too far off and the man will die in moments, before your very eyes. What would you do?"

Lavender looked raptly at her fingers. "I.... I’d..."

"Disapparate, fetch a doctor, and get back there!" hollered Seamus promptly. "Doesn’t take a love charm for that nonsense."

"Perhaps not," agreed the Professor. "But, Mr. Finnigan, what if you were on grounds such as Hogwarts — where one cannot Apparate or Disapparate?" Hermione could not resist a triumphant look at Ron and Harry, who had a habit of forgetting this bit of information about their school.

Seamus shrugged. "Dunno..."

"Summon Madam Pomfrey on the spot," said Ron, grinning. "Accio!" he joked. The whole class — aside from Hermione — chuckled at the idea of their school nurse soaring through the air at his command.

"And if you didn’t have your wand, Mr. Weasley?" queried Professor Flitwick, looking him dead in the eye. "If you were caught unawares and your one true love lay dying — then what would you do?"

Hermione stopped taking notes now and turned in her chair to stare mercilessly as Ron struggled for an answer. He avoided her eyes, his ears unnaturally pink. "Well, I don’t see as I’ll ever have to worry about it," he finally said, defiantly.

Hermione snorted. "True," was all she said, before turning back to her notes.

But Professor Flitwick had shifted his gaze to her, and finished his interrogation of the class by asking, "Miss Granger.... what would you do, in such a circumstance?"

"Me?" replied Hermione airily. "Oh, well, if I was absolutely sure that the person was my one true love, and he were only a moment from death, then I’d place my wand hand over his heart, invoke Amora Primus, and kiss him." She said all this without a trace of embarrassment. Ron stared at her, but she had gone back to ignoring him.

"And that would bring him back to life? True love’s kiss?" asked Parvati breathlessly from the back.

"In the best-case scenario, yes it would...." said Professor Flitwick, raising his eyebrow a second time. "But this is where it gets a bit sticky. For you see, there are very strict boundaries around this particular spell. For one thing, as Miss Granger has mentioned, it only works one time. Once you have uttered Amora Primus with magic behind it, it will lose its meaning, and you can never perform it again. So it’s imperative that you choose the moment wisely — this is one reason it’s rarely performed."

"Choose... moment... wisely..." Neville muttered, copying this down as quickly as he could. Harry grinned to himself, imagining Neville in such a situation.

"Also — and this is of the utmost importance —" Professor Flitwick looked around at them gravely. "You must be absolutely certain that the person who lies dying is your one true love — your only match. If he or she is not, the spell will go into reverse."

"Reverse?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes. "You mean it’d kill her?"

Flitwick nodded — Lavender and Parvati gasped. "Instead of restoring the person," their Professor concluded, "he or she would be killed instantaneously. This is the other reason it’s almost never used. It’s very difficult to be perfectly sure of one’s heart, and a sensible person would never risk murdering a sweetheart unwittingly. I trust you are all —" he said, with a grin — "sensible people?"

The class nodded fervently, Seamus looking rather fearful. Harry didn’t blame him — he wasn’t entirely sure that Lavender was sensible. Charms class came to an end with a burst of chattering and an assignment from Professor Flitwick as he dismissed them from his room.

"Two-foot essay on the dangers of misusing Emotional Charmwork?" Ron grumbled to Harry as the class emptied into the corridor. "It’s bad enough what we were just subjected to in there — I’m not particularly keen to dwell on all this love rot —"

"Don’t worry," said Hermione shortly, coming up from behind them unexpectedly and making Ron jump. "I don’t imagine you’ll have to." And she whipped down the corridor out of sight without looking back. Ron, a look of utter consternation on his face, walked directly to the wall and let his head fall against it rather hard.

"Harry," he said in a muffled voice, without moving. "Am I supposed to get something here? Am I supposed to know?" He sighed, picking up his head and letting it fall against the stones a second time. "Because I bloody well don’t."

Harry pulled Ron away from the flagstones before he could do any serious damage to his brain, and discussed with him, on their way down to dinner, the different ways in which Ron might be able to remedy the situation with Hermione. At dinner, Ginny joined them for a moment, looking very damp from her outdoor classes, but very happy. She grinned at the two of them and pushed her wet hair behind her ears as she seated herself and poured pumpkin juice into a goblet.

"Nice look," Harry teased, as thunder clapped overhead. Apparently, the storm outside hadn’t lessened. Ginny made a face at him and looked over at Ron, who was stirring his soup mulishly.

"What’s up with you?" she asked, ladling soup into her own bowl. When he didn’t answer, she looked at Harry. "What’s the matter with him?"

Harry shook his head, unable to answer. He only mouthed "Hermione."

"Ohhhh...." Ginny pondered for a moment and then smiled at her brother. "It’s really very simple, you know," she said, in the same airy tone Hermione had used earlier to describe ancient kissing magic. "All you have to do is ask her."

Ron looked up from his soup with a glare. "Thanks a lot," he snarled at Harry, before turning on his sister. "Ask her what?" he demanded.

Ginny sighed. "Ask her out, Ron," she explained patiently. "It’s not that difficult, is it?"

Ron had frozen, soup spoon full in midair. "Are you sure..." he began, "that’s all I have to do?" Ginny nodded. "That’s it? Did she tell you that?" Ginny hesitated — clearly she had promised not to release this information. But Ron had seen enough. "Then why didn’t she tell me that?" he cried, getting to his feet and grabbing his bag. "Instead of stonewalling me all term? I’m going to find her," he said, stuffing a few rolls in his bag vehemently, "and ask her something, all right. I’m going to ask her if she wants me to go ripping mad trying to figure her out!"

"Well, isn’t that obvious?" said Ginny in a low voice, as Ron stalked out of the Great Hall to find Hermione. "Of course she does."

Harry laughed. He privately agreed that Hermione and Ron plagued each other on purpose, and he smiled at Ginny for a moment before it struck him — Ron had left the table. Ron had never once, since the night his scar had pained him so terribly, left him alone with Ginny. Not in the common room, not in Hogsmeade — not in the Great Hall. And of all the nights to do it.... he’d chosen Valentine’s Day. Not that it necessarily meant anything... but Harry had to admit that it wasn’t upsetting.

At the same time he realized all this, Ginny looked up from her soup and caught his gaze, seeming to come to the same conclusion. For a moment, she looked like the girl he’d met in his second year at Hogwarts — stricken, blushing, freckled, regarding him as if he was a hero of some kind. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

"You know, Harry," she said, after staring at him for a moment in this way, "It’s weird to know you."

Harry blinked at the unexpected comment, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Weird?" he repeated.

"Well, all my life I’ve known who you are. People talked about you all the time. Mum and Dad, Bill and Charlie — especially when I was really little, right after the fall of the Dark Lord. Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that — D’you have any idea how weird it is to meet someone you’ve heard that much about?"

Harry shook his head, amazed as usual at her candor. Nobody had ever talked to him like this. "Well," she informed him, "It’s weird." She took a bite of her soup before continuing — Harry watched her, transfixed, having no idea what on earth she might say next. "And then I realized — it took me awhile, but I realized — meeting you didn’t mean anything because I didn’t know you a bit. You may as well have been just a name. I sort of gave up on ever actually talking to you —"

"Because I’m hard to talk to," he interjected, remembering what she had said to him at the beginning of the year.

Ginny blushed. "Harry I....I shouldn’t have said those things."

"Yeah you should’ve — I’m glad you did," he argued heatedly. "You should talk to me however — I mean, I don’t want you thinking I’m just some name —" Harry stopped, confused by what he was saying. What was he saying? He didn’t know. "Look," he finally said, "D’you want to go have a walk?"

Ginny dropped her spoon. "Now?" she said, trying to cover her shock by looking up at the very dark and rain-filled ceiling. "I mean, I’d go... but we’re not really allowed out, are we? It’s past sunset."

"So?" Harry challenged, standing up. "Would you rather go back up to Gryffindor?"

"No..." said Ginny slowly, looking at the empty seat where Ron had been. "I don’t want to go up to Gryffindor." She met Harry’s eye. "All right then," she said, in the tone of one accepting a dare. "Let’s have a walk."

The two of them pushed their plates aside and walked quickly out into the entrance hall, looking around surreptitiously as they went. The way seemed clear. Harry was just about to pull the doors open when he heard, "Going somewhere, Potter?" from behind him, and whirled around. Professor McGonagall stood there, arms crossed, mouth pursed, waiting for an explanation.

"No — we’re not going anywhere," Harry said, beating his brain for a good excuse. "We were just —"

"Herbology," said Ginny smoothly, pulling a short barometer out of her schoolbag and showing it to Professor McGonagall. "We’re supposed to be tracking the weather and keeping a chart of how the Tentacula grows. I forgot to take the temperature earlier." Harry stared at Ginny as she continued, frowning at her barometer very believably. "But, Professor, d’you think it’s even worth it to get the temperature now? I mean, I’m supposed to take it at the same time every week..." Ginny trailed off, looking pensive. Harry had to chew his tongue to stop himself from bursting into laughter.

But Professor McGonagall merely tutted her impatiently and pushed open the door. "Go on, take the temperature," she said briskly, standing guard as Ginny stepped forward and stuck her arm out into the rain. "And yes, it’s important to keep it on a timetable, Miss Weasley, you really should have done it earlier if you hoped to achieve exact results."

"I know," said Ginny, looking properly abashed as she held the barometer outside for a moment and then took down the temperature in her notebook. "Thanks, Professor," she said gratefully, seeming perfectly in earnest.

Professor McGonagall nodded and continued into the Great Hall for supper, while Ginny and Harry bolted up the stairs and out of earshot. At the top of the steps, they collapsed against the wall and howled with laughter.

"That," said Harry, holding his side and gasping through hysterics, "was brilliant. How did you do that?"

Ginny caught her breath and grinned, "I’ve got six older brothers," she laughed. "Look at Fred and George — some of that was bound to rub off."

"Nicely done," he said, still laughing, and they continued walking toward Gryffindor together, Harry feeling extremely impressed with Ginny’s presence of mind. "I just wish we’d’ve gotten outside..." he had just muttered, when suddenly he stopped short at the statue of a one-eyed witch. He looked from the statue to Ginny, then pulled out his wand.

"Hey, Ginny...." he said, a grin spreading over his features, "...want to have a walk?" He was thinking of the passage beneath the statue — the one that led out to Honeydukes. Ginny didn’t know about it, but Harry didn’t see why she shouldn’t. And anyway, what point was there in going back to Gryffindor?

Ginny looked blankly at the statue and then eyed Harry a bit carefully. "Er.. okay...." she said, rather as if she were afraid for his sanity. "But Harry, I don’t see..." He made a gesture for silence and she stopped talking as he looked both ways, pulled his wand, and tapped the statue.

"Dissend —" he began to whisper, but Ginny nudged him hard in the ribs to stop him from finishing the spell. Filch was coming around the corner at the far end of the hallway, looking particularly peevish. Harry hastily stuffed his wand into his robes and backed away from the statue before Filch had anything to notice.

"Potter!" Filch hissed, catching sight of him and hurrying forward. Harry waited apprehensively, wondering if Filch had seen his wand out, after all. He took another step away from the statue, feeling nervous.

"Yeah?" he asked. "What’d I do?"

"Tracking filth and wet up here from one of your Quidditch practices again?" Filch screeched, pulling out parchment. He was obviously preparing to write a report, though there had been no Quidditch practice, and Harry had tracked nothing whatsoever into the hallway.

"But I didn’t —" Harry began.

"Then what’s all this?" Filch spat, pointing to the floor, his eyes bugging and his voice threatening to crack from a long day of cleaning up after storm-drenched students. Harry looked down, and found that he and Ginny were standing in among a series of large, dirty puddles.

"We didn’t do any of this! This was here already! We weren’t even outside!" he began hotly, but Filch cut him off, far too excited to have caught somebody to care whether Harry was guilty or innocent.

"Detention," he muttered happily, "for you both."

"That’s not fair —" Harry began to yell, but he was interrupted by a kick in the shoe. He stopped and looked at Ginny, who shook her head slightly, looking back at him with half a smile.

"Won’t help," she mouthed. Harry knew she was right. And suddenly it occurred to him, as he watched her accept her detention gracefully, that perhaps detention with Ginny wasn’t the worst of all possible evils. He stood next to her, feeling partly victorious as Filch awarded his detention.

"You’ll be serving that, Potter," he said gleefully, "during the next thunderstorm. And you, Missy. Wandering around, polluting the corridors with muck — perhaps you’d like to clean some of it up yourselves!" And then Filch marched them to their portrait hole, where the Fat Lady surveyed their detention slips dubiously.

"What did you do then?" she asked in a motherish tone, once Filch had gone and she’d swung open to admit them.

"Nothing," they said together, honestly.

"I’ll believe that," said the Fat Lady.

Harry followed Ginny inside to Gryffindor Tower, feeling thwarted, but pleased nonetheless. It had been an interesting evening — and it wasn’t quite over yet.

Ron and Hermione were in the corner of the common room, feuding. She was sitting on the window-seat. Ron was pacing in front of her, obviously at the end of his rope, openly pleading. Harry and Ginny glanced at each other, then edged around the room toward Ron and heard,

"Just tell me what I’m supposed to do!"

"I shouldn’t have to! It’s not that hard!" Hermione sat staunchly, staring out at the rain. She was yet unmoved, and Ron was running out of patience.

"Fine!" he yelled, making people around them look over curiously. "Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me anything — don’t tell me who this ‘friend’ person is that’s teaching you crazy love spells — what older witches do you know, anyway?"

"Plenty!"

"Who, then?"

"Your mum, for a start!" Hermione snapped. "She put a good one on your dad while they were here!"

"She did not!" Ron was flabbergasted.

Ginny turned to Harry and whispered, "She did."

"Anyway, Ron, that’s beside the point — the thing is... oh, don’t you even see? I shouldn’t even have to tell you what the thing is!" Hermione threw up her hands in despair.

Ron made a noise of utter exasperation and turned on his heel to quit the scene — but stopped short when he caught sight of Ginny and Harry. Seeing them seemed to remind him of an important errand — he stared at Ginny as if something he’d forgotten had just come to mind. Instead of continuing away from Hermione, he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

"Listen," he said, turning back to Hermione, forcing his voice to be low and calm so that Harry had to strain to hear him. "Okay. The thing is... I think the thing is.... Right. Do you want to go ‘round Hogsmeade with me this Saturday? Just us?"

Hermione’s head snapped up and she looked at him incredulously.

"Because I’d like that," Ron concluded boldly. "I really would." He backed up a step and waited for her reply, but though Hermione’s mouth had fallen open, she made no sound. "That a yes?" Ron demanded, after a moment.

Hermione jumped. "Y-yes," she managed, but only barely. And then she got up, quite in shock, and went dazedly up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory.

"Simple," said Ginny softly, to no one in particular. Harry glanced at her and wondered how simple it was, really. He was feeling a bit in awe of what Ron had just done, and apparently Ginny was, too — she looked admiringly at her brother. "I’m going up to bed," she said, after a moment. "Goodnight, Ron." Then she lowered her voice and turned to Harry. "She’ll need to talk to someone rational, after that," she explained, rolling her eyes in Ron’s direction. "I’d better go. ‘Night." And with that, Ginny also disappeared upstairs, leaving the two boys alone, both of them feeling baffled.

Ron looked at Harry as if he’d just come stumbling off a battlefield. "Girls," he said savagely, and began to climb the boys’ stairs. "Madwomen, all of them. Did you see that? Did you hear her? She’s cracked!"

"She really must be," said Harry sardonically, as they threw their book bags on the floor and went for their pajamas. "She said yes."

Harry had meant it as a joke, but Ron looked over at him, as dazed as Hermione had been. "Yeah," he said, "I know. She’s deranged." And he threw himself backward onto his four-poster, perfectly stunned by his good luck.

Harry was glad for Ron — but more so for himself, though he couldn’t share it. He pulled his curtains and turned on his side, thinking of how often he’d laughed that evening, wishing he could hear what Hermione and Ginny were saying to one another at that moment, and hoping very much that the next bad thunderstorm was right around the corner — he was rather looking forward to detention.

CHAPTER FIVE

***

Okay, it’s final confrontation time at Hogwarts — end of year — the fifth form students have just taken their O.W.L.’s. Allow me to summarize.

Dumbledore has gathered some of the trustiest wizards together — (Professor McGonagall, Sirius, Lupin, Bill, Charlie, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley — even Ron and Hermione, for the purposes of this story.) All those who do not live at Hogwarts are now in hiding nearby, ready to come to Harry’s aid if Voldemort should show his face. They have all been informed (by Snape? I don’t know,) that the Death Eaters will soon be holding court together to begin the next Age of Darkness. They don’t know exactly when this will happen, so everything is very tense because Voldemort will obviously want Harry sacrificed as the first act of his new reign. (Won’t he ever give up?)

Anyway, Dumbledore has given Harry an amulet to wear around his neck at all times. This amulet works much in the same way that the Dark Mark works on the arms of the Death Eaters. If threatened, Harry must take hold of it and incant "Assemblis Lux." When he does this, all those who have been marked by Dumbledore as trustworthy will become aware that Harry is in danger of his life, and will make their ways toward him as quickly as possible.

Now, down to the romance. In terms of Ron and Hermione, they had their day at Hogsmeade. It was very nice. If you really want to know, Ron sneaked Hermione back to school quite late —against all her prefectual protestations — by way of the Honeydukes tunnel. There was a loud fight followed by a very sweet kiss in said tunnel — unobserved by Harry, which is why I had to tell you about it. (Hee hee.) In any case, it was the second time that Ron was far too preoccupied to care what the hell Harry was doing with Ginny, and so those two enjoyed themselves immensely (without physical contact of any kind except an accidental hand brush that made Harry think his fingers had been electrified.)

However. Due to the Dark Arts developments mentioned above, Harry has drawn away from her during their third term. It’s just too much to deal with, he tells himself — but this is not honest. The real reason he has backed away from Ginny is that he is afraid that the more he likes her, the more immediate danger she’ll be in. He has been unwilling, therefore, to spend any time with her and she is understandably injured by his withdrawal. The tension between them is at an all-time high as the (longish) end of our story begins...

***

That evening, the sky outside and the ceiling of the Great Hall burst simultaneously into a storm of extraordinary violence. Harry didn’t even notice it. As he sat down to dinner, his tired mind raced between a host of unsettling topics, beginning with the possible disaster of his Ordinary Wizarding Levels. He felt positively unstrung by the week of grueling tests, and by the looks of the fifth years around him, heads drooping into their dinner plates, he was not the only one. Hermione had not even been able to walk the corridor to dinner — her post-testing exhaustion had been so great and her nerves so shattered, that Ron had been obliged to support her all the way back to Gryffindor. Harry sat alone, therefore, and picked at his turkey, not feeling hungry in the slightest, wondering how it was possible to take a whole week of tests and have absolutely no idea whether or not he’d failed them all.

But there were worse things, Harry thought grimly, than failing the O.W.L.’s. Far worse things. He found himself wondering for the hundredth time that term whether Voldemort would come for him soon— and what he would do to Harry when he did come. His scar gave a definite throb and he winced, feeling a wave of molten panic as he had so often lately. Was it throbbing because Voldemort was nearby? Because he was thinking of Harry? Because Harry was thinking of him? There was no way to know. Harry rubbed his scar quickly, feeling the pain surge through it again. And though it ebbed almost immediately, it was quite enough to alarm him.

Harry glanced searchingly along the Gryffindor table, not realizing what he was looking for until he couldn’t find it — nowhere did he see the flippant crimson ponytail that belonged to Ginny Weasley. She was not there. He shook his head, irritated with himself for even looking. It didn’t matter whether Ginny was there. Enough was going on in his life just at present, he told himself staunchly — he didn’t need to go around moaning about his scar. He wouldn’t tell her. As if in response to this decision, his scar gave a splitting throb — so painful that it was all Harry could do not to yell out loud. But he wouldn’t pay attention, he wouldn’t give in — he stabbed his fork into the turkey fiercely, determined to ignore his scar no matter what it did.

This became extremely difficult five seconds later, when the rumbling sound of thunder added another level of suffering to Harry’s headache. He pushed his plate aside, knowing it was no good trying to eat while his head felt this way. He needed to lie down. A dim voice within told him to go to Dumbledore, but Harry recklessly ignored this and headed instead toward Gryffindor and the peace of his four-poster.

"Potter..." sneered a voice at the top of the entrance stairs, as Harry turned the corner out of the Great Hall. He looked up. Filch stood there, rubbing two bits of parchment between his fingers delightedly, next to a student who looked decidedly miserable. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. It was Ginny.

"Hi, Harry," she said quietly, avoiding his eyes.

Filch’s leer was most unpleasant and Ginny seemed to be in some kind of trouble. Too preoccupied to fully realize the situation, Harry’s immediate reaction was blank worry — without realizing what he did, he went toward her.

"You okay?" he demanded, ignoring Filch as he climbed the stairs two at a time. But upon drawing nearer, he realized what Filch was holding up — those two bits of parchment were copies of the detention slips he’d issued them in Februrary. Harry’s head snapped up to meet Filch’s gleeful expression.

"Thunderstorm duty," Ginny reminded him, her voice toneless.

Harry’s veins flooded with anger. He had forgotten Filch’s threat to force them into mopping up the halls during the next bad storm. He swore inwardly, struck by the injustice of nature’s timing. Of all the nights for it to storm — why did it have to be just after the O.W.L’s? Not to mention that his scar was still pounding dully in his forehead... Harry gritted his teeth in frustration, wishing horrible things on Filch.

Outside, thunder cracked again and Harry winced unconsciously. He thought he saw concern flicker in Ginny’s eyes, but a moment later she looked tired and passive again, and he was sure he had imagined it.

"This way, Potter," cackled Filch, leading the way along the corridor and down the stairs, into the dungeons. Harry and Ginny followed without speaking, or looking at one another, descending into the depths of Hogwarts until they reached the sour-smelling room where Filch intended them to begin.

"In," he said roughly, "Mops and buckets in the closet. It leaks," Filch pointed to several of the torch-lit stones with one crooked finger, "there, and there... And there, and there and there — oh yes, very tedious work, this. You’ll see. And take care you get it perfectly dry," he threatened, "or you’ll come back down and finish it tomorrow." Filch smiled hard at them both, his teeth very yellow in the dim light, obviously exhilarated by the morose expressions on their faces. "It’s seven o’clock," he concluded — "I’ll be back at ten to see how far you’ve come."

"Three hours!?" Harry finally burst out, his blood burning in protest. "But that’s not — "

He was cut off. Filch had slammed the door shut in his face. Harry threw his fist against it angrily and then stalked across the room toward the closet, throwing open the door and dragging out cleaning supplies. "I hate him," he muttered, "this is such a load of —"

But Harry was cut off again. This time, however, it had nothing to do with Filch. His scar had split, blindingly, between his eyes — he dropped the handle of the mop he was holding and let out a short holler of pain before he could stop himself, slamming his palm up against his head.

"Harry!" Ginny cried, no longer pretending unconcern. She rushed forward and put both her hands on his, trying to pry it away from his forehead.

He fought her tooth and nail, trying to throw her by jerking his head madly from side to side, though this increased the pain horribly. "Stop it!" he shouted, "Don’t do anything!"

Ginny dropped her hands from his at once, and Harry thought for a moment that he’d won — but he was wrong. Determined, it seemed, to help him, Ginny took a breath and began to sing. "Ginny," he muttered despairingly, "don’t."

But she wasn’t listening to him anymore. On the contrary, it was Harry who was forced to listen as Ginny’s voice carried to him effortlessly. It was the same sweet, simple tune he’d heard her singing at the Burrow, long ago, and Harry shut his eyes, too weary now to argue. The throbbing in his scar ceased totally, as if a switch had been flipped in his head.

He kept his eyes shut, taking slow, deep breaths to steady his mind, which was racing with confused frustration. Even though he was very grateful for his current relief from pain, he was furious that Ginny had assisted him against his will. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her while she continued to sing, which she was still doing, steadily.

"Stop," he said firmly. "I don’t want you to do that."

Ginny’s voice cut out in mid-syllable; the vibration hung briefly in the air and vanished. There was a moment of perfect stillness. And then, to Harry’s dismay, there was a barely audible sound — like a sniffle. Harry’s eyes flew open to discover that Ginny’s lips were trembling and her eyes were full of tears, which she was doing her best to hide with her hands and wipe away.

"You don’t have to cry!" he said, bewildered. But this clearly wasn’t very comforting, because Ginny’s tears only became more fluent, though she did her best to fight through them.

"Don’t do anything," she snapped, wiping her eyes fiercely, "Don’t talk, don’t sing, don’t cry! You can’t tell me what to do, Harry!"

Harry was taken aback. "I’m not!"

"You are! But you can’t! I’ll sing if I want— I’ll help if I want — and there’s nothing you can do about it!" she cried out, obstinately.

"Yes there is!" Harry returned unthinkingly. "It’s my scar, it’s my problem, stay out of it!" he yelled, losing his composure.

"What are you trying to prove then?" she challenged, furiously, "That you don’t need anybody?"

Harry flinched, feeling suddenly exposed. "N -no!" he stumbled. She had to be wrong. He let people help him all the time, didn’t he? What about Ron and Hermione? "No!" he repeated with force. "That’s not true."

"Well then why?" she pleaded, "why won’t you let me help you if I can?" Her eyes pierced him suddenly. "Tell me the truth!"

Harry stared at her, dumbfounded at a new discovery. He didn’t know what the truth was. "Because...." he began blindly, "because..."

"Because I’m younger than you are?" she suggested hotly.

"No!"

"Because I’m Ron’s sister? Or because I’m a girl?"

"No, listen, just —"

"Well what, then — because you think I can’t handle it? You think I’m not brave enough?" Ginny looked at him defiantly and directed her final hit. "Because you think I’ll die?"

The strike hit home. Harry felt as though he’d taken a blow to the gut. He was the only person ever to have survived the Killing Curse— everyone else who had ever been hit with Avada Kedavra had dropped dead. Some of them, like Cedric Diggory, had been murdered merely for being next to Harry. And some, like his own parents, were dead because they’d refused to leave him — they’d fought to help him — and here was Ginny, offering to do the same thing.

But Harry didn’t want to mourn Ginny. He felt something explode within him, realizing all at once what the truth was.

"Listen to me —" he began urgently — "I just can’t let you. It’s not that I don’t need your help, it’s just...." Harry paused, struggling for the right words. "Ginny — " but he was not allowed to finish.

"Shhh!" Ginny was standing very still, holding up her hand. She looked sharply to her right, no longer listening to Harry, but to something else. "Harry, d’you hear that?"

There was a sudden noise — a rumbling — different than the usual creaks and groans of Hogwarts Castle. Harry froze, suddenly alert. He looked around himself quickly.

"Harry, what —"

"Wait!" he said sharply, listening hard. The sound was growing louder. It sounded like massive, heavy objects were being scraped along the floor — Harry could not recognize the sound. "Not Filch, is it?"

Ginny shook her head slowly. "No...." She stopped. Her eyes had shifted beyond him and fixed over his shoulder, upon the dungeon door. "Harry," she whispered, stricken. The blood drained from her face as though it had been flushed out. "Harry, look...."

He whirled around to face what Ginny saw, and he gasped, feeling the icy beginnings of fear. The great stones of the walls were growing toward each other, rumbling as they shifted and stretched together. Quickly, like the growth of some crazed, gray fungus, the walls were eclipsing the door.

"No!" Harry raced to the door and pulled his wand — Ginny right beside him. "Reducto!" he shouted, hoping to blast the stones out of the way. But the stones were impervious to the spell — they remained intact and continued to spread with increasing speed.

"Alohomora!" cried Ginny at the same time, putting both her arms between the stones and pushing against the fast-disappearing wooden door. But though the door unlocked and swung open, there was not enough room any longer for a person to fit through the gap and get out. In fact, the stones were shutting together so quickly that Harry feared that they would seal around Ginny’s outstretched arms, and he yanked them out by her wrists before they were crushed.

The last stone sealed shut. The door was gone. Harry reached out disbelieving fingers and touched the rock surface as if expecting it to give way. But it was solid, impenetrable — they stared at the seamless wall before them, speechless with shock. But Harry had only barely registered the situation when he could no longer see the wall at all — a split second later, every torch in the room was extinguished and they were plunged into total darkness.

And then, to his ultimate horror, a soft sound broke into the air behind them — a sound that Harry knew in every bone of his body. High, cold, mirthless laughter. He felt Ginny stiffen beside him as if she, too, recognized the sound.

For one agonizing moment, Harry stood frozen, numb with fear.

And then his scar exploded with pain. He couldn’t even turn around to face what was causing it — he doubled over against the stones and clutched at his head, working not to cry out. The agony built so high that Harry nearly crumpled altogether — his scar was burning as though a branding iron were being held to his flesh. For a nightmarish second, he began to black out — this was the way it would end, he thought — here — in this dungeon — his back to the enemy.... Harry felt his knees begin to give way....

Without warning, the pain cut out. Harry dropped his hands from his forehead, amazed, pressing his palms against the stones to steady himself before his legs collapsed beneath him. He waited for the throbbing to return, but there was nothing — it had been erased so totally that he blinked in shock, momentarily immobilized by the extreme shift. It was a long second before he realized what had effected the change.

Ginny was singing. She had turned to face the thinly laughing voice and stood now against the wall with her wand at her side. She was shaking like a leaf, whiter than Harry had ever seen a person — so pale that she reflected even in the darkness — but she was singing.

Harry’s next move was instantaneous. Feeling a surge of heated courage at the sound of Ginny’s voice, he pivoted and stepped sideways to block her with his body. He could not see anything in the room at first, except a dark outline and a pair of cold, red slits. When his eyes adjusted further, Harry felt his insides shudder with rage and revulsion. There was the flat, snakelike face of the monster who had killed his parents — who had killed Cedric Diggory a year before — who was surely here to kill him now.

Voldemort’s red, slitted eyes glittered pure hatred in the darkness.

"Harry Potter..." he hissed — a frightening, hungry sound. Ginny gave an almost inaudible whimper, as she continued to force a hum from her throat. The red slits flitted behind Harry instantly and lingered there. "Well, well.... you do like to bring your friends...."

Harry stepped back instinctively, pressing Ginny into the wall. His friends — how could he have forgotten — without thinking, Harry plunged one hand down the front of his robes and closed his fist around the amulet Dumbledore had given him. "Assemblis Lux!" he shouted. His incantation mingled with Ginny’s voice — she was continuing to sing low behind him. Voldemort’s eyes flashed with cruel amusement at the pair of them.

"Assemblis Lux..." he whispered fiendishly, "the Gathering of Light! Ah yes, of course.... Dumbledore has gone back to the beginning... how too predictable... I suppose you think this means that he will come to save you..."

Harry felt himself go cold with dread. "They’re all coming," he said through clenched teeth. "You’d better run."

Voldemort gave a soft sound of amusement. "Run?" he mocked, stepping forward slightly from the shadows — but stopping abruptly. Harry could have sworn he saw the red eyes wince in the darkness and shift behind him, to Ginny. "Shut up, girl," whispered the cold voice ominously.

Defensive anger flooded Harry and he inched backwards once more, covering Ginny entirely. Her voice continued, chant-like, in his ear, fortifying his nerve. "They’re coming," he repeated darkly, "Get out. You haven’t got your precious Death Eaters to protect you."

Voldemort gave a low, derisive hiss. "I have never feared your weakling friends, Potter. What good are the merely mortal when the Dark Lord —" his black scales glinted, "has conquered..." the cold voice trailed off "...has conquered death..."

This time Harry knew he wasn’t imagining things. The red eyes had definitely flickered with confusion and fixed once more upon Ginny. "Foolish girl, I said to shut up!"

Voldemort was stumbling slightly. Apparently not only did Ginny’s voice keep Harry’s head perfectly clear — it seemed to have the opposite effect on Voldemort’s mind. Harry sensed that his opponent’s judgment was clouding and felt a flash of triumph. Ginny also seemed to notice what was happening — her hand came up and touched Harry’s shoulder briefly, urging him on as her voice grew steadily stronger.

But the red slits bored into Ginny now, alight with sudden recognition. "You..." he whispered to her, stepping again closer and peering at Ginny with diabolical interest. "I remember you.... You’re the brat!" he said with soft delight. Harry felt Ginny’s hand clutch the back of his robes and he threw out his wand protectively.

"Let her alone."

But Voldemort did not follow. He seemed to have become unaware of Harry and his slithering voice took on a note of glee as he began to jeer Ginny softly. "What an insufferably boring child you were," The red eyes shone with cruel entertainment. "‘Dear Tom’..." he recited with cold relish, "...‘Do you think that great, famous, perfect Harry Potter will ever like me? Do you think he’ll ever look at me?’..." Voldemort laughed pitilessly. "Little fool."

Ginny’s voice faltered. Instinctively Harry reached behind him with his free hand and felt for her fingers, which were still tight on his robes. He came across her hand and seized it — trying to tell her wordlessly that in his opinion, she was not a fool at all. And as he interlaced fingers with her tightly, Ginny’s voice was restored, more clearly than ever — Harry felt a leap in his chest.

Voldemort was clearly thrown by this— his half-serpent head flicked side to side in vexation, as if he were trying to shake a muddiness in his brain. "For the last time —" he threatened icily, raising his wand toward her— "and for once in your life, you little idiot, shut up!"

"Get out." Harry’s wand had taken aim against its brother and he spoke with deadly calm. "Don’t you talk to her like that." He knew that the wands would not work properly against one another — perhaps this would buy him time. Not much, he thought, his eyes darting around the walls of the sealed dungeon — but he was prepared to fight. He had to fight. Ginny’s voice in his ear reminded him that he could not afford to lose. "Go," he repeated, more bravely. Voldemort sneered.

"Your allies," he spat, his serpent tongue darting from the black slice of his mouth, "will not arrive in time. This will take but an instant — and then they will have the pleasure of finding you, Harry Potter, just as they found your father.... and they’ll find you," he said with an evil hiss, his eyes flickering again to Ginny, "as they found his pretty mother."

Harry felt a sick rush of hatred and his wand shook in his grip— but Ginny pressed his other hand firmly from behind and her voice became more potent, as if she would protect them both with the force of it. Through his fear and abhorrence, he marveled at her courage.

Voldemort bucked madly at the sound and glared again at Ginny, when suddenly he let out a laugh that chilled Harry’s blood. "This is all too familiar, Potter... the resemblance... uncanny. The hair..... And of course, you do look like your father." The lipless mouth spread in a malevolent grin. "I remember it as if it were yesterday. The way he tried to protect your mother — so touching." The red eyes flickered. "And here before me is another senseless girl who will meet death young," he paused, breathlessly, "because of you..."

Harry stepped back once more, now pressing Ginny painfully into the stones behind him, looking around him in panic. Where was everyone? He untangled his hand from Ginny’s, plunged it again down the front of his robes to find the amulet and cried, "Assemblis Lux!"

"Nobody coming, eh, Potter?"

"You shut up — shut up about her — leave her out of it." Harry’s words came in a furious rush. "Deal with me." Harry thought he heard a small catch in Ginny’s voice, but her constant intoning did not stop.

"Why?" Voldemort solicited, luxuriating in the question. "In love, Potter? Going to die for her?" Harry jumped, his face burning, unable to answer the question and loathing that it had been asked by the creature he hated most. Desperately, Harry wished that he could take his eyes off the sickening face before him and turn to look at Ginny. But he didn’t dare.

"How appropriate..." the cold voice continued presently, as if remembering a long-forgotten story, "I killed your father first last time — excellent idea — but then again I might enjoy a change of scenery...." Voldemort smiled, his red eyes gleaming in the dungeon gloom. "Stand aside, Potter," he whispered.

Harry could feel Ginny’s breath coming in short gasps, she was managing to keep up a slight, but steady hum. He knew he wouldn’t stand aside — he would have shouted "Never!" — but he didn’t have the chance. Before he could get a word out, the red slits had flashed murderously.

"Crucio!" Voldemort screamed. The spell hit Harry as though his every muscle had suddenly cramped in upon him. He was forced to the ground in painful convulsions, rocking upon his back, feeling his spine crunch in ridiculous agony on the stone floor.

"Now watch, Potter." The high, cold laugh seemed to intensify the suffering in Harry’s organs — the torture prevented him from making a single move to stop Voldemort as he advanced. "It’s going to look just as it did when I killed your foolish mother." In horror, Harry could only look up at Ginny as Voldemort pointed his wand. She had brought up her wand automatically when Harry had first fallen and was still humming, standing perfectly straight, though her whole body shook with fear.

Suddenly, Ginny’s voice cut out completely, for the first time since she had begun to sing.

"Expelliarmus!" she burst out fervently. But at the same moment, Harry heard a high, merciless scream that stabbed cold fear into his heart.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Ginny’s spell had not been very effective. Voldemort was far too powerful to be disarmed by such a young, unpracticed witch. But the force of her passionate cry had done enough to turn his wand slightly sideways in his hand — the blinding flash of green light did not fully impact her body. The bulk of the spell missed Ginny by inches — Harry watched, sick at heart, as the bolt of green ricocheted off the walls and evaporated like smoke.

But the Killing Curse had touched her. And it had been enough. With a small moan, Ginny crumpled.

"NO!" The word fired out of Harry like a bullet. The Cruciatus Curse had ebbed away enough for him to throw his body across the floor, to Ginny’s side. He lifted her robed frame into his arms and shook her desperately. "No, please, Ginny. Please. Be alive."

Forgetting Voldemort, Harry felt her pulse. Nothing. He listened for her breath. Still nothing. He rattled her shoulders, hollering at her to come back, overcome with grief so painful it was almost impossible to bear. Ginny could not die. He would not let her.

"This does bring back memories." Voldemort’s voice was cold with heinous rapture. "But she is gone, Potter. Make no mistake."

Harry looked up at him fiercely, never having felt such a rage, still holding Ginny tight. "No," he whispered heavily.

"She — is — quite — dead," Voldemort reiterated, speaking each word as if Harry were partly deaf. "But no fear, Potter, you may join her if you like. Right now." He took perfect aim at Harry’s chest.

There was a rumbling of the earth, and Harry looked around wildly. The dungeon shook as if it were breaking apart — as if Hogwarts were caving over their heads, threatening to fall in and crush him. He cradled Ginny closer, as if there were still any need to protect her lifeless body.

The sounds around him became deafening. Harry felt something scraping, moving, and he jerked his head around to watch the wall. Desperately he strained his eyes in darkness as the stones of the dungeon walls began to pull apart. The door was revealed — still open from Ginny’s earlier efforts — and Harry could see the faces of his friends, all sick with worry. He watched in numb thankfulness as they finally stumbled inside — Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall — Sirius and Lupin — Mr. and Mrs. Weasley — Bill, Charlie, Ron and Hermione.

"Hurry!" Harry cried. "Hurry, He’s here—" He pointed wildly into the dark room. But Voldemort had vanished. Fled from the lot of them. There was no time for Harry to wonder how this was possible — he turned to the only person he thought could help him. "Professor Dumbledore, do something — it’s Ginny."

The Professor was at their side already, examining Ginny, who still lay limp and unmoving in Harry’s arms. Professor McGonagall lit the torches around them rapidly with her wand, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley edged close as the light revealed their daughter’s slack expression. Mrs. Weasley had gripped her husband’s arm and was trying to stifle her sobs. Bill and Charlie stood close to them, their eyes fixed on their sister. Ron had Hermione’s hand tightly within his own. Both of them stared stark-eyed at Ginny.

"What is it, Albus?" whispered Professor McGonagall faintly. "Not...."

Dumbledore got to his feet and turned, very slowly. His answer was for the Weasleys. His head was bowed. "Avada Kedavra," he murmured softly. "I am so very sorry, Arthur. Molly." Mrs. Weasley gave an unearthly sob as Dumbledore inclined his head toward each of Ginny’s brothers in turn. All three of them were ashen. He then turned back to Harry and looked down, grief written in every line of his ancient face.

"You did your best, Harry," he said, with incredible gentleness. "We all know that. Let her go."

"No." Harry didn’t move. He had been staring down into Ginny’s pale, still-determined face. Once more, it had given him courage. A feeling had come over him — something crashing in his chest like an ocean — if it was real, there was one last chance. Carefully he lay Ginny flat across his knees, still cradling her head in one arm.

Sirius moved forward to lift her body from him, but — "Stop." Harry’s voice was iron. "Don’t touch her."

"Harry..." Sirius looked down at his godson, his haunted eyes full of sympathy. "Try to understand..."

"I understand. Let me try. There’s a way." Harry couldn’t understand why he was so certain. All he could comprehend was that if Ginny were truly gone, life suddenly stretched ahead, looking very empty.

"What are you doing, Harry?" said Lupin gently. "Let her go. It’s difficult — we know that, believe us — but it must be done."

"No." Harry did not look up. "Stand back." He feared his courage would fail him if saw the faces of Ginny’s family and all his friends, watching him. Instead, he concentrated on Ginny — her eyes, shut softly, the way her voice had supported him so immovably, the halo of her hair against his arm. Deeply resolved, Harry placed his right hand carefully over her heart.

"Amora Primus," he said.

He heard Hermione gasp, heard Ron suck in his breath, heard Mrs. Weasley’s sobs shudder to a halt. There was a silence. Harry bent his head until his mouth was very near to Ginny’s.

And then he kissed her.

There was a rushing in his head, seeming to enter upwards from the pit of his body. Through his chest it came and into his brain like something bursting — a dam breaking — he tightened his arm around Ginny’s shoulders as the rushing sensation filled him completely and then passed out of him, into her. Breathless, experiencing a strange faith that something was about to happen, Harry took his lips carefully from Ginny’s and lifted his head.

Everyone was utterly still. Harry shut his eyes tightly and wished for a miracle.

"Ginny!" It was Mrs. Weasley. She had let go of her husband and dropped to the ground beside her only daughter — whose body had just moved, almost imperceptibly, against Harry. His eyes flew open.

"Ginny?" he gasped. He and Mrs. Weasley stared desperately down into her face. She stirred again, more noticeably this time, and Harry heard Ron give a sound of choked relief. He looked up at his friend in a daze. "She’s alive," he said brokenly. Ron was too stunned to respond — so was Hermione, though she began to weep, tears coursing down her face. Harry couldn’t watch her cry or he felt that he might begin to do so himself. Instead he turned to Dumbledore. "She’s alive."

No one knew what to say. Mrs. Weasley gathered her youngest child into her arms and Harry allowed it, watching her begin to nurse Ginny tenderly back to consciousness. He realized that everyone was in a ring around them, staring down at him, motionless. He realized what he had just done. He had kissed Ginny Weasley. He had invoked Amora Primus to bring her back to life.

The open shock on the faces all around him was embarrassing — Harry felt himself begin to go red as he imagined what Ginny’s brothers — her father — his professors and Sirius must be thinking.

"Harry...?" It was barely breathed. Ginny’s eyes had fluttered open and she stretched her fingers toward him weakly. "Is He gone?"

In that moment, Harry didn’t care what anybody thought. His embarrassment went out as quickly as it had come in — he clasped Ginny’s fingers tightly in his own.

"He’s gone." Harry felt like taking Ginny back from Mrs. Weasley. He needed to hold onto her again. "You were fantastic," he said quietly, squeezing her hand. She smiled trustingly at him, shut her eyes, and her fingers relaxed in his grip. She had passed out again.

"Come, Molly." Professor Dumbledore had made a stretcher in mid-air. Mrs. Weasley, still sniffling, bent aside to allow Ginny to be magicked onto it. "This young lady has been through a terrible ordeal and needs immediate medical attention." He looked at Bill and Charlie. "Please assist your parents to the hospital wing." Ginny’s brothers nodded resolutely and began to help their mother to her feet.

Dumbledore continued. "Minerva, I need you to alert the staff — have the students gathered into the Great Hall — I want everyone together and accounted for until we know where to find Voldemort." Professor McGonagall left the room at once, with a backward glance at Harry that looked something like respect.

"Sirius, Remus — search this area. Find out, if it is possible, how this occurred — how Voldemort managed to gain admittance...." Dumbledore looked grave, "and to escape." He sighed heavily and looked at Harry. "Harry, come with me."

"I want Hermione and Ron to come, too," Harry said before he’d thought about it. "I want them to hear this."

Dumbledore eyed him carefully. "Very well, Harry. Go ahead Arthur — see that the spell and its counteraction are explained to Poppy. She will know what to do." Mr. Weasley gave a very hard gulp, glanced at Harry with the oddest expression, and led his family out of the dungeon, Ginny betwixt them on the floating stretcher. Harry watched them moving down the hall and out of sight, wanting very much to go after them.

"You can join her soon, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly, seeming to read his thoughts. "Let’s talk a moment first." He nodded to Sirius and Lupin, both of whom were regarding Harry with a serious kind of pride, and led him, Ron and Hermione out of the dungeons, through the castle, and up the golden escalator to his office.

"That was extremely powerful magic you just invoked, Harry," said Dumbledore soberly, when they were all settled. "I’ve never seen it done — Amora Primus is only effective if.... well, let us suffice to say that I am quite surprised. Not only that you know the spell, but that your emotions for Ginny were deep enough to effect it."

Harry flushed. He didn’t want to, he knew it was useless — what was the good of being embarrassed when he’d done the only thing he knew might bring Ginny back to life? Still, it was difficult to feel perfectly comfortable about his... deep emotions. They were very new — and he felt extremely vulnerable.

"I want to make sure you realize what this means, Harry," Dumbledore prodded gently. "Do you?"

Harry nodded, his throat stuck. He couldn’t stop the redness from stealing over him, but he made himself answer. "She’s my.... well. We’re....." He was blushing hotly now, and felt Ron peering at him. How could he explain? But to his surprise, it seemed Ron was about to explain for him.

"We learned the spell in Charms," Ron said slowly. "Themed lesson for Valentine’s Day. Professor Flitwick taught us — told us never to use it, though."

"Did he?" Dumbledore’s blue eyes danced beneath the gravity of the situation. "Well, how glad we all are, I am sure, that Harry does not always abide by what he is told."

Harry felt a grin fighting to get out of him, but he kept a straight face.

"And Mr. Weasley, what have you to say?" Dumbledore continued. "I imagine you are extremely surprised by what you’ve just seen."

Harry looked with trepidation at Ron, who looked back at him steadily — but for once there was no animosity in his eyes. For the first time, Harry noticed that Ron’s arm was tight around Hermione’s waist.

"S’all right, Harry," he said gruffly. "I guess.... I guess it has to be somebody. You’re the best one for it." Ron stopped, looking as though he were fighting for the next words he wanted to say. He looked at Hermione for a moment, who was close against him, waiting. His eyes lingered on her face as he began to speak. "Anyway, I reckon...." he turned back to Harry and nodded. "I reckon I would have done the same thing."

Harry watched tears spring into Hermione’s eyes. She could no longer hold herself back, even in front of Professor Dumbledore. She turned to Ron and kissed him swiftly before Harry could even look away — startling all of them and making Ron’s ears go redder than Harry had ever seen them. "Oh, I knew—" she cried, transported, "I knew you’d come to your senses! Oh... Ron!" Ron pulled his arm tighter around her waist and she beamed around the room. "Oh, Harry, it was well done!"

"Indeed it was, Harry," agreed Dumbledore, who had suddenly decided to examine the ceiling with great interest. "But you were also," he continued solemnly, when Hermione had composed herself again, and there was no further danger of emotional outbursts, "very, very lucky. You know that."

Harry nodded.

"And you all know that the Death Eaters will still be congregating soon. We cannot know precisely when. You must be as prepared as possible to face what is coming, when it comes."

All of them nodded together.

"Very well." Dumbledore inclined his head gravely and sighed. "Miss Granger, as prefect, I must ask you to return to Gryffindor and keep your fellow housemates calm as they are ushered to the Great Hall."

"Yes, Professor," Hermione said promptly, looking very pleased to be necessary. She got to her feet and turned to Ron. "Come with me?" she said beseechingly, as though she wasn’t very keen to walk through the castle alone while Voldemort went undiscovered.

"’Course," Ron replied staunchly, throwing half a grin toward Harry as he got up and walked Hermione out of the Headmaster’s office. When the door shut, Dumbledore shifted his gaze to Harry.

"Then I imagine you will want to go to Ginny." Harry didn’t move or speak, but he didn’t need to. Dumbledore’s blue eyes penetrated Harry’s green ones, and searched out the answer. Seeming satisfied, he stood, walked to the door and held it open wordlessly for Harry. Obviously he was not going to allow Harry to walk the castle by himself, and Harry was very grateful.

Once they reached the door of the infirmary, however, Harry realized he wanted to be alone — looking in at the crowd of Ginny’s parents and brothers made him redden once again and he looked at his Professor imploringly, not knowing how to ask for what he wanted. Thankfully, he didn’t have to — the Headmaster seemed to more than understand.

"Molly, Arthur," said Dumbledore, opening the door, "Bill, Charlie — a word."

Just as if they were still first year students at Hogwarts, all four obeyed their Headmaster and filed into the hallway, looking carefully at Harry as they passed him. Dumbledore led them a slight distance down the corridor, and engaged them in a conversation Harry couldn’t hear.

Relieved that he had been given even five minutes, Harry slipped into the infirmary and went directly to Ginny. She lay immobile against the white linen of the hospital sheets, her skin almost the same pallor as the cotton, her hair aflame around her quiet, sleeping face. Harry wished very much that she were awake — but he wouldn’t have dreamed of waking her. He stood over her instead, studying her face — the structure of her bones — the shape of her mouth.

Harry touched two fingers to her mouth with indefinable softness, took them away again and, without thinking about what he did, touched his fingers to his own scar. He sat wonderingly in the chair beside the bed. His only match — that’s what Amora Primus meant. If he hadn’t killed her with the spell, then she must be his one true...

Harry turned his chair to face Ginny and gave her another long, searching look. So this is what it feels like, he thought. Suddenly he didn’t really care whether anyone was coming back. He was meant to be sitting by her side — and he wanted to be the first person there when she woke up.

Without another thought, Harry lay his head down beside Ginny’s and fell into a deep, unquestioning sleep.