Three

Many thanks to my beta, Soul Bound.

Hermione stirred and moved her arm so she could give her little boy an early-morning cuddle, but frowned when she couldn't find him. The quietness was also odd, so the witch opened her eyes and took in the strange, dim surroundings. This wasn't home.

A longing to be with her boy washed over her. The thick blankets were heavy and warm, but the air was cold on her face. She glanced around the dark room to try and find her bearings. Hermione breathed in the cool air and smelt the familiar Gryffindor Tower smell and knew she was at Hogwarts. The memories of yesterday came crashing in and, and, and, oh, poor Ron. Tears welled up and slid down her cheeks as an oppressive heaviness descended upon her. Being here without Ron made it seem worse. Everything about the place evoked memories in her that he was firmly a part of. It seemed she should just get up and meet him down in the Great Hall for breakfast like they used to. But instead, today was his funeral. Hermione had only ever been to one wizarding funeral, and that had been Dumbledore's. Her mind swerved violently away from those dreadful times. She'd known coming back here would trigger all sorts of feelings and memories, but these were thoughts and feelings she would prefer to leave alone.

The witch concentrated on her breathing and was trying to calm her rioting emotions when she felt the stir: he was calling her, needing her, wanting her to be with him.

The sound deep within called again: 'Hurry, come now. I want you. I need you with me now.'

Sitting up, Hermione recalled last night, gingerly shaking her head, and smiled. The room stayed rock-steady and her stomach silent. Hermione sighed in relief.

She wondered briefly if he had a hand in her lack of hangover. She didn't know if he usually extended his powers in such a way, but if he did, her eternal gratitude to him had just increased ten-fold. Hermione wrapped a blanket around her as she got out of bed and padded over to the fireplace, yawning. She bent down to light a fire with matches from her satchel. The room was like a fridge. She watched the fire for a bit to make sure it wouldn't go out. Satisfied, she gave it one last prod with another bit of wood and sluggishly moved to the adjoining bathroom. She turned on the shower, relishing the heat warming her very bones up. By the time she exited, she was feeling human again. Hermione threw logs onto the fire, and while the room was heating up to an acceptable level, she tidied the strewn clothes from the night before.

The sound urged her on: 'Come, come, I want you; I need you to be with me.'

Hermione hastily found her satchel again and pulled from it a black piece of rolled-up material, oil, a deep cup, a sharp knife and incense. She carefully laid everything in front of the fireplace.

She felt her own yearning within her; she wanted to be with him with every fibre of her being, but seven intense years of training kicked in, and she resisted. If she didn't want to die a most painful death, she had to precisely follow the ancient rituals to cement her to this reality. Hermione knew the risks in each joining and that she was walking a razor's edge each time. But she also knew she just couldn't resist – he was like the taste of wine to an alcoholic, the sting of a needle to a junkie – he was everything; her palms were sweaty, and she hadn't even started yet.

Hermione stood close to the roaring blaze and allowed the towel to drop to the floor so she was standing unselfconsciously naked. She systematically rubbed the scented oil over her body – until she was glistening. The scent worked on her senses, making her acutely aware of her surroundings. The crackling fire boomed in her ears; the cool air rushed like a torrent over her skin; the cold tiles of the hearth were icy on her feet. The witch swept the cooler ash from the fire towards her and smeared it over her body, marking symbols on her thighs, breasts, chin and forehead. Symbols of tridents, crescent moons, life, death, being and not being.

She wanted to hurry, but pulled back, knowing each step in the ritual ensured she came back whole. But her mind by this time was like a wild bird caged and hammering on the bars to be free. Still, the witch wrapped the long, black material around her waist, making sixteen precise pleats, and pulled the remaining material back over her shoulder so it hung between her breasts. Hermione sat, her hands almost shaking with anticipation as she lit the incense and the oil lamps. She started the incantations, all of which needed to be said word-perfectly – nothing like her life at stake to make her accurate. Hermione was consciously aware of the sounds, the rhythm, the meanings, and knew it would carry on while she was gone and draw her back when she was ready.

Her body stilled, and the signal was met with her mind casting itself off from this reality like a bird escaping from a cage, the flurry of upward movement leaving her momentarily dizzy – until at last she was picked up and guided, drawn nearer and nearer until she was enveloped in heat and dark and pulsating rhythm.

'I'm here. I'm here. I'm where I long to be,' she cried out to him.

And she belonged, came the reply. He was in her and around her. She was in him and around him. He was she, and she was he – without him she wasn't, and without her he wasn't.

There was a shift, so she gently opened her eyes and saw from a height a vast, ancient forest undulating away from her; her senses filled with the heady perfume of night-blooming plants. Hermione turned and saw that he was curled around her and that she lay against his white underbelly, his fur tickling her arms; her head was on his huge front paw.

'The moon is beautiful tonight, my love,' came his sound.

She looked at the crescent moon hanging large in the calm night.

'Oh, it's beautiful. I love the new moon the best – it has all that potential before it,' Hermione dreamily replied, running a finger down one of his geometric stripes.

There was a deep chuckle. 'Ah, yes, but the full moon carries the passion. I wanted you here sooner with me.'

'And I long to be with you always.'

'I felt your human sadness – it touched me so.'

'Yes, sadness hurts my heart, my protector.'

'You know my love goes with you and your love stays with me – your eyes are soft with sorrow.'

Hermione's eyes prickled and filled. The moon's shape and color shifted and moved as the tears fell. She felt a roughness on her face, looked up, and saw him gently licking her tears away with his tongue. With his huge teeth inches from her face, it went through her mind briefly that he could tear her limb from limb, disembowel her effortlessly, fling her across the universe, and crush her like an ant. But he wouldn't. Hermione closed her eyes and felt him around her, the noises of the jungle becoming louder. She felt the slow rise and fall of his breath and felt a peace of belonging. She relaxed more than she had in days, drifting towards the netherworld between sleep and awareness....

'Come, I want to show you something,' came his gentle sound regretfully.

Hermione's curiosity was piqued, so she mentally leaned into him and felt him give, drawing her closer and closer within him. He then gave a strong push, and she was sent tumbling over and over away from him at stomach-lurching speed. She panicked, not knowing where she was – everything swirled around her; paradoxes made sense; up was down, and down was up; improbabilities were facts. It was as if she'd been caught up in a huge wave and crashed down violently.

'I'm here. I'm here.'

His sound was a rescue rope thrown out to her, and she grasped at it in desperation. The dizzying motion slowed, and she was being gently poured through all possibilities and probabilities until she felt sand beneath her bare feet and a keen wind on her face.

'I'm here,' came his sound.

Hermione looked about and saw she was at the seaside. Many happily dressed holidaymakers were wading in the water and sunning themselves on the beach. She walked down to the water's edge amongst all the families enjoying themselves and found herself luxuriating in the light, joyful atmosphere. Hermione lifted her black robe up as a small, cool wave washed over feet and continued walking long the beach, allowing the water to lap around her ankles.

Hermione heard a child's cry of distress. The witch glanced about and saw a young boy dressed in swimming trunks and a hat, standing stiff with fear as the water lapped about his ankles. The boy was alone, and Hermione couldn't see the boy's family anywhere. Nobody else was paying the boy any attention – it was as if he didn't exist to them. She moved beside the boy and crouched down beside him so she was eye level with him.

'Hey, Little One, what's the matter?' She found herself speaking in the ancient tongue.

The boy cried out in panic as another small wave washed harmlessly around his legs, so Hermione scooped him up into her arms and felt him instantly relax against her the moment he was away from the water.

'Let's see if we can find your mother, shall we?' she said softly to him. Hermione looked down into the boy's familiar green eyes and realized with a jolt that this was Harry as a young boy.

'You can't. She is dead. The water took her,' said the little boy in an adult's voice.

Hermione was yanked away as if caught in a rip current and again passed through a myriad of realms. Slowly, she was placed down on the mat in front of the fire, and with a whisper of a caress, he left her mind.

===

Professor McGonagall stormed along the corridor, and a first-year boy quickly ducked away when he saw the look on her face. She was most put out. Not only did she have a thumping head and an uneasy tummy, but she was also having to step in and sort out a great mess on less than four hours' sleep. The older woman frowned; she felt as if she did everything for everyone, and it seemed most of the fools could not do even the most simple of tasks. On days like today, she did not know how Albus had played his role so well. Professor McGonagall understood that she saw things too quickly and too clearly to be completely comfortable with the political wrangling that went with both her jobs. She had to be circumspect about what she said, how she said it, and to whom she said it. On top of that, she had to pay close attention to everybody's agenda – both hidden and visible. Normally, the Professor did it with great aplomb, and nobody was even aware of her irritation, but on days like today, well....

By the time she had reached Hermione's door, however, she had worked most of the ire out of her system. Nothing like stomping and glaring to release a bit of tension. But when Hermione opened her door, fully dressed in the expected black dress robes and pointed black hat, the Professor did a double take, and her bad mood vanished completely. A strange, uneasy magic flowed out the door that almost made her take a step back, but she could not stop herself from curling her lip in abhorrence. There was a putrid flavour to the magic that was overpowering in its strength. Hermione had an unhealthy tinge to her face and black circles around her eyes. The older witch would have blamed her sickly look on the excesses of the night before if it were not for the oddness of the magic swirling around her.

But Professor McGonagall breathed in and plastered a pleasant look on her face. 'Good morning, Hermione. How are you feeling after last night?'

'Surprisingly well, thank you. Please come in and have a seat.' Hermione led them to the standard small table and two chairs that furnished guest lodgings in Gryffindor Tower. The professor glanced around and saw the room was immaculately tidy.

'I must say I am surprised to see you dressed and ready so early.' The eerie magic that rolled around in the room pressed in on Professor McGonagall, so she consciously pulled up her shields, which lessened the intensity. It was very interesting and so different, the older witch mused. It was like a piece of fruit just turning so that it mingled between cloyingly sweet and repellently rotten.

'And how are you, Professor?' Hermione asked with an impish smile.

'I could be better.' Professor McGonagall smiled but looked at her carefully. 'I have come to ask a favor from you, but please feel free to decline. Harry, who organised the schedule for the service this morning, forgot to arrange a priest to lead the Other Realm Chant––'

'––Oh, no, how could he have forgotten that?'

'Yes, my thoughts exactly. I am not impressed. And what's more, it is poor Molly who is hurt by his actions, the very person who needs it least,' Professor McGonagall replied tightly, pleased that the younger witch understood the implications.

'Oh, the poor woman,' exclaimed Hermione in dismay. 'Have you found anyone yet – oh, you want me to do it?'

Professor McGonagall wearily nodded, pressing her fingers into her temples.

'I do not even know if you know it, but I gathered from my sister that chanting is very popular down South ... ' Her voice trailed off.

'Yes, I do know it, Professor, and I've led it many times, but only in the Ancient Tongue, not in Latin. I'd need to translate it, but I'm not sure if it will end up being the same as the one commonly used here,' Hermione spoke softly, her face unsure.

'I could find a written copy of it if that would help. I am sure there'll be one in the library.'

'Hmmm, I think I'd need to translate it. I need to make sure I work out the correct rhythm. How long have I got?'

'Just under two hours.'

'Yes, that gives me enough time. I'd also need a three string harp.'

'I am sure that will not be a problem. I will find one and get it sent up to you. Thank you so much, Hermione.' Professor McGonagall sighed in relief.

'No, not at all. It's the very least I can do, and I'm pleased to be able to do something to help.'

Hermione was pulling out a quill and parchment as Professor McGonagall left. The professor hoped she had made the right decision but at the same time felt profound irritation at Harry, who was probably only just waking up now, completely oblivious to the chaos and distress his lack of planning had created.

===

Professor McGonagall walked slowly down from the podium, wiping her eyes. Looking up and taking in the sea of faces in front of her, she allowed herself to feel a slim slither of satisfaction that she'd managed to convey the right tone in her eulogy. Mrs. Weasley clasped her arm briefly and nodded thanks, her face obscured by the wide-brimmed hat. The poor woman; what she must be going through, thought Professor McGonagall as she nodded in return and slowly made her way back to her seat. She could not even begin to imagine. Losing Albus had been heart-numbingly awful, and it had taken years to truly regain her balance again. But how could Molly even begin?

As she sat down next to a pale Professor Hooch and felt the grim atmosphere, the professor thought that this was exactly what Voldemort wanted. By hurting someone like Mrs. Weasley, he knew there would be a ripple of fear and anger through the wizarding community. It was why she had approached her address carefully. She had to strike a balance between talking of courage and hope, which was desperately needed, but not feeding too much emotion into the many young wizards who were itching to use their rage to seek ill thought out revenge. She felt sure that over the years, Voldemort had deliberately provoked the young wizards. The older witch prayed none of the young men would do anything stupid.

Professor McGonagall watched as Harry made his way to the podium for the final eulogy. He stood completely still for a long moment, his face lowered as if in prayer. The three-hundred-plus mourners stilled until all she could hear was the slightest shuffling of feet and a few coughs, then that too eventually stopped. Silence. All were completely focussed on Harry – their symbol of hope. He let the moment stretch to the perfect second before he began. Harry was the best public speaker Professor McGonagall knew. He could convey emotions with the smoothness of a politician and subtly influence the audience, who was utterly unaware of what he was doing. Professor McGonagall had seen it many times, and it was why he was successful in the classroom; he could completely control the students' emotions without them knowing. But it was also what worried her. So she had pulled Harry aside last night and had a firm word with him. He had rolled his eyes and said something to the effect of 'please give me some credit'. But as the witch listened to his pleasant speaking voice, she realized he was right – she didn't have anything to worry about. Harry struck the perfect chord with everyone present, cleverly telling several anecdotes about Ron's wonderful joy of life and his incredible bravery, which completely captured the essence of him. At no time did Harry hint of his anger or frustration, which was what she had feared. Instead, he cleverly linked Ron's bravery and joy of life, then expanded them into something that every witch and wizard should try to incorporate into their lives. It was the perfect message. Professor McGonagall watched Harry leave the podium and sit down next to Ginny.

There was a shift in the atmosphere as everybody readied themselves for the final part of the service: the Chant of the Other Realm. A ripple of surprise and whispering went through the mourners, and Professor McGonagall turned and spotted a pale-faced Hermione working her way along her row to the central aisle with her harp in her hand. All Professor McGonagall's goodwill towards Harry vanished in a heartbeat and was replaced with old-fashioned anger. Soon she was twisting and untwisting her handkerchief in her lap, seething. When would the boy learn that bold gestures also need thought and planning? How much longer would she have to step in and sort out his messes? The look of devastation on Molly's face last night had been so awful, she was compelled to try to do something to remedy the situation. It was only after she had sent the tenth owl out this morning that the professor remembered her sister's near obsession with chants, which seemed to be a Southern thing, and had wondered if Hermione knew the Other Realm Chant. She had rather thought the young witch would if her hunch about her being part of the Circle was correct. Professor McGonagall had been relieved when Hermione agreed, but it was only afterwards that she thought the implications through properly. Even the fact that a Muggle-born witch would know the Thirty Minute Chant, let alone lead it, would plant seeds of suspicions in most people's minds. Professor McGonagall felt her fingernails digging into her palms, so she consciously relaxed her hands – releasing them from their fists of tension.

A drawn but determined looking Hermione walked by, her dark eyes focussed directly in front of her. The Headmistress noticed a black scarf trailing from under the younger witch's hat and looping over one of her shoulders in the fashion of the South – her stomach dropped a notch.

Just as Hermione was about to mount the steps, a restless Katie Rose wandered unsteadily towards her, and a beautiful open smile enveloped the young woman's face. She bent down and said something to the blonde girl, who giggled, and it carried both in sound and contrast across the large room. Hermione guided the little girl back towards the Weasleys' row. Turning, she walked fluidly up the raised platform and sat down, angling the chair so she faced the casket, not the mourners. The professor felt a small measure of reassurance flow through her. Even that small gesture of sitting correctly showed Hermione did in fact know what she was doing. The older witch had been to funerals where the Leader incorrectly faced the audience.

All doubts vanished when Hermione started. The young witch was probably the most accomplished leader of the Chant the professor had heard in a long time. Hermione's chanting reminded her of a voice she had heard long ago when she was still a young girl. She could not quite remember whose voice it was, but it had the same harsh beauty – it spoke of pain but also power. The Headmistress relaxed as she chanted along with the other mourners. She noted that Hermione's style was classical, almost bordering on archaic, and honestly had not heard some of those inflections since she'd sat in Professor Binns's History class as a schoolgirl.

Only ten minutes into it, Professor McGonagall was worried. This was the most precise, most powerful recital she had ever heard and was sure it was the same for all the witches and wizards sitting here. It was too good, too precise, too powerful. The rhythm, the tone, they had created a calming magic that seemed to be building in strength. Magic was something she had never associated with this Chant. It was recited only as a matter of tradition, nothing more. Professor McGonagall inwardly groaned. Hermione would be under a constant cloud of suspicion from now on, which was precisely what she did not want for the girl. The rhythm soon lulled Professor McGonagall, and she could not seem to continue her anxious thoughts. Soon, Professor McGonagall along with the other mourners was carried away by the power of the ancient words and led into the world of farewells – giving collective strength to Ron in his passing.