False Fate

By MD1016

Part IV: The War

Chapter 17 – Just Fine

Ron and Harry had grown into men, and Harry's invisibility cloak was meant to conceal just one man at a time. So, as the two of them tried to squeeze beneath it, going so far as to huddle together with their arms around one another, it was probably natural that Ginny and Hermione would burst into laughter that their trainers and jeans showed out the bottom.

"You're just not eleven years old anymore," Hermione said still giggling. "It'll have to be one of you alone, I'm afraid."

Ron ripped off the cloak, his hair running every which way. "We need a potion or something. Can't you come up with one?"

She took this question as a personal challenge. For two days and nights Ron saw her only at meals, and even then she was distracted and irritable. When at last she knocked on the door to his quarters Ron didn't even care that it was nearly two in the morning. Her huge smile was worth being startled out of a deep sleep.

"It's not a true Invisibility Potion," she told him and Harry, who was still abed and trying to push his glasses on his face. "It has more of a chameleon effect. And as long as you stand perfectly still most people should simply over-look you. I hope. There are two doses in there. They should last about twenty minutes, so don't take it until you absolutely need to. The effect should be instantaneous.

Ron sniffed at the neck of the bottle. "Smells like feet."

"It should taste about as good," Hermione admitted. "I was afraid to tamper with the recipe. I've never made Noseemee Draught before. If it works well I can see about tweaking the flavor."

"Brilliant," Harry said through a yawn. He kicked off his covers and crawled out of bed. "Once again, Hermione, you're brilliant."

She beamed. "Right, then. Off to bed."

For an instant Ron fantasized about Hermione climbing into his bed and him crawling in after her, of the two of them lying close under the covers, of her arms around him and his lips on her neck…

"Not for us, mate," Harry told Ron, a consolatory hand to his shoulder. "And you might want to put some clothes on."

***

The two of them crept along the deserted corridors, though they both tried not to look as if they were creeping. They had a right, after all, as teachers-of-a-sort, to be out after hours. Even Filch wouldn't be able to get them into trouble if he discovered them. But their presence in the halls at that time of night would be difficult to explain away, and breaking into the Headmistress' office certainly would be a serious offense. As they got closer and closer to the giant statue that would let them in, Ron became more nervous. Perhaps insisting he go along with Harry had been a mistake. At the moment Ron couldn't even guess what he'd been thinking. But insist he had. And Hermione had worked hard to see that he got his way.

"Discipline," Harry whispered once they were facing the grinning gargoyle. It shifted to one side with a grinding sound of stone on stone. Then, the two of them rode the circular stone staircase up to the office. The last time Ron had been in there Umbridge had been Headmistress, and her Slytherin thugs had caught Harry and them trying to contact Sirius through the Floo Network. With the pink and kittens gone, not much had changed since Dumbledore was Headmaster, Ron thought, though he hadn't spent a great deal of effort taking in the ambiance. The portraits were still hanging on the walls, mostly snoring away. The massive desk still sat in its place and various tables still littered the room with baubles and trinkets. There was a flowery rug on the floor Ron was fairly sure Dumbledore wouldn't have chosen – all pink and yellow and purple. And there were fresh flowers in vases here and there that made the room smell like a garden.

Harry, too, took a moment to study their surroundings. His gaze stopped on a particular portrait, and Ron realized with some horror that it was Dumbledore's. The old wizard sat in a large chair; head off to one side, slumbering away as if he hadn't been killed almost a year ago. Harry, too, seemed upset to see him.

"I'll look over here," Ron suggested, and this broke the trance Harry had been caught in. He went to the desk.

The books seemed to run the gambit from biographies and histories to wizardly romances. There was one called Raising Wizards and Witches by Jasper Callingsby, which led Ron to believe that none of them had belonged to the previous Headmaster.

"She's probably stowed his stuff away somewhere else," Harry said after a couple of minutes. "This is just rubbish."

"Well, it has been a while," Ron said. "She's had plenty of time to move in and make herself at home, hasn't she?"

Harry grunted. "I just…I can't imagine shoving his things aside. When McGonagall was acting Headmistress she didn't change a thing."

"I rather think that's because she didn't want to get too comfortable in that chair."

The two of them froze at the sound of the all too familiar voice. They turned and saw the painted Dumbledore sitting up now, and smiling genially at the two of them.

"Like the way it feels?" Dumbledore asked Harry, and nodded slightly at the chair he sat in. "Rather suits you, I think."

Harry, of course, leaped away from it, breathing as if he'd run a marathon.

"And hello to you, Mr. Weasley. It's good to see you again."

"A-and you," Ron said, mechanically. "You look…well."

This made Dumbledore chuckle. "Thank you. Now, what could you two possibly be up to? As much as I enjoy the visit, I can't help but think that neither of you have permission to be in here. Did Minerva give you the password?"

Harry's cheeks flushed red, and he nodded.

"Then it must be Order business," Dumbledore said, and he sucked thoughtfully on his cheek.

A light went on in Harry's eyes. He started to babble. "The Horcruxes! We've found the cup, but not the locket, and are you sure the snake is a Horcrux? We can't find anything about them at all, and we don't know where to even begin to look. And the Death Eaters are gaining strength and taking control and they're hunting down Order members and…and…"

"Tonks is dead," Ron supplied.

"Yes, Tonks," Harry said quickly. "But we need to find the other three Horcruxes and can you help? And how could you trust Snape? All those time I warned you that he was up to no good! I told you he was working for the other side, that he was not to be trusted, and you believed him over me! And you didn't even defend yourself up there in the ramparts that night! You just let him come at you! And you froze me! I could've helped you! I could've saved you!"

"Harry," Dumbledore said calmly. "You understand, of course, that I'm not your Dumbledore. I'm simply his portrait."

Red faced and watery-eyed, Harry turned from the painting. "Yes," he said bitterly.

"You can help us, though," Ron said. "You know what he knew."

"I'm afraid I'll be of less help than you think," the painting said.

"Where are his things?" Harry demanded, his voice sharp and his face dark. "His notes and parchments? Where's his journal? The things he was working on when he got himself killed?"

"Now, Harry, there's no need–" began Dumbledore in an admonishing tone.

"Tell me where they are!" Harry yelled, cutting off the painting's patient scold.

"That one's got a temper," said Phineas Nigellus' portrait appreciatively, sitting up now, and no longer pretending to be asleep. "He's turned darker since even I last saw him at my old home. Very nice…" he hissed.

It was clear Harry was disturbed to hear what Nigellus said, though he tried to ignore him. "I need his work," Harry said again to the painted Dumbledore. "Do you know where it is?"

Dumbledore sat back in his chair. "I do."

"Will you tell me?" Harry asked. It was as polite as he was going to get, Ron feared.

"Please?" Ron added. "It's like we're reinventing the wand. Whatever help you can give us…or the other Dumbledore can give us…" Ron almost said 'the dead Dumbledore.'

"I daresay the best help I can give the both of you now it to tell you that someone is coming," the painted Dumbledore said, looking at the door with some concern.

Harry bolted to Ron and thrust the potion in his hand. "Quick!" he whispered.

Ron pulled out the cork and swallowed three times, then handed the flask to Harry and gagged as the flavor hit him.

Harry just finished molting into the red phoenix tapestry behind them when the door swung open and a small, dark brown, ancient-looking witch peered in the room. "I heard voices," she said, casting her dark eyes quickly around the office, and venturing only a step or two inside.

"I'm sure you did, Headmistress," Dumbledore said happily.

Her gaze slipped right over Ron and Harry, though Ron was sure she could hear his heart hammering in his chest. "You chatting up the other portraits?" she asked, no humor in her voice. "I had another of those wearisome dreams. You haven't gotten wind of any Death Eater activity tonight, have you?"

"I haven't," Dumbledore said. "It's been a quiet night, all told."

"I can't tell you how anxious this business has made me. Dreams of Death Eaters on school grounds, trespassers in my office, fires." Headmistress Waddington sighed and hugged herself. "No alarms from the other Ministry officers, I take it?"

"Not a one," Dumbledore told her. "Three o'clock and all is well."

She ran a hand through her bristly steel-grey hair and sighed. "I don't suppose that should surprise me. I'm not a seer, after all. And still…" She looked over the room again, her eyes landing on the bookcase where Ron had been rummaging. "Someone's been in here."

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. "Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. They were looking for my things, I'm afraid."

"What?" Waddington said, grasping the front of her night robe. "How? How did they get in here?"

"They didn't say," Dumbledore said vaguely. "But rest assured Headmistress, that I did not tell them my notes and journals were placed in the Gryffindor Tower basement, or that the password was my favorite candy. The boys meant no harm to you or this school, Claudia. They're simply inexperienced and over zealous, as young wizards tend to be."

"I can't have teachers breaking in to my office, Dumbledore!" she bellowed. "And what if they hadn't been just after your parchments? What if their intent was much more sinister?"

"Then the gargoyle never would've jumped aside," Dumbledore plainly said. "And the portraits would've been in an uproar. Harry Potter is no stranger to this chamber. And, as you know, he may very well be the only thing standing between the rest of the wizarding world and Voldemort."

She physically shuddered at the name. "Please! Dumbledore! I will not have that name spoken within these walls!"

"As you wish, Headmistress," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "This is your school after all."

"Yes," she said. "It is. I shall have to have a talk with those boys. They must be made to understand that they're here as a favor from Minister Scrimgeor and as teachers they must behave as befits their station. Can you imagine if the students got wind that Harry Potter broke into the Headmistress' office? Mayhem, Albus! Anarchy!"

"I completely agree. Harry should be far more careful. Stunts like this are far too reckless, and I'm afraid it's a habit I never quite had the heart to break him of when I was in your place," Dumbledore said with a fond smile. "It rather reminds me of my own misspent youth, and at times I found the nostalgia overwhelming."

"Oh, hodge-podge," Waddington said. "You and I both know you never over-indulged that boy. You had neither the luxury of time or safety for that. No, Harry Potter is as you already described: reckless, head-strong, and blinded by his inexperience and youth. Why he didn't simply knock on my door if he wanted something-"

"Oh, Claudia, we both know he never could have done that. You're the Ministry's extension here at Hogwarts, and the Ministry has never once tried to hide its desire to use and exploit young Mr. Potter. And furthermore, you and I and he knows that you would never give him my papers–"

"We agreed on that," she said quickly. "You said yourself that there was far too much there for a boy to fully understand, and that that kind of knowledge could lead him astray."

"I did say that, yes. If only he had at his disposal an aptitude for studious book learning, a sensibleness that borders on wisdom, an open and true heart, and endless courage in addition to the natural charisma and leadership skills he already possesses. Why then, I believe, he would have all the necessary components to not only understand what my exploits can tell him, but also use the information properly. Oh, Merlin! What ever could that be?"

And then Dumbledore's portrait kneeled down on his painted floor and peered under the Headmistress' desk. When she went around and bent low to investigate for herself, Harry pulled Ron out the door with him. They scurried down the stairs three and four at a time, streaked down the corridor, and into the next hall. It wasn't until they were safely down the next set of stairs that Harry slowed up enough for Ron to catch his breath. It had been a long time since he'd played Quidditch, and his body was no longer built for that kind of speed.

"Where's Gryffindor's basement?" Harry asked, doubled over and breathing hard.

Ron shrugged. "Have you got your Maurader's Map?"

"Good thinking!" Harry said and bolted off again. Ron followed, but now at a slower clip.

He caught up with Harry in their quarters. By that time Harry had emptied the entire contents of his trunk and pulled out the folded bit of parchment. He studied it carefully. Then, disgusted, he threw the map aside.

"What was I thinking! Of course he's not going to give us any straight help!"

"What's wrong?" Ron asked, holding the stitch in his side.

"We're in a castle! Castles don't have basements!" Harry turned around and kicked his trunk, and then limped around in circles with his hands on his hips. "SON OF A BITCH!"

Ron was stunned by his friend's reaction. In fact, Harry had been acting erratic from the first moment they stepped foot in the Headmistress' office.

"He was always doing that! Always talking in riddles, or else saying that it was nothing that I should worry about – like he could protect me! He couldn't even protect himself, could he? Didn't even try!" Harry was raving as he paced the room, and Ron began to feel that small, snake-like disturbance deep within his well again.

"Uh…Harry-"

"In the basement! HA! Password is 'sherbet lemon!' HA! He lied to us just as surely as he lied to her! And she's the new headmistress! She's him!"

"Harry, hang on!"

But Harry didn't let up, and the more he carried on then more uncomfortable Ron became until he pulled out his wand and yelled: "Petrificus totalus!" He hadn't wanted to freeze Harry, and when his friend's whole body went stiff and toppled over backwards Ron couldn't help but eek out a meager, "Sorry, mate, but you were getting a bit scary there."

Harry was going to kill him for sure. Ron could still feel the energy being roped out of him as if something inside him was uncoiling. Ron leaned down close to Harry, but was careful not to touch him.

"Listen, mate. I need you to hear this. You're siphoning off energy from me, and I don't think you're even aware that you're doing it." There was a tremor inside Ron, and then he felt the rope of energy snap, and once again he was left alone. "It's not the first time this has happened," Ron continued, as calm and reassuring as he could be. "And I'm not completely convinced, but Moody seemed to think that maybe, when you get like that, you might be able to do things that you don't intend. Even without your wand. And, well, I thought you should know."

Ron unfroze him, and braced himself for the blow that was sure to come. Only, it didn't. Harry collapsed like a pile of noodles on the floor and stared up at the rough wood ceiling. "My Uncle Vernon's sister…making the glass disappear in the reptile house that one time…I did a lot of stuff without a wand."

"Yeah, only now you're tapping into me, see, and so, well, it's not just blowing up your auntie – it's blowing up your auntie!" Ron told him, somewhat relieved that Harry saw the seriousness of the situation, and was taking it so well. "Do you think it could be something like what I've got? When my emotions get in the way of my casting?"

Harry shrugged. "I wasn't trying to cast anything." And then his face went dark, and Ron knew he'd remembered why he was so angry just a minute ago. "If he wasn't going to tell us where his notes and things are, then why did he bother with the 'Gryffindor basement' business?" His voice was hard again, but now, at least Harry seemed in better control.

"It's just a portrait," Ron reminded him.

"It's Dumbledore's portrait," Harry countered. "Hermione will know what it means." And he made to jump up, but Ron stopped him.

"You can't wake her, not now. This is the first sleep she's had in days, and it's not even morning yet."

Harry eyed him, but then relented. "Fine. Suppose we could use some sleep, too."

"And how!" Ron helped his friend up, and they changed back into their night clothes.

"One thing, though," Ron said, after they'd climbed into their respective beds. "Waddington didn't flinch when he said Gryffindor basement, did she? Suppose she thinks there is one?"

"It's not on the map," Harry said, and then slowly added as the realization hit: "but then, neither's the Room of Requirement!"

"Or, maybe it's a code between them," Ron suggested. "Maybe he was being sneaky and telling her we were still in the room."

Harry shook his head. He didn't think so. "She thinks it's in Gryffindor Tower's basement. Is there a section of the catacombs that goes under Gryffindor? Or part of the dungeons?"

"Harry, if there are places in this castle that even the Marauders didn't know about, places that are uncharitable, well, Hogwarts would be an excellent place to hide something, like, say, a Horcrux or two."

Harry gave him a very satisfied smile. "My thoughts exactly."

***

The following morning over breakfast Harry filled Hermione and Ginny in on what he and Ron had discovered. Hermione immediately latched on to the possibility that there might be some riddle to be solved.

"Basement," she said to herself. "I wonder if it there's some alternate meaning."

"Yeah," Ron quipped, "it means pass the marmalade."

She scowled at him.

"No, really. Pass the marmalade."

She shoved the jar in his direction. "Basement suggests a below grade room – not a dungeon or a cellar, but a room."

"What's the difference between a cellar and a basement?" Ginny asked, somewhat cattily. "I mean, who uses the word basement, anyway? Aren't cellars basements?"

Ron couldn't help but notice the tone in his sister's voice. He looked back and forth between his girlfriend and his sister as he slathered the marmalade generously over his scone. Had they fought? They never fought. Well, rarely.

Hermione noticed, Ron decided, but she ignored Ginny's bite. "All cellars are basements, but not all basements are cellars. The basic difference, I believe is that a cellar is a place where things are stored, where as a basement is just a room."

"You're sure?" Ginny asked, pointedly. "Because, if I'm not mistaken, Hufflepuff's common room is located in the basement. Of course, you know best."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Look, I didn't mean it, Ginny. And anyway, I already apologized!"

Harry, having caught on to what was transpiring between the girls looked to Ron for clarification. Ron just shrugged as Ginny turned a cold shoulder to Hermione and stabbed at her eggs.

"Oh, you're just as bad a Ron," Hermione snapped, and then stood and stormed away from the table.

Both Ron and Harry looked at Ginny expectantly, but the only explanation she offered was: "She's such an insufferable know-it-all," muttered scornfully around a bite of bacon.

***

After another unsuccessful class that morning, Ron found Hermione in the library. She offered him a little smile when she saw him and he took the seat next to her.

"I looked for you in the infirmary," he whispered, leaning a little closer to her than necessary. They'd both been busy recently, and he'd missed her.

"I took the afternoon off," she whispered back.

"Hardly," he said with a quiet scoff, and a critical eye at the mountain of books beside her. "Looks like you've been working hard as ever."

"Just trying to figure out our basement quandary. Ginny was right about Hufflepuff, but it's hardly under Gryffindor Tower. I do think I'm on to something, though."

"Really?" Ron asked, and glanced over her notes. Hermione had impossibly neat handwriting; all her loops and lines were incredibly consistent. Another thing he marveled at about her.

"I'm not finished researching," she said quickly and pulled the parchment away. "I'll explain it all tonight."

"Right, then," Ron said, and relaxed back in the chair, rested his elbows on the arms, and laced his fingers over his stomach. "Ready for a bite to eat?"

"It's hardly dinner," Hermione admonished.

"I was thinking we could fill that time back in your apartment," Ron said casually, though the grin on his face was anything but. "I think I owe you a compliment or two."

The corners of her mouth turned up, but she didn't look at him. "I believe you've research of your own, Ron," she said. "Gryffindor and Ravenclaw?"

Right. He'd forgotten. "Oh, all right."

She helped him find the most likely books, and sort them into piles on the table opposite her. She gave him a sheet of parchment, a quill, and a smug little smile that turned coy. Ron's heart jumped a little.

When she went back to her own reading, Ron pulled the first book into his lap and began to go through it. Table of contents…Ravenclaw family tree…page 302. He flipped to the back of the book and stared at the woodcut that started the chapter. It was so old it barely moved anymore. The tall, slender witch wore light robes and had long, light hair, a heart-shaped face, and held…what was that? Not a wand, surely. A key? A sausage? He read the first page about Rowena Ravenclaw's childhood, but kept glancing back at the picture. He nudged it with his thumbnail, hoping to irritate her into shifting a little, but she remained in the same haughty pose holding…a pencil?

It was an hour of scribbling notes and bookmarking passages before Hermione finally looked up from her research and announced it was, finally, dinner time. It was then that Harry found the two of them, having just finished with his students.

"Hungry?" Hermione asked him.

He nodded while smirking at the two of them.

"What?" Ron demanded.

"Lupin would be proud," Harry said with a grin. As the three of them were leaving the library Harry muttered to Ron: "Wonder when you'll go and make Moody proud, eh?"

***

That night, after a successful lesson with McGonagall, the three of them met in Hermione's quarters. Ginny had her final Quidditch practice before the last game of the year – and there was no way Gryffindor was about to allow Hufflepuff their first victory since Cedric Diggory won the House Cup the year dementors were at the school and Harry had fallen off his broom. Ron wasn't completely sure, but Hermione seemed in better spirits when Harry told them Ginny wouldn't be joining them.

"Gryffindor Tower does have a basement," Hermione said, and then spread out Harry's map between the three of them. "Here." She pointed to the large space labeled "Kitchens and Auxiliary." There were about a hundred tiny little dots scurrying around with names like Sniggles and NotchEar and Loam.

That didn't seem right to Ron. "They've hidden Dumbledore's things in the kitchens?"

"Of course!" Harry exclaimed, and smacked himself in the head. "Why didn't I think of that before?" Then, he turned and called out: "Dobby!"

Instantly a small creature appeared wearing an assortment of knitted socks, trousers and multicolored hats. Obviously, the novelty of clothes hadn't worn itself out on the house elf.

"Harry Potter, sir! Oh, how wonderful for Dobby to see you, sir! So handsome, you've become! Such an honor for Dobby to be called by you! Dobby is glad to know Harry Potter is once again at Hogwarts!" He bowed so low his hats fell off, and he quickly gathered them, stacked them, and balanced them on his tiny, bald head once more.

"Thank you, Dobby," Harry said genuinely. "It's good to see you as well."

"Really, sir?" Dobby asked before Harry could get another word out. "Honestly, truly? Did Harry Potter…miss Dobby?" The house elf's big blue eyes stared longingly, hopefully into Harry's.

"I did," Harry said, and Dobby erupted into laughter and cartwheels.

"Harry Potter missed his Dobby! Gone for half a year, Dobby thought Harry Potter had forgotten, thought Harry Potter was…upset…with his Dobby." The elf's ears fell, and he looked worriedly at Harry.

"No, no. I'm not upset with you, Dobby! Not at all! In fact, I've got a special mission for you."

Dobby's eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. "A mission…for Dobby? Dobby will do his very best, sir; lay down his life for Harry Potter!"

"No need for that," Harry assured.

"Let's not be hasty," Ron quipped. Hermione elbowed him in the gut.

"Dobby, do you know where they put Dumbledore's notes and journals and things after he died?"

Dobby's over-large eyes immediately filled with tears, his lips trembled and then clamped shut. He threw himself on the floor and began pounding his face into it. Harry grabbed him and held him by the back of his wool trousers. Thus suspended, Dobby gave Harry a grateful smile. "Oh, thank you, sir!"

"So, I take it that you do know the location of Dumbledore's stuff, but you can't tell me." Harry sized up his little elf. "That's all right. Can you get in there yourself and bring everything to me?" Dobby began to struggle to beat himself against the floor he could not reach. "All right!" Harry said. "Enough of that. Dobby, I have a password. Would that help you get in to the room?"

Dobby opened one eye and looked up at his idol, and then the other opened and he gazed at Harry with such adoration Ron thought the elf might try to kiss him. He nodded vigorously.

"Brilliant!" Harry said and set Dobby on the floor again. "The password is 'sherbet lemon.' Dobby, please go to the secret place and bring Dumbledore's stuff here."

"Gladly!" Dobby said, and then disappeared.

The three of them looked at each other. Then Ron asked: "You think this is what Dumbledore had in mind when he said 'Gryffindor's basement?'"

Harry shrugged. Hermione looked sadly down at the mound of parchments in her lap. "But I had so many theories," she said. "I've all this research." And then she looked enviously at Ron's books and parchments.

"Well, I suppose I should…" Ron pulled the first book off his pile and opened it to the woodcut for Harry and Hermione to see. "Here's what I was able to find about Rowena Ravenclaw." Then, he laid out a parchment he'd quickly sketched her family tree on, before picking up a second parchment and reading from his notes. "She was from the fens, which is commonly known, but one of the books said she was a descendent of Horace Wastleman, the famous Dark Ages wizard who drove the Vikings out of Wales. One book said she grew up on ancestral lands near the sea, and another said she was educated abroad – which might work if the writer wasn't from Wales. Every book agreed, though, that she was a real looker: blond and trim with a real handsome face. Of course, we know she was clever and wise; these are the Ravenclaw traits. But she is also credited with creating the Hogwarts ever-changing floor plan."

"That was in Hogwarts: A History," Hermione grumbled.

Ron ignored her mood. "There was one book that suggested she had a brief love affair with Slytherin, and that after that her best friend Helga Hufflepuff would have nothing to do with her. But I don't know how that helps us. She had one daughter, who had one son, who had three children. I've made up the family tree as best as I could, though some of the books called people by different names. It was a thousand years ago. Things tend to get a bit sketchy."

"Do you know who her current descendents are? Does she have any?" Hermione asked. "If she has descendents, then maybe there are relics. Like Mrs. Smith who had Hufflepuff's cup and Slytherin's locket."

Ron sighed. "I was only able to trace the Ravenclaw line through the eighteenth century." Hermione, no doubt would've already found out Helga's living relatives' addresses and sent them owls. He looked thoughtfully at her. She was gifted when it came to scouring a library. "Hey, Hermione…maybe, if you're not too busy tomorrow, you could take an hour and help me look?"

Her face lit up. "You actually want me to do research with you?"

"Well sure," Ron said. "Look at all I was able to find out today, and I was only there for an hour. Imagine what I can find if we work together!"

"Don't you mean: 'what we can find?'" she asked, none too sweetly.

"Well…yeah, that's what I meant, of course." He glanced down at the woodcut again, and realized Harry had been staring at it. "Reckon short wands were all the rage back then?" he asked, referring to the rod Ravenclaw was holding.

"That's never a wand," Hermione said, bluntly. "Is it?"

"Looks like a sausage," Harry commented.

"That's what I thought!" Ron exclaimed.

"It's a scepter," Hermione said slowly, leaning close and studying the image. Ron could see down the front of her top from this position, and he was mesmerized by the shadow of softly rounded cleavage. He missed a lot of what she said after that.

Harry's voice broke into his reverie. "But aren't scepters used by royalty? There are no royal wizards or witches. Are there?"

"Scepters," Hermione said, "can be used by anyone. Wizards' scepters tend to be more than the ornamental symbol of power though. They're magical, of course. Ron, did you find any mention of Ravenclaw having a scepter?"

He shook his head, and tried like mad not to look at her chest. Heat flamed up his neck and cheeks. "There was something…" He pulled out one of the books on the bottom, and flipped through it. It didn't look right, so he picked up the next book up in the pile. Then he found the other woodcut. It was just as lifeless as the first. "Oh…no, I suppose not. They call it a rod, not a scepter."

"A scepter is a rod, Ron." She pulled the book into her own lap and studied the new woodcut. It was of a Rowena Ravenclaw that looked quite a bit different from the other image, but still with long, flowing light hair, a heart-shaped face, and a delicate hand holding…well, Ron supposed it could be a scepter.

"There's more…can't you see? Right here." Hermione pointed to the rod with her nail. "They're runes."

Harry and Ron leaned in closer. "That bunch of lines?" Ron asked. "Aren't they there to make it look like wood?"

"She's right!" Harry said, breathy and excited. "Smack me with a broom, she's right! Can you read it? What does it say?"

Hermione studied it for a moment, and then shook her head. "I need a magnifier and better light. And my Runes books. Oh, this is exciting!" She hopped up from the floor, collected Ron pile of research, and dashed out – presumably to head back to the library.

"And another night without a snog," Ron lamented.

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, and my girl's out playing Quidditch. We live in strange times, mate."

There came a knock and the boys looked at each other and then the door. Harry jumped up to answer it. McGonagall stood in the corridor, half-turned away with a hand covering her eyes.

"Professor?"

She started at Harry's voice, peered past him into the room and sighed in relief. "Mr. Potter," she began and then caught a glimpse of Ron. "And Mr. Weasley, I see. You're the wizard I was looking for. You've a visitor."

"I do?" he asked as he stood. "Are you sure?"

"Well, of course I'm sure, Mr. Weasley. I haven't taken leave from my senses! Remus Lupin is waiting for you in my office – oh, my stars!"

Before she'd even finished her sentence Ron had dashed past her and down the hall. Lupin was there! In the castle! Just corridors away!

He nearly knocked over a suit of armor out for its evening constitutional down the seventh floor corridor, but he managed to twist and miss it. Several of the paintings protested his speed, but he kept it up until he reached McGonagall's office, winded. He pushed open the door.

Lupin sat in the armchair opposite the desk, and a small bundle of blankets squirmed on his lap. When Lupin saw him his eyes went soft, and his managed a weak smile. "You came so quickly," he said. "Am I forgiven, then?"

"Forgiven?" Ron echoed. There was nothing to forgive. "You all right? Is he all right?"

Lupin nodded and offered up his son. Ron crossed the room in three steps and gathered the baby against him. Relief flooded through him, and gratitude, and a mix of dozens of other emotions that Ron didn't even know the names of. Little Jack was pink as ever, with a little green zebra stripes thrown in for giggles. He cooed and wagged his fists in the air as Ron kissed his head. Jack's weight felt good against Ron's chest again, felt right in his arms.

"Missed you," Ron whispered to him.

"I went to number 12," Lupin said quietly. He looked exhausted, and many of the wounds he'd sustained the night Tonks died didn't seem to have healed properly. His clothes were dirty, his hair greasy and limp. "We were there two nights before I realized the manse wasn't being lived in. I went to the Burrow petrified that something had happened."

"It's not safe out there anymore," Ron told him. "Death Eaters."

Lupin nodded. "They found us near the Muggle town of Workington. I can't imagine how they knew where to look, but we barely made it out. I was a fool to think I could protect Jack on my own. And it damn near cost us everything." His scarred, bruised, scabbed face was molted with emotion, and difficult to read. "Ron…I came back because of the Death Eaters, but I came to Hogwarts because of you. I've always been a solitary man, and the few friends I had were my family. And now…I have that little man. He depends on me for everything. I can't go it alone."

Lupin sighed, and stared sightless at something over Ron's shoulder. "You're seventeen, and I know it's wrong to ask, but I also know you love Jackie the way I do. The way a father does. I can see it right now in your eyes. And I need help." Lupin took a deep breath and pushed himself up from the chair. "Ron…"

"Yes," Ron said.

"Ron, I want to asked you-"

"Yes."

Lupin cocked his head to one side. "You don't know what I was going to-"

"I do," Ron told him, patting Jacks tiny bottom. "And I'm eighteen now. And yes."

"What I'm asking," Lupin began again, and took a few slow steps toward Ron and the baby, "I want you to think about it-"

"There's no need. I'm saying yes."

"Ron, you can't possibly know the lifetime commitment-"

"Remus," Ron said. It was the first time he'd used his given name, and it stunned Lupin into silence. "Something has happened between us that time won't change. We could stand here a hundred years from now and there would still be a connection. Because of Tonks. And because of Jack." Ron glanced down at the infant fisting and un-fisting his tiny fingers. "I don't need to think about anything, and we don't need to talk about what we both already know."

"We need not speak about it, if you like," Lupin said. "But as you've said yes…well, then, once again I find myself in your debt-"

"There are no debts between friends," Ron told him.

Lupin's eyes went wide. "I told your father that very thing once. Ever so long ago." He turned then, and gazed out the narrow window. It was a clear night, and Ron could see dozens of stars just in that small patch of sky. "No words then. A gentlemen's pact."

Lupin took up his old professor's lodgings in Gryffindor Tower, and Ron helped him get settled in. He showed Lupin how to fashion a cradle out of a drawer and a towel before he went back to Hermione's apartment. He stopped in the doorway, and for a moment Ron thought he'd accidentally walked into the wrong room. Dozens of stacks and piles of journals, parchments and books created a labyrinth in which even more of Dumbledore's trinkets and gadgets and paraphernalia were placed. Things whirled and whizzed and bubbled all around. Now Ron remembered: this is what Dumbledore's office had looked like.

"Someone there?" It was Harry's voice, though it sounded buried.

"You there?" Ron called into the mess.

Harry stood then, and a tower of books fell over. "It'll take us forever to rummage through this! Where's Hermione? We need reinforcements!"

"We need a rubbish bin. Harry, Dobby didn't bring all of this did he?"

"It's still coming," Harry told him. And then he seemed to really get a good look at Ron. "How's Lupin?"

"Fine," Ron said. "They're both fine. Was touch and go for a while with the Death Eaters and all, but McGonagall has them installed in his old quarters, so everything's fine now."

Harry grinned at him. "You look like you're fine now, too."

"Yeah, well…" Ron looked over the room again to keep from meeting Harry's gaze. He already felt the heat in his cheeks and he didn't want his blush to get any worse. "McGonagall complained, I guess, that Hogwarts is becoming a bit of a hotel. It's getting harder and harder for her to justify new boarders with the new Headmistress. But I suppose she'll manage."

Just then Ginny burst into the room.

"Ron!" she called, "Lupin's here! Pansy Parkinson saw him walk up from Hogsmeade with his baby! Though, to hear her say it you'd think he brought plague and pestilence with him instead."

"I've seen him," Ron told her.

She deflated a little when she realized her news wasn't going to throw Ron into a fit, and turned a sultry gaze on Harry. "Hiya, Harry."

Harry smiled at her, which, of course, caused Ron to roll his eyes and give a hugely exaggerated sigh. "Enough of that," Ron told them.

Ginny didn't seem to hear him. "Practice went well…" she told Harry in a deep, husky voice that Ron couldn't believe was coming out of his sister. "I tried that move you showed me…the other night." Harry swallowed.

"Oh, for casting out loud! Knock it off!" Ron shouted.

Ginny's gaze on Harry didn't waver, and Harry didn't seem to notice Ron was in the room. The two of them had gone all still, and Harry was starting to turn a little red, and all of this was making Ron very uncomfortable.

"Right, then," Ron said, and collected an arm full of whatever journals were closest to him. As he left, he caught sight of Harry rushing to Ginny, and their heated embrace. Thankfully the door was thick and solid, and his ears didn't have to burn with what surely came next.

***

He found Hermione in the library, of course, buried up to her chin in books. She looked startled when she saw him. Apparently his recent visits hadn't changed her expectation of him yet. He quickly explained about Lupin, and then Ginny's abrupt appearance, and the mountains of Dumbledore's things that now filled her quarters. The latter delighted her. She pulled a journal from Ron's hand and headed to one of the old library tables to examine it. The script was long and slanty, and the parchment inside the loose bindings was old and yellowed around the edges.

"This is a personal journal," she said, enthralled with what lay before her. "I'm reading Albus Dumbledore's personal journal."

"Maybe he's got some old drawers you can fawn over, too," Ron quipped, and this earned him a glare.

She closed the book and slid it across the table to him. "You can look through those," she told him. "I'm still researching the runes from that engraving. But I do want a chance to pour through those later." Hermione looked at the journal the way Ginny had looked at Harry.

"Great," Ron said.

Hours later Ron was about to crawl out of his skin. Never had he thought journals could be so dull – though now he knew why he'd never kept one. Hermione had discovered the meaning of two of the symbols, but she stubbornly refused to tell Ron, and instead went in to a quarter-of-an-hour explanation of how one rune can change the meaning of the others, and it was never prudent to interpret one or two runes without knowing how they all fit together. Like Ron cared. Yawning, he left her to her work and stumbled back to his room.

He undressed, and slipped on a pair of pajama bottoms, crawled into bed, pulled the covered up to his shoulder, and was asleep before he even knew it.

At some point later Hermione woke him as she slipped between his sheets. "Wha'?" he asked, still shaking off unconsciousness, and therefore not having his wits about him yet.

"They made-love in my bed," she said matter-of-factly.

"Huh?"

"Harry and your sister. Ginny. Had sex in my bed."

He collapsed back on to his pillow. "I don't want to hear that!"

"Then don't look at me like you can't understand why I'm here!" she insisted.

"There's a bed over there," Ron told her.

"You really want me in Harry's bed?" she asked, her brows raised. She had a point.

"Come here," he said, and she crawled into his arms, laid her cheek against his bare chest. Her hand roved over his skin and left goose bumps in their wake. When she let loose with a contented sigh Ron's body reacted in a very immediate, very startling way. Hermione didn't seem to notice, though Ron didn't see how she could miss his thumping heart as her ear was practically on top of it.

As he became more awake and aware of his arousal he realized that Hermione was in his bed. With him. And if he wasn't mistaken, she wasn't wearing all that much, either. The hand he had around her back and hip hit skin and a single later of thin fabric. He ran a finger along an elastic edge. Knickers. Lacey knickers.

Were they going to have sex? Had she come to his bed for that single purpose? Was this how it started? He cleared his throat. "Hermione?"

"Hmm?" She already sounded half asleep.

He supposed if she came for a shag she'd be a lot more…lively. She was warm against him, and soft and smooth…and he liked feeling her breath against him, and the way his body responded to hers when it was so close, and the way he was touching her bum, and the way she was letting him.

"Want to do it?" Hermione asked, shocking him into stillness. She moved her leg that was slung over his and he realized she must have at least an inkling of what his body was doing. She lifted her head and looked at him. There was enough light coming through the diamond pattered windows to see her brows rise in concern. "Did I say something wrong? We don't have to do anything. I just thought…well…that maybe you wanted to."

Ron blinked down at her. He couldn't believe those words were coming out of Hermione – to him! And he didn't know what to say. 'Yes, please,' just didn't seem right, somehow.

"Are you supposed to ask? I thought it was something that…just sort of happened."

"It does, sometimes. And sometimes you talk about it. And sometimes you just sleep." She lay back down, pillowing her head on his chest again, and asked: "This OK? It's been rather a long day, and well, your first time should be special, and I don't think either of us is up for special right now – I know I'm not." She gave a huge yawn, and snuggled down against his him. His lap tightened even further. "I'm glad we can do this," she told him with a sleep voice. "Viktor was never one to just sleep, and Harr-" She stopped herself, and went all stiff next to him.

"Sorry," she whispered. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." Then she pulled away and rolled on to her back. "Sorry I keep doing that. I'm so tired, I keep forgetting what I can or can't say, and to whom…" Her pillow rustled and Ron knew she turned to look at him. "I'm really sorry. I know it's got to be difficult for you, and well…I'm sorry." And then she rolled away from him and curled the blanket against her chest.

He knew, of course, had known all along, and still, now that she was lying there in her night things, now that he'd kissed her, and knew what it was like to have her warm body pressed up against him, somehow it was harder to deal with the comparisons. Him and Harry and Viktor. And then he thought about what she'd actually said.

"But…" He hesitated, not sure he wanted the answer. Curiosity and the need for a little ego stroking won out. "But you said you were glad that we can just lie here together. You and me. Viktor wouldn't do this with you?"

She peeked at him from over her shoulder. "Uh…no." She flopped on to her back, and gave him a hard look. "You don't have to…do whatever it is that you're doing. I know you don't want to hear about them, any more than I want to hear about Lavender."

"Lavender?" Ron said, bemused. "Now where did that come from?"

"If memory serves, you spent the better part of last year attached to her face," Hermione said cattily.

He shrugged. "You snog better."

A grin inched across her face. "I do?"

"Yup."

"Are you just saying that to get me to snog with you now?"

"I'm hurt that you would even suggest it!" he feigned a wounded heart. "We're going to sleep because you're tired, and because that's something I do better than Viktor." Of course, in his head it had sounded loads better.

Hermione smirked, but she seemed to know what he was saying. "It's one of the many, many things you do better, than…anyone." She lifted herself up a little, and kissed his cheek, and then the corner of his mouth. "Goodnight, Ron."

When she settled back beside him he whispered a "Goodnight," to her, as well.

And then he stared at her for half the night, wondering how she managed to mention her other lovers and make him feel good about not sleeping with her.

***

After his class the following day, a tired and now frustrated Ron did some more reading in Dumbledore's journal, and then met his friends for dinner. He was halfway through his bread, cheese, and pickled onion when a tall, blonde girl ambled by with a couple of her friends. When she looked down and saw Ron, her eyes went wide and tripped over her own feet. She recovered quickly, though, and then hurried to catch up with her group. Ron stared after her while a lump the size of the onion on his fork lodged at the back of his throat. For one awful moment he was back in the Cave of Regret, back witnessing all of the horrible things he'd ever done. And while the regret within him now was nothing compared to what he'd experienced that day he and Harry had gone to rescue Hermione, he still recalled how horrible he'd been to that blonde little girl who made him nervous with her sweet smile.

"What was that about?" Hermione whispered across the table at him.

How could he explain Gretta Sweet? How did he tell Hermione he used to torment that girl because she was nice to him? But then, it was Hermione, after all. She probably already knew. They'd all been in the same year, and the school wasn't that big.

Gretta had grown up since he remembered seeing her last. His eyes followed her as she moved away. She was less plump and more curvy. But she was still very fair and her cheeks flushed violently as she rushed past. Ron had to follow.

He caught up with her just inside the doors leading out of the Great Hall, and she looked very like a cornered mouse.

"Could I…could we speak, do you think?" he asked.

She refused to meet his eyes, and said in a defiant, deep voice: "Whatever would you want to speak to me about, Mr. Weasley?"

"Mister? Oh, no," he told her. "I'm not your tutor. I'm still Ron to you."

She shook her head, and the girls she was with began to whisper violently amongst themselves.

Not needing the audience, Ron grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her a couple of feet away. "Look, Gretta, I know I was terrible to you. I was. And you did nothing to deserve it. Not a thing."

"Then why?" she asked, now less sure without her friends there to back her up. She seemed vulnerable, almost shy. "People still call me Gretta the Cow."

"Merlin's beard, I'm sorry, Gretta. Bloody sorry. I don't know why, except that you were…"

"Fat?" she asked pointedly. "Stupid?"

"I was going to say pretty. With your blonde hair and your curls. And I suppose I thought you fancied me, and I didn't know what to do. I panicked. I was thirteen."

"I was thirteen, too," she told him.

"The thing is, you were right, and I was wrong. You tried something and took a risk. We weren't friends, and you didn't know me well at all, and still you smiled at me – ME – a ruddy little pimple. I was the one who was wrong. I didn't know then that a girl's smile is the most precious thing in the world. Had I, I probably would've done this." And then he kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry for that stupid name, and for how I treated you. I regret it. More than you know."

As he turned, she quickly gave him a feather-light peck on the cheek, and then fled back to her gasping, giggling friends. Ron sighed, contented, until he turned and saw Hermione standing by the table, fuming. Harry leaned over the roast at her, saying something, gesturing with his hands. One of his fists stopped on his chest at roughly the place where Ron's scar was. When Hermione saw this, her eyes softened a little, and she turned back to Ron, no longer furious, but now with an unreadable expression that made his heart beat a little faster and his thighs tingle.

***

That night she came to his bed again, and neither said anything as she made herself comfortable. Harry was noticeably absent, which led Ron to believe he and Hermione were conspiring together. Not that he minded. Ron rather liked seeing Hermione in her night things, and touching her, and feeling her body against his. He liked the idea of having her close. But he hadn't gotten any sleep the night before and he was a bit twitchy. Ron was so acutely aware of her presence that every time she moved he'd startle out of his doze. And when he jumped, she did, too. He wanted to touch her, wanted to kiss her and slip his fingers under her little top, but she just closed her eyes again every time, and drifted back off to sleep. He spent a lot of time looking at her and then turning over to find a more comfortable position. But at some point in the night Ron had reached his breaking point, and he got up to go to Harry's bed. She stopped him with a hand to his arm. His whole body tingled at the contact.

"Stay," she whispered. "We need to get used to each other. It's new. It'll get better."

"We need a bigger bed," he grumbled, punched his pillow, and flopped over on his belly. "I can't sleep with you staring at me." Or me staring at you, he added silently.

"I'm not staring," she told him, and rolled her eyes. "And you're too tense. Your legs are jumping all over the place."

"Are not!" And then, to make Hermione's point, his left leg spasmed.

She huffed in frustration, sat up. "Come here." She grabbed his leg and pulled it over hers and on to her lap, and then began massaging it.

Ron was thankful to be lying on his belly because his body once again had a mind of its own. "What are you doing?" he demanded, tried to pull his leg away.

"Relaxing your muscles! Now, hold still!"

He was wearing pajama bottoms, so it wasn't like she was really touching his leg, and still Ron thought it was quite possibly the sexiest thing he'd ever experienced. And the odd thing was, he didn't think she felt the same. She was hunched over him, digging hard into his flesh with her thumbs and fingers. Ron watched the play of muscles in her upper arms, her lower arms, her hands. He watched the way her breasts swayed under her sleeveless top. It was dark, yes, but he could still make out their silhouette against the glow in the hearth.

"Ron, you must try to relax-"

He couldn't stand it any longer. With a growl he grabbed her by the shoulders and, as he twisted, he pulled her shrieking down on top of him. She giggled a little as he tried to kiss her, and squirmed until her belly pressed against his need. Then she went still, her eyes rounded. Ron froze, too; terrified to even breathe. Slowly, a knowing smile spread across her face, and one of her hands snaked down his side, across his stomach, and found him. Even through his drawers and flannel, her slow, deliberate strokes - first down and then up again - left him whimpering. He couldn't believe it was happening, couldn't believe it was her touching him that way. He watched her face as she studied him, as her hand smoothed back and forth over him. She leaned down and kissed him deeply.

He grabbed her head roughly; there was no finesse left in him at the moment. He kissed her with his tongue, lips and teeth, with his very soul. But he couldn't get close enough. With a growl of frustration Ron grabbed her shoulders and rolled her beneath him – or he would have, had the bloody bed been wider. The two of them landed on the floor with a resounding thud of body and bone and stone. Hermione, having cushioned his fall, was a little worse for wear. She stared up at him, eyes wide and tearing, lips agape.

"Hermione?" he asked, and began to panic when she didn't immediately respond. He didn't know what to do, besides get off of her. Kneeling beside her Ron watched helplessly until her lungs began to work again and she took her first few gulps of air.

She struggled to sit up, and he helped her. Then she smacked him hard on the shoulder. Coughing and chest heaving she managed to get out: "What the bloody hell's wrong with you?"

"What?"

"Your attempt to kill me, that's what!"

"Hermio-"

"No!" She pushed away any would-be attempts to assure and console. "Don't touch me! You're dangerous!" When she got to her feet she crawled back on to the bed and threw Ron's pillow at him. "I think I'll sleep alone tonight."

"But - but that's my bed!" Ron said indignantly. "You can't throw a bloke out of his own bed!" She made a show of getting comfortable right in the middle of the mattress, and didn't respond. "Hermione! It was an accident, for Merlin's sake! The bloody bed's not big enough!"

"It's perfectly big enough for Ginny and Harry, isn't it?"

"Could we not bring up Harry every time we get in a row?"

"Is this a row? I'm just going back to sleep."

"Well, I'm not sleeping on the floor," Ron told her. She looked suggestively at Harry's empty, made bed. "Oh, no. I will not be put out of my own bed." When he noticed her gaze was a bit lower than his face he looked down and was reminded that his body hadn't yet gotten over its initial excitement. Pajama bottoms did little in the way of hiding anything.

"Would you stop staring at it?"

She looked away self-consciously. "It's out there. It's difficult not to notice."

Heat flared from the souls of his feet all the way to his scalp. He was sure he looked like a tomato…with one very striking difference. "Well, what do you expect? With you fondling-"

"I expect not to be thrown to the floor!"

"Fine, then!"

"Good!" She huffed, crossed her arms, and her breasts squished together and made that wonderful little crease that Ron loved so much. "So, it's all right for you to stare, then?" she asked pointedly.

Ron sighed, and looked away. "If you don't want me to look then you should wear something more lady-like," he snapped.

"So, now I'm not a lady?"

"You're in my bed, aren't you? Wearing next to nothing. Feeling me up and down, kissing the magic out of me. Not exactly lady-like behavior."

This time when her eyes went wide Ron knew for certain he'd gone too far. She stormed out of the room before he had a chance to think of an apology. It was late, he told himself by way of excuse for not stopping her. And he hadn't slept, so he wasn't thinking clearly. And, as he settled between his already-warm sheets he rationalized that it wasn't that he was glad she'd left, but he knew that he was. She complicated everything. Even sleeping. And he probably would've been glad for her absence had her scent not lingered on his pillows. No, he wasn't glad of anything. He wanted her, the way a wizard wants a witch.

Not five minutes later Harry stormed in. "What in the name of magic did you do this time?" he demanded from the foot of Ron's bed. His hair was messier than usual, and the right side of his face had a pillow imprint on it. "Hermione's in a state, I can tell you, and she said something about 'the prude,' which I took to be you."

"She's mental," Ron said, dismissingly. He was never a prude. She was a trollop.

"Yeah, well, she's kicked me out and sent Ginny back to Gryffindor, thanks a million!"

"Ginny's still sixteen, you know. She shouldn't be sleeping in her lover's bed, anyway."

Harry's color rose, as did the anger in his voice. "So, you deliberately sabotaged your relationship with your girlfriend so I couldn't spend the night with mine?"

"It was an accident!" Ron yelled, and bolted up in the bed. "And she's…she's…" Ron hung his head. She was too much for him. Ron couldn't imagine a lifetime of this. "She's mental. She's making me mental - I want her so much! Harry, just kill me now."

"I would if I didn't need you to keep me alive." He dove angrily on to his own bed. After a minute or two he asked, "You don't really have a problem with me and Ginny, do you?"

Did he? "Suppose not." It was weird, but there was something about it that seemed right.

"I'm going to marry her, you know."

Ron bolted up again. "She's sixteen!"

"Not now!" Harry said, and waved a calming hand at Ron. "Later. When she's graduated. After Voldemort."

"Oh," Ron said as he plopped back down on to his pillow. "That's all right, then." And then he thought about Harry and Ginny married, about them having a house together, having kids. He pictured Ginny as pregnant as Tonks had been, and then as dead. And Hermione dead. They might all be dead before the war played out. "It's real, isn't it? The Death Eaters and Tonks. And my dad. And you and Ginny. It's all real. We're not kids anymore, are we? You're going to have to kill someone – granted, he is the most evil wizard of all time, but still. It's life or death. Life and death. We're back at Hogwarts, but we're teaching. And it's not a game. It's real. We're going to go into a real battle, and it won't be over until someone is dead." It wasn't exactly a realization – he'd known all of this before. But his brain finally put the pieces together and for the first time he was able to see the full scope of the picture. They'd grown up and into their destinies.

Harry didn't say anything – not that there was really anything to be said.

Ron got up then, grabbed his robe from his trunk, and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Harry asked.

"To make love to my girl," Ron told him. "I've just decided it's now or never."

***

It took her a while to answer his pounding fist on the door, but when she did he didn't wait for an invitation. Ron stepped in to her, slipped his arms around her waist, pulled her to him and kissed her. By the third kiss she was melting against him. By the fifth or sixth he had her top off. They stumbled on their way to the bed, shedding clothing and kissing and touching.

Together they fell on the mattress, though this time she landed on him, which was just fine with Ron. His palms found the soft globes of her rear and he relished the feel of them in his kneading hands, the feel of her belly pressing in to him. His heart hammered, his lungs burned and he took to gasping in between kisses for air. Her knees bent on either side of him to straddle his hips. Her breasts swayed as she moved her hands over his chest, as she dipped her head down to kiss his lips, his neck, his shoulder. She touched him like she loved him, and suddenly Ron understood what it meant to be adored. And what's more, he knew he was adoring her – he could see it in the delight in her beautiful, dark eyes.

He skimmed his fingers down her sides, over the smooth skin and the rough scars, and he spread his fingers over her hips, over her thighs. It was hard to believe that this gorgeous, brilliant creature was his. He was so thankful to be hers. When she kissed her way back up to his mouth, his eyes prickled with tears. He didn't want them there, and didn't understand them. She must've sensed his distress, because she looked deep into his eyes. Her lips were wet and swollen, her expression full of desire. She didn't ask him about the single tear that rolled down his left cheek, but instead held out her hand. Her wand flew into her grasp.

"Meus uterus servo," she whispered, and single white pin-prick of light floated from the tip of her wand down to just below her navel. Her skin glowed as it absorbed the speck of magic, and then faded. She tossed the wand aside, and leaned closer to Ron again. Her nipples brushed the hairs on his chest.

"You're big. I want to be on top, this first time," she told him, as she reached between them. Her fingers curled around him, played with his tip.

"Anything you want," he managed with more of a breath than voice. He watched as she measured his weight in her hand, considering. "Stop thinking," he told her.

This made her smile. She rose up on her knees then, positioned his tip against herself. She leaned down to kiss him again, and as their tongues met, Hermione began to sink down over him. The sensation was more than Ron had expected – and nothing like he'd experienced on his own. She was wet and hot and so blissfully tight, and he pushed up deeper and deeper inside her. He felt the pressure rise fast and strong, and it overcame him before he could stop it. Ron cried out as he crested, and he thrust up each time his body surged. By the time he was spent he was so far within her that she sat on his pelvis, their bodies completely joined.

"Um…Ron?" she asked somewhat hesitantly.

He couldn't imagine what would have her so shy after what they'd just shared. "Hmm?" He was still soaring, floating, his body tingling and sated.

"Did you just…?"

"Hmm," he said. "Yup. Brilliant, it was."

"Oh." She didn't sound particularly pleased.

As he began to sink back down into his skin, a pleasant lethargy seeped into him. "You OK?" he asked.

"Fine," she said.

"That was brilliant," he told her. "Cheers."

She gasped, and he opened his eyes to a look of horror on her face. "Cheers?" she asked.

He yawned. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she said, but even in his post-coital state he could hear the disappointment in her voice. She lifted off of him, and winced as he slipped out of her like a wet fish. She collapsed on the bed beside him. "So, that's that, then."

"Hmm." He felt a blanket come up and cover him to mid-chest, and then her weight settle beside him. She sighed heavily, and Ron couldn't shake the feeling that all was not fine with her. He rolled on to his side and looked at her as she stared at the underside of the wood canopy. The blanket covered her chest, as well. He slowly pulled it down a little, and she didn't stop him.

"It wasn't so brilliant, I take it," he said, eyes full of the curve of her breast, her nipple, both bare for him now. "I thought it was brilliant."

"Yes, well…you finished, didn't you?"

This drew his attention up to her face. Her expression was blank, and she didn't look at him. "I did," he told her. But she hadn't. In Harry's lesson about girls topping off, he'd failed to mention how exactly one achieved that. Ron didn't even know where to begin. And he was exhausted. And couldn't he just slip off to sleep? It would be so easy…

"I suppose I'll have to get you a book, too. Something with pictures, I dare say," she barbed.

"Honestly, with the books!" Ron whined. Although, if she had to get him a book, one with moving pictures… "Can't you just, I don't know, show me?" He ran a finger up the inside of her arm and smiled as she shivered. She didn't stop him, so he took that as an invitation to lean closer and kiss the side of her breast, then the top. Then the nipple. He loved the way she gasped when he sucked it into his mouth, and the tiny little whimper as he rolled its hard tip with his tongue. Her fingers laced through his hair, her nails scrapped his scalp. This, she liked. He did, too.

Her hand found him as he slipped his down beneath the covers and over the soft, flat of her belly. He thought she was going to stop him, but she guided him down lower instead. Slowly his fingers found a patch of soft hair – far softer than his – and she made a sweet sound as he explored. Her hand urged him on, though, and as he cupped her there between her legs, one of her fingers bent and forced his down into her wet heat. This was where he had just been. Was that blood?

He pulled his hand up and examined his fingers. Not blood, then. That was a relief. He looked back at her watching him. She was so very beautiful.

Ron slipped his hand back down her body, back to where she had led him, and sank another finger inside her. Her gasp woke his body again, went straight down from his belly to his groin. Her hand found his once more, and she guided him up just a little, until he found a small, swollen bead of flesh. She groaned.

"There," she said on a gasp. There, it was.

When he moved his finger in circles around that spot her head rolled to the side and her eyes glazed over. When he moved across it, she panted and mewled. When he added pressure her hips thrust up against him. She pulled his head to hers and kissed him deeply. He wanted to be inside her again.

As he worked her, her hands ran over his body; his shoulders and arms, his waist and stomach, his bare hips. She found him stiff and sensitive, and he bucked as she ran a thumb over his tip. Then her hand was gone, whipped to his face, and she held his head as she kissed the bloody hell out of him. It was a kiss that left them both breathless.

"On your back," she commanded, and he immediately complied. She straddled him, pulled his hand from her thigh, and placed his thumb back on that special place between her legs. For a few moments she was still as stone as he played and teased. Her breasts quivered under her ragged breath, and that all too-familiar throbbing need returned. Her hips began to sway in a slow, rolling rhythm above him, against his hand, and she closed her eyes as she touched her own nipples. Ron groaned at the sight.

Something in her twitched, and she reached down for him, positioned him against her body's core once more. "Don't stop," she said with a ragged whisper, as she leaned forward and braced herself on his chest. "Faster," she urged. His thumb, while clumsier than his finger, was more than happy to comply.

She twitched again, and then slammed down on him, and Ron lost all ability to think or move or breath. He was vaguely aware that he'd grabbed her hips, that he was bucking up into her, that she cried out. But the look of awe, of revelation on her face was one he would never forget. Her eyes poured into his, as if she was reading his very soul, and he felt a new stirring deep within him. His magic was responding to her, too. He reached out to her with it, found her well, and without adding or subtracting he allowed his energy to swirl against hers. She gave a guttural cry, and went stiff and still.

Her body was tight and hot and convulsing, and unable to ignore his own need any longer Ron pushed up and up, and in to her - reaching and straining and pushing until he finally found his crest and he floated there, suspended, for the span of a heartbeat. She collapsed on top of him, but his hips still worked as he emptied inside her. And then spent, his body went limp, his mind went dark, his magic slipped back to his well, and he floated away in a cloud of pure bliss.

He felt her stir, and that's what brought him back to himself. She pulled off of him, and settled beside him with a leg bent over his, and her head pillowed on his shoulder. His arm slipped naturally around her back, his hand settled in the curve of her waist. He kissed her head, nuzzled his cheek into her fluffy hair. His heart rate returned to normal. It became increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open; not that it mattered much. He felt the blanket settle over them again, felt her sigh. And as he drifted off to sleep he thought he heard her murmur "Love," or some such thing. Later he would look back at that perfect moment, though, and wonder if it hadn't been his own thoughts he heard.

End of chapter 17