Harry woke up late the next day, still a bit tired. He had a fuzzy sort of recollection of a strange dream waking him up in the night, but he had no idea what it had been about. The only thing he could remember was that it had been disturbing. Even once he'd opened his eyes, he was reluctant to leave the comfort of his bed. Seeing Ginny yesterday had been a wonderful surprise. To know she was still there, constant and caring, had been just what he needed. Except now, he missed her even more. Those few precious hours had been nowhere near enough, and now the emptiness hit him all the more painfully.

But then he realised if he lay here in bed and thought about it, it only made things worse. It might be better if he did get up and find something to do that would take his mind off of the situation. Or write to Ginny. Perhaps writing all this down would ease the hurt some. That's what he'd do, as soon as he'd had something to eat.

By the time he'd got dressed and gone down to breakfast, it was past ten, and he fully expected to have to see to fixing himself some toast or a bowl of cereal on his own. He was surprised to find Mr Weasley sitting at the kitchen table still in his pyjamas, his bad leg propped up on a spare chair. Mrs Weasley was standing at the stove, muttering under her breath.

"Morning," Harry greeted, idly glancing at the Daily Prophet, which was lying on the table, as he took a seat. He'd expected there to be a picture from yesterday on the front page, and there was. It took up half of the front page, the entire space of the paper that Harry was able to see, since it was folded in half. He could see his photographic self sitting motionless on the platform surrounded by Hermione, Ron, Ginny and the Ministry officials. He pushed the paper aside. He wasn't really in the mood to read an account of yesterday's proceedings.

"Good morning Harry!" Mr Weasley replied quite brightly, almost too brightly, looking up from his bowl of porridge. Harry thought the older man looked rather tired, which was hardly astonishing, since he'd spent a good part of the previous afternoon standing on his injured leg.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Harry asked, wondering if he'd get an honest reply. He knew Mr Weasley's leg should have healed by now if he'd merely broken it. There was no reason he should still have a noticeable limp when he walked.

"Just fine. Bit tired from yesterday, but that'll pass."

Mrs Weasley plunked a bowl of porridge in front of Harry. "Good morning, dear," she said pleasantly enough, but there was an underlying note of tension in her voice. When she returned to the stove, she replaced the lid on the pot of porridge much more loudly than necessary, making Harry wonder what she was put out about.

A heavy silence fell over the room as Harry began to eat. Mrs Weasley sat down at the table with them, setting her mug of tea down a bit too hard and sloshing the contents over the tabletop. "Honestly!" she hissed under her breath.

Harry stirred at his porridge, wondering what was going on, as the tension in the room seemed to mount. He felt as if he ought to ask what was wrong, but he didn't quite dare. He was afraid this might have something to do with the fact that he'd managed to get caught up in Ginny's Portkey last night, although he had no idea how the elder Weasleys might have found out about that. They'd left the celebrations early last night, and by the time he'd come back to the Burrow, they'd gone to bed.

So instead of enquiring about what really might be going on, he cleared his throat and brought up something else that was on his mind, something related that might allow him to test the waters a bit. "Mr Weasley," he began, "I'd like to thank you for bringing Ginny down from school yesterday."

Mr Weasley seemed to jump. "Oh, it was nothing really. You ought to be thanking Molly. She insisted on me going to get Ginny. She said it was important to you."

Harry turned to Mrs Weasley, reddening as he did so. She'd known how he was feeling yesterday, and she'd given him the best thing she could to lift his spirits. "Thank you," he said to her quietly.

Mrs Weasley smiled, and for a moment her expression softened. "That's quite all right, dear. On a day like yesterday it was only right to have your whole family around you."

Harry swallowed hard. "Well, I appreciate it. You knew I was having a bad day, and you saved it from being even worse. And… she can get me out of my moods. You know that, don't you?"

Mrs Weasley nodded, and Harry went on, the words tumbling out before he could really think about what he was saying or stop them. "She makes me look at the world around me. She makes me see. And I don't know how she does it. Hell, I don't know why she even does it. That she even thinks I'm worth…"

He stopped suddenly, realising what an idiot he must sound like. Mr and Mrs Weasley were both staring at him as if in shock. They weren't used to him going on like this, he told himself, as he ducked his head and spooned some porridge into his mouth, just so he wouldn't have to look at either of them. He waited for Mrs Weasley's wrath to descend on him, but it didn't come.

The taut silence descended once more. Harry continued to eat, but he wasn't really hungry, and the tension that began to grow in the room once more didn't do anything for his appetite. Mr Weasley fidgeted in his chair as if he was having a difficult time finding a comfortable position.

"Shouldn't your leg have healed by now?" Harry asked, as much to break the silence as anything.

Mr Weasley looked up at Harry warily.

"I mean I don't know a whole lot about healing charms," he rushed on, "but I know Madam Pomfrey was always able to patch me up quickly. I lost all the bones in my arm once, and she healed it overnight…"

Harry had obviously said the wrong thing. Mr and Mrs Weasley exchanged a glance that told him he was treading in unwelcome territory. Suddenly Mrs Weasley spoke up, and Harry knew she was trying to change the subject. "Harry, you know I found your cloak down here this morning, and it was soaked through."

Harry had left his cloak spread out over the stove, thinking it would dry over night. "Oh, it was raining when I came home," he hedged. "I got caught in it before I could activate my Portkey."

"Really? I didn't think it looked like it was going to rain in Diagon Alley," Mrs Weasley commented. "Towards the end of the day, I thought it looked as if it might clear up."

"Oh, this was up at Hog-" Harry stopped but it was too late. If the elder Weasleys hadn't known where he'd ended up last night, they certainly did now. "What I mean to say is," he went on in a rush, "Ginny and I were… well we were saying goodbye, and it was later than we thought it was. So when her Portkey activated, I sort of went with her. But nothing happened…"

The expression on Mrs Weasley's face made him stop and swallow. Mr Weasley had broken into a coughing fit that was somehow reminiscent of Ron. "Now Molly, they could well have been holding hands when that happened…"

"…Not that it would have," Harry went on as if Mr Weasley hadn't spoken. His brain seemed determined to get him into as much trouble as possible. "We just landed in the entrance hall and Filch kicked me out. And when I got outside it was raining, hard, so, well I got wet…"

He trailed off lamely, knowing he sounded like a complete prat. He couldn't look either of them in the eye. He had to look somewhere, anywhere else. His gaze settled on the Daily Prophet, and he reached for it.

"Oh, I don't think you want to look at that, dear," Mrs Weasley said quickly.

It was too late. Harry had already unfolded the paper and seen that the part of the front page that had been folded under was covered with an article on yesterday's ceremony. Harry's eye immediately fell on the by-line: Rita Skeeter. His stomach churned unpleasantly, but he began to read in spite of himself. It wasn't long before he realised why Mrs Weasley had seemed so angry earlier.

His hands began to shake, as anger welled up in him, but he held it in. It wasn't possible; it just wasn't possible. How could she print such lies? The article insinuated that Harry had knowingly taken recourse to the Dark Arts when he'd banished Voldemort, and that the Ministry was now rewarding him for that. He didn't even want the money they'd given to him, he thought hotly; he was still thinking of how he might use some of it, at least, to help those who had been affected by the war, and to commemorate those who had died. To make things worse, she'd hinted that by insisting on having his friends at his side yesterday, he was merely looking to share the blame should this ever come to light. And after what she'd done to Sirius… Harry's stomach clenched as bile rose in his throat.

"Now, Harry," Mrs Weasley said, obviously noting his reaction, "perhaps you're just better off leaving that. We all know you've never had anything to do with dark magic, and we know the real reason you wanted Hermione, Ron and Ginny beside you yesterday. It had nothing to do with sharing any blame."

"Just try to ignore it as best you can, Harry," Mr Weasley advised. "Those who really know you, know none of this is true."

But why? Why should he ignore her? She'd been getting away with publishing lies about whomever she pleased for years. And that was the problem; everyone ignored her or worse believed her, so she just kept on. But what could Harry do about it?

He didn't bother replying to either of the Weasleys. His appetite had disappeared altogether now, and he pushed back his chair. Ignoring Mrs Weasley's concerned look, he stalked back up the stairs to Ron's room. He had a letter to write to Ginny.

It turned out to be a very angry one, in which he ended up describing all the ways he'd like to torture Rita Skeeter until she died in excruciating agony. He felt a bit better once he'd sent it off with Hedwig, but he was still unhappy with the situation. He wanted to do something to stop Rita Skeeter, but what could he do? She'd been spewing her venom for years without anyone being able to do anything about it, seemingly. One of her favourite targets was the Ministry of Magic, and if there was something that could have been done about her, surely the Ministry would have done it. And in all he'd been learning about the laws of wizarding society lately, he didn't recall seeing anything that would prevent Rita from continuing. In any case, he knew his department had much bigger fish to fry.

"I suppose I could try to beat her at her own game," Harry said to himself at last. At least he could try to set things right for Sirius. He didn't feel it would look quite right if he wrote anything in his own defence, but if he could make people see that the article about Sirius had been a lie, perhaps they'd doubt the rest of what she wrote.

He took out a fresh piece of parchment and began to write. He'd burnt off a good bit of his earlier anger in the letter to Ginny, so it was much easier for him to think level-headedly about this. He was careful in his choice of words as he began to write down Sirius' story, thinking of the solicitors he'd been sent to observe in court, and how cleverly they phrased things to be at their most convincing. He made sure he emphasised the great wrong that had been done to his godfather so many years ago, the fact that he'd merely been made to look guilty without a shred of truly reliable proof. It had all been about appearances then, and it still was today.

Once he'd finished he realised that he was now stuck without an owl, as he'd already sent Hedwig off with the letter to Ginny. He made his way back down the stairs, hoping that Errol was up to the task. Mrs Weasley had sent him off to Hogwarts back at the beginning of September with quite a thick letter, and the ancient owl had never been the same since.

He was almost to the kitchen when he heard his named mentioned. Mr and Mrs Weasley were still there, and they were apparently discussing him.

"Arthur, you know you're going to have to have a talk with Harry one of these days, don't you?" Mrs Weasley was saying. The particular way she emphasised the word "talk" told Harry that Mr Weasley wouldn't be discussing the weather with him, and he felt slightly queasy at the idea of just what Mr Weasley would most likely be discussing with him.

"Isn't that something for Sirius to talk over with him?" came Mr Weasley's reply.

Harry fervently prayed that Mrs Weasley would agree to that, but luck wasn't on his side today. "Sirius? You know I've got nothing against him, but the poor man did spend twelve years in prison, Arthur. I don't think he's the proper person to talk to Harry about this. It's your duty as Ginny's father to make…"

Harry turned around and went back up the stairs, having heard much more than he'd wanted to. He'd wait until later to ask if he could borrow Errol. And from now on he was going to make certain he avoided Mr Weasley.

*

"Ah yes," said the witch at the entrance to the Quidditch stadium in Falmouth. "Mr Potter, you have prime seats. Right this way."

She set off up the stairs towards the very top of the stadium. Harry followed silently in her wake, pulling his jacket closer about him to ward off the late November chill, while Ron trailed behind him, grumbling.

"As if we hadn't walked enough today!" Harry heard Ron say under his breath.

"Will you stop complaining?" Harry hissed back, in just as grumpy a mood as Ron was. It was bad enough everyone was staring at him already. He didn't feel the other spectators needed any other reasons to gape. Just over three weeks had passed since Halloween, three weeks that had seen all sorts of opinions appear in the Daily Prophet, some of which supported Harry and some of which did not. Mrs Weasley had fired off a blazing attack, but Harry wasn't too sure how helpful it had been, and since the article had come out, St John had found some new fodder for his snide remarks. At least Rita Skeeter herself had been quiet. Harry had been entertaining some wild fantasies about Hermione catching the reporter and sealing her up in another jar, permanently this time, but he didn't really believe anything like that had actually happened. He knew Rita would turn up again, just as soon as she had some more dirt on someone.

When they'd reached their seats at last, Ron started in again. "You owe me for this one, Harry…"

"Will you stop it?" Harry shot back. "I got you free tickets to a league match. So tell me, just how do I owe you?"

Ron held up a hand and began ticking off on his fingers. "One, we had to get up at the crack of dawn to get to this thing." Harry couldn't blame Ron for complaining about the early hour at which they'd had to rise this morning. He hadn't been sleeping very well lately, due to some troubling dreams he'd been having ever since Halloween. He never remembered what they were about exactly--although they weren't the same as the nightmare he'd had on the morning of the celebration--only that they involved Ginny in some way, and that they weren't about anything pleasant.

"Two," Ron went on, "we had to Floo to Exeter with you hanging onto me to catch the Muggle train. Three, we had to change trains, with only seconds to spare. Four, we had to walk through the lovely town of Falmouth twice, just to find where the match was. Five, we had to slog our way all the way up here." Ron gestured around the stadium, drawing glances from the surrounding spectators. The stadium had not been in the town of Falmouth itself, but rather up on a nearby headland, known as Pennance Point, overlooking the sea.

"Will you please stop calling attention to us?" Harry asked once more, but Ron went on as if he hadn't heard. "All of those things might be forgivable, but for one thing. We're not even seeing the Cannons!"

"I couldn't help that, Ron, the Cannons weren't playing this week," Harry said. Then he dropped his voice a bit. "And anyway, you know I had to choose a game that was close to Ottery St Catchpole."

Ron had the grace to look a bit more subdued, but only for a moment. "Only because you didn't want to ask Dad to make you a Portkey," he grated back. "And just why is that? I may not have been home long, but I've noticed how you've been avoiding Dad. What's going on there?"

Ron had come home, his Auror training complete, two days ago, and Harry thought it might be a nice treat for the two of them to go a Quidditch match together, especially since the Ministry had given him tickets. Harry thought it best to at least put in an appearance at one or two matches, because he reckoned he might look ungrateful otherwise. However, the day had not turned out to be quite as fun as expected, so far, and they weren't even sure they'd see a good match. The league had only just gone back into operation, and the various teams had only had three weeks to prepare. On top of that, neither the Falmouth Falcons nor the Wigtown Wanderers were known for their spirit of fair play.

Ron was staring at Harry waiting for a reply that Harry was extremely reluctant to give. When Harry still didn't answer, Ron added, "Dad caught you and Ginny at something, didn't he? The night of the celebration…"

"Of course he didn't!" Harry retorted, feeling his face heat in spite of himself. "For one thing, your parents left early. For another, Ginny had that damned Portkey so she couldn't stay past eleven. How were we going to get up to anything?"

"Then what's the problem?"

Harry sighed. "I managed to get caught along with the Portkey, and went back to Hogwarts with Ginny. Your parents managed to find out about it. Then…" He broke off. Ron was giving him an odd look.

"What?" Harry said, even more irritated now. "You know I'm not just trying to see how far I can get with her."

"Yeah, I know that."

Harry reddened further at that. "Anyway," he said, leaning close and saying the rest in a low voice so only Ron could hear him, "then I overheard your mum telling your dad he needed to have a talk with me."

Ron gaped at Harry for a moment, and then he burst out laughing very loudly, causing more of the witches and wizards seated around them to turn and stare. Harry slumped down in his seat, wishing he could just disappear.

Ron finally got his laughter under control. "Come on, Harry, it wasn't all that bad. All he told me was to protect myself, not get into any trouble, and have respect for the girl's wishes." Harry merely stared at Ron in disbelief. "Of course," Ron went on, "I don't suppose he's going to tell you the same thing. Sorry, mate, I guess you're on your own on this one."

"Thanks loads."

"Hey, it's better than Mum giving you the talk… Not that I'd know, but I can imagine."

"Yeah, you're right about that."

Then they both turned their attention to the Quidditch pitch in front of them. Not far from their seats, the announcer had cast a Sonorus Charm on himself and was announcing the teams.

The Wigtown Wanders flew out in their blood red robes, the silver meat cleavers on their chests sparkling in the sunshine. Harry didn't pay a lot of attention to their names; he was too busy looking at a man on the side of the pitch who was also dressed in blood-red robes. Only he had a real meat cleaver in his hand. His wand was in his other hand, and he looked ready to hex anyone who displeased him. Harry took out his Omnioculars to get a better look.

After a moment or two, Harry nudged Ron and pointed to the man. "Looks sort of like Filch, doesn't he?" Harry observed.

"Yeah, he does," agreed Ron, "but he'd be a descendant of the Parkin family. I think his name's David Parkin, actually."

The home team was coming out now, dressed in their dark grey and white robes, adorned with a falcon's head. The announcer recited their names as well, and as a team they recited their motto: "Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads."

Then the referee, introduced as Alysun Dysart, came onto the field, and called to the player to mount their brooms. It wasn't long before he'd released the balls, and the signal was given for the match to begin.

Within minutes, two things became apparent. Both teams were obviously rusty, a result of league play having been suspended due to the war and the fact that they'd only had three weeks' practice in order to prepare for today's game. They seemed determined to make up for their lack of refined skill by playing the dirtiest match they possibly could. The fouls committed on both sides made the Slytherin team look like paragons of virtue, and Referee Dysart was having difficulty keeping up with it all.

"And that's another penalty against the Wanders," roared the announcer. "Dysart calls McGraw for Blatching, and Chaser Wallace takes the Quaffle for the Falcons…" Down on the sidelines, David Parkin was glaring at the referee.

Harry lost track of the score as he tried to follow the Seekers' movements. Scanning the sky with his Omnioculars, he spotted them circling above the game, as they tried to stay out of trouble. The Wanderers' Seeker was attempting to tail the Falmouth player, much as Draco Malfoy used to tail Harry during school matches, but the Wigtown Seeker was having difficulty. The Falmouth Seeker seemed to have a very fast broom. Harry twiddled the knobs on his Omnioculars, trying to see what make of broom it was. It looked like it began with Nim-, but Harry was unable to see rest of the lettering. The Falmouth Seeker's hands were covering it up.

Harry was about to turn his attention back to the Quaffle, when a glimpse of gold near the ground caught his eye. The Snitch was down there, hovering near the base of one of the Wigtown goalposts. Harry quickly turned back to the Seekers, expecting one of them to go into a dive, but both of them kept circling, and when he looked back to where he'd seen the Snitch it had disappeared once more.

"Penalty to the Falcons," called the announcer, causing the crowd to burst out with catcalls aimed at the referee. "That's Stooging on the part of Chasers Preston and Morrisson."

As the match wore on, Harry spotted the Snitch several more times, but neither of the Seekers who were actually playing the game seemed to see it. Harry felt frustrated, but he told himself that perhaps if he were in the air he'd have missed the Snitch as well. It wasn't the same thing when you had to worry about Bludgers and being fouled… But he couldn't quite chase the idea out of his head, that if things had been different, he might be up there today, experiencing the exhilaration of flying once again. He could have beat either of these Seekers, he thought, even the one with the faster broom. If you didn't see the Snitch in time, it didn't matter how good your broom was…

"Look out!"

Ron's shout brought Harry out of his brooding just in time. A Bludger was hurtling towards them, and they both ducked as it flew over their heads.

"Penalty shot for Falmouth. That's Bumphing!" cried the announcer.

Climbing back into his seat, Harry watched Chaser Titball take the penalty shot for the Falcons, narrowly beating the Wigtown Keeper, but then he began to watch the Seekers again, almost in spite of himself. There was something odd about the Falmouth Seeker's broom. It seemed to be vibrating.

"Ron, look at his broom," Harry began.

"What? Whose broom?"

"The Falmouth Seeker's… What's his name? Lobo?"

"Oh yeah." Ron trained his Omnioculars on the grey-robed Seeker. "I don't see… Hey, wait a moment…"

The announcer interrupted him. "And Referee Dysart calls another penalty against Wigtown… Chaser Titball again with the penalty shot for Falmouth… And what's this? The referee has disappeared! Ladies and gentlemen, such a thing hasn't been seen since… Since… Well, I can't ever remember an incidence such as this in the history of the modern game. There will be an inquiry into this, you can be certain."

For some reason Harry trained his Omnioculars onto David Parkin, and thought he looked rather smug. But then he noticed something else… The Snitch was fluttering nearby, and this time the Seekers had seen it. They were both diving, Lobo in the lead. He looked certain to catch it, assuring the victory for the home team. Harry leaned forward in his seat, as if he were on his own broom urging it to go faster. Lobo had his hand out. He was going to grab the Snitch…

The crash was spectacular. One moment Lobo had been reaching for the Snitch, and the next he'd ploughed into the ground. The Wanders' Seeker grabbed the Snitch, thankfully ending the game, as there was no referee left. The crowd stared in stunned silence for a moment before breaking out in a chorus of boos, as Lobo's team mates landed around him, meaning several medi-wizards had to push their way through to load him onto a stretcher. Insults could now be heard drifting up from the field. It looked as if accusations were being thrown in the Wanderers' direction.

Ron and Harry stared at each other. "You know what that almost reminded me of?" Ron began. "Back in first year, back at your first match, when Quirrell tried to curse you off your broom… His broom was vibrating like yours was. There's going to have to be an investigation of this…"

"You think that broom was hexed?"

"That's what it looked like to me." Ron was getting to his feet. "And it's not just that broom. The referee disappeared, as well."

"Where are you going?"

"Procedure. I need to find if there's any Aurors on duty and report this to them. And if there's any representatives from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, they have to be informed of this as well."

"Are you sure this was a hex?"

"Well, yeah, what else would it be?"

"I don't know… I guess you're right. It just looked like his broom was going too fast to me though."

"It was, because it was cursed. It was going faster than it was meant to, you know."

"Yeah, I know…" said Harry, as he set off after Ron to find whoever was in charge of this. Harry didn't say any more about it, but there was something strange going on here. Something gave him the feeling that the broom hadn't been hexed, that it had simply gone out of control because its rider was asking more of it than it was designed for.

*

Ginny was tired, tired and fed up. She was sick of the library, sick of translating, sick of rushing through her regular school work or putting it off, so she'd have more time to translate, sick of missing Harry, sick of everything. She didn't feel she was getting anywhere at all with this, and she knew that even once she'd gone through this book, if she didn't find anything, she'd have several others to work on. Hermione had made a start on the runic texts, and while she was steadily improving, she wasn't as fast as Ginny, simply because Ginny had had more practice at it.

Ginny knew she had to keep going for Harry's sake, but at the moment all she wanted was a break. Sitting here day after day and slogging through didn't give her any feeling that she was actually getting anywhere. If only she could do something, something more concrete…

She sat back in her seat, and ran her hands over her face. Glancing about her for something to look at that wasn't covered in runes, her eye fell on a copy of the Daily Prophet lying on a nearby chair. She shuddered. That Rita Skeeter article had turned her stomach, and she didn't need the aggravation of reading any more lies and insinuations about Harry. She'd sent him an angry letter in which she'd railed against Rita, and she'd received a similar rant from Harry the same day. He'd also told her in another letter that he'd written to the paper to defend Sirius, but she hadn't looked at a paper in the past three weeks, even to see that. She'd told herself it was best not to know.

For some reason she picked the newspaper up. It was at least two weeks old, and she wondered if she dared look. At least the front page didn't seem to have anything about Harry on it. She turned the page, and her eyes widened. A long letter appeared on page three, and scanning to the bottom, Ginny saw that it had been signed by her mother.

To the Editor of the Daily Prophet

You accuse him of wanting glory; you don’t know how wrong you are. He has never welcomed his fame. He wishes to be an ordinary boy, with an ordinary life. If you think he enjoyed the ceremony in his honour think again. He doesn’t want recognition for himself, he wants it for everyone that fought that war; those that survived and those that did not, and that's another reason he insisted on having his friends sit with him. He did not do what he did alone, and he knows it. He wanted them to have their due recognition, as well.

I find myself more disgusted each and every day when I pick up your paper. If there were another news source, believe me, I would never hold your paper in my hands again. As it is, I feel as if I must perform a Scouring Charm on them once I've finished reading your publication. Take a good look at what you are doing. Take a good look at your so-called reporters. Don’t try to sell papers, try and report the truth. I have to wonder if I will ever believe another word printed under the heading of the Daily Prophet again!

"Hermione!" Ginny called, getting up. "Hermione, have you seen this?"

Hermione looked up from her spot at the loans desk. Ginny knew the only reason Hermione didn't bother to tell her to keep her voice down was that it was Saturday, and almost everyone was at the Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin Quidditch match, meaning the library was empty. "What is it?"

"Did you know my mother wrote a letter to the Prophet? And it got printed?"

"Of course, I did. I tried to show that to you when it came out, and you wouldn't hear anything about it."

Ginny thought back and remembered now. She'd been adamant about not looking. "Yes, but… Well some of what she said isn't even right, is it?"

"Your mother has no way of knowing where the spell Harry used came from. Not even Harry knows what else is in that book, does he? Unless you said something."

"No, of course, I haven't said anything to him about it. He'd want to know how I found out, and then I'd have to tell him why we're translating the whole thing. In any case, what good would it do to tell him? It's not as if anyone would want to reverse that spell, even if there was a way to."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Do you think… But no, we couldn't do that. If getting Harry's powers back would bring back Voldemort at the same time, we'd be back where we started, wouldn't we?" Ginny nodded her agreement. "In any case, I don't think a spell like that could be reversed," Hermione added.

"I just wish… I wish…" Ginny stopped, feeling herself tear up. "I guess I wish there had been another way to defeat him. I hate that Harry had to give up so much and he's not even receiving proper recognition for it. He doesn't deserve this."

"I know, Ginny. It's hard, but all we can do is keep forging ahead as best we know how."

Ginny swallowed hard, and nodded. It was all she could do. She returned to her place and set back to work with renewed determination. She would get through this. An hour later, she turned yet another page in the old text. Scanning ahead through the flowing characters, she came to an odd place, something that didn't quite make sense. It was as if at the bottom of one page, the sentence began one way, and at the top of the next, it said something completely different. Looking closely at the book, she saw that a page seemed to have been torn put. She could see the ragged edges caught into the binding between two intact pages.

"I hope that's not anything important," Ginny said to herself, as she began translating at the top of the page. But it soon became apparent that it might be. As she worked, she began to pick up the context, and she had to ask herself if the page that had been torn out was the one, on which Hermione had discovered the spell.

To Be Continued…

A/N: Once again, real life has interfered with me getting this chapter done as soon as I'd have liked. Sorry about that. I will try to get back to updating this weekly if I can. I need to credit Marian with the Molly Weasley letter to the Daily Prophet: she wrote that part, and anyway she's basically my partner in crime here. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, and thanks once again to my betas.