Disobeying Orders

Phoenix Tears, Chapter Four : Disobeying Orders

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

To LAxo, who alpha read this, and to WriterMerrin, who beta read it, my deepest thanks.

Though it was not yet six o'clock when Hermione stumbled out of the Floo into the Burrow's kitchen, Molly Weasley was already up and busying herself making breakfast. The whoosh of the Floo activating had alerted her to the imminent arrival, and Hermione found herself staring into the business end of Molly's wand. For a middle-aged witch, whose spreading hips testified to the seven children she had birthed, she assumed and held a duelling position with terrifying speed and accuracy.

"Hermione!" exclaimed Molly. "I wasn't expecting you so early." Smiling distractedly, she tucked her wand back into her apron pocket.

"I'm sorry," replied Hermione, her heart hammering from the unanticipated confrontation. "I didn't want anyone to get up just for me."

Molly had turned back towards the bench where she set several knives chopping a large pile of mushrooms. "Tea?" she asked solicitously.

"Yes, please."

Molly pointed her wand at the kettle, which boiled immediately and tipped itself forward to pour water into the pot. Molly's cooking was like an elaborate choreography, with ingredients and utensils soaring through the air and Molly effortlessly sliding plates and saucepans into their positions with impeccable precision.

"Oh," exclaimed Hermione, remembering the boxes in her bag, "I brought you these."

Molly didn't bat an eyelid at the sight of the large boxes emerging from Hermione's tiny bag, but she was surprised when she looked inside.

"What's this? You must have brought half of your parents' kitchen!"

"Er . . . yes. That's exactly what I did." Catching the look on Molly's face, Hermione took a deep breath and gave a very-nearly-full explanation. "They've moved to Australia. I was worried about them becoming a target."

"Oh, Hermione," sighed Molly. Unexpectedly, the older woman pulled Hermione into a tight embrace, one hand rubbing small circles on her back.

After a second of surprise and hesitation, Hermione returned the hug. She felt suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the evening. Pulled against Molly's motherly breast, tears that she hadn't realised lay so close to the surface rolled down her face; her breath came in huge, choking sobs.

"There, there," crooned Molly.

Unlike Harry, Hermione found herself on the receiving end of Molly's maternal concern only infrequently, but this once, she wasn't complaining. It took several minutes for her to cry herself out. Afterwards, she found herself seated at the table, a cup of tea in one hand and a sweet biscuit in the other. Her offers to help prepare breakfast were waved away, and she sat back and sipped at her tea appreciatively. She only hoped that by the time the others appeared for breakfast, the signs of her crying would be sufficiently faded so that no-one would notice.

Later that day, when Hermione explained to Ron the danger their departure with Harry was going to cause for his family, he caught on quickly.

"You're right, 'Mione. As soon as we fail to turn up at King's Cross, they'll know that the three of us are off somewhere together."

"I think my parents are going to be safe in Australia, but we can't exactly force your family into hiding. For one, there's too many of them, and for another thing, they have jobs they need to do, including work for the Order."

They were up in Ron's room, having ducked away from the others in order to have their conversation in private. Hermione had cast several Silencing Charms and put an Imperturbable on the door for good measure: she loved the whole Weasley family, but living in the house where Extendable Ears were invented had its downsides.

"Maybe if they pretend I'm sick or something?" Ron suggested from his position sprawled on the bed with his head hanging back off the edge of the mattress.

"The Ministry is bound to check up on an excuse like that." Hermione was extricating clothes from Ron's wardrobe and folding them away into her beaded bag. His cupboard looked like he'd stirred the contents with a large stick.

"Not if I'm supposed to have something really contagious."

"So contagious that the Ministry won't risk sending someone to check, but not so dangerous that you're not admitted to St. Mungo's?" Hermione sounded sceptical.

"Hmm. I suppose you're right." Ron was silent for a moment. "I know!" he exclaimed, rolling over onto his front and pointing a finger at her excitedly. "We'll get someone to pretend to be me using Polyjuice! That way they'll never even know I've gone!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "And who's going to do that?"

"Fred or George would, hell, they could take it in turns. I reckon they'd think it a great lark being back at Hogwarts disguised as somebody else."

"Ron, Fred and George have a business to run. I can't see them wanting to spend time back at Hogwarts taking classes all over again. It would be a full-time job: they'd have to sleep there, do their homework..."

"Nah, not if they were pretending to be me, they wouldn't have to do homework. If they were pretending to be you, though, it'd be a different story!"

Hermione threw a pair of rolled up socks at Ron's face, but he caught them with ease and tossed them back.

"Besides," she added, "that kind of plan would require gallons of Polyjuice."

"Mad-Eye's got heaps."

"Perfect, Ron," replied Hermione, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "Why don't you steal the Polyjuice from Mad-Eye, and once you've done that, we'll move ahead with the plan."

"Constant vigilance!" Ron shouted, laughing at the very idea. "Alright, not Polyjuice then." He flopped back onto the bed again, letting one arm dangle over the edge. "Mum's got a book of magical maladies, though," he commented, reverting to his earlier suggestion. "We should check that and see whether there's something I can fake."

Ron swiped The Healer's Helpmate from the shelf on the second landing, and Hermione skimmed through it that night after she climbed into bed. Ginny gave the title a very dubious look on her way back from the bathroom.

"Sickening with something, Hermione?" she asked. A brittle quality in her voice indicated that she clearly didn't think so.

Hermione looked up at once, a serious look on her face, and met the eye of her younger friend. Ever since Harry had broken up with the girl in a spasm of nobility and dedication to the cause, things between Hermione and Ginny had been a little strained. Not being able to tell her the full story didn't help. For a long moment, Hermione cast around for the right thing to say.

"These basic healing spells are so useful. I wonder why we don't learn them at school? There are so many things that children raised in the wizarding world take for granted . . ."

Ginny interrupted her babbling by leaning across the bed and twisting the book around to see what exactly Hermione had been reading.

"Spattergroit?" queried Ginny, her voice falsely sweet. "I didn't think there was a cure for Spattergroit."

Hermione swallowed heavily. "Well, exactly! That's just it. I'd never even heard of Spattergroit until I opened this book."

"It's fine, Hermione," sighed Ginny, turning away towards her own bed and pulling back the covers. "You don't have to tell me," she added bitterly. "I know Harry has some plan, and I know that whatever it is and wherever he goes, you're going to be there too." Ginny clambered into bed and pulled the blankets up over her chest. She lay flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, her arms crossed fiercely across her front.

Hermione let the book fall from her fingers where it lay open on the quilt. After a second's hesitation, she threw back her blankets and climbed out of bed. Striding across to Ginny's bed, she perched on the edge. Her own arms were crossed and she stared at Ginny for a long moment.

"Ginevra Weasely," she began finally, "if you're jealous of my friendship with Harry, you'd better spit it out."

Ginny huffed irritably and swivelled her face towards the wall.

"You are, aren't you?" insisted Hermione. Still Ginny said nothing. "Ginny," she tried again, this time managing to muster a less accusatory tone, "Harry loves you. He's my friend, but he loves you. Harry is like . . . a brother to me. I swear it. I've never even thought of him any other way. If you think that I'm planning to, I don't know . . . steal him from you, then you've got the wrong end of the stick."

Almost reluctantly, Ginny turned her eyes to look at Hermione, though her face still pointed towards the wall. "I don't think you're trying to steal him!" she sighed, exasperated. "I know you don't like him like that. It's perfectly obvious and has been for ever." She paused, then continued, "But I am jealous. I just feel left out. It's like my whole life I've been told I'm too young, I'm just a girl, I have to behave . . . and now, there's a war on, and I'm still too young, too girly. It's not fair!"

"Move over," directed Hermione suddenly. Ginny wriggled over obligingly, and Hermione crawled under the covers with her. "You're right," she said once she and Ginny were facing each other, heads resting on the same pillow. "Every single other member of your family is in the Order, officially or unofficially, and yet they expect you to leave the room every time there's an important conversation."

"Ron was always following along after Harry, even when he was younger than I am now! And no-one told him he should stop trying to play with the grown-ups!"

"It's like the flying thing, all over again," remarked Hermione. Ginny's brothers had never let her play Quidditch when she was younger...because she was a girl. She'd had to learn on her own, flying when no-one else was home.

"Yeah, well. Imagine how much better I'd be at Quidditch if they'd let me play!"

"That's not my point, Ginny." Hermione poked Ginny's shoulder with one finger. "You're an excellent player and one of the most valued members of the team, despite their lack of help. You'll prove yourself just as necessary in this war, mark my words."

Ginny pulled a face. "I wish I could believe you. Mum'll probably have me locked up in my bedroom when the Final Battle comes."

"If there is a battle . . . who knows how this will end? Besides, with Dumbledore gone, I'm not convinced Hogwarts will be so safe anymore. You're going to have to look out for yourself and for the other Gryffindors."

"You guys really aren't going to be there, are you?"

"No." Hermione bit her lower lip. "You know I can't tell you what we're going to do."

"Yeah, I know."

"Ginny," said Hermione, rushing to talk through the awkward moment and prolong the fragile truce they'd just negotiated. "You're the only real female friend I have. Losing you because you were jealous of my friendship with Harry would be like me not talking to you because I was jealous that you'd known Ron longer than I have."

Ginny sniffed loudly, then gave a watery chuckle. "You didn't miss much," she joked. "Even when he was eleven, Ron was still a bit of a pillock, and before that he was worse."

They lay in companionable silence for a moment. "Harry broke up with you as much for his own safety as for yours," said Hermione suddenly.

"Prat," replied Ginny, without much heat.

"Seriously, he's the one that can't stand the stress of taking someone else down with him; breaking up doesn't really make you any less of a target."

"He's happy to take you and Ron along!" Ginny exclaimed, the hurt back in her voice.

"Gin-nee," moaned Hermione, elongating each syllable. "He's stuck with us. You don't want Harry to put you into the same category in which he lumps Ron and me! You want him to think of you differently; you want to be in a special category all on your own!"

"Not if it means putting me back on the shelf!" retorted Ginny, but Hermione could tell from her tone that Ginny essentially agreed with what she'd said.

"Listen here," Hermione promised, "if he even looks at another girl while we're away, I'll set the canaries on him."

"Deal," replied Ginny promptly.

"You and me, we're okay?"

"Yeah, Hermione. We're solid gold."

Hermione grinned with relief, and Ginny smiled back. Living at the Burrow would have been pretty awkward if she and Ginny hadn't managed to talk things through. After a few minutes of more casual conversation, Hermione returned to her own bed. The Healer's Helpmate was lying atop her blankets, open to the entry on Spattergroit. Conjuring a bookmark, Hermione marked the page and placed the book on the table beside her bed. Spattergroit was a distinct possibility.

"Ugh," said Ron. "This has to be the most disgusting disease ever! Not only are there horrible purple and red pustules all over your body, but, listen...did you read this? 'The fungus begins to grow in the ear canal, spreading through to the sinuses, and from there to the throat, the nose, and in severe cases, even reaching the tear ducts.'"

"Yes, Ron, I read it." Hermione rolled her eyes and leant her head back against the mattress of Ron's bed. Once again they'd snuck up to his bedroom to discuss the problem of how to hide Ron's departure. Hermione was sitting on the floor with her back against the bed, Ron was sitting on the bed itself.

"Cripes, did you look at this picture?"

"Honestly, Ron, yes! Did you think I just randomly opened it to that page before I handed you the book and asked you for your opinion?"

"Well I just gave you my opinion: this has to be the most disgusting disease ever!"

"Thank you, Ron. Very good. I'm going to assume that what you meant to imply by that statement was your agreement that it might suffice as a plausible excuse."

"Well . . . I'd never use the words 'suffice' or 'plausible,' but otherwise that was the gist."

Hermione sighed in exasperation and dropped her head forwards again. She had a headache, and the ghoul had chosen today for a particularly spectacular spot of pipe bashing. Plus Ron was driving her nuts.

"Hey, 'Mione, don't be mad." Ron rolled over onto his stomach and scooted to the edge of the bed, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I've stopped staring at the picture, and now you've got my full attention."

"What I've got, Ronald Weasley, is a blinding headache. Even if we think Spattergroit is a distinct possibility, we're no closer to a plan. The Ministry is bound to send someone to verify the truth of such an unlikely story, and unless we think of a solution, we're only postponing the danger to your family not...oh." Hermione broke off as Ron's strong Quidditch-keeper's hands began to massage the top of her shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the soft tissue either side of her spine. "Don't stop," she urged.

Ron chuckled at her sudden change in demeanour. Swinging his feet off the bed, he placed a leg on either side of her back and began to apply himself to the back rub. "We'll work out the details, Hermione; we always do," he said reassuringly. "You'll come up with something; you know you will."

His words were as mollifying as the massage, and ten minutes later Hermione was in a much better mood.

"Okay," she said, "let's go through the possibilities."

"Polyjuice," replied Ron promptly, shifting his attention to her neck, kneading the skin just behind her ears.

"Not good enough. Even if there was enough warning of the Ministry's arrival and someone was here to take it, they might be convincing as you, but they wouldn't look like they had Spattergroit."

"I bet Fred and George could develop a Spattergroit Sweet that would recreate the symptoms . . ." remarked Ron pensively.

"I bet you're right!" Hermione felt a momentary wave of enthusiasm, but it faded almost immediately. "It took them ages to perfect the other ones, though, and we don't have much time." They both fell silent for a few minutes. Ron worked his way back down Hermione's neck, across the tops of her shoulders and began to rub the tops of her arms. "Maybe we could transfigure something to look like you," suggested Hermione eventually. "It wouldn't move, of course, but they might not get close enough to notice. They wouldn't want to get within range."

"I bet they'd check that it was alive, though. Any number of spells would check that without the caster even having to come into the room." Ron was right. "Maybe if we transfigured something living," he added, "like one of Dad's chickens."

"A chicken?" Hermione had to laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, Ron. Can you imagine the mess it would make? You can't exactly explain to a chicken what you want it to do for months on end."

"Fair call," remarked Ron, laughing himself. "It pro'lly wouldn't be able to work out how to eat with a mouth and hands, either."

As they both laughed, his hands slid gently back across her shoulders, coming to rest against her neck. She could feel the tips of his fingers pressing lightly on her collarbone, and her breath caught in her throat. All of a sudden, the atmosphere in the room changed. The thumb of Ron's right hand caressed a slow circle across the nape of her neck. Hermione let out her breath in a soft sigh and relaxed back against the inside of Ron's legs.

Only seconds later, however, she started upright again when a particularly loud crash from the attic above broke the mood. Hermione bit back an exasperated huff.

"Isn't that ghoul ever quiet?" she asked, her irritation colouring her voice.

"Nah," sighed Ron, dropping his hands from her shoulders in recognition of the fact that the mood had well and truly disappeared. "He only listens to Dad. Dad reckons he just wants attention or something . . ." He trailed off at the same moment Hermione span around to look at him, an arrested look on her face.

"I've never seen a ghoul," she breathed. "How big is yours?"

"'Bout the right size," replied Ron with a calculating gleam in his eye. "He smells terrible, though."

"That's perfect. Spattergroit stinks."

"We'll have to tell Dad, but that was going to happen sooner or later."

"You might never get your room back," warned Hermione.

Ron shrugged. "Who knows when I'll be back? Besides, I can always kip in Fred and George's room."

Hermione bit down on her bottom lip, "Transfiguration shouldn't hurt the ghoul," she pondered, "but I'd better check in Advanced Transfiguration . . ." Just at that moment, Ron blanched. "What's wrong?" she asked, with some concern.

Ron flopped backwards onto his bed with a groan. "Mum's going to go spare!"

Ron got his chance to inform his parents over dinner that same evening. Tonks, Fred and George had joined the inhabitants of the house for the evening meal, and the room seemed more crowded than usual as a consequence of the gales of laughter the three guests were eliciting.

"Oi!" exclaimed Fred at one point, pulling a serving platter away from Ron. "If this one eats any more, he won't fit even our old school robes!"

"That reminds me," commented Molly, "where are your old school robes? I've been looking for them precisely because Ron is going to need them."

Hermione found Ron's foot with her own and pressed down on it firmly. Ron took the hint and laid his cutlery down on the table with an air of finality.

"Actually, Mum," he said, "that won't be necessary. I'm not returning to Hogwarts next year."

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," replied Molly dismissively, "it's your NEWTs year. Of course you're returning to Hogwarts."

"I'm serious, Mum," said Ron, matching tone to statement.

"Arthur!" Molly appealed to another authority. "Say something!"

Arthur cleared his throat; the other occupants of the room were watching the scene avidly. "Ron," responded Arthur obediently, "what reason can you possibly have for not finishing your education?"

Ron shot an apprehensive look at Hermione, who nodded encouragingly. She bit her tongue; better that this come from him.

"Well," he said, somewhat reluctantly, "Harry has a job to do, and me and Hermione are going to help."

Hermione and I, thought Hermione automatically, but she said nothing.

"Absolutely not!" exclaimed Molly. "All three of you will be returning to Hogwarts where it is safe, and I'll hear nothing more about it!"

"Why?" protested Ron, an edge of petulant younger child creeping into his voice. "Fred and George quit school without their NEWTs!"

"Oi!" Fred and George began talking in tandem.

"Leave us out of it!"

"We had a business plan..."

"And savings..."

"And premises..."

"And inventory..."

"And a dedicated customer base..."

"Before we left school!"

"I wasn't happy about Fred and George leaving school, but I couldn't..." began Molly.

"Couldn't what?" interrupted Ron. "Couldn't stop them? Well, I'm of age, Mum, and you can't stop me either. I'm going with Harry and that's final." He crossed his arms but somehow managed to pull it off, looking determined rather than sulky.

Hermione had expected more of an explosion from Molly, but she was looking surprisingly deflated by the turn the conversation had taken. Unexpectedly, it was Tonks who came to Molly's defence.

"Have you thought about what your disappearance will mean for your family?" she inquired, wrinkling her nose in disapproval. Not for the first time, Hermione wondered what Tonks was like as an Auror, though this time, she did so with much more respect than on previous occasions.

"Of course we have." Ron sighed and unfolded his arms. "Hermione and I have been working on a plan, but we need some help."

It didn't take him long to elaborate on the details. As he did so, Hermione caught Ginny's eye across the table. Ginny raised one eyebrow, but thankfully didn't look irate as the reason for the Spattergroit research became apparent.

"We can help Transfigure the ghoul," offered Fred to Hermione's surprise.

"Yeah, we're dab hands," added George.

It was a measure of Molly's distress that she didn't even think to ask where and how the twins had become experts at ghoul Transfiguration.

Hermione was stretching her hamstrings on the back porch after a hard and quick three miles when Molly pulled open the back door.

"Hermione," she said, keeping her face blank and her voice neutral, "I think you'd better come in."

Hermione straightened up, lifting her ponytail up off her sweaty neck with one hand. It wasn't yet seven a.m. and she hadn't anticipated that she would be missed. A slight crease between her eyebrows betrayed her consternation as she ran lightly up the stairs and stepped through the door.

The kitchen was unexpectedly crowded: Professor McGonagall, Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley and Arthur were all seated at the table, their faces grim. Molly remained by the door, still holding it open with one hand.

"Miss Granger," remarked Professor McGonagall politely but without enthusiasm, "a word in the living room if you wouldn't mind." As she spoke, all four of the Order members who had been seated rose to their feet. They turned and began to file through into the hallway, Mad-Eye's wooden leg thumping ominously against the floorboards.

Hermione felt horribly conscious of the brevity of her running shorts and the film of sweat that covered her skin. She shot a glance at Molly...who hadn't moved...from the corner of her eyes. The older woman's lips were pressed together firmly with disapproval. Hermione wondered vaguely whether Molly disapproved of her or of the meeting that was about to take place. Pull yourself together, Granger, she rebuked herself. Taking a deep breath, she ran quickly through the most effective of the calming exercises Snape had taught her and pulled her wand from the wristband she used to hold it while running. Banishing the sweat from her skin and Transfiguring her running clothes into a set of serviceable robes took only seconds. Then she hurried after the others and into the living room.

McGonagall, Kingsley and Arthur sat along the length of the couch, displaying various degrees of comfort. Mad-Eye stood off to one side, his arms crossed, and both of his eyes trained upon her. Facing the couch was an uncomfortable looking straight-backed chair, so at-odds with the rest of the Weasley decor that it had obviously just been conjured into existence. Hermione would have bet money that McGonagall was the one responsible.

"Sit," ordered her straight-faced professor, pointing towards the chair in question.

Feeling thankful that she'd had the presence of mind to Transfigure her clothes, Hermione obeyed.

"What's this about Potter, you and the Weasley boy leaving school?" barked Mad-Eye the second she was seated.

"It's the truth," replied Hermione as calmly as she could. "Professor Dumbledore left Harry a task, and Ron and I are going to help him."

"Miss Granger," intervened McGonagall, "I am sure that you are intelligent enough to realise that since Professor Dumbledore's death"...a spasm of sorrow and suppressed emotion registered on each of the four faces before Hermione..."plans have changed. It is not possible for us to allow Mr Potter to embark on such a foolish endeavour without the support and protection of the entire Order."

Hermione took a deep breath. "Your plans may have changed," she began, attempting to address all four of her interlocutors and not just Professor McGonagall, "but Harry's haven't. And neither have mine."

Kingsley was the next to enter the conversation. "Hermione," he ventured in his deep, resonant voice, "I understand that you alone among your friends have sworn an oath of allegiance to the Order."

Hermione nodded her agreement. Did I read Dumbledore correctly? she wondered. This would be the moment of truth.

"Since Dumbledore's death," he continued, and this time they each managed to keep their faces impassive, "we four have assumed leadership of the Order. It is in this role that we have gathered this morning, and it is as your superiors that we must ask you to tell us Harry's intentions. We must also secure your promise to help us convince him to return to Hogwarts, where he will be safe."

"I'm afraid that I can't help you," replied Hermione. As she spoke, she scanned through the sensations of her body: she was definitely feeling nervous, but she felt no hint of magical compulsion in relation to her oath of allegiance. She felt a sudden rush of certainty that she had understood the precision of Dumbledore's choice of words.

"Miss Granger!" gasped McGonagall. "This is a direct order!"

"The oath I made Professor Dumbledore was quite specific," said Hermione apologetically. The words were so fresh in her mind that she could quote them directly: "'I, Hermione Jean Granger, pledge my loyalty to the Order of the Phoenix, under the leadership of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.' Furthermore," she elaborated, "the task Dumbledore set me was to protect Harry and to help him with his task."

In other circumstances, the look of surprise on McGonagall's face might have been comic. Arthur, who had yet to say anything, was frowning slightly. While Mad-Eye looked furious, Kingsley actually grinned...though the expression was fleeting and he quickly replaced it with a look of mild amusement.

"Well," drawled Kingsley, "that's that, then." He leant forward in his seat as if he was about to stand up.

"It certainly is not!" protested McGonagall.

"Come now, Minerva," replied Kingsley, relaxing back into the couch and turning towards McGonagall "despite having refused our request, the girl has shown no symptoms of having broken her oath. We can only assume she speaks the truth."

"But we have Potter's best interests at heart!"

"Really?" inquired Hermione, her voice came out a little harsher than she had intended. "Have the school governors named a new headmaster yet?" The silence that greeted her question was confirmation enough that they hadn't. "Once the Ministry falls," she continued, "Hogwarts might prove the most dangerous place Harry could be."

Mad-Eye clunked several steps forward and loomed over her, his magic eye spinning crazily. "And how do you know that the Ministry is going to fall, girl?" he inquired aggressively.

"Back off, Alastor," intervened Kingsley smoothly, "anyone with half a brain could tell that the Ministry won't last long. And Hermione has more than her fair share of brains."

Hermione caught Kingsley's eye, and to her surprise, he winked. Mad-Eye, in contrast, narrowed his real eye dubiously, looking far from convinced, though he straightened up and turned away.

"I think," continued Kingsley, "that we should make our farewells and leave Hermione to shower and breakfast in peace." He stood and gave Hermione a half bow. "Thank you for your time, Miss Granger," he said formally.

Hermione rose as well and returned the bow. "You're welcome, Kingsley; I'm sorry that I couldn't be of more assistance."

McGonagall's lips were thinned in annoyance, and Mad-Eye looked far from mollified, but at Kingsley's insistence, they took their leave and filed away towards the Floo connection in the kitchen.

Once they were gone, Arthur rose to his feet and stepped towards Hermione. After a quick glance at the doorway to make sure they were alone, he leant towards her, taking hold of her upper arm. "I'll help with the ghoul," he whispered in her ear. After another look towards the door, he added a corollary: "Just don't tell Molly."

A/N : When you leave a review, all my hard work becomes worth it. :)