Chapter 15

Those who do not believe it is possible to consciously direct the manifestation of one's ultimate desire have practiced neither self-control nor self-belief. These two things are the mark of a mature heart and mind.

XV.

One wouldn't think it would take that long to find a tall, rectangular, age-worn mirror. But the junkyard room they had entered was the size of a cathedral, and not a small one. Of course, it was a sanctuary for the discarded refuse of centuries, and not a sanctuary for worship. Unless one worshipped cracked chairs, torn cloaks, rusted owl-cages and the like. Hermione could almost have called it the garbage-heap of Hogwarts, but at least there weren't any moldy potato-peelings or used facial tissues. A small pile of rumpled handkerchiefs that she found pinned down by a rusting bronze astrolabe of a size Hagrid might be able to use, but no wadded, manky tissues.

By treating the mess like a labyrinth, and sticking to the left-hand rule, she simply followed the left 'wall' of junk and debris, always turning to the left. With the stuffed troll as her starting point, she ended up heading far from Harry and Ron. Occasional glances across the room showed a tuft of reddish hair moving this way and that, and once she caught the gleam of Harry's spectacles, moving between two towering stacks of mismatched boxes. But after a while, she lost sight of both of them, and praised Ron for the foresight of the same rule of thumb Hagrid had taught them to use when looking through a dangerous place. Not that any of them sent up sparks as the minutes passed, slowly becoming an hour, then two, but it would be the only way to locate each other.

One of her finds took her breath away. Someone had created a cave out of a stack of chairs, desks, wrought candlestands, and some huge, mangy animal hide, something that looked like it had once belonged to a woolly mammoth, perhaps. Underneath the raised roof of the hide was a pasha's palace. Thick velvety cushions had been scattered over several layers of threadbare, faded carpets, interspersed with chests overflowing with rings, bracelets, necklaces, even a tiara. She wasn't sure how much of the jewelry was real, though some of it was clearly paste, and much of it broken or damaged in some way.

What really made it a treasure trove were the books. These were school texts, the sort that had been written on, torn, stained, even had pages missing...but someone had constructed a set of makeshift shelves underneath the stacked tables and chairs forming the walls of the yurt-like enclosure. They were grouped by category, by subject, by author, as neatly organized as any library. What puzzled Hermione was that there were often several different copies of the same book at hand. Curious, she pulled one out, opened it, and under the glow of her wand--since it was gloomy under the mammoth-hide--opened to a random page and studied what she saw.

Notes. Someone had scribbled notes all over the margins. It reminded her rather strongly of the Potions textbook of the Half-Blood Prince, though this was a book of Arithmancy. But it wasn't just one set of handwriting; there were two sets, here, one angular and masculine-looking, the other narrow and loopy, the gender indeterminate, but something made her think feminine. Pulling down the next, identical text, she opened it. Broad loops, very feminine, and the same narrow ones from before. The notes in the margin for the broad loopy hand were different from the angular ones in the previous book, but something in the narrow loops referred back to the other text.

Randomly grabbing another book, she found spiky handwriting in that one, and the narrow loops. Hermione suspected this was the private crib-note library of some past Hogwarts student, possibly a girl, someone who had taken the time to gather up all the old books tossed into this place to study the notes made in the margins. These weren't comments about boyfriends or girlfriends or how boring a class was, either; they were notes about the theories being discusses, or linkages to other magical disciplines, some cryptically short, others with impressive detail.

She longed to study more of these things, but aware of the passage of time, Hermione reluctantly re-shelved the books. I will come back, though, she promised herself. I'll come back, and pick the minds of all these past students, to see if they have anything useful to say... She looked around one last time, then turned to crawl back out of the tent-like space. And spotted a photograph in a frame near the entrance. Crawling over to it on hands and knees, she extended her want towards it, peering at the image.

It was a girl, maybe sixteen or so, with dark, straight hair, dark eyes, and a longish nose. Her school uniform was a bit old-fashioned in its cut, but then the wavy edge of the black-and-white photo suggested the picture had been taken in the fifties. The girl sat on the steps of some broad stairwell somewhere, her longish skirt tucked demurely over her knees, and her hands clasped in her lap. Her posture was good, too, and though her expression was a bit superior, there was a hint of a smile about her mouth.

Every once in a while, she lifted her hand and waved, just a quick little pass of her hand, then she went back to her demure pose, as if she was accustomed to the idea of self-control. Written on the corner of the photograph were the words, Daddy's Little Princess. Unfortunately, being a black-and-white photograph, it was impossible to tell what colour her school tie was, and there was no House badge visible, just a prefect's badge...but Hermione liked her. She seemed studious, perhaps a Ravenclaw; or maybe ambitious, a Slytherin. Whoever she was, Hermione wished her well.

Unfortunately, though this makeshift treasure trove was fascinating, it wasn't helping her to find the Mirror of Erised. Crawling out, Hermione oriented herself and followed the left-hand stacks of junk. A faint sizzling sound in the distance made her look up. Craning her head, she turned around, and spotted the last few bits of green sparks fading in the distance. Someone had found the Mirror. The sparks shot up again over in the far left-hand corner. Golden sparks shot up from somewhere nearer and to the right. Raising her own wand, Hermione conjured a stream of golden sparks to indicate that she, too, had seen the message.

Unfortunately, she was very close to the back right corner. There was an awful lot of maze between her and the far end of the almost Westminster-sized chamber. After getting lost one, twice, three times trying to backtrack her way by instinct, Hermione wished fervently to find a functional broom. Especially when she heard Ron's voice bellowing in the distance, "--Hermione! Where are you?"

"Coming, Ron!" she shouted back, frustrated by a fourth dead-end. If only I could fly! But there weren't any brooms or carpets or Muggle Ford Anglias conveniently on hand...

"Do you need us to come find you?" That was Harry's voice.

"I'm coming!" There was a Charm for walking on the tops of bushes and trees that Professor Flitwick had once mentioned in passing; if this had been that hedge-maze from the Triwizard Tournament, she could've just climbed to the tops of the hedges and raced along the top, where she could see the best path. But these were uneven stacks of things that were too precariously perched to clamber over. If only she could fly, or at least levitate--Hermione smacked her forehead, drew her wand, and cast the charm she had made up when Russel had been injured. What was the point of being a witch who could make up her own Charms, if she didn't ruddy well use them? "Semobilum!"

Her body lifted into the air by about a foot. Tamping down her fear of unsupported heights--at least a broom was something to cling to, however insubstantial when compared to a thestral or an aeroplane, and this was not even that--she firmed her will and lifted herself higher, over the nearest piles and columns of junk. Now she could see where she was going. In fact, now she had no real obstacles, just a few taller piles to dodge around. Well, no obstacles but her own fear.

The sight of a marlin on a large rectangular plaque caught her eye. The swordfish had that glassy-eyed look of taxidermy, but it made her think of fish, of water, of swimming. Her mind inverted itself--she loved snorkeling and reef-diving; she wasn't flying, she was swimming! The moment she looked at it that way, Hermione's fears faded. A push of her mind sent her forward horizontally, as if she were swimming. She even wriggled her feet, as if she had on Muggle swim-fins.

The only drawback was the urge to hold her breath, or to breathe through her mouth, as if through a snorkel. But it was considerably faster than following the twisting maze of paths below her. Arching a little higher, she looked for Harry and Ron, but couldn't see them. She knew they were in the far corner, but hadn't a clue as to where, exactly.

"Ron! Send up your sparks again!"

Green shot into the air, and she added more speed, finally spotting Ron's distinct red hair. Now her feet didn't feel the need to kick at the air, which was probably a good thing. Hermione could only imagine how silly she looked. As it was, Harry was the first one to spot her, and he gaped up at her. Ron eyed him, looked up to follow his line of sight, and dropped his jaw, too. Righting herself as she closed the last few yards, Hermione guided herself down beside them, touched down on the bit of stone floor next to them that was free of debris, and cut off the spell with a little flick of her wand.

"...What?"

"You...you... How did you do that? You weren't using a wand, or a rug, or...or anything!" the youngest male Weasley exclaimed. "Did you find some flying brooch, buried in all of this junk?"

"No. I just made up a spell."

"Bloody brilliant," Harry breathed, impressed. "You came up with that just right now?"

"No, it was a few weeks ago," Hermione admitted with a shrug, "but it's only the second time I've used it. And it's a little scary, but very safe, if you've a disciplined mind. You have to think about moving, otherwise you just float in place. It takes a bit of effort, but I'm sure the two of you could learn."

"You'd better teach us," Ron warned her lightly. Turning, he gestured at what they had come here for. "It's a bit grungy-looking, but the inscription's right. I haven't looked into it, yet. I wanted all of us here, first. We might need to get ourselves into the right mindset, otherwise we'll be seeing the wrong things. I figured we could help each other do that."

"Right," Harry agreed, eyeing the Mirror. "We need to desire, with all our hearts, to find the way to destroy the Hufflepuff Horcrux, without destroying the cup. The way to destroy the pieces of Lord Voldemort's twisted, fragmented soul. We need to find some spell or other means of eradicating his life-force, without resorting to the Killing Curse...and if I couldn't cast it, with all the anger bottled up inside of me, I doubt either of the two of you could."

Hermione and Ron exchanged looks. It was the first time Harry had admitted he had a little too much of that anger bottled inside of him. Neither commented on it, however; they didn't want Harry to feel the need to defend himself, and thus perhaps cling all the harder to his temperament problem.

Of the three of them, Hermione was the only one who hadn't personally encountered the Mirror, though she'd heard the descriptions from Ron and Harry both. It was very tall, at least twelve feet high, and had a gilded, claw-footed frame. It was buried in the midst of a canyon of tall objects, wardrobes stacked on dressers, tapestries draped from columns, boxes on crates on barrels, which was probably why they hadn't seen it from a distance. Back from it a short distance as they were, the mirror looked clouded, blackened a little, with only blurry images for its reflection. Across the top ran the message Harry had once tried to describe to her:

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

"I'll go first," Harry stated, drawing her attention.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, he muttered to himself about Horcruxes, and stepped right up to the mirror, stopping when he was only two feet away at most. His eyes widened, he leaned in towards the mirror...and then his body stiffened and anger reddened his cheeks. Growling, he tore himself away, cursing under his breath.

"Damnit, damnit, damnit! ...Sorry," Harry apologized a moment later, catching sight of Ron and Hermione's astonishment. He wasn't normally the sort to curse, and it had surprised them. "Sorry. I had it, for a moment... I saw a book, with handwriting that looked familiar. I thought it was Snape's handwriting. And then all I could see was an image of myself smashing him and Voldemort to the ground, destroying both of them. I can't look into it again until I've calmed down...because what I desire most right now is not a pretty thing to admit to wanting, let alone actually see."

Ron touched his shoulder. "At least you tried, Harry. And now we know that the greasy git has the book with the spell that we need. All we need to do is find it. My turn, I think. Unless you want a crack at it, Hermione?"

"No, you go first," she directed him. She needed time to get her thoughts pulled away from the graphic image Harry had related.

Stepping into the spot Harry had vacated, Ron peered into the murky glass. His eyes widened, and his freckled cheeks tinted red. He, too, swayed toward the Mirror a little--then shook his head abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut. Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, he stood like that for almost a minute. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. Hermione saw his lips moving, but couldn't hear what he was muttering. Lowering his hands, he sighed roughly, drew a shoulder-squaring breath, and stared into the looking-glass again.

This time, his cheeks paled. Averting his head, Ron stepped away from the mirror, moving so that his back was to both Harry and Hermione. "Your turn."

Carefully not thinking about what her ex-boyfriend might've desired most that would distress him so much, Hermione moved up to the mirror. Stepping into place, Hermione glanced up before looking into the glass. She read the message again. Something about it was strangely familiar, and not in a deja-vu sense; something about it compelled her to read it again, and again. It was on the fifth read that she realized what it was. The message wasn't: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi, it was: I show not your face but your hearts desire.

It wasn't some magical language; it was simply written backwards! As soon as she realized it, Hermione felt as if her mind had been jolted, like a table being bumped in passing. Almost as if the mirror itself had whispered into her mind, Hermione suddenly realized how the ruddy thing worked--it was just like guiding herself with her new Self-Levitation Charm, or just like directed dreaming! Why didn't anybody ever tell me it was that easy? Not easy in the sense that it would be a breeze to focus her mind on a specific desire so strongly that it was the only one shown, but easy in the sense that she now knew she could switch the subject of her intense focus, if her mind strayed.

All those lessons in mental discipline for the mastering of Occlumency were about to pay off in a whole new way...

Lowering her gaze to the mirror, she focused her mind upon the Horcruxes as her starting point. Show me Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes. All of them, she ordered the Mirror, staring firmly into its pewter depths. For a moment, her attention started to wander to the same shade of Russel's eyes, but she dragged her attention firmly back onto the right path. She was going to concentrate on the Horcruxes, and she was going to find out what each and every last one of them was, and she was going to learn how to destroy them.

The ring showed itself first; it was on an age-withered hand, and that hand plunged itself through some thick surface, like a potion, only vertical. The ring flared into a ball of fire, and the hand withdrew, blackened and withered from the destructive magic, the stone cracked. Next came the diary, and she saw a young hand stabbing a pointed, yellow-white object into its pages, which spurted dark blood. Yes, show me more! Show me all of the Horcruxes, and show me how to defeat each one!

The wand was next; it faced off against another, one, and golden light shot and pulsed, beaded, and disgorged prior charms. Hermione resisted the temptation to impatiently urge the images onward; she didn't want to miss anything. Then came the locket, and she watched as it was dragged in front of a streak of green. Firming her mind, she concentrated, watching the emerald fire suck itself into the locket, destroying the soul it contained. Yes, more!

Now came...a bar of iron? Hermione almost lost the image. Narrowing her eyes, she studied the object. It looked like a fire-poker, for it rested in a bed of coals. Until a hand drew it out, and she squinted at a blazing shape wrought in metal at the end of the shaft...the shape of a skull with a serpent for its tongue.

The image shattered, from shock. Reeling back, Hermione pressed her hands to her eyes, dizzy from the effort she'd expended, and from the meaning of what she had seen. A hand touched her shoulder, and Harry's voice spoke in her ear. "Hermione, are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Just a little shaken."

"I'd better try, then."

"No! No, I was seeing it... I saw the ring, and the locket, and...and something new. I just...I just have to figure out what it means. Give me a second," she told him, keeping her eyes buried in her palms. "I'll look again in a moment."

Releasing her shoulder, he stepped back, giving her room to think.

A branding iron. The branding iron for the Dark Mark. But why would Voldemort put a piece of his soul into a branding iron? Unless... An image swam into focus, the visage of that silly wizard from her Apparation class. Twycross, that was his name. His lessons had been a lot of touchy-feeling twaddle, in regards to teaching the students how to Apparate, with even less substance to them than one of Professor Trelawney's Divinations speeches. Yet one of the things he had said came back to the surface of Hermione's memory now. Only sentient beings can learn how to Apparate, because it is only through the consciousness of the mind, the willfulness of the soul, that we can yearn to be in a specific place...

What little she knew of how the Dark Mark worked was that, by concentrating on it, a wizard or witch would be able to Apparate to a place they did not themselves know, because it would tug them straight to the Dark Lord's location. Voldemort himself had told Harry that, during his resurrection at the disastrous end of the Triwizard Tournament. And Twycross had also said, Side-Along Apparation is possible, because the guiding wizard or witch is doing the longing for their passenger, thus you must long twice as hard, when you take someone with you...

It made sense, in a very twisted sort of way. They weren't Apparating to their master's location; they were Side-Along Apparating. And the only way they could do that was if the Dark Mark was linked to a piece of Voldemort's ugly soul, via the magic-imbued brand that connected all of the Death Eaters to their lord. Fighting down her astonishment--and a twinge of very reluctant admiration for the pure genius of the idea behind whatever spell or spells made it all possible--Hermione marshaled her thoughts. She had to see how to destroy the branding iron. Lowering her hands, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and focused on Horcruxes again.

Show me the remaining Horcruxes, starting with the branding iron, and how to destroy the souls contained within each of them.

The thought-command, as sharp and clear as a polished diamond, cut through the misty grey surface of the Mirror of Erised. The brand swam back into view. She focused on watching it, burning-hot, and mentally demanded to see how the soul within it could most easily and quickly be destroyed. It wasn't an artifact of history, after all. A book swam into view...a familiar book, but only familiar because she'd gone ahead and bought it: her seventh-year Charms book.

Concentrating through her shock, she forced her mind to stay fastened on the goal. Pages flipped open, she caught the title of a spell, Liquis Nitrogus, and the trigger-word, Frangelu, then saw a wand flicking a white-blue streak of magic at the brand just as it touched a cloaked and cowled figure on the forearm. The dark, glowing metal turned frost white, the kneeling figure screamed, and the brand shattered. Robed and masked figures in the background clamped their hands over their arms, and the image faded.

The timing of the brand striking an arm she suspected to be very important; whatever it might do, it would clearly affect all the others who bore the Dark Mark, at that moment. Voldemort was bound to notice something was up, with that attack. Consigning it to the last Horcrux attacked, she focused again. Show me the rest, and how to destroy them...

Something diamond-patterned undulated into view. It wasn't the Hufflepuff cup. Uneasy, Hermione clung to her desire to see what it was and how it could be destroyed. She couldn't prevent the slight gasp that escaped, when she realized it was a large, unfamiliar, but poisonous-looking snake. This must be Nagini, she thought, and watched it slither up to its master and rub sinuously against the Dark Lord's ankle, almost as if it were a cat. The image of the Basilisk-Snogger faded away, and she concentrated on how to take out the soul within the beast. A bit of text from another book, and the word Sectumsempra branded itself on her eyes; a wand of holly slashed through the air, and she tore her eyes from the image, unhappy at seeing Harry killing the snake. She knew it had to be done, but it distressed her all the same.

Ron was looking at her. Breathing unsteadily, Hermione stared into his blue eyes for a long moment, taking comfort in his concern, then swallowed and looked back at the mirror again. How many Horcruxes does Voldemort have?

...7...

She blinked, and the black-painted number rippled; she was losing focus. Firming her thoughts, Hermione demanded, So show me the last! The Mirror, prodded by a mind honed from far too many hours of disciplined, scheduled studying, dissolved from pewter to gold. At last, Helga Hufflepuff's cup came into view. Good...now show me how to destroy the soul that resides within it, without destroying any of the other properties of that cup!

A book replaced the cup. She squinted at the faded lettering on the black leather; it was hard to see, because it was silver-gilt, and the gilt had blackened with age. Diario ex Bruja...Lucrezia. What language was that? The tome opened itself, the pages flicking past. They finally settled open at the title of a spell, Infusio di Anima Te. Italian? Marshalling her attention, she looked at what lay under the title. Not a spell, she realized, but a potion. And she could only tell that because of the neat list of what looked like Italian names for various ingredients. She saw a cauldron, and hands compiling a complex brew. A very complex brew.

In the background, the moon passed through its phases once, twice...thrice, and a bit more. At least three months to brew whatever it was, if not more. And then, the potion was boiled down to a flaky powder, which looked like tea leaves, but she knew wasn't. It was scraped from the cauldron by gloved hands, and measured into a teapot; the tea was steeped, and poured into the cup...and light burned through the cup in the ugly shades of Voldemort's soul, blazingly bright, then dimmer, dimmer...night turned to day, and day turned to night, and the light winked out, leaving an innocuous, clear, amber-hued liquid that was poured back into a cauldron over a veritable mountain of bezoars.

The liquid hissed and fizzled and turned the mess of the poisonous tea into a foamy, opaque green mess that evaporated , leaving a tiny pile of half-dissolved bezoar stones in the bottom of a now highly polished and visibly thinned iron cauldron. Another bezoar was ground into powder and used to dry-scrub the teapot and cup, polishing them with less visible ill-effect than the iron cauldron had suffered. Lastly, the dragon-hide gloves were scrubbed with more bezoar powder.

Hermione winced at the thought of that. Bezoar stones weren't terribly common, which meant a cauldron's worth was going to cut into their budget. Returning her attention to the task at hand, she asked the mirror, not allowing her mind to stray one iota from her task, So where do I find the Diario ex Bruja Lucrezia?

A tall chimney from some dilapidated industrial building faded into view. It presided over an equally run-down neighborhood of squarish brick structures that might've once called themselves homes, but which were now too depressing to think of anyone living in them for long. But when she tried to focus on which one she should be looking at, a grey mist ate at the heart of the image. Wherever the book was being held, she couldn't look at it directly.

So show me how I can look at it directly, she ordered the mirror impatiently. A face swam into view. A familiar face, with familiar grey eyes. But not dark blond hair; this wasn't Russel's face she saw. This was the face of a scared, unhappy Draco Malfoy. Draco's lips moved, and his head filled the spot in the brick housing development, but his lips were misty-grey.

He was the Secret Keeper for that place. It was the only logical deduction. She had to find Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, and convince him to reveal the secret of the location of the potion book she needed...without getting herself killed. Her day was just getting better and better, with that.

Is that all of the Horcruxes? Hermione demanded of the mirror, returning her mind to the heart of her task. Images filled the screen at her command. A ring, a locket, a diary, a branding iron, a snake, a wand, and a cup. Nothing more appeared on the other side of the glass. Relieved, Hermione closed her eyes and stepped back from the looking-glass.

She stumbled as she did so. Harry caught her, steadying her. "Are you alright? You're not addicted, are you?"

Opening her eyes, Hermione looked at the mirror. I show not your face but your heart's desire. She had the key to using it, now. Her head hurt, her eyes smarted, and her knees ached. "No, I don't think I'll ever be addicted to watching this thing."

Ron snorted. "You were staring at it for over three hours."

"--I was?" That was news to her. Blinking, Hermione looked up at the tall, narrow windows above the peaks and ridges of abandoned junk. They were no longer dark with night, but were turning grey with predawn. Her leg joints ached again, making her wince. "No wonder it played ruddy cob with my knees, when I stepped back. I'm surprised my eyes aren't watering, too. And I think I'm getting a migraine from all the concentrating I did."

"If you hadn't been frowning and blinking and looking like you do when you're studying really hard," Harry told her, "we would've pulled you away, out of fear you were becoming addicted to that thing."

"Hardly," she snorted. "It was just really hard to concentrate with all my might on what I wanted to see. Like moving through mental treacle. And frankly, I'm exhausted."

"You can collapse to pieces later, Hermione," Ron ordered her. "What did you see?"

"Well, we've got three more Horcruxes," Hermione told them. "And I'll tell you about them, if you'll find me a place to sit. My knees don't like me very much, at the moment."

"What do you mean, three?" Harry interjected as Ron moved down the path a little ways and started clearing stuff from a medium-sized chest. "I thought it was just the Hufflepuff cup and one other, Nagini. I could be wrong about the snake, but Dumbledore suggested it was possible, given he's a Parselmouth."

"Oh, the snake's one of them," she reassured him, and gratefully sank onto the chest as Ron brought it over and set it down next to her. "Thanks, Ron. No, the cup, the snake, and the thing we have to destroy last, before taking on Voldie-butt. And the snake, well, it's a snake, and you just...you know. Kill it. The Mirror suggested Sectumsempra."

"So, what is it?" Harry prompted her. "What's the extra Horcrux?"

"The branding iron he uses to make new Death Eaters--think back to Apparation class," she coached them as both young men gave her puzzled looks. "You need something that can think, to control an Apparation, but the Dark Mark controls the destination...and what they do is a form of Side-Along Apparation, isn't it?"

"Sweet Merlin's arse! That Basilisk-Snogging Bastard is a bloody genius!" Ron breathed, then quickly backtracked. "--Not that I condone it, or anything. I mean, I know creating a Horcrux requires a murder, but no one has ever been able to create an object that could cause an Apparation, only Portkeys! And it's not the same thing; apparition's a lot easier to manage than creating a Portkey, which is why so many more people do it."

Hermione got the conversation back on track. "Anyway, there's a spell in our seventh year Charms book that'll destroy the thing, and the Mirror suggested using it the next time they induct someone into their group. I'm not sure why, but it looked like it'll affect all of the Death Eaters somehow, if we get the timing just right."

"Why would Voldemort create seven Horcruxes?" Ron asked, frowning. "His original intent was to have seven pieces including himself, but that makes eight. Ring, cup, locket, wand, diary, brand, diary, snake. Seven is the power-number, not eight."

"I'd like to hear what destroys the soul in that cup, first," Harry reminded him. "We can debate motive and philosophy later. Hermione, did you see it?"

"Yes. But...well, we need to brew something poisonous, from a book entitled Diario ex Bruja Lucrezia, but I've never heard of it, and the place where it's kept, I think it's hidden by the Fidelius Charm," Hermione said.

"Diario ex Bruja Lucrezia?" Ron asked, staring at her in dismay. "We have to cook something up from Lucrezia Borgia's diary? Oh, man... She was the most evil Potions Mistress of all time! Dad once told me there was even a motion to strip her of her rank as a Potions Mistress, but there was a rash of illness that left the Brewer's Council without a quorum, but they couldn't prove that she was behind it. She would've been a total Slytherin, if she'd gone to Hogwarts."

Hermione eyed him askance. "How do you know all of this?"

"Um...we're related to the Borgias. On Mum's side," he admitted sheepishly, tucking one hand behind his neck. "Bill knows more than I do, though."

"Right. Well, getting back on track," Harry reminded them. "Hermione, are you sure of where the diary is located, that it's behind the Fidelius Charm?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I saw a neighborhood somewhere, possibly in London, possibly in Birmingham, or some other industrial area, I'm not sure...and a grey spot at the center of it. And filling that grey spot was an image of a person, whom I can only surmise is the Secret Keeper who can tell me the exact location we'll need to search."

"Who?" Harry asked.

"Erm...you're not going to like it," Hermione warned her new brother. "The person we have to find and get the location from...is Draco Malfoy."

Harry stared at her. "You're right. I don't like it. Because unless we can successfully Obliviate him, he'll spill the fact that we're searching for something in a Death Eater controlled location to Voldemort. Even if he doesn't want to, Voldemort will pick it out of his mind."

"Hang on," Ron interjected. "Why don't we just have Russel get it? He's a fellow Death Eater; Draco would have more cause to trust him than one of us."

"Actually, I think that's a good idea," Hermione returned slowly, thoughtfully. "He could even just tell Malfoy that it's on the Dark Lord's orders, a secret mission or something, and Malfoy wouldn't even be able to protest."

"Then that's what we'll do," Harry agreed. "We'll get the book, brew the potion, and go after the snake, the brand, and Voldemort himself. The war will be over by Christmas!"

"Er...not exactly," Hermione hedged. Both wizards looked at her. "If the vision I saw is correct, the thing we have to brew will take about three and a half months to make. And there's some serious safety steps we'll have to take while brewing it, and to dispose of it afterwards. Lots of bezoars, for one. But it'll destroy the soul in the cup without harming the cup or its normal magical properties. I was quite specific in seeking that information, in the Mirror. We'll have to let the tea or whatever it is sit in the cup for two nights, too. It's not a quick fix, Harry."

"I wish it were. If we could guarantee that smashing it would destroy it..." Pressing his fingers to his eyes underneath his spectacles, Harry stood there, shoulders slumped as he thought. A weary sigh escaped him, and he shifted his hands, taking off his glasses. Rubbing the bridge of his nose made him look older and more tired than his seventeen years. "We'll do it the Mirror-suggested way. As much as I want this over with now...moving hastily might get us into serious trouble. I want to do it right, to end the war so that Voldemort and his ilk can never come back into power and ruin the wizarding world again."

Rising from the chest, Hermione wrapped her arms around him, hugging her blood-bound brother. "And that's why you're a good guy, Harry."

"Oy, what about me?" Ron joked.

Rolling her eyes, she held out one of her arms, including him in the hug. Her finger tingled after a moment, and a sudden weight clung to her back. A golden head peered past her right shoulder at Ron. Sigurd didn't hiss or anything, but he did stare at Ron in silent, low-key warning.

"Right, right...hands-off, I get the bloody idea," Ron muttered, releasing her and stepping back.

He flipped the dragonette a rude gesture as soon as Hermione turned her head away, but she caught it out of the corner of her eye and rolled her eyes at him. Sigurd didn't even blink, but he did vanish after a few more seconds. Rumpling his hair with his hands, Ron sighed and returned to the topic at hand.

"...Well. All we can do now is wait for Russel to contact Hermione, and for her to get him to meet with Draco, find out where that place is that she saw, and steal the right book for us. And then set about brewing a three-ruddy-month potion to destroy another arse-ugly chunk of Moldiebutt's soul."

"First, we have to find our way back to the door out of this mess," Harry pointed out ruefully, staring at the stacks of abandoned belongings collecting dust about them.

Hermione thought about offering to teach them her new Charm, but knowing it took the boys--the young men--a bit of practice to master a new spell, she didn't want to watch them crashing on top of vases and bookends and chaise lounges. "Let's get going, then."

It did take a bit of back-tracking to find their way out, but they made it to the door. The same short corridor from before waited for them, and Harry grabbed the door, closing it on the junk-room. Relieved to be out of there, Hermione grabbed the outer doorknob, opened the panel, and stepped out--

"--Oof!" Grabbing the body she'd smacked into, Hermione felt her heart pounding. She'd stupidly forgotten she wasn't a student anymore, and that it was daylight. A shock of straight red hair was her only relief: she'd run into Ginny Weasley. Wide-eyed, she looked up and down the corridor. No one else was in sight, thankfully.

"...Hermione?" Ginny gasped as soon as she'd caught her balance and her breath. She peered over the older witch's shoulder. "Ron?--Harry?"

Wishing very hard, with the same concentration she'd used on the Mirror of Erised, Hermione pulled Ginny into the short corridor and shut the door as quickly but as quietly as she could. Only it wasn't a corridor anymore; it was now a sitting room. Ron blinked and shook his head, looking around himself in surprise. Harry didn't seem to notice the sudden change in the room. He only had eyes for Ginevra Weasley.

Releasing the younger witch's arm, Hermione turned and watched Ginny slowly walk towards the dark-haired male. She couldn't see Ginny's face any more, but she could see the anguish and longing on Harry's, and felt her hearth thump again, this time for the pain of their separation. With a lurch, Ginny flung herself into Harry's arms. Snatching her close, Harry just held her for a long, long moment, and then they were kissing. Impatiently, he shoved off his glasses, and that was when Hermione had to turn away. She met Ron's stunned gaze, raised her brows, and pursed her lips, letting out a sigh.

Digging in her bookbag, she extracted a sheet, enchanted it to stick to the door, and marked on it with her pen. ...Harry, this sheet of paper is your Portkey back to Headquarters. Just say 'Home Sweet Home', and it'll take you there. Don't have too much fun, but don't have too little. And remember to be reasonably responsible, when all is said and done. ~Hermione. A second tap of her wand enchanted the sheet. She drew out the paper crane she had made earlier, re-enchanted it, and offered it to Ron, who was looking anywhere but at the sight of his sister groping with his best friend.

"C'mon, Ron," she whispered to him. "Let's go back, and leave them alone for now."

Sighing roughly, Ron grasped the wing of the crane. Hermione could sympathize with him over the sight of his sister--still technically underage--snogging so enthusiastically, but she herself was willing to look the other way, this one time. Harry didn't have much in the way of happiness in his life, and being parted from Ginny just after they'd gotten together had taken its toll. Hopefully, a little private time with his would-be girlfriend would make him feel a little better, give him something to fight for, besides the proddings of his anger and thirst for revenge.

She had strongly and firmly required a room where they wouldn't be discovered by anyone else, taking a note out of Malfoy's manual in doing so; the door wouldn't reappear until one of them left. That would take care of Harry's fear of anyone finding out about the two of them, provided she and Ron didn't talk. She doubted the redhead would, though. Muttering the trigger-phrase, she yanked them out of there, giving the other two some privacy and trusting that they wouldn't entirely lose their heads once they were alone.

...

Harry returned some two hours latter, looking a little rumpled, and very glum. Porting into the middle of the parlour, he moved to the sofa where Hermione sat curled up in one corner, reading the crib-notes scribbled in the sixth-year textbook he had fetched for her. He dropped onto the other end of the cushions. A rough sigh, and he braced his elbows on his knees, rumpling his black locks with his hands.

"...She sneaks into the Room of Requirement every time she has a prefect patrol on that floor, and summons a mirror that shows her what I'm doing at that moment. Whatever I'm doing. Sleeping, eating, talking, reading...even--" his face flushed, "--showering. I shouldn't have touched her. Shouldn't have held her, or kissed her."

Hermione kicked him with her heel. Luckily for him, she wasn't wearing her shoes, but she did kick him hard, making him yelp and glare at her. Fixing him with a hard look, Hermione admonished, "Stop that, Harry. This instant. You have every right to snatch at a moment or two of happiness--what do you think we're fighting this war for, if not to hold our loved ones in our arms? Stop being motivated by anger and vengeance! Be motivated by love. It's as plain as the nose on my face that you love her, Harry, so let that love strengthen your commitment to see our task through."

"But if she dies because of me--!" Harry protested.

"It's a risk we all have to take," Hermione pointed out. She hadn't been able to go to bed like Ron, because her mind had been whirling through these very thoughts for the last two hours. The book in her hands had distracted her somewhat, but not enough to guess what Harry would think or do. "Do you really think Molly and Arthur haven't thought of the odds, where themselves and their children are concerned? They are going to lose one or more of their children. It's a cold, hard, numerical fact.

"They almost lost Bill, already. Percy's exiled himself like a ruddy prat. Ron nearly got hit by the Killing Curse! If I hadn't been able to interfere, he would be dead. Ginny is just as much a valid target because she's a Weasley, a blood-traitor, and a powerful witch from a powerful family. It would devastate the rest of the Weasleys if anything happened to her, weakening them with grief and the need for vengeance," Hermione reminded her brother tartly. "As would the death of any of them. And yet Molly and Arthur are still in the Order, and their children are still in the Order.

"Do you know how they're coping with it? They're loving each other...with the exception of the prat," Hermione muttered. "But if he came back, they'd take him back. Because they draw strength from their familial love. Draw strength from your love of Ginny, Harry. You should be fighting for a world where you can finally hold her in your arms without worrying about anyone seeing you. That is a far more worthy goal to strive for than just wanting to destroy the bloody arseholes who created the mess of this war. Fight for love, not for hate."

He stared at her, absorbing her words. Hermione kept her mouth shut, letting him think as much as he needed. Sometimes letting Harry think too much wasn't a good idea, but in this case, she hoped fervently he was thinking too much of the right sort of thoughts. She returned her attention to Snape's book, going over the notes he'd written in the margins as a sixth-year student.

"Ron loves you," Harry stated after a long span of silence. "But he can't have you. What strength can he find in that?"

It was a very perceptive question, and a very uncomfortable one. Turning a page, Hermione answered without looking up. "That is a question that only Ron will be able to answer, Harry. For myself, I hope he realizes that his perfect love is still out there. In the meantime, he can cling to his love for his family, and his love for you, and even his love for me, so long as he realized I'm never going to be more than a best friend to him."

"Even if Russel dies?" Harry pressed her. "If something happens to him, would you go back to Ron? Not that I'm saying I want him to die or anything, but...would there be hope for Ron, then?"

That question was too perceptive. Marking her page with the crane she'd used as a Portkey earlier, Hermione closed the book in her lap. Given the seriousness of the topic, and her need to make him understand, she knew she owed him a serious answer, delivered with all of her attention. But how to make him understand, without undermining the relationships between the three of us?

All she could do was try. "Adult relationships are more complicated than youthful ones, Harry. I've discovered that, embroiled in the situation that I am. It wasn't a painless discovery, either. I love Ron. I thought I wanted him, as a woman wants a man. But I realize now I don't love him in that way enough to be with him as a woman with a man. I do love him deeply, but as a friend."

"Like a sister," Harry rephrased.

"No...like a friend. I don't think of him as a brother. I think of you as a brother," Hermione reminded him, "but not Ron. It's a different sort of love. He's attractive, and charming at times, he can be smart, and funny, and he's finally getting his confidence in his own skills, after having been overshadowed by the rest of his family for so long. But...while he's very attractive, I'm just not attracted enough to make a go of it. Even if Russel dies, I'll only ever be Ron's friend...and whatever you may think, that does upset me.

"I want to be attracted to him, but now that I know the difference, I can't help but feel the way that I feel. There's nothing that either of us can do to change that." She shrugged helplessly. "It could hardly be true love, if it's not felt strongly on both sides. Ron ignored me for the longest of times, and then, just after he noticed me and had me, I was snatched away. That's going to create a longing within him for what he can no longer have, and until he accepts that it's over between us, he's going to want to cling to his affection for me. It would be better for him to accept the fact that we'll only be friends, so that he can move on and find someone to love who can love him back in the same way. He deserves to find someone who can love him back in the way he deserves to be loved, and I hope he finds that woman soon. He needs a love worth fighting for, too."

"What about you?" Harry asked her. "Have you fallen in love with Russel?"

Hermione thought of the things she'd done with Russel, and blushed. It wasn't just the scads of fantastic lovemaking; it was the way he'd enjoy reading with her, or debating magical theory, or playing silly board games, though a good debate over a jigsaw puzzle was his favourite pastime, outside of the games that could be played in that hotel room bed. She enjoyed spending time with him. She could even envision a life with him beyond the war, now that she'd gotten to know him and seen how well their two lives could mesh together.

"...I think I have. I once heard that there are two types of people: those who fall in love and get married, and those who get married and fall in love. I didn't exactly have a chance for the first one," she reminded him, "but I think I've done the second one, by now."

Harry digested that silently for a moment, then asked, "Have you told him?"

Her cheeks flushed hot and red. "Erm...no. Not yet. I'm not quite ready for such a big step. Though I should be. Listen--when I lingered in the study, talking to Dumbledore's portrait, he told me he recognized my ring. When the two of them were forged, they were quench in Veritaserum. There's no way to lie through these rings, no spell that can get around them. So, um...I'm throwing in my lot with Russel," Hermione confessed. "I really believe he's on our side, that he truly wants to destroy Lord Voldemort. I think that's what allowed me to admit that I've gone and fallen for him.

"I don't know if it's true love or not--it's clear that he likes me, but I don't know if he loves me," she qualified, "--but I do know I can finally see myself still being his wife after this war is over. I've still got lots of questions, though, about what he normally does for a living and the like, but everything's so up in the air right now, I don't even know what I'll be doing for a living." Hermione followed that line of thought, switching the topic off of herself and her essentially arranged marriage. "For that matter, do you know what you'll be doing? Are you still planning on being an Auror?"

"Hermione, I'm not going to be able pass the required N.E.W.T.s," Harry reminded her.

She gave him a pointed look. "Harry, like it or not, you're going to be the Man Who Offed Voldiebutt."

A laugh escaped him, at that. "That'll make a better headliner than 'Boy Who Lives Kills Lord Thingy', except I'm not sure the paper would want to print the word 'butt' in a headline."

"I cannot see the Aurors turning you down, after that accomplishment. And if you're worried about the N.E.W.T.s, then we can just use some of your money to hire tutors, and study for them! We can all do that, after the war is over, then sit for the Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests, and pass them, even if we're into our twenties by then, and then we can all get good jobs! We have to have our options ready for when we win the war, because we're going to be feeling awfully lost-at-sea if we don't know what to do with ourselves, afterwards. We need to have some positive reason why we want to win the war--your love for Ginny, for example," she reminded him, "--and something to look forward to doing, after the war."

"You mean, things worth living for?" Harry asked her dryly.

"Exactly. Stop living in a doom-and-gloom funk, Harry," Hermione ordered him bluntly. "You are allowed to find happiness, but you'll only find it if you go looking for it. If all you're looking for is the negatives in a situation, that's all you will find. And I, for one, refuse to live my life under a cloud of doom-and-gloom." She paused a beat, then added sanctimoniously, "...It blocks my reading light!"

That made him laugh, as she'd intended. Uncurling from her side of the sofa, she pulled him into a one-armed hug. Harry returned it, leaning his head against her shoulder. "Sometimes I feel like there's nothing left but doom-and-gloom. And then, this morning happened...er, you're not going to ask me what happened, are you? I mean, with that note and all..."

"So long as you were responsible, and consensual, it is none of my business what you do with Ginny Weasley," Hermione stated, giving his shoulders a little squeeze. "Just as what I do with Russel is none of your business, so long as it's responsible and consensual."

"You aren't going to, um, you know...get pregnant or anything, are you?" Harry asked, face colouring with the topic.

"It's been taken care of," she returned, feeling her own skin warming.

"Do you...like it?" he asked her next, his tone stiff and hesitant, but curious.

"With the right person, it's very...um...nice. If you overlook the fact that 'nice' is a bit too insipid a word to use for it," she amended. "It helps that I'm attracted to him, otherwise it would probably be just regular-nice..."

An awkward silence descended for several seconds, then Harry nudged her. "A few months out of school, and already your vocabulary is going downhill, Hermione. What would Professor McGonagall think of that?"

"She'd probably try to dock me House points, for letting her down," Hermione joked back. A yawn crept up on her, making her cover her mouth hastily. "...Come on; off to bed with both of us. We may be young, but these late-night research sessions still take their toll."

"We weren't exactly studying," Harry muttered, levering himself off the couch.

"It counts, if you consider it anatomical research," she teased, and watched his face colour with embarrassment. He drew a breath to speak, and she interjected quickly, "--Now hang on, Harry; I'm your sister, and it's my solemn duty to thoroughly tea--eeeeek!"

Dodging his swiping hands with a shriek and a giggle, she raced out of the parlour, Harry hot on her heels and swearing he was going to turn her into a frog, for that.

...

Somehow, Hermione managed to get a hand between their lips. Disheveled from Russel's roaming hands, panting from their breathless kisses, she stilled him with her touch and turned her head to the side, to further thwart her own urges. She felt his lips purse against her fingers, kissing them, then he pulled his head back, though his arms still held her close.

"...What's wrong?"

"We, erm, need to talk. And I want to get it out of the way before we, you know, get to the rest of the fun bits," she confessed. Russel released her, stepping back. Hermione felt disappointed at the loss of his touch. Looking at him, she found him studying her with a wary, thoughtful gaze.

"Is this going to be one of those 'we need to talk' relationship discussions? Or something else?"

"Something else," Hermione stated, wondering if she was blushing. Turning, she gestured at the loveseat in front of the unused telly cabinet. Nodding, Russel sat, holding out his hand to her. She let him take it, but resisted being drawn up against him. Somehow, she didn't feel comfortable with the thought of lounging in his arms while asking about another male. Settling in the opposite corner, their knees brushing together, she cleared her throat. "As you know, Harry, Ron and I are on a quest to destroy the Dark Lord. Well, as a part of that quest, we needed to find a particular spell, but we didn't know which spell...so we hunted down the Mirror of Erised. That's an enchanted mirror that shows you what you most desire."

"I've heard of it," Russel nodded. "Did you find it?"

"Yes. And it showed me the book that holds the spell we need...but when I desired to see the location, it showed me a neighborhood...but the center of that neighborhood was indiscernible. Greyed-out, and blank. And then I saw a face, and I think that means this location is Secret-Kept, and that the person I saw is the Secret-Keeper...and I need you to help me set up some sort of meeting with this person so that I can learn its location, find the book, use the spell, and move our quest that much further to defeating our mutual enemy."

Russel's grey eyes narrowed warily. "...Do you know the identity of this person?"

Hermione nodded unhappily. "Yes. It's Draco Malfoy. I'd know the prat's face anywhere."

"I see. And could you describe this neighborhood that you saw?"

She shrugged. "Brick houses, and a factory with a tall smokestack chimney. It wasn't the most well-kept of neighborhoods, but beyond that, I couldn't tell you if it was in Bath or Birmingham, London or Lincoln. You wouldn't happen to know where it is, would you?"

"I do, but as you said, Draco's the Secret Keeper for it, not I, so I cannot say. I can tell you, however, that it's the house of the bastard traitor, the one he uses every summer."

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, startled. Foolishly, she hadn't really considered what sort of home Severus Snape might have, let alone that he'd retire to it each summer, between school years. "Then I can look for some books to help me finalize that hybrid Protean-Forging Charm you wanted!"

"Only if neither of them catch you there. It will take some time to set up," Russel added with a pensive frown. "First, to arrange things so that Draco doesn't realize who he's telling the secret to, and then to ensure that the bastard traitor doesn't get wind of it. I think, if you're wearing Death Eater robes at the time... And then you'll have to wait until I can tell you a time when Snape and Draco are busy with other things, when you'll have enough uninterrupted time to search the bastard traitor's home. I'm told his library is quite extensive; you might have to go back twice or more to find what you want. I'd do it myself, but I cannot risk being found in his house. His position is still quite high among the Dark Lord's followers."

Hermione, remembering the state he'd been in when she'd been summoned to heal him, leaned forward and touched his face. The scars from his torturing had healed almost tracelessly, save for those spots where they'd crossed his older injuries. Those had added fresh marks to his skin. But when he'd summoned her again, his glamour had gone back to hiding them, leaving her with the image of a smooth-skinned lover.

His hand came up to cover hers, cupping her flesh to his jaw. A twist of his head and he kissed the tender skin of her palm for a moment. Shifting off the sofa, he stood, drawing her to her feet. "I'm not in the mood to read, but I'll give you your choice: a jigsaw puzzle and a conversation at the table, or lovemaking in the bed?"

Nibbling on her lower lip, looking into Russel's grey eyes, Hermione thought of her conversation with Harry a couple days ago. She dithered for a long moment, then blurted, "--I think I've fallen in love with you."