Reparo

A/N: And again, my thanks to the Furies... ~ Ari

40: Reparo

And Severus... I think..." She had to swallow again. "Harry," she choked out.

Severus' eyes widened.

Hermione sat quietly in the chair by her office fire. She had called the Potters' residence into the green flames a moment before.

Ginny's face appeared in the flames, and her mouth fell open. She couldn't find her voice.

"Good morning, Ginny," Hermione said softly. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but it's about Hogwarts."

Ginny recovered from the shock of seeing Hermione and nodded. "Hermione," she said, a little stiffly. "What can we do for the school?"

Hermione closed her eyes. "We're in need of a new Arithmancy professor. I don't know if you'd be..."

The sound of something metal clattering to the floor behind Ginny made her turn around briefly. "Sorry – dropped the ladle." Ginny blushed, and Hermione felt her heart tighten. She wanted to smile. She didn't dare. "You want me," she said flatly.

"The castle's chosen me to replace Minerva, Ginny."

Ginny's eyes narrowed, but Hermione held her hand up. "Please, don't answer yet. And you can of course say whatever you like to me, whenever you like, but... I assume you saw the Daily Prophet this morning?"

Ginny nodded, launching into a taut description of exactly what she thought of allegations of corruption at the Ministry coming right before the election. "... and Harry will have to clean things up. Again," she spat. Her eyes grew wide as she realised that she was ranting with her head in Hermione's Floo. She blushed again. "Sorry," she muttered. "You were saying?"

"There's something I need to tell Harry, Ginny. Think about the offer – but please, don't make up your mind until I talk to Harry? Please?"

Ginny opened her mouth to say no, but her heart tripped over Hermione's "please." "Bitch," she said finally, but her eyes were already working over the possibilities of pursuing Hermione's offer. Hermione knew it, and Ginny knew she knew it.

"I was a bitch, Ginny – and I'm sorry – it's what I need to talk to Harry about. Please, Ginny, is he at home?"

Ginny's eyes were hard, but she nodded.

While she waited, Hermione could scarcely breathe over the pounding in her chest.

"What the hell did you say to Ginny?" Harry was fuming before his face was fully in the flames.

Hermione flashed as hotly. "I offered her a job."

"You?!"

"Yes, me. Now, if you'll stop being a hotheaded prat for two seconds and come through this Floo, there's something Minerva needs to tell you." Hermione held her breath and found herself crossing her fingers in the folds of her robes.

The mention of Minerva brought Harry up short. "I'll be there straightaway," he muttered angrily. His head disappeared from the flames, and they rose higher.

Minerva's voice drifted down from above as Hermione retreated to stand before her desk. "I've got your back, dear."

A moment later, an angry-eyed Harry Potter faced the new headmistress. He wheeled around and looked respectfully at Minerva. "Good morning, Headmistress," he said, something in his tone betraying that he refused to so recognise Hermione.

"Potter," Minerva said. "Thank you for coming so promptly."

"Of course, Headmistress."

Behind him, Hermione wiped her hand across her brow. Must he go on with the title?

"What can I do for you and Hogwarts?" Harry continued, pointedly omitting Hermione from the offer.

"You can hold your tongue until you've heard her out, Potter. Headmistress Granger has something of urgent importance to tell you, and, although I doubt you'll understand half of it, do yourself and the world a favor and try."

"I – what –"

"Once again, Potter, the world depends on your courage. She can't be as terrifying as Voldemort." Minerva looked at him with pinched nostrils.

"Of course." Harry inclined his head and turned to glare at Hermione. "Well?" he said shortly. "I've an important meeting."

"Not more important than this, Harry," Hermione said quietly.

He sniffed.

"Oh, stop acting like Percy," she snapped.

"The meeting is with him, actually – there's a right mess at the –"

"At the Ministry. I know. That's one of the reasons I –"

"So you can read the paper! You called me here to tell me you can read? I've known that since we were children. It's all you can do, Hermione, while the rest of us –" Harry's hands were balled into fists at his side.

"It's not," Hermione said, her voice low. "I wish it were."

"You what? You what?!" Harry bellowed.

"Really, children –" Minerva interjected, but Hermione raised her voice, "You didn't kill him, Harry."

Harry blinked, then shook his head. "I'm sorry?"

"I did. Ron and I. It was mostly Ron."

Harry whipped around to face Minerva's portrait. "You summoned me to listen to this tripe?"

"Hear her out, Potter," Minerva said sternly.

His nostrils flared as he stared at her portrait. "She's raving."

"She's not," Minerva countered.

"Some respect, young man, for the office, if not for the chit –"

Hermione snapped her fingers and Phineas Nigellus' portrait was covered with yards of black drapery. His muffled, affronted voice took umbrage behind it.

"A week, Phineas. Next time, a year."

He went quiet.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm more sorry than you can know, but the mess at the Ministry – Shriver –"

"How do you... we kept his name out of the papers."

"The Ministry has always been good at silence." Her eyes blazed at him. "How much have they told you about what really happened?"

"He's had some kind of breakdown. Something about secret files. I don't know much; they can't really tell me until the election's held properly."

Hermione bit her lip. "I think you should sit down."

"I prefer to stand."

"Sit, Harry," said the voice of Albus Dumbledore. All the yelling had woken him up. "And know that I disagree with the decision to tell you."

Harry's head whipped around, startled.

"Albus," Hermione said coldly. "How kind of you to add your voice to this mayhem."

"The portraits can only speak the truth, and are compelled to give voice when theirs is required."

Hermione considered that briefly. "So the castle kicked you in the arse because you're the only one he'll listen to?"

A stifled laugh from behind Phineas Nigellus' drapery.

Dumbledore didn't deign to respond, and Minerva interjected, "Do sit down, Potter. You'll need to."

Harry nodded, confused, and sat. "If you would hurry. My meeting..."

Hermione inhaled, as much to slow her heartbeat as anything else. "In the last moments of the Final Battle, Harry, when you were fighting with Tom inside yourself, your eyes turned red."

Harry shook his head, but she continued, "Please don't interrupt. Let me get it out. Ron was dying. He knew I'd discovered something that would... that might help. Like an idiot, I'd told him about it. We argued, but he insisted. And he was right, Harry. He told me to do it if your eyes turned red. They did." Her voice fell. "And I did."

Harry's eyes were ice. "What did you do?"

"He was dying. I'd found a spell – an old one, a Dark one – that required multiple casters. The principles were the same as a Horcrux spell. And I extrapolated."

"You what?"

Hermione clenched her teeth. "I thought a Horcrux spell might work the same way. Multiple casters. When your eyes turned red, Harry, it meant that Tom had won. Ron was dying. No one else was close enough, or free enough, to do anything to help. I had a choice – to kill you, or to destroy the Horcrux."

Harry looked at her impassively.

She wasn't getting through.

"Your scar is still a Horcrux, Harry, but it's not Voldemort anymore. It's Ron."

---

From the next room, Severus heard a muffled shout. He clenched his fist around his wand but forced himself to stay still.

---

"It is true, Harry. Shriver knew it. So did Scrimgeour. So does the current Minister. It's in the red file, they said. Only the Minister of Magic can know. Shriver didn't want to tell you, Harry. Nor did Dumbledore. Said it would weaken you. I hoped otherwise."

She handed him a bottle with a silvery substance in it. "My memory of Godric's Hollow. I don't expect you to trust me, but the choice is yours to look or not."

Harry held the bottle of memory in his hands and turned it over, watching the silvery smoke roil.

"I don't believe you," Harry said.

"Dumbledore knows, Harry. Minerva, as well."

"I don't," he repeated.

But his mind was literal enough to believe in the fact of what he was holding.

He ran his fingers into his hair and clenched, hard, the heel of his palm pressing against his scar. Still staring at the bottle, he gritted out, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"The Ministry –"

"We were friends," Harry hissed.

Hermione flinched as though she'd been stabbed, but she stayed standing. "I know, Harry."

"So you just let the Ministry tell you what to do? When did we ever not tell each other everything? You're a coward, Hermione. A coward."

She closed her eyes. "It wasn't the Ministry."

"You're still a coward." But Harry clenched his hand harder in his hair as though something, some pain, would feel real.

"Maybe I am. But it wasn't the Ministry, Harry. I would have told you, maybe not right away – Darkness does strange things to people, and I wasn't prepared for that – but I would have. I like to think I would have..."

"So why?" Harry whispered, still staring at the bottle of memory.

"Ginny," Hermione said simply.

The blood drained out of Harry's face.

"I didn't think you could be happy with her if you knew."

"Merlin..." Harry's throat was dry.

"And better you lose me than her."

For a long time, Harry said nothing. "You bitch," he said finally.

She nodded. "Yes."

"Why tell me now?" He couldn't seem to speak above a low rasp.

"Because I can fix it. I think."

"You think," Harry said, two decades of harsh judgment and confused separation and the ease with which he'd focused elsewhere draining all life from his voice. "You think."

Hermione nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

"That I believe." Harry nodded once, decisively. "Do it. Get it out. Get him out of this hell that you've made of my head and his life and my marriage. Get him out."

Hermione said nothing but walked to the desk to pick up the flower stem. She pulled the red seed from the head.

"Look at me, Harry," she said simply.

His knuckles were white as he clutched the bottle, but he lifted his head.

"Move your hair."

He held his hair away from his scar.

It stood out, hotly red on his forehead as if in accusation, or judgment, or supplication.

Which in all ways, it was.

She sighed, and blew the dandelion head. Reparo, she thought. Goodbye, Ron.

The red seed drifted lazily but directly to Harry's scar.

It rested gently against his forehead as though held fast by an invisible breeze.

As Hermione and the portraits watched, Harry's scar bled away to nothing.

The seed fell, pure white, to his outstretched hand.