Chapter 02

Author's Notes: I'm honestly surprised that the dialogue at the end of this scene hasn't happened in the actual canon books, yet... It's a perfectly valid desensitization technique, after all! ~Lotm

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II.

No attacks came, while they were at the Creeveys. Hermione couldn't let down her guard, though. She conjured spare diapers for the baby, loaned other odds and ends, and made sure the Creeveys had no reason to return to their home until very late. But though she offered to let them sleep in her and Ginny's rooms, the Creeveys insisted on returning to their own home around eleven o'clock that night. Hermione, hands wringing, followed them to the hearth, trying to think of a way to have them let her go first.

A thumping sound and a craggy voice stopped them. Never before had the paranoid words of Mad-Eye Moody sounded so like a guardian angel: "Stop right there! You can't let these Muggles return to their home! Not without someone checking it out, first."

"Alastor, they're only just going home!" Molly protested.

"Exactly! It's when you least expect it that the enemy will strike! We're in a war, madam, and these fine people will not go home unprotected! Arthur, draw you wand; you're with me. We'll scope it out, and if it's all-clear, we'll come back and let them through."

Hermione faked a cough to catch the Creeveys' attention. "It's, er, best if you let Mr. Moody have his little idiosyncrasies, like this," she murmured to Mr. and Mrs. Creevey. "It'll only take a moment or two, and no harm will be done by it, really."

Sighing, they let the scarred Auror have his way. Even Arthur Weasley rolled his eyes, but joined Moody in the fireplace, each one with a fistful of powder. Arthur cast his, while Moody reserved his 'for a quick return, in case we need it'. Green flames roared up, and the two men whirled out of view.

Five seconds later, the fire roared again, accompanied by a dopplered, incoming stream of curses that made Hermione's ear's burn and Mrs. Creevey and Mrs. Weasley pale. Both men stumbled out of the hearth, Arthur's face so pale, his freckles stood out in stark relief. "D...De...oh, dear god, there were Death Eaters in their house! Alastor, if we'd just sent them across without checking--!"

But Alastor Moody was already ordering a fresh toss of Floo-powder to take him to the Ministry of Magic, Auror Headquarters, growling that he'd get an army and go after the bastards. Hermione's knees gave way with relief, making her fumble out one of the chairs at the kitchen table so she could sit down without falling. Once again, Russel had come through for her. It took a little bit of explaining for the Muggle Creeveys to understand just what sort of danger they would've been in, had they not come across to the wedding and stayed so late, and then Hermione found herself praised once again for her seemingly spur-of-the-moment idea to invite the lot of them to the party.

It was close to one o'clock in the morning before the Ministry Aurors would let the Creeveys return. The house was a bit of a mess, though nothing a bit of magic hadn't been able to put to rights again, Arthur reported when he came back from the final inspection. Protective wardings had been cast on the house to keep further such attacks out, and the excitement was finally dying down.

By that point, however, Hermione's mind was so tense with speculation and nerves and relief all jumbled together like lottery balls rotating in a tumbler, she couldn't sleep. Getting into her pyjamas, she crawled into the cot crowded into Ginny's narrow room and lay on the bed. Ginny talked about it for a little while, then subsided into sleep as she relaxed, but Hermione couldn't. This was the second time Russel had helped her to save someone. So far, she'd managed to make it look like a spectacularly lucky coincidence in each case, but she wouldn't be able to keep that up forever.

Her shoulder hurt. Startled, Hermione sat up halfway. The pain instantly eased, but when she lay back down, it burned again. It took her a moment of groping to try and massage the ache before she realized her necklace had slid under her pyjama top when she had laid down, causing the ring to slither around until it was behind her. Dread flooded her. Grabbing her wand from the desk beside her cot, Hermione yanked the bedcovers over her head and whispered, "Lumos!"

Under the abruptly bright glow of her wand, she examined the ring. There was no writing on it, though she turned it all around, examining the smooth-polished surface. A moment later, she realized there were no scales, either. What had the letter said? She wracked her memory. ...Touch it to a piece of parchment! Right, right... Poking her head out of the covers, she glanced at Ginny, who was soundly asleep, and turned the other way. Her cot was wedged up against the girl's desk; all she had to do was open a drawer and root around for a piece of scrap parchment. As soon as she had the piece, she ducked back under the covers and set the ring on top of the page, holding her wand so that she could see what might happen.

Words seeped out from the ring, spilling into copperplate lettering. Russel, whoever and wherever he might be, was using dicto-quill, she suspected. The message was simple, and straightforward.

Are you there?

Realizing she needed to make a reply, Hermione ducked out from under the covers, snagged a book from the desk and tried a silent accio to summon her self-inking quill from her bags under the cot. The last thing she wanted to do was overturn an inkwell on her bedding. Pulling the covers back into place, she tried another wordless bit of magic, something to cool and freshen the air under the covers.

When she'd been little, her father had teased her about needing a snorkel to be able to breathe, whenever she'd tried to pull the covers over her head and hide from the monsters in the closet, et cetera. He'd always patiently show her that there were no monsters in her closet, under her bed, or in her wardrobe, and her mum would give her a kiss on the forehead if she were especially troubled, which she had once upon a time called the 'mummy's nightmare shield', and they'd pretended it was magical.. Now that she was an adult, she knew that the monsters and magic were both quite real, and that her parents could only protect her from them about as well as pulling the covers over her head. Which was to say, not at all.

It was unsettling, becoming an adult.

Grasping the quill, making sure the ring was resting on the parchment by trapping it under her left hand, the fingers of which she used to hold her light-tipped wand aloft, she wrote back. I'm here.

The words vanished after a moment.

...To make sure I have the right person, what is your name? the ink spilled and wrote.

That was a bit of a silly question. Hermione started to scribe her first name, then paused. Cagily, she wrote back, You called me Jane. Did you want that, or my other name?

Clever girl. Initials, please, he prompted her as their previous words vanished.

H.J.G.

Excellent. And to reassure you, I am RUSSEL...Fawke's son, I suppose you could say.

Fawkes had been Professor Dumbledore's phoenix familiar; he was gone, now, but the phoenix still represented the Order.

I trust you are alright? You were not injured? Russel wrote. In either instance?

She knew he meant the Death Eater attacks. Hermione nibbled on her lower lip, then wrote back, No. Were you?

No. I was not there. One day I might be. If so, I would rather not be caught. I am far too valuable where I am at the moment to be incarcerated just yet. There is no one else left who can do what I must do...and I must not be uncovered. I realize this puts you in a terrible position, but I have no one else to turn to. Brian was the only one who knew how deep my cover went. Without him, I am forced to rely upon you, and I do not know if I can trust you. Nor, I suppose, do you know if you can trust me. We are both working blind, at the moment.

Hermione waited until most of the text had faded enough so that she had room to write, then replied. I don't know if I can trust you, either, frankly. I've never heard of you, and all the discreet enquiries I've made so far suggest no one else in the Order has ever heard of you.

No, they do not know me. Have you told them about the ring, then?

She debated how to answer, finally settling on a cautious, Not yet.

Thank you. And wise of you, to keep that option in reserve. Brian spoke well of you, those times he mentioned you. I will have to trust in his judgment, and hope I have made the right choice. I can't write for long, but I wanted to let you have a chance to ask me questions. Some, I cannot answer. Some, I will not answer. But I will try to assuage some of your curiosity.

So, you won't tell me who you are, I take it? Hermione write back.

No. Sorry.

She'd expected that. What about, where are you?

In the lair of the serpent himself...hiding under the covers. Literally. Not the most adult position to be in, but I cannot risk being seen writing to you anywhere in the open. And I should warn you, if I'm about to be caught, both papers will burn in a sudden flash. Please do not extinguish yours, as that would also put a stop to mine being burnt, and risk exposing our correspondence. At least, do not extinguish it while your ring touches it--you have not put it on your finger, have you?

No. I've strung it on a chain around my neck, actually.

Good. Neither of us needs that sort of complication. It would certainly make my situation even tougher. I hate the position I am in as it stands. Friendless, contact-less, and hopeless, in many ways. I'm stuck here until the end of the war.

Hermione felt a twinge of compassion for Russel, at those words. Don't you have anyone you can turn to?

Not after the traitor killed the head of our Order. And I cannot end the life of the man who did it; Brian forbade it.

That made her frown; she knew he meant Albus Dumbledore, but his words didn't make sense. I don't understand. How could he forbid it, if he was already dead?

Forgive me...I cannot speak about this in any detail. All I can say is that many things were discussed, beforehand. Many possibilities. Very few of them made me happy, but I am bound to not discuss them, until Headmaster Dumbledore is told that the Dark Lord is dead. Please keep this in mind. It is all I can say at this point in time.

Well, that'd be quite a trick, given that he's dead, Hermione wrote back, frowning at his phrasing. And it's not a case of discussing possibilities beforehand, either.

No, it isn't. But there is more than one way to hold a discussion with a former Headmaster.

...He's a very strange man, whoever he is, Hermione thought distractedly. She thought for a moment, then wrote, So, what else shall we talk about, then?

I'm hardly going to waste my time on inanities. I am curious, though. How did you effect those two rescues, without revealing where you got the information about the attacks?

Pure dumb luck, Hermione wrote.

Of course. I should have guessed. Go on.

Well, the first time, Molly said she knew Mr. Lubbock, and that he'd made their clock. I don't know if you know their clock, but it's rather unique; it has nine hands, each with a picture of one of the family--now ten, actually; Fleur's been added today when he came by as a wedding guest, now that she's married into the family. Anyway, she said she wanted to have the hands stop pointing at 'Mortal Peril' all the time, and I said I'd poke my head through the Floo for her while she worked on lunch. I had my wand at the ready, of course...

He didn't interrupt much, just asked a question or two, until she brought him up to date with the current averted fiasco.

...And I couldn't sleep, even though everything's gone back to as normal as it gets, anymore. So I was awake when the ring heated up.

It was a risk I had to take, on whether or not you'd be too deeply asleep to answer. Thank you for being awake. And for filling me in on the details of what happened.

About that, Hermione interjected. How can you keep all of this from being read by You-Know-Who via Legilimency?

Because I am a better Occlumens. There was only one person who was a better Legilimens than the Dark Lord, and only that person was ever able to penetrate my mind. Unfortunately...he is now dead. This leaves me secure in my secrets if I am careful, despite the Dark Lord's strength...but it will make it very awkward when the truth must come out about my activities. I hope to be alive, on that day. I don't expect to be, but some small part of me still hopes to be.

You sound very depressed, Hermione wrote, then scratched that out and scribbled quickly, --That was a stupid thing to say, wasn't it?

Yes...but an accurate observation. How can I not be depressed? Thanks to the traitor's actions, there's no one alive to help me prove I'm on the right side, not the wrong one. Not until the war has been won. And the likelihood of that happening is depressingly low.

I wish there was some way I could cheer you up, Hermione found herself offering.

...Thank you. The sentiment is appreciated, however futile the practice.

You're welcome, I think. I wish I could do more.

You've done enough, for tonight. Brian once told me I needed someone, a friend I could talk to, or I'd explode. I never believed him, until I was cut off from all contact. I am not accustomed to saying I need something; I am used to doing without, and to denial. But...I needed this. Unfortunately, I will not be able to communicate this directly with you very often. Thank you for listening, and for extending some of your trust.

Hermione knew a conversation-ender when she read one. Quickly, she wrote, Wait--before you go, a quick question.

Yes?

How do I contact you? How do I make the ring work? Do I touch it to the paper and start writing?

You would need to say my full name while touching the ring with your thumb, and speak the message to encode the ring directly, or speak my full name and then touch the ring to paper to initiate this sort of contact...but the risk is too great. If someone on your end of things discovers the secret of the ring, there is hope that they will be an ally, not an enemy, and would continue to keep it a secret alongside you. If anyone on my end of the matter discovers the communicative properties of the ring, I am dead. And I gave my word to Brian I would not throw away my life until this war is over.

I must go now, he added. Mind the paper, for it will burn. RUSSEL, ex Votum Irruptus.

Goodnight! Hermione scrawled quickly, and had just enough time to exchange quill for wand as the paper seared and crumbled to ash. Thankfully, it flashed too quickly to damage anything. The only traces of their conversation were a slight powder on her bedding, a smoky scent under the covers, and the self-inking quill in her hand.

A cautious poke of her head out of the covers showed Ginny still safely asleep. Putting the quill away, Hermione extinguished her wand and set it back on the desktop, which was serving as her nightstand, she lay back down on the cot. Now her mind whirled with a different set of questions, but at least some of her tension had eased.

...

With the wedding over and Bill and Fleur off on their honeymoon trip, there was little reason for the trio to stay at the Burrow. Two days after the wedding found them arriving at Headquarters, though from the wrinkling of Harry's nose, he hated having to do it. But they couldn't stay at the Burrow; Molly would pitch a fit if she found out what the three of them were going to do, and on her own ground, she was indisputably In Charge. Here, at the Black house, they were technically adults in the wizarding world, and therefore supposed to be treated as equals. Well, except for Harry, who still had a few more weeks to go to his seventeenth birthday.

They'd had to scramble to make a new Secret Keeper for the place, the night of the attack on the school. And to find a wizard strong enough to cast the necessary spell. With Albus Dumbledore dead, the chance of Snape leading the Death Eaters to the place had been so great, they'd done a makeshift job of it: Moody, being the only one to even think of the possibility, had rushed off and cast the spell...and he'd chosen Mrs. Figg, of all people, to be the recipient. She was a Squib, and an old lady, but her Floo had been connected, she'd been at home and awake, and she was the last person anyone would think of for a Secret Keeper.

Unfortunately, Harry, Ron and Hermione discovered upon entering the place, she'd brought her cats with her. They hadn't been here when Arthur had brought them to the park across the street to meet Mrs. Figg and thus be let into the place by her, shortly after arriving at the Burrow for the summer. But the cats were in the house now. The whole ground floor smelled like fur, and kitty kibble.

"Well," Hermione sighed, trying to look on the bright side as she set down Crookshanks' cage and unlatched it. She didn't speak loudly, not wanting to wake up the portrait of Mrs. Black just yet. "At least Crooks will have some friends to play with..."

"Yeah, right," Ron snorted under his breath. "Come on; let's go see which rooms we can claim."

"I hate being back here," Harry whispered, staring at the curtained painting just down the hall. "I hate her, too."

"Actually, I have a cure for that!" Hermione whispered back. Reaching into her pocket, she drew out an egg. Harry gave her a puzzled look, and she held her finger up to her lips. Padding quietly up to the curtains, she silently levitated the egg, cracked it open with her wand, separated the yolk from the white with a bit of magic, and yanked the curtains open. "Tempera silentis!"

"YOU FILTY MUDBL--!"

The egg yolk splattered over the harridan's pinched, oil-painted face, choking her mid-insult. Cutting her off, too. She clawed at the yellow splatter marks, tried to move out from underneath the stain, but it clung to her face, keeping her in place. Grinning, Hermione yanked the curtains shut, and dusted off her hands dramatically.

"There! Evanesco," she added, vanishing the egg shell and egg white. "I made a point to look up any and all known methods of silencing a painting, and finally found that wonderful little spell in a book by a wizarding artist named Gerry Jesso in the school library. I've been dying to get back here to shut her up for over half a year!"

"Brilliant," Harry breathed, eyeing the still, quiet curtains. His eyes gleamed behind the round lenses of his spectacles. "BLOODY BRILLIANT!" he shouted...and the other portraits in the hall roused and started shouting at him. Both of them clapped their hands over their ears, but without Mrs. Black to egg them on...so to speak...they quieted down quickly. Especially when Harry yelled, "--Quiet, the lot of you! Or we'll permanently silence you, too!"

Silence descended on the hall. A figure at the end poked his head through the kitchen door. "Harry? What was all the ruckus about?"

"We were just shutting up Mrs. Black for a good, long time, Remus," Hermione quipped, grinning at him as she headed his way. "Blissfully silent, now, isn't it?"

"Right. Well, I've told Ron what rooms are open; Hermione, you can have the same room you and Ginny usually use. Harry...I wasn't sure if you wanted to share a room with Ron, or...or move into Sirius' bedroom. I thought I'd leave that up to you."

Harry grimaced. "With Ron, I think...I'm not up to dealing with the memories, just yet."

"I understand. If you ever need to talk..." their former professor offered.

"I know. Thanks," Harry acknowledged. "Listen, are there any books of names, around here? I mean, who's who in the wizarding world, that sort of thing."

"I think there are some genealogy books in the library, and the parlour might have a book or two. And then there's always the infamous Black Family Tapestry," he added with a touch of humor, but his smile was more wistful than merry. "Tonks isn't on it, of course."

Harry nodded. "Thanks. We'll look into it."

"How is Tonks?" Hermione asked, lingering behind as Harry headed back to the hall to collect his things. Unlike her and Ron, he'd come away from his so-called home with all of his worldly goods. She didn't have as much to unpack, so didn't bother heading upstairs just yet. Just asking the aging werewolf about his love brought a distinct warmth back into his whole posture. Happiness had a way of doing that.

"Wonderful. She'll be home, after work. Erm, coming here, that is. I won't be staying long, just a day or two more, but I was glad to make it to the wedding, yesterday. I heard about the deal with the Creeveys--good work, Hermione."

"Um, thanks." Uneasy about the topic of her 'serendipitous' rescue, she sought to change the subject. The hearth behind Remus flared green, saving her from the topic. A magenta-and-purple striped head poked through the verdant flames.

"Wotcher, Walter! Give us a kiss! I'm on my coffee break! ...Oh, hi, Hermione! I, er, didn't see you there."

Remus hurried over to the hearth, crouched down, and--blushing--bussed Tonks on the lips. Hermione quickly turned and studied one of the cupboards with as utterly absorbed a scrutiny as she could affect. The fire stopped crackling, and Remus cleared his throat. Figuring Tonks was gone, Hermione politely faced him again. The brightly-haired Auror was indeed no longer visible, though she'd left purple lip-prints on the edge of his mouth. Hermione gestured vaguely at her mouth, and he caught on, quickly wiping his face with a handkerchief pulled from his pocket.

"Er...thanks. She didn't know anybody was here, and..."

"And I think it's wonderful," Hermione reassured him. "So there's no need to be embarrassed. The two of you deserve happiness, together. Um...just one question--why did she call you 'Walter'?"

"It's my middle name," Remus explained. "Remus Walter Lupin."

"--Wait a minute," Hermione interjected. "I thought your middle name was J-something. It was on your briefcase; I saw it when you were our teacher, on the Hogwarts Express."

"What, John?" he asked. "My mother called me that, but my father named me Walter, after his father. Mum never liked him, so she used her own father's name. No, on the birth-certificate, it's Walter. Sirius used to joke that my first name should've been Grantham," the middle-aged wizard continued, "so that he could nickname me 'G.R.W.L.', or 'Growl' for short. Of course, he called Pettigrew P.E.P., for Peter Eugene Pettigrew, and James was J.A.P. for James Albert Potter, and Sirius was S.O.B., which was short for Sirius Orson Black--we all had nicknames, in our youth. Even Sirius' brother, before he went to Hogwarts and wound up in Slytherin. We called him 'Rabby Burns'," he quipped, affecting a mock-Scottish accent. "We would've called him 'Robby', but he didn't have the right middle initial for that."

Hermione's heart squeezed in her chest. She stared at Remus, trying to make her throat work. "What...what was his middle name? Regulus Black's middle name?"

"Um...Alphonse? Alfred--Arcturus! Named after the middle name of the uncle who left his fortune to Sirius, Alphard Arcturus Black," Remus recalled. "Turned out to be a total disappointment to the old--mmmphf!"

Hermione pulled back from her enthusiastic, ear-grabbing kiss, suddenly realizing what she'd done. She'd just planted one on her ex-professor's lips! On a pair of lips that belonged to Tonks! Jerking her hands away from his head, she backed up a few steps. "Uh...um... That's nothing personal--it's only that you've just solved one hell of a mystery for Harry, Ron, and me--we'll tell you about it later!--Sorry for swearing!" she added over her shoulder as she pelted out of the kitchen, racing for the stairs. "Harry! Ron! Where are you?"

They popped their heads out of one of the doors on the second floor. Ron frowned at her. "What's up?"

Hermione pushed them back into their bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Eyes gleaming, she waited just long enough to catch some of her breath before gasping, "--I just found out who R.A.B. is! Remus told me!"

"--What?" both wizards exclaimed.

Harry grabbed her arm, green eyes gleaming with hope. "Who is it?"

"Regulus. Alphard. Black! It makes perfect sense! He was in the Death Eaters, he must've gotten close enough to hear enough about the Horcruxes to figure it all out, and he was the one who stole the locket!"

Ron looked between the two of them. "--That's why the Dark Lord killed him! That had to have been it!"

"Exactly!" Hermione agreed.

Harry, brow pinched in a frown, held up his hand. "There was something...the locket! Don't you remember? We found a locket, while we were cleaning out the parlour, right before our fifth year! I can't believe I forgot about it--the ruddy think looked exactly like the locket I saw in Dumbledore's Pensieve! It might even still be down there!"

"Not if Mundungus nicked and sold it," Ron cautioned them.

"Oh, god, I hope not--I'll kill the little wanker!" Hermione swore, and there was a mad scrum for the door as all three tried to open it at the same time. They got it sorted out: Harry bolted first, Hermione after him, and Ron followed hard on her heels. It was a good thing she'd silenced the worse of the portraits, for they made enough noise thumping down the stairs two and three and even four steps at a time, it shook the floorboards.

The glass-fronted cabinets were empty...and from the patina of dust, had been empty for quite some time.

They'd forgotten about Sirius' determination to throw out virtually everything during their cleaning spree that summer.

...

Depression cast a pall through the already gloomy parlour. Harry lay sprawled on the sofa, Ron in an armchair next to him, and Hermione sat at the writing desk, forehead in her hand. They didn't have the first clue of where to go to find the lost locket. Not even a clue as to where wizarding rubbish went, really. It was a very despairing task to contemplate.

"...Hang on," Ron finally murmured, sitting up a little in his chair. Or at least slouching less. "Harry, could you draw a sketch of the locket? Good enough to identify it?"

He lifted his dark-haired head from the arm of the sofa. "I suppose so, yes. But what good would that do us? We don't even know where to look, what landfill it's been dumped into, and there's a year's worth of yet more rubbish that's probably been dumped on top of it by now."

"Yes, and it'd be a filthy job, trying to dig it out again...which means we need to find someone who by their very nature wouldn't mind getting filthy...if he were ordered to look for it," Ron asserted slyly. Then cast Hermione an apologetic look. "Sorry, Hermione, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Harry, sketch out the locket, and summon Kreacher. He can go digging for it, while we start looking for Helga Hufflepuff's missing cup. The less time we have to spend on each task, the faster we'll get to the end of our quest, and the end of the war."

Hermione wanted to protest...but even she had to admit it was the best apportioning of their resources. Kreacher could devote more time to the task than they could. Giving up her place at the desk, she let Harry sit and sketch the locket with a pencil, erasing several times until he got it right, or at least as right as any of them could remember. Taking his place on the couch, she dropped onto the worn springs and waited.

Finally, Harry was done. Turning, he drew a breath to steady himself, then asserted, "Kreacher, you are summoned."

The ugly, old house-elf appeared in the center of the room. A sneer of disgust twisted his lips, but he bowed subserviently low. "Master summons me? ...I see he's still in the company of that filthy Mudblood and the spotty-faced blood-traitor."

"Those are freckles, not spots!" Ron growled.

Gritting his teeth, Harry lifted the sketch he'd made. "Kreacher, pay attention. I am looking for this locket. It used to be stored in these glass cabinets, here. I want you to find it and bring it to me, as quickly as you can--"

Kreacher's eyes widened, and his mouth compressed as he studied the sketch while Harry spoke. His long pointed ears trembled for a moment, then he snapped his fingers before Harry could finish. The three friends eyed each other in dismay.

"Bugger!" Ron exclaimed softly.

"Yeah, I was going to tell him he couldn't talk to anyone about this--"

Kreacher snapped back into the parlour, a gold chain clutched in his spindly fingers, muttering in that sour, not-quite-quiet way of his. "What could Master want with the young master's locket, I don't know; he would've been a far better master..."

Harry flicked his gaze to the others, just as stunned as they were. "Kreacher, where did you get that locket? We thought we tossed it out!"

Again, the house-elf sneered, clutching the locket to his chest. "Kreacher kept it as a sentiment of a true son of the Black family...not some blood-traitor who should've been drowned at birth..."

"Enough, Kreacher. Hand it over," Harry ordered him. Fingers trembling, the house-elf obeyed. Harry took the locket, wrapping the chain around his fist. He thought for a moment, then said, "Alright, Kreacher, you will not talk about this to anyone but one of the three of us. Now...go clean Mrs. Figg's cat-boxes. That's your punishment for calling Hermione a Mudblood, and Ron a spotty blood-traitor."

Grumbling and glaring, the old house-elf shuffled out the parlour door. Ron was grinning as he flicked his wand, shutting the door behind his creature. "I like that sort of punishment... Now, is that the locket you saw in Dumbledore's Pensieve?"

"Yes, it is," Harry agreed. He tried to pry it open, but couldn't. "But it's stuck."

"Give it here..." Ron gave it a try, but couldn't get it open. After a minute of struggling, he tossed it at Hermione. "Oy, see what you can magic up."

Hermione didn't think it would work, but she started with Alohomora, then moved on to a couple of other unlocking, unwarding, and opening-designed charms. Nothing. "...I don't think it can be opened."

"Great. R.A.B.--Regulus--said he was going to try to kill this Horcrux," Harry reminded them, speaking of the note from the decoy locket, "but how will we know if he's succeeded already, if we can't find out whether or not the soul's still in there?"

Another somewhat depressed silence filled the parlour, though not quite as gloomy as before. Hermione turned the locket over and over in her hands, then passed it to Ron when he held out his hand silently. He, too, studied it for several minutes, then passed it to Harry. After another minute, Ron's freckled brow creased thoughtfully. "Harry...how did you and Dumbledore kill the other Horcruxes?"

"Well...the diary, I stabbed with the basilisk's tooth. It's poison is quite deadly; if Fawkes hadn't cried on my wound, I'd have died myself. Instead...it killed Tom Riddle's soul-infused memory."

"Yeah, after he nearly killed my sister," Ron muttered. "But we don't have a basilisk handy. And the ring, Salazar Slytherin's ring--how did Dumbledore destroy that one?"

"I don't know," Harry shrugged helplessly. "He never said. The book, I could stab easily enough with the tooth; it was only leather and paper. The locket is metal. We'll have to find another way."

"Maybe if we crushed it?" Ron offered. Harry sat up, excited by the possibility.

Hermione had a terrible feeling. "Wait--why is the locket sealed? Think about it. To keep that piece of Lord Voldemort's soul inside. If we crush the locket open without dealing with the soul, it could escape, and return to its master. He might not notice the destruction of one of his Horcruxes, but he might notice the return of a soul-fragment. We've got to be really careful, in dealing with these things."

"Yeah, but we don't even know if the soul is still in there, or what condition it's in," Ron pointed out.

"...Condition," Harry muttered, looking at the locket in his hands. "Condition...Hermione, you spent a lot of time in the Infirmary, at the end of last summer. Doesn't Madam Pomfrey have some sort of spell to let her know what the condition of a person's soul might be?"

"It's possible...some of the curses and jinxes do affect the soul of a person," she mused. "But I'd need to research that in the school library. Or ask her to do the spell herself, directly."

"No, I'd rather not ask her to cast a soul-sensing spell on a locket," Harry decided with a shake of his head. "She might know enough to realize we thought it was a Horcrux, just from asking. The fewer people who know we're after pieces of Riddle's soul, the better. I don't want him figuring out what we're up to, until it's too late and he's the only fragment left."

"So, it's back to school, then, is it?" Ron asked his two friends.

Harry sighed, slumping in his seat. "I guess it is..." Staring at the locket in his hands, he finally slung the chain around his head. "Until we can figure out what to do with this thing, I'm going to keep it with me at all times. I don't want Kreacher nicking it again--though thank god he did--and I don't want it out of my reach. If a piece of that slimy bastard's soul is in here, I want it where I can kill it as soon as we know how."

"Oy, you're rather brave," Ron observed, eyeing Harry with respect. "If I had that thing 'round my neck, it'd give me the collywobbles night and day!"

Harry grimaced at the locket before slipping it under his shirt. "Tell me about it."

...

Rather than risk Apparation--Hermione was the only one who had passed her license test; Ron had failed his by a left-behind eyebrow, and Harry couldn't take it until after his birthday at the end of July--they used the Floo. It disgorged them in the Great Hall. Dusting themselves off, they headed past the long tables, currently empty, their benches inverted on each table-top, and exited the hall.

The damage from the battle was almost entirely gone, but there were still traces of it. Scrubbed spots on the aged stone where the scorch-marks had been removed, in the main halls. Scorched marks where the house-elves had yet to get. A broken timber shored up by a bit of enchanted scaffolding...and house-elves working on the railings of the moving staircases. The stairs weren't moving; someone or something had frozen them in place so that the house-elves could work without worrying about being crushed against a wall or suddenly not having any place to step.

The pattern they demarcated was not one conducive to reaching the library quickly. They had to climb to the fourth floor, go all the way to Professor Flitwick's classroom, and use the back door out of that, which led to a back stairwell that took them down to the second floor, where they had to come back to the central stairwell twice more, just to cross to the floor and corridor that led to the library. Stepping inside, they oriented themselves and headed for the medimagic section in the stacks. It was eerily quiet without the rustling of pages, the scratching of quills, or the whispered conversations that were all Madam Pince had allowed, noise-wise. But they found a series of texts that looked promising, carried them back to the study tables, and sat down. Hermione passed around parchment and quills from the book bag she'd brought for taking notes, and they started flipping through the texts.

Voices impinged on their research, some while later. "...and I need to know now whether or not to order that series, so that it'll arrive in time if I do."

That was Madam Pince's voice, heralding her arrival as she came through the library doors.

"Well, I'm still in two minds about opening the school for next year--Mr. Potter! Mr. Weasley! Miss Granger! What are you three doing in here?" Professor McGonagall asked them, her gaze darting between the three friends. "School's out for the summer! You're not supposed to be here!"

Hermione scrambled for a plausible excuse. "We know that, Professor...but after what happened, we really want to get a jump-start on our studies and..."

"...And we realized we know almost nothing about first-aid magic," Ron finished for her, to her gratitude. "I mean, there's a war on, you know? And we might not always be able to Madam Pomfrey in time. Or to St. Mungo's."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "And um, well, this is the first place we thought of to start looking up those sorts of things."

"Please let us stay," Hermione pleaded, making up her mind on the spot to do some research for that very end while they were here. Ron's cobbled-together suggestion was very wise, really. If they did get hurt, they might indeed end up in a situation at the time where they needed to heal each other before they could get to a mediwizard. "We'll put everything back exactly where we found it--you know that we're responsible, Madam Pince; we're not first-years."

Madam Pince pressed her lips together, her brow furrowing, but the Headmistress touched her elbow. "...I think they should be allowed to stay. Provided they spend at least an hour or two helping you to sort and shelve books. For each day they spend here in the library, during the summer break."

"Oh, we'll definitely help!" Hermione promised quickly. The other two nodded, albeit with lesser enthusiasm. Madam Pince hmphfed, but said nothing against the suggestion, just headed for her desk.

Professor McGonagall moved closer. She peered at the books they were reading, then murmured, "I don't know what the three of you are up to, but you'd better learn those healing charms. You're probably going to need them...and that's the sorriest fact I know."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry breathed, relief etched on his face that she wasn't going to toss them out. "Believe me, we'll learn them."

Ron waited until they were left alone before wrinkling his nose. "Great. Homework in the summertime--and we're not even coming back here."

"Ron, it's a really good idea--"

"--Cool off, Hermione!" he returned in an undertone. "I realize we should learn some good healing charms. And I'm all for it. I'm just...I'm just whinging for whinging's sake, y'know?"

Shaking her head ruefully, Hermione bent over her books. She'd already made a partial list of potentially useful charms to learn while searching for the soul-sensing one they needed. "The moment you stop learning, Ron, you're dead. Literally, in our case. We're in a war, after all."

"Believe me, I do know."

"Hey," Harry interrupted them. "A little less arguing, a little more researching?"

"--Mr. Weasley? Mr. Potter? I require one of you to shelve this cart of books on an upper row! And don't dawdle!"

"...I'll go," Ron offered, setting his quill down with a sigh.

...

They didn't find what they were looking for in the regular section of books. Not by the time the librarian hurried them out of the library when suppertime drew near. Going back to Headquarters for the evening, they quietly practiced the healing charms they'd researched, though Harry and Ron twitted Hermione on her use of copying-spells. She argued back that, since it wasn't for an essay, it made more sense to copy the pages by magic than by hand, or worse, try to attempt to convince Madam Pince to allow them to take the books off the school grounds.

Harry, still technically under-age, wasn't supposed to be doing magic until he turned seventeen. But as it had been explained to him, if he did magic in a non-magical household, he'd get in trouble, but in a magical household, there was no way to tell who was casting the spells. If anyone had dropped by his and Ron's room, Hermione and Ron were willing to lie and swear they were the only ones casting spells, but no one bothered them after supper. So they practiced, and slept, and returned to the school the next day.

It took them another day to finish the non-restricted books. Again, nothing was found that quite covered what they were looking for, though they did copy a whole new list of charms to practice that evening. On the third day, the trio dug into the more advanced medical tomes of the Restricted Section...and hit pay-dirt in the second book they opened. While Harry went over to Madam Pince to distract her with an offer to help organize more of the shelves, Hermione quickly cast the necessary copying spells. Ron went to help Harry, while Hermione skimmed through the rest of the book, copying down a couple more spells she hoped might be helpful.

When they returned to 12 Grimmauld Place, Mrs. Figg was in the kitchen, busy feeding her dozen or so cats. Harry, Ron and Hermione tried to get into the parlour, but it was locked, apparently due to an Order meeting. Exchanging looks, they retreated upstairs, to Harry and Ron's room.

Ron dropped onto his back, sprawling on his bed; he fished a couple medical spells from his book bag, but didn't do more than idly glance through them. Harry sat on the edge of his, and tugged the locket out of his shirt.. Hermione leaned back against the desk they'd stuffed into the small room next to the door, dug into her bookbag for her notes, and started reading the necessary spell. She practiced the wand movements first, then kept her wand still and mouthed the triggering word a good dozen times. Only when she was satisfied did she set the papers down.

She did not approach Harry, however, but turned instead to Ron. "Hold still. I'm going to test this on you, first."

He gave her a dubious look, but set his papers next to him on the shabby green bedcover, and laced his hands together over his stomach. "If you get this wrong, and you end up making my nose grow or something, I won't snog you for a week."

"Way to put the pressure on, Ron," Hermione mock-muttered. Harry smiled wistfully, and she knew he was thinking of Ginny. Gripping her wand, she lashed the length of vinewood in the prescribed pattern, intoning, "Psyscandum!"

Coloured lights burst, not from her wand, but from Ron's body. They were all hues: a fountain of glittering gold, radiant pink, vibrant red, shimmering blue, even a pulsating green. There were some darker spots, and Hermione quickly consulted her copied notes, comparing the glitter to the marks on his skin. They matched the scars given to him by the brain that had attacked him roughly a year ago. Otherwise...he was fine. Very healthy, in fact.

Banishing the spell, Hermione turned to Harry. He held out the locket. She shook her head. "Place it on the floor, please. I want to make sure I've got this spell right, and I don't want interference from its proximity to you."

Shrugging, he stooped and dropped it in the middle of the threadbare rug covering the small amount of walking space in the room.

Hermione cast the Soul Scan on him. Not on the locket. He shimmered with a fountain of light and energy, too. He also frowned. "What was that for? I thought you were going to do the locket?"

"I'm practicing. Well...your hues are different than Ron's, and you're mostly healthy...except for the scar on your head."

Ron peered at his best friend. "Yeah. That's an ugly shade of olive drab, mate. It's really not your colour."

"Gee, thanks," Harry muttered, rubbing his forehead and making the sparks shift and play with the movement of his body. His colours were stronger and somewhat darker than Ron's, but no less healthy-looking.

Hermione cancelled the spell, turned to the head of Harry's bed, and cast it over his pillow. Nothing happened. Nodding, she gripped her wand, knelt next to the locket on the floor to one side, so the other two could see, and cast the spell again, taking extra care to pronounce and swish correctly. "Psyscandum!"

A sickly spurt of light rose up from the locket. Muddy orange, drab green, greyish blue, and bilious purple gleamed up out of the locket, and only the locket. The chain lay in a limp, unremarkable puddle, as did the carpet.

All three of them shivered at the sight. Ron was the first to speak, his voice quiet with awe, and a little fear. "Whoa...a piece of his soul is really in there--and it's arse-faced ugly!"

A wave of her wand, and Hermione ended the sickly shimmer. Her voice, too, was quiet. "According to the footnotes, a soul that has those colours is in very bad shape. The hues should be either strong and bright or pastel and light, depending on the nature of the patient and the vitality of their body. Either richly coloured, or brightly glowing, or some combination thereof. Those colours weren't rich or bright...but then it is just a fraction of his soul."

"What I want to know is how to kill it. To make it dead. Non-living," Harry stated with quiet determination, sinking from the edge of the bed to his knees beside her. And a lot of caged anger, as he glared down at the locket. "I'm almost tempted to try the Killing Curse on it."

"--No, Harry; you can't!" Hermione protested, while Ron reached out and touched his arm.

"Don't do it, mate. You don't want that kind of a dark stain on your own soul."

"Yes," Hermione agreed, relieved Ron's tone was adamant. "Harry, if you tried that, you'd be no better than him. We'll find another way. There has to be one!"

He knelt there on the floor, hands fisted on his thighs. Finally, he sighed, the tension leaving his body in exchange for a defeated slump. "...I wish Professor Dumbledore was still here. We could've asked him what to do, to kill this thing."

"I know." Hermione touched his arm in comfort. "That was a good thing you did, letting go of your anger."

He made a soft scoffing sound. "Letting go of my anger. Sounds like one of those stupid Occlumency lessons..."

"Harry...they're not stupid," Ron stated, surprising Hermione. "They actually sound really smart. You said it yourself--Snape was reading your mind, in the battle back at the school. If you could learn to block him out, and...and Voldemort," he managed to say as Harry tensed again, "then the next time you meet up with one of them, neither of them will be able to get inside your mind. And...and I want to learn, too.

"The last thing I want to do is betray either of you," the freckled wizard finished, glancing between Harry and Hermione. "I think, while we're studying healing charms, and looking up information on Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin, and any missing artifacts from among them...I think we should study Occlumency. All three of us. Eventually, we're going to run into Death Eaters, and one of the two of them as well.

"It's just stupid to go around with your mind wide open," Ron finished firmly. "And none of us are stupid."

Hermione nodded slightly, careful to not send Harry off the idea with too much enthusiasm.

He knelt on the floor, thinking, and finally snorted. "Maybe I have been stupid...but not any more. The only problem is, we're going to end up re-shelving the entire school library, at this rate. Okay. A crash-course in Legilimency, Occlumency, mediwitchery...anything else we can think of?"

"I'm sure we'll run across it," Hermione returned dryly.

"Or it'll run across us. Across us and over us, trampling us into the dust," Ron muttered. Harry picked up the locket and slung it around his neck again. That made Ron eye him as if he'd sprouted two extra heads. "Oy, you're rather brave, putting that thing around your neck now that we know for sure a piece of You-Know-Who is inside it."

"Voldemort, Ron," Harry chided him. "Voldemort's Horcrux. Well, one of them. And it's not brave; it's practical. I don't want to lose it, and I want to keep it on hand so we can kill it, the moment we figure out how to do so."

"Horrible thing," Hermione muttered. "Horrible Voldemort. Horriblemort," she added, playing with the words, trying to desensitize the last bit of reluctance out of herself over saying the name aloud. It earned her a startled look from Harry, and a stunned look from Ron.

"Horrible...mort," the youngest male Weasley repeated slowly, cautiously, testing out the combination. "Horriblemort... Voldiemort!"

"--Voldiebutt!" Harry offered, catching on to the game.

"Moldybutt!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Voldietorte!" Ron added.

"Eww! I wouldn't even want to touch that, let alone eat it!" Hermione retorted, wrinkling her nose. All three of them laughed, and some of the tension left the room. She giggled again, thinking about it. "Well, I can see I'm not quite so terrified of saying his name anymore... Come on; we've got a ton of healing charms to practice and memorize."

"Yes, Professor Granger," Ron mock-groaned, flinging one arm mock-dramatically over his eyes. He lifted his arm just enough to eye her speculatively. "So...are you gonna give me a detention where I have to snog you for half an hour without coming up for air?"

"I'll make you snog him," Hermione returned flippantly, poking her thumb at Harry.

"Gross!" Harry made a face at her. "I'd rather kiss his sister, thank you!"

"Well, it's supposed to be a detention," Hermione defended. "It's not supposed to be pleasant to contemplate!"

"...'Professor' Granger," Ron asserted, as if that settled her future employment.

Hermione made a face at him, but had to consider the idea more seriously than that, deep down inside. She'd considered it as a possibility; she loved learning, and wouldn't mind trying to pass on her scholastic enthusiasm to students in the future. The only problem was, they had to ensure that there would be a future in which students could safely learn.