You Can't Always Get What You Want by tambrathegreat

8 February 1998 23:46

Damn him if the boy didn't want to speak of Lily, and bring up the subject when it was the most inconvenient, of course. Severus looked at the boy's forthright expression, willing himself to crush Potter's spirit, willing himself to say no, but no matter what he wanted, he found himself nodding in the affirmative. "When the time is appropriate, Mr. Potter."

Sometimes he hated his soft heart almost as much as he hated the rest of himself.

Severus, of course, hid his accursed tender heart behind his sneering facade and his black fortress of mourning, but it was there, bleeding daily for each and every injustice inflicted on the children in his care, the staff's disdain of him in the face of his apparent betrayal, and most especially for the boy who he had tried to push away, but by whom he continually found himself to be drawn. He had worn the contempt for Potter like his teaching robes during the blasted boy's unfortunate years as a student; he had even begun to believe the hype of his negative emotions himself. But as he looked at the boy's messy head, bent over the list of duties they must accomplish to make the Dark Lord disappear, Severus realised for the first time how much he had come to like James Potter's spawn, and could only just now admit how much he admired the young man's ability to subsume his own ego for the good of the cause. In that, he saw a glimmer of Lily, and more of himself than he was comfortable to admit.

The boy knew, or at least Severus thought he did, that he must be sacrificed so that the rest of the wizarding world might live. It was in Potter's demeanour as he accomplished each task. It was in the way he accepted that Granger would live well past the end of his life, and the way he avoided contact with the girl to whom he was so obviously attracted as they worked together to unravel the mystery that Tom Riddle had set out to weave sixty years before. Most of all, evidence of his knowledge was present in the way the boy avoided speaking about a future after the war.

It made Severus furious with Albus all over again.

Not only had the old man decided that the boy had to be forged in the fires of neglect and possible abuse at the hands of the Dursleys, but he also assumed that the boy would be happy to lay down his life for the good of the world.

Like hell, he would, if Severus had anything to do with it.

"So maybe you can tell me how it was you met my Mum." Potter asked with a hesitant shift of his eyes.

Visions of flying ginger hair glinting in the summer sun blocked Severus' sight of the dank interior of the castle. He used to imagine his life with Lily if things had been different, if he had been a better man, in the darkness of his dungeon suite. In all his dreams, he never could see her in those rooms. She had been a creature of fire and air, not earth and water as he was. Severus heard the screeching shriek of the swings as she let go of the chains and flew. He felt the tingle of magic wash over his skin accompanied by the buzz of bees, the warmth of the late-spring sun, the smell of iron and exhaust, and the soft rush of air through the leaves. He closed his eyes for a moment, seeing her as she always would be to him, a pretty girl with a kind heart who could see past Severus' darkness until he embraced it forever, until he ultimately killed her with his deeds and his words a thousand times before her murder at the end of the wand of the monster he followed.

Granger rustled the pages of the book she had been looking over, bringing Severus out of his reverie. As he glared up at her, she quickly lowered her gaze.

Potter looked at his watch for the thousandth time that night, an action that could do nothing but get on Severus' nerves under all circumstances. He snapped to break the pull of the memories, "Must you check the time so regularly, Potter? Is it a mental defect which possesses you, or perhaps you have an important appointment?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders against Severus' sharp words. In the past, Severus would have thought the boy's body gesture insolent, but he had learned that Potter was a mass of contradictions, some of which manifested themselves in his inadequate physical display. Had the boy landed in Slytherin, Severus might have taught the boy how to remain outwardly unruffled so that he might gain advantage in the double-edged exchanges that were the bread of Slytherin interaction.

"I'm just... what if they don't get them out? We won't be able to get in the Room of Requirement if they don't." Potter bit his already abused lip and Severus had the sudden desire to pull the flesh out from between the teeth and scold the boy for hurting himself in such a manner. It would be the height of hypocrisy for Severus to do so, but there it was.

Granger said from behind her book, "Don't worry, Harry, if Ginny is on it, it will be done. You know how she is."

Potter muttered, "It's not Ginny I'm worried about."

Severus restrained his impulse to defend Draco. Young Malfoy would have to fight his own battles and earn his own place in the Order. Severus himself had to do the same, and he felt it had made him stronger, although the results had been mixed. He was sure of the Weasley's support and that of the werewolf before his murder of Albus, but had never secured the trust of Alastor Moody or the Mutt, not that it mattered to Severus one whit. He had been an island since his rough childhood. He would continue to be self-sufficient, no matter the cost to him personally. Draco, however, had always had the support of his family and the sycophantic grovelling of his peers. It would do the boy good to earn his own place in the changing world, especially after the Dark Lord's defeat, for Severus was going to live long enough to ensure he saw that, even if he ultimately died in the endeavour.

The clock ticked on the mantle, marking the dragging time with almost cheerful regularity. When it chimed midnight, Severus rose, saying, "Come, Potter, Miss Granger, it is time."

9 February 1998, 00:23

Ron was just finishing his end of shift paperwork when the Apparition klaxon went off in the hospital compound. He cursed under his breath even as he rushed to the pantry to fetch the requisite paper gear and dragged it on over his sweat-stale clothes. Dr. Dance rounded the corner her hair in a frizzy bun at the nape of her neck, her eyes ringed with dark circles. She looked exhausted, and Ron had no doubt he looked much the same since they were on the same thirty-six hour rota. "Shake a leg, Weasley. It looks like we've got company."

She disappeared around the corner again after silently Accioing a set of yellow paper scrubs for herself. Ron plodded heavily behind her, meeting up with other members of the team in various states of alertness as they gathered outside the hospital tent, waiting for the next body to arrive.

It didn’t take long for Ron to be tagged for service. A slight, handsome Indian fellow dressed in what might have been Healer green at some point in the day, screamed through the wards, a body draped over his shoulders, or at least that’s what Ron hoped the blackened figure was. Both the Indian bloke and the patient were covered in blood and gory, burnt bits. Ron hastily put the burn patient in a full body bind, one designed especially for emergency Healers that eased the pain of injuries long enough for the patient to be transported.

The Indian bloke looked as if he might collapse as his face went pasty pale and he staggered against Ron before righting himself. "Sorry, so sorry. I'm... I think I'm going to be..."

He vomited at Ron's feet as Devlin, the West Indian Squib who had helped Ron on his first trying day, took the gurney and trundled the burn patient away. Ron leaned down and smoothed his hand over the Healer's shoulder, noting a deep gash running down his harm. "Let's get you inside. It looks like you could use a cuppa after we check you out. Keep some pressure on that wound."

The Healer nodded even as he heaved once more, bringing up nothing but thin, yellow strings of bile. Ron helped the Healer to stand, suddenly aware of the stench of blood, burnt hair, and diesel fuel rolling off of him and the steady drip of blood from the deep gash on the Healer's forearm.

The other man smiled weakly and said as Ron frog-marched him through the closest entrance, "I'll be okay. You're needed elsewhere, Mr..." His eyes flicked to Ron's chest. The embroidered letters of his name were just visible through the yellow paper smock Ron wore. "...Weasley is it?"

"It's Corpsman Weasley, and no way in Freya's frosty hell am I letting you go on your own with that cut," Ron replied without any real heat. "Dance would have my arse if I let you go and you tried to Apparate back to the scene, Healer."

"It's Healer Apprentice Silva. Tomas to friends and you must be psychic." The man said with an airy burst of breath that might be laughter or pain, Ron couldn't tell. "It was bad... so awful."

"I could tell." Ron deftly sidestepped one of the Muggle doctors that was rocketing through the area cordoned away from triage at a dead run. "Was it Death Eaters?"

"Who else these days? Even the Irish are quiet right now." Ron didn't follow what the man said, but he did note that Healer Apprentice Silva's accent held only a hint of Indian and some type of drawl, perhaps American. "They attacked a train station in the middle of Exeter. Our team went there to take care of some refugees who took over the tunnels after the attack in Wiltshire and we were caught. It was an uneven battle but we were doing well enough against them until some idiot released Fiendfyre, their side, of course. Effing spell should be outlawed." Silva leaned heavily on Ron and he seemed to shrink as he added, "You can expect casualties from their side as well."

Ron scanned the triage tent for a bed and moved both of them through the chaos when he saw an opening next to the burn patient the Healer had brought in. "So, which side was that bloke on that you brought?"

He eased Silva onto the bed whilst summoning a pad to place over the gash in the man's arm. Silva replied, "I don't know. He was in the tunnel when I got there but he was pretty banged up. He had a Death Eater mask in his cloak, but... I just don't think he was one of them."

"Mmm..." Ron heard another klaxon go off, signifying another wave of injured. "Mate, I have to go. Do me a favour and keep an eye on your patient there, and promise me you'll be here when I get back."

Silva settled back on his pillow, his hand still tightly clutching his wound. "I will."

"You'd better be." Ron tried for a tone of authority, but as usual, only came across as tired.

Silva gave a tired laugh as he raised three of his fingers on his right hand in the air. "I promise on my word as a Girl Guide."

"You do realise that you're a bloke, right?"'

Silva said, "There are blokes and then there are... blokes."

"Oh." Ron's verbal brilliance amazed even himself sometimes. "So, you're batting for the home team?"

"Something like that. You don't have a problem with it do you? Not that it matters..."

The klaxon sounded again and Ron turned away, saying over his shoulder, "Nah, but I might have a brother you'd like, if you're into the gingery, outdoorsy type who loves magical creatures."

He lost sight of the Healer as another patient was trundled between them, but he heard Silva's laughter ring over the din. The sound made Ron feel almost normal.

&*&*&

Draco watched the Weaslette as she settled the last of the patients from the Room of Necessity in the makeshift hospital they had fashioned in the draught-riddled attic of the Hog's Head. The first year girl that Weasley had levitated through the warren of tunnels had not woken for some time. She had fallen into a state of catatonia after a putative teaching session with Amycus Carrow. It had been weeks since the girl had even stirred, yet the Weaslette talked to her as if she might respond, patting her hand as one of the Patil's (he could never tell them apart if they weren't in uniform) spelled a nutritive broth into the younger girl's stomach whilst Draco peered impatiently at his watch. Midnight had struck as he and the Weaslette crossed into the safe, wizardspace that Aberforth had set up for them.

Weasley turned to Draco with her hands placed firmly on her hips. "Have you somewhere to be, Malfoy?"

"It's none of your concern, Weasley." He turned away from her, trying to cover the sudden and very noticeable desire he felt for her. He had always liked take-charge women, had in fact enjoyed more than one fantasy about Granger, minus the Boy Wonder and the Weaslette's stupid brother. He shook his head, trying to clear the images that coalesced in his mind, all semi-erotic and slightly fetishist in nature. He was tired. That was all. He did not desire the Weaslette even in his darkest fantasies, however sexy she might appear in his mind in a leather bustier and thigh-high boots. No, he did not desire her at all, but most especially not under the roof of the Hog's Head at well past midnight.

He crossed to the door, donning his cloak and the soft, white deerskin mask that he had been given upon taking the Mark. Disguise in place, he opened the door, secure in the knowledge that he had been the one to lay the stronger, albeit darker, wards that would protect the students until they could be returned to the Room of Necessity. Hogwarts was still the safest place for all of them, no matter who was in power.

Once out the door, Draco Disapparated to the gates of Hogwarts, not willing to waste any more time away from whatever was happening, and headed for the secret passage way he had led the others out of earlier that night. He wanted in on whatever it was that Snape was doing with Potter and Granger. There would be no half-measures for him this time round, as there had been with his task for the Dark Lord. He was going to either live or die a hero, and he was going to do it for the right side this time.

He slid between shadows in the hallways, careful to avoid the various traps he had learned over the years of spying on Potter, vigilant when it came to encountering Filch, his disgusting cat, or the Carrows. As he rounded the final corner that would take him to his destination, he heard Snape's low hiss and Alecto's shrill answer. Draco peered past the two arguing teachers and saw an undulating smudge on the wall with two sets of trainers, both tatty and mud-covered, occasionally sticking out from the bottom of it.

He knew it! Potter had an invisibility cloak, though how he could have afforded it, given his low birth and tatty, second-hand clothes, Draco couldn't fathom. The spot moved and something clattered to the ground. Carrow was the first to react, drawing her wand and aiming at the sound which had originated right behind Snape's left shoulder. "Did you hear that? Who's there behind you, Snape?"

Only a person who knew Snape as Draco did would have been able to discern the sudden stillness in the older man's expression, the quirking of a brow that denoted a dangerous, hyper-vigilance. Snape answered in a tone that brooked no argument, loud enough for Draco to hear, "Why, Alecto, I was unaware that paranoia was a side-effect of your addiction to the ovum of the poppy. I heard nothing but Filch's disgusting feline on the prowl."

Alecto hissed between her teeth loudly. "Do shut up, half blood. You might be in the Dark Lord's favour right now, but I assure you, things can change, especially when you prove yourself to be the traitor you were after the first war."

Draco moved carefully down the hall, away from the tension-laden scene so that he might double back and come up behind Potter and Granger. Whatever they were doing out in the hallways with Snape, he was sure it was going to prove important. When he was in position, he started to let his wand clatter to the floor when he happened to look across the expanse and saw the Weaslette's pale face in the gloom.

Cursing himself for his apparently blind and deaf stupidity, he started back down the hallway, weaving around the same obstacles he had avoided before. The statues, normally quiescent at this time of night, watched his motions with stiff movements of their heads, creating a soft grating sound as they followed him. As he reached the Weaslette and pulled her to him, silencing the squeak of surprise by mashing his hand to her lips, Carrow spun towards Draco and Weasely, shouting, "Aha! I've caught you out now, Snape!"

Draco whispered urgently in the Weaslette's ear, "Play along with this if you want to save your arse."

She struggled against him for only a second more before giving a sharp nod. Draco let his hand down, still holding her close enough that the rose scent of her perfume lingered in his nostrils. It was an old-fashioned scent, but a romantic one that surprised him about her. He had thought the youngest Weasley more a Quidditch fanatic than a girly type. His lips strayed to her ear and then down her neck where he could feel the rapidity of her pulse. For a moment, he was tempted to pretend the fluttering beat was caused by him alone, but was arrested from his folly by a heavy hand landing on his shoulder.

Potion stained fingers twirled Draco about, glittering black eyes assessed the situation darting from the Weaslette to Draco and then back. "What is the meaning of this little scene, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco affected an air of languorous insouciance as he shrugged. "I was merely doing my part to aid the pureblood's cause with the blood traitor, here. I was going to teach her a lesson, so to speak."

A sharp gasp from Weasley at the implication caused Draco to turn to her with an affected leer. "Shut it, Weasley. You know you asked for it."

He willed her to remain silent as Carrow drew nearer to them. Snape glowered down at them both. "I see you still lack sufficient self-control, Mr. Malfoy, if you allowed yourself to be caught after curfew in such dubious company. Both of you, to my office, and fifty points from Gryffindor.”

Weasley gave a token protesting look at the loss of House points, but remained quiet as Draco tightened his hold on her wrist.

"Points?" Carrow screeched. "I think a little Dark Arts practice is in order, Snape! You're too soft on these miscreants."

The woman levelled her wand at Weasley, drawing the tip in the widdershins figure eight pattern that was the precursor to the Cruciatus curse. Draco drew the Weaslette closer to his body, knowing that he offered scant protection from the mad woman. He had been on the receiving end of many curses during the school year and before. He stifled a shiver of morbid anticipation as she opened her bloodless lips to cast the curse as Snape's voice whipped, "Be that as it may, Professor, I am the one to which the Dark Lord assigned the office of Headmaster, and as such, I will be the one to carry out punishments as I see fit. Besides which, I don't fancy summoning the Squib to clean up after these dunderheads after you administer your heavy-handed version of corporal punishment. Really, Alecto, there are curses other than the Cruciatus, but then again, they require finesse and skill to administer."

Draco sneered at both the adults, hoping he was projecting hauteur rather than the stomach churning panic of the moment. Snape returned an equally unpleasant expression to him as he said, "Professor Carrow, please escort these two to my office. I will be there shortly as this entire situation has made me rather late for an important errand. Your part in my tardiness will most definitely be conveyed to all concerned parties, Madam."

Carrow looked as if she might object but kept her mouth shut as she waved both Draco and the Weaslette to follow her. Snape called after them, "And Professor, I want them unharmed so that they might fully comprehend their punishment at my hands."

Alecto gave a pronounced snort as she propelled Weasley forward with a kick to her buttocks, causing her to stumble. After Weasley recovered her footing, Draco took her elbow decorously as he had been taught to do with all women from birth, even as he seethed at being cut off from the knowledge of what Potter and Granger were doing by the Room of Necessity, and why it was important to thwarting the Dark Lord, for that was what he knew they were doing. Whatever game was afoot, Draco would have to wait. He would not be able to wheedle any information out of Snape with the ginger menace in tow.

9 February, 1998 01:12

The mass of casualties had slowed to a trickle in the hour or so since the first klaxon sounded. Ron trudged between the triage area and the mess tent, levitating two pots of scalding coffee and a stack of paper cups whilst carrying a heaped plateful of sandwiches in his hands. The Brownies were too busy to do much more than shout at the humans to keep out of their ways as they employed various means to ready tents and wards in a field outside the city. Their skills were needed to house the projected number of refugees of yet another attack on a wizarding village in Yorkshire near the Scottish border that had occurred during the madness after the tunnel attack.

This night's never going to end, Ron thought ruefully as he catalogued his ailments. Ron's feet ached, his eyes were sandpapery, and his mouth tasted as if he had used troll shit to brush them. As he neared the triage tent, the young Healer's apprentice bustled out to meet Ron, his heavily bandaged arm in a sling, his face and clothes only a little cleaner than when he first came.

Ron glanced at the wounded arm and Silva supplied, "They couldn't spare the magic. It was either a Muggle physician, or heal myself." Silva wrested the plate of sandwiches out of Ron's hands, almost causing Ron to spill the coffee. "Here, let me help."

"Yes, Mother." Ron rolled his shoulders glad to lose the weight of the sandwiches. "Are you cleared for this?"

"I am." Silva shot back . "I knowToni." At Ron's blank look he supplied, "Dr. Dance? She was on her last year of apprenticeship at St. Mungo's my first year of Healer's academy. She's the one who cleared me."

They entered the tent, Silva shoving the flaps aside with his bandaged elbow. Ron directed Silva with a toss of his head towards a small area of the tent set apart from the rest of the room by two rows of rickety tables with wooden benches. Several of the staff sat at the table already in various positions of uneasy repose, one Yank bloke sprawled on the table closest to the tent wall, snored loudly, the noise only slightly muffled by his arm.

Ron placed the coffee and cups down, indicating Silva should do the same with the sandwiches. He snagged a couple and was in the process of shoving almost half of one in his mouth as he heard Devlin's shoutover the hubbub of the tent, "Weasley! Dance needs you to meet her at the OR."

He felt a sudden sense of foreboding as he hastily chewed and attempted to swallow the sandwich dry. He had never been summoned to the operating theatre for anything before. He had observed one surgery but hadn’t qualified to assist. The only reason he might be needed was... he broke off the thought brutally even as visions of Hannah's broken body being laid open by a scalpel, or Mum and Dad injured beyond repair propelled him through the crowd and to the scrub room. If the summons was because of someone he knew, he would damn-well be in the room for them. He washed his hands as he had been taught as the scrub-Brownie spelled him out of his dirty clothes and into clean scrubs, a mask, and cap. As Ron shut off the water with his elbow, he peered through the window in the door.

He saw Dr. Nguyen and Dr. Dance, spattered in gore, bloody bits of gauze littering the floor as they worked frantically on a body that was under the ubiquitous green drapes of the healing profession, Muggle or magical. A ginger-haired arm lay outside the sheet, large, brown freckles marring the bluish white of the skin. Elegant, well-manicured fingers curved slightly against the padding of the table unmoving.

Ron swallowed audibly. He knew that hand. He had seen that hand everyday of his life until the summer of his fourteenth year. He had watched that elegant hand write out its owner's name as a witness to Ron’s marriage only a few weeks before.

He saw Dance shake her head dejectedly, pulling away from the body on the table as she jerked the mask down from her face and flipped the protective visor from over her eyes. Nguyen mirrored the other doctor's actions, conveying no emotion as she carelessly pulled off her gloves and spelled them to a bin marked for medical waste. Her eyes flicked to Ron and she said something to Dance, who turned sharply towards him, her eyebrows drawn down as if in consternation.

Dr. Dance slumped slightly as she leaned against the table, her head down, as one of the nurses darted to the door and closed the curtain over the window. Ron sank bonelessly to the floor as the realisation hit him that there was one less Weasley on the family clock that was in Mortal Peril, that Percy's hand had forever slipped from that position to the one on that instrument that indicated Death.

Ron let the tears fall unchecked as he wondered how he would ever explain to Mum and Dad just how much of a hero Percy had been in the end, and just how much his older brother had loved them all, even if he couldn't tell them himself.

&*&*&

They had recovered the diadem almost immediately upon entering the room. Harry might not have been as quick-witted as Hermione, but he had a good memory, especially when it came to remembering things he had seen. He remembered seeing an incongruously adorned statue on his last trip to the room, the time that he had rid himself of the Prince’s book. He sat down on a throne-like chair that had been stored in the room at least a century by the looks of the dust on its upholstery, holding the diadem lightly between his legs as he patted the arms of the chair with his other hand, stirring up puffs of dirt. Hermione paced to and fro in the small, clear space in front of him. She held her lit wand aloft as she scanned the room.

“Sit down, Hermione,” Harry implored. “Snape said he’d try to get back as soon as possible.”

“Aren’t you even the least bit concerned about Ginny?” Hermione asked as she drew in front of him for what seemed the thousandth time. “She saw us, I know she did, and worse, so did Malfoy.”

“No they didn’t.“ Harry shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. Yes, he was worried that Ginny might have seen them, but more than that, he wondered if there was something between her and Malfoy. She had certainly seemed comfortable when the prat was groping her.

Hermione began her circuit of the area again, the wand light causing the shadows to grow and recede menacingly as she moved. She asked, a sharp tone to her voice, “Well?”

“What?” Harry snapped in return.

Hermione stopped at the farthest end of the cluttered area. “Aren’t you concerned for Ginny? You were with her last year, weren’t you? Aren’t you afraid she might do something rash to be with you?”

“Leave off, Hermione. I just want to get this whole thing over and get on with my life. I can’t be concerned for silly little girls and their stupid crushes. If she wants Malfoy, then I say let her have him.”

He didn’t like the way his comment sounded. He had no right to be jealous, not after what he and Hermione had shared. He opened his mouth to correct himself as Hermione said, “You sound jealous.”

“I do not.” Harry returned, only a little guilty that he was indeed feeling a sense of betrayal at Ginny’s apparent complicity in Malfoy’s groping.

“You are!” Hermione said. “You regret what we did, and you’re projecting that onto Ginny.”

“I never said... don’t be daft, Hermione. What I’m feeling has nothing to do with us.” Harry said, standing. “I don’t even know if there is an ’us.’ You have your nose perpetually stuck in a book, and you’re always too busy to spend more than a minute with me without bringing up Horcruxes and... and V-- Him. Besides, I thought Ron was your big love last year. You certainly made all of us miserable enough with the subject then. What about how you feel about him? I bet there‘s plenty of projecting going on there, too.”

Hermione turned away from Harry, her shoulders stiff and straight as she said, “I knew I should have Obliviated you.”

“That’s right, Hermione. You should have just taken any action you saw fit! After all, you have the giant brain. You always know what’s best for everyone.” Harry waved the diadem in her direction. “Just like in third year when Sirius sent me the Nimbus. I didn’t do what you wanted so you just took matters into your own hands, and reported it to McGonagall.”

“That’s so unfair, bringing up ancient history like that!” Hermione said, her face mottled red, and her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Besides, we thought Sirius was a homicidal maniac who was out to kill you.”

“Okay, then how about Monica and Wendell?” Harry’s voice rose. “Did you even once explain to your parents what you wanted to do? Did you give them a chance to say what they wanted? NO! You Obliviate them, give them new memories and put them half a world away because you, and you alone, know what’s best for them!”

Hermione’s mouth gaped wordlessly, the threatened tears finally spilling down her cheeks, as Harry’s poisonous words spun between them. He didn’t know where the sudden well of anger had come from. It was as if something had tapped into it. He slid the diadem against the palm of his hand. He looked down at it, trying to remember another time he had felt so unreasonably angry. It seemed as if it had been quite recent. He spun the diadem once again, marvelling that such a beautiful thing could contain something so evil.

Unbidden, a vision of cold water and Snape’s tortured expression as Voldemort’s voice filled the air, flitted across his memory. He let the diadem fall from his hand, and as he did, the oily veil of wrongness slid away from his mind.

“Oh, god, Hermione!” He gasped. “I’m so sorry. I-- I didn‘t mean it-- any of it! It was the Horcrux...”

Hermione nodded stiffly, her chin quivering as she tried to master her emotions. “No, Harry, it only allowed you to say what was on your mind... what you‘ve always thought.”

Harry reached toward Hermione, wanting to draw her close, wanting to make her forget, but she flinched away from his hand as fresh tears welled up and fell. Harry caught one on his callused thumb and pressed it to his lips. Hermione had already turned away and was scrambling over a pile of junk as the door swung open, revealing Snape's white face in the gloom.

It was an uncomfortable trip back to their quarters, and Harry spent a night of guilty wakefulness as he heard Hermione's stifled sobs in the next room. He punched his pillow for the thousandth time that night as he admitted that she had been right about one thing. Harry had always resented that little priggish, self-righteous streak of hers, even if it was a flaw that made her a little more human, a shade less than perfect.