Dedication: To Artemis” thank you so much for all of your kind support and encouragement. Your consistent reviews leave me wanting to write more every time. This one’s for you.
Debacle and Disclosure
Mirror, mirror,
Despite this foundation
I am falling.
Sweet reflection,
Will you save a picture for me?
For what I am about to do
Could I ever repent?
Mirror, mirror,
Despite this bolt
I am wide open.
Sweet reflection,
Will you save a picture for me?
Mirror, mirror,
Despite this foundation
I am falling.
Sweet reflection,
When will you show
The only real question:
How far am I ready to go?
The following day dawned bright and blustery as the sun’s soft rays skipped off smooth surfaces and the window panes hummed with the wind. The usually cool, dark corridors of Grimmauld Place were receiving a long overdue bath in light; and all across the house, dust particles shined and danced in midair, finally, with the help of the effervescent sun, able to signal their arrival for the first time in weeks.
At the moment, however, nearly the whole of the house’s guests were crowded in the basement kitchen, staring at a very late breakfast of toast and eggs. Every chair at the long, weathered table was taken, shoulders nearly bumping together each time a person reached for the pumpkin juice.
Though for all its occupancy, the room remained in dense silence.
Harry sat at one corner, his eyes hazy as he watched his eggs for any sign of life. To his left, Hermione was sipping slowly from her cup and trying to convince herself that she wasn’t anxious, she wasn’t nervous, she wasn’t confused, she wasn’t vexed, she wasn’t.
Taking a deep, fulfilling breath, she poked at her crust with a fork before managing to glance up. Across the table sat George, his plate untouched. Beside him, Ginny was reclined in her seat, not even making an attempt to look half-interested in her food.
She must have felt Hermione’s gaze on her, because she looked up and the two girls locked eyes. Hermione tried her best to force a sad, understanding smile, but must’ve failed miserably as Ginny quickly returned to focusing on the butter.
“Has anyone discussed where we go from here?” Ginny suddenly asked, eyes narrowing but still averted.
The sound of speech visibly startled Tonks and a couple others who were clearly lost to their own dark musings. Mrs. Weasley, however, didn’t seem phased.
“Of course we have.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Weasley affirmed, “we’re just””
“Still in the process of mapping it out,” interjected Lupin, sensing Molly’s thinning patience.
Ginny turned in her seat to face George. “Has anyone told you anything?” she asked sulkily.
George shook his head, then took a quick swig of his drink.
“I suspected as much,” she resumed, back to glaring at the table. “None of us are ever kept in the loop.”
“Ginny, you’re not in the Order, you”” began Mrs. Weasley.
“So? Does that mean I’m expected to just lie around and watch everyone die?”
Hermione stiffened and watched Harry carefully from the corner of her eye. He was looking at Ginny now, all pretense of contentment gone from his features.
“Ginny,” cried Arthur loudly, his tone firm and distraught, “no one’s going to die. You’re simply going to””
“I’m not an idiot. Someone’s bound to die,” mumbled Ginny under her breath, only audible for Harry, Hermione, and George.
“”have to be patient while we plan things out. The honest truth is we’re not sure how to best attack You-Know-Who at the moment. He’s well-protected and needless to say, incredibly powerful.”
The room fell quiet again. Hermione’s gaze shifted from Weasley to Weasley until finally resting back on Harry. His jaw was set and his posture made it blatantly evident that he was on edge. Hermione wondered whether he was considering telling them of their plans to find a Horcrux at Voldemort’s orphanage.
“We have dozens of guards stationed around London, Surrey, and Wales to protect the Muggles in case of an attack,” said Lupin quietly, his face coming out of the shadowed corner to reveal dark circles beneath his eyes. “And we’ve just sent fifty or so to northern Scotland and Wilshire to do some undercover scoping. Charlie’s going off to Romania tonight,” he continued, nodding towards Charlie, “to round up as many wizards as he can. His connections say there’s at least a hundred willing to come and help.”
At this moment, Moody made a loud clatter with his silverware. “Hundred won’t be enough,” he said hoarsely, watching Harry with his normal eye and, apparently, watching the ceiling with his other. “We need an army here, not a damned militia.”
Mr. Weasley scooted his chair closer to the table and placed his elbows on either side of his plate. “We’ve also got Bill and Fleur working on the Beauxbatons’ staff,” he said. “They’re proving difficult to convince, but Madam Maxine will be joining them tomorrow. We expect her support will really help unite France’s magical community against the Death Eaters.”
Harry shifted in his seat. Hermione felt sure he was feeling guilty about not confiding in them their Horcrux plan; but, she felt equally sure he had just decisively decided he wouldn’t.
She knew him. He didn’t want them distracted over and focused on something they couldn’t help. The Horcruxes were his responsibility. Voldemort was his responsibility. The Order could only fight one half of the war. And there was no sense in causing hype over the other half they couldn’t control.
“Try not to lose too much sleep, Ginny,” Lupin implored, though his rigid posture defied his request. “We’re doing all we can.”
“What about Professor McGonagall?” said Harry abruptly, leaning forward in his seat. “It’s going on a week. We should’ve heard something by now.”
Hermione was not comforted by how Lupin’s eyes immediately went dark at the mention of McGonagall’s name. If he had looked tense before, he was as edgy and stiff as a board now. Quickly, he flashed a look to Moody.
“You’re right,” he muttered despondently, “which is why we’ve sent Hagrid and Slughorn to Hogwarts to find them.”
Hermione blinked.
“Slughorn?” questioned Harry, disbelief etched in his brows.
For a fleeting moment, Lupin looked almost amused by Harry’s reaction. “Yes, I know. Very unlike him, isn’t it?” He inhaled deeply. “But, it seems when he arrived home late one night from Hogsmeade and found the Dark Mark glaring above his roof, and his entire home scorched with burning spells, he decided it was safer to choose a side. And seeing as how we don’t usually burn innocent wizard’s homes, he chose ours.”
Hermione digested the news with a dose of optimism. Perhaps Slughorn represented many wizards at the moment. Perhaps too many were simply afraid, afraid to join the fight; but if, like Slughorn, they inevitably found the fight on their doorstep anyway, they’d be inspired to step in.
She turned her neck to watch Harry’s reaction. Again, he looked contemplative, his profile unmoving as he stared straight ahead at the sink.
After a long minute, Hermione noticed he wasn’t the only one caught in a trance of reflection. Everyone, even Ginny, appeared to be lost to their own thoughts, analyzing and planning.
And still, no one had touched their food. Now, the only sound resonating through the still air was that of Fred’s knife scratching aimlessly, thoughtfully across the wooden table”
Until suddenly, Moody’s bulging, electric blue eye swirled madly in its widened socket, pointing up again at the ceiling, before quickly jerking back to the room at large. “Pomfrey’s coming.”
Hermione froze.
Ron.
Suddenly all the air seemed to be missing. Hermione’s face grew hot with nervous anticipation and she instinctively reached over to grasp Harry’s arm. His hand slid to meet hers, fingers wrapping firmly together. Despite recent events, there was no awkwardness in the touch. Only comfort.
Hermione’s eyes darted to Mrs. Weasley. She had gone white as paper and had apparently also gone weak in the limbs, for Arthur was cupping her hand without reciprocation.
Ginny’s eyes were wide; Fred swallowed visibly.
The room shrank.
And now they could hear her footsteps. She was coming. She had news. Important news, by the sound of her rapidly approaching feet. He was either dead or conscious. One or the other. The hurriedness of her impending stride left no room for a middle ground.
Twenty feet away.
Ten.
Two.
The door swung open. And there stood Madam Pomfrey, flushed and glistening with a thin layer of sweat. The bags beneath her eyes made Lupin’s look like poorly applied mascara. But somehow, she was” grinning?
“He’s awake,” she said, out of breath, clenching her right hand around the doorknob for support.
A relieved sob echoed from behind Hermione as the room regained its normal size. Mrs. Weasley began crying onto her husband’s shoulder, completely overcome.
Harry was staring. His blazing green orbs were bright and glassy, and growing wider though his mouth kept thinning. Until finally, he blinked several times, and released a heavy breath, his chest shaking with the weight of it. Then he turned to Hermione, intense, relieved disbelief in his eyes as he searched her.
She felt a tingling sensation spring to life behind her lids and knew she wouldn’t be able to stop the tears of joy. Smiling broadly, she reached out and threw herself onto Harry in one swift, tight embrace.
They stood there, hugging, for an indeterminable amount of time. The kitchen was buzzing now with renewed conversation, everyone bustling to hear how he’d come out of it and who’d get to see him first.
“Actually,” Pomfrey began, sounding somewhat reluctant, “he… he’s asked to see Ms. Granger first. Alone.”
Some of the talking immediately died down. Hermione let go of Harry and turned to look Madam Pomfrey directly in the eye.
“Me?” she questioned skeptically, utterly thrown.
The older woman only nodded, incapable of hiding her disapproval.
Hermione immediately sought Harry’s eyes. When she found them again, they were happier than she’d seen in months, yet somehow, not quite right. They were darker than before. A hole swallowed her stomach as her mind raced with a thousand possibilities for why that was.
But he blinked again, and nodded, mentally ushering her through the threshold. Hermione looked back at the others and caught Mrs. Weasley’s eye.
Noting the soft expression she found there, Hermione shook her surprise and shot Harry one last look, before stepping out the door and making her way up the stairs.
It took all the willpower in Harry’s veins to stop himself from pacing. From his windowsill, he lazily watched little brown and gold birds soar through the treetops as he tried to force his mind to recall what it felt like to be free in the air, searching for the snitch.
He supposed that was the real beauty of it: knowing what to do. There was comfort in the familiar. To most teenagers, the idea of finding” let alone catching” such a tiny, discreet object as the golden snitch was quite the burden. The entire game rested on your shoulders. Your Housemates were watching. Your teachers. And if you didn’t find it? The pressure was too much to be loved.
But that’s what made it so easy for Harry. It was one responsibility. One goal. It wasn’t complex, it wasn’t ambiguous, there was no mystery. He knew what needed to be done, how it needed to be done, and he did it. This, more than anything, was what made Quidditch so unlike anything else in his life.
Sighing deeply, Harry tore his eyes away from the window and fixed his gaze on his wrists. They were still red and the skin around them looked slightly singed. But it was a vast improvement. The bruising around his jaw and eye socket had all but disappeared, but remained just as sore as ever.
Rubbing his left wrist, he sat staring blankly at his bedpost. The first hints of pink and orange were falling from the sky now, soft as lace, their gentle tint peeking through the feathery clouds.
But Harry wasn’t aware of any of it as he continued to nurse his wounds. Discarding the pretense of Quidditch, he resumed his anxious ruminations over Ron.
But just then, a light knock sounded against his door.
Beginning with a mane of unruly, curly brown hair, a hesitant figure peeped inside from the hallway. “Can I come in?”
Harry stared at her for a moment before nodding. “How is he?”
“Good,” she said, shutting the door with a soft click. But something in her tone suggested otherwise. Not that she was lying, necessarily, but that she was hiding… something. Her eyes were unnaturally lost and busy, surveying the room as if to keep herself distracted.
“He’s up and talking, then?” Harry asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said after a pause, solidifying Harry’s suspicion that her mind was elsewhere. “He’s” doing well. He won’t eat though, and can’t remember anything about being with Voldemort. You should have seen his face when I told him,” she tried to chuckle, but failed, her voice mirthless. “His ears went bright red. But the last thing he recalls is being at the Burrow, fighting off the Death Eaters with you.”
Harry watched her. Throughout her entire explanation, she’d never once looked up to meet his eyes. Right now, even, his worries increased as he noticed her hands fumbling together.
There was definitely something going on.
“Hermione” what’s wrong?”
Her head snapped up. “What? Nothing! I’ve told you, he’s doing as well as can be expected””
“You were in there for hours. Something had to’ve happened.”
Hermione’s mouth hung open a bit, her eyes flashing from Harry’s face to the floor. She wrapped her arms around herself in a protective manner, clearly fighting some internal struggle.
Finally, she stepped forward and sat on his bed, arms still cradling her abdomen. She looked lost and vulnerable, her entire presence swallowed by her obvious agony.
Harry was getting exceedingly worried. There was something different, an added element almost, to her despondency, and it was completely separate from what he was used to seeing.
“Hermione?” he asked quietly, stepping closer.
She shut her eyes a moment before slowly turning her head. Harry watched her with growing unease. The palms of his hands felt sticky and cool.
It took several terse minutes before she hesitantly opened her mouth.
“I… kissed him,” she breathed, eyes growing glassy when she looked up to see Harry’s face go pale. “I kissed Ron,” she repeated, sounding disbelieving now, her voice on the verge of cracking.
Harry’s shoulders went rigid. His breathing paused and his eyes searched hers intensely, looking as if they were fighting off whatever thoughts were clawing to the surface.
“Harry, I’m”” she choked on the lump in her throat, mouth running dry. Her voice was a low, rough whisper, but it shook the room. “I was only trying to take your advice,” she begged, “doing something before it was too late” I””
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he managed hoarsely, quietly.
Hermione fell silent. She kept swallowing hard, the skin of her throat rising and falling in cruel quiet waves.
Harry wasn’t looking at her now. His head was bowed low, leaving Hermione’s stomach clenched tight as she surveyed his shadow.
The dead quiet rang in her ears. She had never felt so lightheaded in all her years as she struggled with what to think.
But after a while, Harry slowly peered up and forced the faintest of smiles. “Besides, I probably would’ve done the same,” he joked, consciously pleading that she’d stop looking at him like that.
But she didn’t. She didn’t smile at his line or pretend to be uplifted by it. She only hung her head lower, placidly watching the shapes on the floor and wishing her voice would say something on its own accord.
Harry wet his lips and turned away. There was a growing sickness swelling inside his stomach. He had to get away. He couldn’t keep watching her.
He cleared his throat to make sure it wouldn’t shake. “I’m going to see him,” he muttered, and left her sitting there before she could think of something to say.
Once outside the room, he had to physically control his arm from slamming the door shut. He breathed, fighting the urge to go back and talk to her.
With measured steps, Harry strode down the hall, whisking through the still-glowing dust and leaving it swirling angrily in his wake. Every time his feet hit the floor, he felt heavier, weighed down.
He reached the stairs that took him to the third floor, but stopped at the first step. Placing his left hand on the railing, he leaned all his body into it, his head facing the ground. His chest heaved with powerful, wobbly inhalation.
Then abruptly, he pushed himself from the stairs and ran into the nearest room. It was empty except for a desk, a chair, and a few side tables.
He shut the door with a loud snap and closed his eyes, back pressed against the wall. He stood there for several long minutes, reminding himself to keep steady, to keep collected.
He rubbed the palms of his hands against his eyes, pushing hard. But it wasn’t enough.
Flinging his lids open, he took a quick step towards the desk and kicked powerfully at its leg, causing it to topple over and land on the floor with a harsh thump. His breathing ragged, he stared at it and wanted nothing more than to throw it across the room, break it, hex it, anything.
His body shook. His hands balled into fists. But he didn’t scream, didn’t flinch, didn’t show any of it. The only proof of his complex suffering lay battered, though intact, on the floor.
And that’s where he left it as he threw open the door and flew up the stairs, willing his mind to forget what Hermione had told him.
When he reached the room where Ron was staying, he paused and ran a hand through his hair. He felt himself calm slightly at the sound of the Weasleys’ voices.
Allowing himself one last minute, he shut his eyes a moment before stepping inside.
Mrs. Weasley turned to see him enter, a huge grin breaking across her face. “Oh Harry,” she squealed, jumping from her seat to wrap him in a tight, motherly hug. “Thank Merlin for you,” she said, brimming with grateful delight. “This is the second time you’ve saved my son” and he’s all right! He’s perfectly fine,” she sniffled, letting him go. “Thank you, dear.”
Harry’s face burned hot. He didn’t think he deserved such praise. “Oh, err… no problem.”
Mrs. Weasley held him by the shoulders and peered at him a moment longer, happy little tears trailing down her rosy cheeks before she released him completely and turned to the others. “All right, let’s give them a few minutes alone,” she called.
Ginny exited and when Fred and George walked passed, they gave Harry a gentle smile and an appreciative pat on the arm. Mr. Weasley shook his hand, unable to speak his thanks with the emotion still caught in his throat.
Soon, they were all out. Turning back to the bed, he finally saw Ron.
He was sitting up, propped on some pillows and enjoying a tall mug of butterbeer. His face had lost much of its color and his hair was sticking to his forehead, but he otherwise looked fairly healthy.
Harry grinned, momentarily remembering nothing besides the fact that his best friend was alive.
“My hero,” said Ron with a smirk.
Harry couldn’t stop his smile from expanding. “Shut it,” he teased, pulling up a seat.
“No, really, Harry,” he said, quirking an eyebrow and widening his eyes. “You’re my knight in shinning armor. I’m seeing you in a whole new light here. Either that or I’m being blinded by that bloody halo over your head.”
Harry laughed and relaxed into his seat, ignoring the pang of guilt chilling his skin. “Don’t be a prat, I only did what anyone’d do for their best mate.”
Ron’s nose scrunched up. “You are mental if you think the average bloke would walk about looking for You-Know-Who, best mate at stake or not. Insane, that is! I nearly couldn’t believe it when they told me,” he admitted, “that is, until I remembered it was you we were talking about.” He leaned back on his pillow, looking pleased with himself. “Knew from the first moment I saw you it’d be a good idea to make friends. Pay-off’s been great.”
Harry took a refreshing breath of air and continued to smile broadly. He didn’t remember how good it felt having Ron around until he’d almost lost him.
“Fred and George reckon I should be your house elf,” he explained, taking a drink of butterbeer. “After all the times you’ve saved our skins? Honestly, there’s been Ginny, Dad, me” twice now! That ‘noble’ bullocks is actually pretty attractive, you know. It’s made me realize why Ginny fell for you so hard. I’ve been thinking me and you should have a go too,” he winked, unable to hold in his hilarity.
Harry stared at him a moment before breaking out in laughter. Ron joined in and the two sat there a long while, grinning like they were back at Hogwarts in third year, laughing over one of Seamus’ stupid jokes.
But eventually, Harry realized what he’d said about Ginny, and his laughter faded. He knew Ron didn’t know yet, about his breaking things off permanently with his sister.
And this made him realize how much else Ron couldn’t yet know.
A picture of Hermione sprung to mind, and he felt his chest tighten.
But Ron was looking directly at him now, his ears taking on another tinge of pink. “Seriously, though,” he began somewhat meekly, “…thanks.”
Harry nodded, blood rushing to his face. “Don’t mention it.” Then, coughing away his previous thoughts, “I guess they’ve told you what happened?”
Snuggling further into his pillows, Ron took a heavy breath. “Yeah. Hermione” she told me first. Then everyone in my family had to retell their version, so I’ve pretty much got ten thousand perspectives of information banging in my head.”
Harry dug his hands into his pockets. “All right, good. I’m glad. I don’t fancy retelling the whole thing.”
“Well, let me get something straight though,” Ron mulled as he chewed reflectively on the side of his mouth. “You-Know-Who” he knows about the prophecy?”
Harry nodded solemnly. “Yeah.”
Ron let out a long breath, then shook his head. “How?”
“Snape,” Harry replied simply. “The night Dumbledore was”” he momentarily faltered at the thought. “”killed,” he resumed, “Snape planted himself in his office. Dumbledore wasn’t expecting it, so… his pensieve was just lying there. Snape found the memory of him hearing the prophecy and told Voldemort.”
At this, Ron’s lips thinned in anger. “Bastard,” he muttered, “we’ve been saying it all along, haven’t we? Bloody prick.”
Harry scoffed in concurrence. Then, “But there is something I need to tell you, something the others don’t know.” He stopped, considering. “Unless Hermione’s told you already.”
Ron’s brows knitted together as he watched Harry from the corner of his eye. “Err… I dunno, probably not.” Then he leaned in a bit closer, but avoided Harry’s gaze. “She’s, uhh… she was acting a bit strange, honestly.”
Harry’s stomach squirmed. Focus, he told himself. “How?”
Ron gritted his teeth, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. “I dunno mate, she was just… well, she” she kissed me, for starters.”
Ron’s face had never been so red. It almost outdid Uncle Vernon’s.
Harry felt the now-familiar sense of deep burning in his chest resurface. He wanted to recoil, wanted to think about anything else, but kept a straight expression. “That’s… good, isn’t it?”
Ron made a face, then shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess… but it wasn’t at all like her. Out of the blue like that?”
Ron didn’t catch the odd flash of emotion in Harry’s eyes. “Well, we sort of talked about it the other night.”
“Yeah?” Ron perked up.
Harry nodded, swallowing hard. “I just” I told her she should do something before it was too late.”
Ron’s entire head remained red as a beet, but he shot Harry an appreciative look.
Silence. Minutes of silence, in which Harry pleaded for the knot in his abdomen to loosen enough to breathe properly.
But before he could focus, Ron was sitting up straighter and fixing Harry with a fervent glare.
“Well? Aren’t you going to ask me how it was?” Ron demanded.
No, Harry thought instinctively. But he gathered himself quickly, and with a dose of humility said, “Oh” err… how was it?”
“Weird,” he immediately responded, looking far-off. “Mind you, it was bound to be that way… after being friends for so long,” he stated, but Harry could hear the uncertainty in his voice.
And his guilt came crashing down full-force when he consciously thought that being friends wouldn’t necessarily make it “weird”” and he would know. For “weird,” he knew, was one of the last words Harry would use to describe it.
But to Ron, he only nodded, his hands reaching to wipe the dampness off on his trousers.
“Anyway,” Harry resumed, not liking the quietness of the room and how he was sure his heart could be heard through it, “did she mention anything about the Horcruxes?”
A light crease formed between Ron’s eyes. “Yeah, a bit, but she said she wanted to leave it to you to tell me.”
“All right,” he began, sitting up a little straighter. “Well, we spent a while deciding where we might find one. We came up with a couple fair options, Merope Gaunt’s old house being one of them. But we decided” his orphanage is a good place to start. When Voldemort was a kid, you know,” he clarified.
Ron shook his head and successfully masked his shudder at Voldemort’s name. “Is it just me, or is it too weird to think about him being a kid?”
The corner of Harry’s lip lifted slightly. “Yeah.”
“D’you know what we’re looking for?” asked Ron.
Taking a deep breath, Harry shrugged. “Not really. I reckon it’ll be one of those things where we’ll know it when we see it.”
Ron didn’t look comforted or reassured, but Harry could tell he was trying to look content with the answer. “Don’t worry,” Harry promised, “if it’s there, we’ll find it.”
“What about destroying it once we do have it?” he raised curiously, a hint of uncertainty magnifying his voice.
But for Harry, it was the first topic of the day in which he felt wholly confident. “Did Hermione tell you how the last Horcrux was destroyed? Hufflepuff’s goblet?”
Ron considered for a moment before nodding in recognition.
“I got the idea from that” that’s the key to it,” said Harry.
Ron looked incredulous. “Key to what?” he raised an eyebrow.
“All of it,” he answered, “we’ve got to get the soul out of the object. We’ve got to make it completely vulnerable. Once we do that, it’ll be easy destroying it. We’ll just do the same Hermione did” killing curse.”
Ron still wasn’t looking convinced. “Yeah, but… that sounds easier said than done, mate. Before, You-Know-Who did it for you, right? Probably used some intricate, half-invented spell we’ll never be able to figure out.”
Harry nodded in agreement. “But we won’t be using a spell.”
Entirely confused now, Ron eyed Harry like he was going mad. “Then what’ll we use? A can opener?”
Harry couldn’t stop his faint, lopsided grin emerging at the look on Ron’s face. But when he spoke, his words struck with the force of gravity.
“The best thing anyone could use when you’re trying to suck the soul out of something.”
Finally, Ron’s eyes dawned with comprehension.